Drinkers of the Mystery
Mystics can be found in every corner of the world.
In temples and forests,
on mountainsides and kitchen floors.
In monasteries, mosques, churches, synagogues…
and in none of these at all.
They wear many names,
and speak in many tongues.
But they’re not bound by the systems they may pass through,
for they belong to the Mystery itself.
Mystics are those who have fallen through the cracks of form
and landed in the Heart of the Infinite.
Not as an idea,
but as a living, breathing,
all-consuming truth.
A knowingness so complete, so whole,
that there’s no longer any need
to define, defend, or divide.
They may chant to Krishna,
pray to Christ,
whirl with the Beloved,
or sit in quietude with no name on their lips at all.
Because the mystic does not confuse the vessel with the wine.
They drink from the Source directly.
And once tasted, it changes everything.
The mystic does not mistake the map for the terrain.
They are not concerned with having the right answers,
but with living the unanswered life,
the open life…
the life that bows.
To be a mystic is not to belong to a path,
but to walk with bare feet into the sacred centre of all paths.
To rest not in certainty, but in wonder.
Not in belief, but in Being.
To listen for the silence beneath all sound.
To see God in the eyes of a stranger,
in the rhythm of a breath,
in the breaking open of a heart.
They do not speak of love as philosophy.
They become it.
They live from the marrow of surrender,
from the sweetness of not needing to know.
They dwell at the altar of paradox,
where light and dark hold hands,
and joy is not separate from sorrow.
Mystics are lovers of the Real,
not seekers of escape.
Ones who have said yes to the fire that strips away all illusion.
They know that revelation costs everything…
and yet it gives everything back,
rearranged in the shape of truth.
They do not seek power or position,
they seek only the Real.
And in seeking, they dissolve…
until there is only Love left.
Moving quietly through the world,
speaking in symbols and metaphors,
in stillness,
in the soft transmission of presence.
They are rare not because the path is closed,
but because few are willing to lose themselves so completely.
To be unmade.
To kneel at the altar of the unknown,
again and again.
But oh… when one does…
they become a mirror.
A doorway.
A living remembrance.
Not of something foreign or distant,
but of the sacred that lives in us all.
That which has no name…
but calls us home.
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Thank you for walking alongside me ~ Imogen