It is like I had love to express, and I was laughing in joy. And then I, visual effects' manager that I am, created pictures of what My love might look like. There were roses of My love and ducks and elephants and rocks and seas, and there was you, the million faces of you. This was such a crescendo of love. And then another volley of laughter, and another turn of the wheel, and, as in a kaleidoscope, the images changed and appeared and disappeared and swirled together in a wonderful ecstasy of rose after rose and face after face from all angles. The roses spilled out in profusion. The contents of My heart spilled to the ground, and roses were first picked from Earth.
My laughter was so great that stars popped out, and the night sky was placed around them for padding. The sun burst forth and the modest moon vaulted around the Sun, and planets gave themselves names and made up stories that were true and made up at the same time.
What a choreographer I am. What a composer of music. What a sailor. What an acrobat. What a tumbler. What an artist. What a writer. The image I made of you was love. I sculpted you and tossed you onto the potter's wheel, and off you flew, landing on a remote part of Earth. You rubbed your eyes, and made a flag you staked into the ground and said it was yours. You claimed only a small portion as yours. You could have claimed all of Creation, from stem to stern, from star to star, from one flight of fancy to another. You claimed only where you landed rather than opening your arms to all.
Then you protested you were denied. You unlearned joy. You divested yourself of it. You chose denser things instead and wrapped them around your neck and dragged them with you for safe-keeping. You unlearned joy and learned possession. You unlearned joy and learned labor. You unlearned joy and made laws to preclude the remembrance of joy. You assigned yourself dominion over other beings and made them your property as well. You forgot that I had blessed animals to your care, and you thought they were cattle.
You forgot who you were too. You saw everyone as less too. You lowered your eyes. You couldn't look at the sun unless you wore goggles. You stole glances at the moon, but mostly hung lesser lights and remembered them. You forgot the light of love, and love became shady. Rain was convenient or inconvenient.
You forgot it was God's creation that you walked on. You kicked it. You forgot to love it. You dug in it and stole from it. You preferred candy. You forgot the sweetness of the love you had flown from. You had dreams of Truth and called them folly.
You forgot to do handstands on the Earth. You plodded and plunged instead. You didn't listen to the Song of the Earth. There was too much noise for you to hear. You chose noise over silence. Silence became odd. Noise became familiar. And your heart cried out for the song you had forgotten and yet still, you hoped, was being played in some far-off distant land. You went from theatre to theatre, looking for the music you longed for and that, you pleaded, existed somewhere. Even if you couldn't hear it, you wanted someone to hear it. You wanted it to be true somewhere.
You called a meeting of the stars, but instead you gave a lecture. You didn't let the stars speak. It was against the by-laws. You didn't let your heart vote. You pretended you could count, and all the while you mourned for a faintly, very faintly, remembered song that wanted to issue from your throat. You held it back, waiting for someone next to you to sing first. You forgot you were supposed to sing first. You thought you didn't know how to sing. You forgot it didn't matter how well you could carry a tune. You forgot it mattered only that you sing. Beloved, sing a note now. Let it come from your throat. Music from your throat, the song Mine.