If love is the only Truth, then everything else is illusion. But how you have believed in illusion. You have wrapped yourself in it, as if illusion were your saving grace. But illusion can only be illusion. Your anger, beloveds, for example, was never true, yet how real it felt. It superseded everything else at the moment. Now you can see it was all folly, but when the dragon of anger has you in its thrall, it holds you tight. Anger is attachment. That is, without attachment, you would not hold anger to you for one minute. You would throw it away before it ever made inroads in your mind. It would never reach your heart.

All is idea. And all you were ever angry about was an idea, yours not agreeing with someone else’s, a momentary imagined interruption of your love. A tempest in a teapot is all anger ever was and ever can be. It is steam let off. It is steam that did not have to be, only the stove of anger got lit. An old match lit it. Anger would deny the Sun and the Moon. But anger can only be a temporary flare-up. And the temporariness signals its demise. A dragon cannot shoot flames all the time lest he burn himself up. He never had to shoot flames in the first place. It was all bluff.

The flame of love is a different story. Love does not get burnt off. Love fans itself. Love brightens the world, but it does not inflame it. It lights up the world, but that which lasts burns steadily. It has no puffs of smoke. Love in hearts burns without residue. Love is the only aspect of the world that is immutable. You may think love is not stable when, all the while, it is the only stable. Bread is not the staple of life. Love is.

Of course, bread is love too. Think of a mother’s hands that knead the dough, the farmer’s hands of love that grow the wheat, and the hands that thresh it. And think of the love of the one who eats it, with or without butter and jam. Think of love, and you will stir it like a wonderful soup. The broth is thick, and yet it flows from the ladle like silk. There is enough for all. The soup kitchen of love never runs out. Love circulates and never loses sight of itself. It catches its own tail.

You harbor love. You are a stockade of it. You are a bridge of it. You can’t be anything else but love, no matter how you try. And you have tried, beloveds. You have tried to vanquish love. You have tried to deny its existence. You pointed to the world, and said that love is not. You do not have to reveal ignorance, beloveds. You, the holder of love, are also the embodiment of wisdom, for love is the only wisdom there is, and the only strength you have.

Love comes from on high, and it comes from your heart. Your heart is a hearth of love. Love stays warm in your heart. To whatever degree, the oven is on. Your heart cultures love. It maintains it. And your heart speaks in its own language which is love. Your heart has a great impulse to love. It throbs it. It beats the drum of love, and the drumbeats are answered. It will be known that all hearts beat as one, and therefore that your heart is to answer to love and love alone.