No one dies alone. No one lives alone. If one died or lived in a desert with no other human being around, he is not alone, for I am with him. No one has less of Me. To all I give all of Myself. That some are more aware of Our Connectedness is another matter. Right now, you or anyone, can rise into My arms of love, or, if you prefer, you can sink into My arms of love. You can sink into My arms of love the way you would sink into a mattress filled with down, or you can rise into My arms of love as you imagine the bowers of Heaven to be. Everything is metaphor, beloveds, except the Reality of Our Oneness.
Words were born to describe Our love which is simply not describable, and yet words appeared in order to proclaim that which was already acclaimed.
Dance and song and words were born to describe the indescribable. Dance and song and words became like a stamp stamped on Reality, as if Reality needed to be confirmed, as if the description of love could heighten that which needed no heightening, needed no description and yet hearts wanted to describe and make poems about love. There was a need to sing praise, and so there were odes and operas and stories of love lost and love found, as if the imagined absence of love silhouetted love and made it more noticeable. Yet love could not be more prevalent than love already was.
Love is eternal, and yet descriptions of love are endless, and yet no description does describe. Descriptions cannot make love finite, for love is infinite. The infinite cannot be made less. It cannot be made into smaller pieces, and yet words and song and dance cannot refrain from trying. There is something in the human heart that wants to exalt the inexaltable as if, for instance, there could be a way to exalt that which is already higher than high, vaster than vast. And yet there is the need to express what cannot be expressed, can only be hinted at or pointed to.
And so, in the same way that man lifts his eyes to Me, he lifts words and music and dance to Me as offerings of applause. Man wants to clap his hands for Me. He wants to express the inexpressible.
And, yet, the same man rolls himself up into the false sentiment that he can die alone or ever be alone. The same man sees beauty, and the same man falls to his knees before fear which has promoted itself throughout the land. You would think that no one would buy into fear, and yet man has bought into fear and pays a high ransom for it. He gives up the strength of peace for the weakness of fear. In fear, man did indeed give up his inheritance for a mess of potage.
Meanwhile, I am with you. Meanwhile, you have Me always. In love and in fear, I AM, and I AM with you. There is no shadow to death, you understand. There is only light. Where I AM and where you ARE, light is. Fear is formidable. Light and love are true, and they are charming, and yet man chooses fear more easily. He grabs fear by the collar as if it were true and eschews light as if it were not.
Is it possible that man finds comfort in fear? Is it possible that man finds comfort in thinking he is adrift and alone somewhere? Is it possible that man finds more security in fear than he finds in Me? If that is the case, man has not yet found Me, even as I am the very foundation of him. I do not hide myself. It is true that I cannot be seen by the eyes, and yet I can be known. Why would anyone choose fear when he is all the while embraced in love?