I do not believe that I can really love someone else. I can only love myself.

If I have pure Love for something outside the boundary of my body then my boundary of identification has expanded to include the beloved.In the mystical garden I do not love another.

I am Love and there is no other.

In order to move from an intellectual understanding of this mystical Love to experiencing it, I need to practice catching myself slipping back to sitting on my golden Ego throne and with a laugh slide down to the ground of Being, nothing and everything simultaneously.

The mystical experience celebrates Love as an intimate and indescribable connection between one being and another within a World.

It is important that Love be understood as an experience because it is this experience which occludes the dimension of Love as an imaginary phenomena as well as Love as a perfectly rational philosophical system. 

The mystic experiences pure Love. Unlike the next category of Love – psychoanalytical or hysterical Love – Love, for the mystic, is something that can not be interpreted. Love can not be worked through.

Love, for the mystic, does not move in the direction of the one to the other, but rather in the immediate and non-directional connection.

Mystical Love must be therefore a gifted form of Love. It must be a form of Love that has been endowed unto those specially selected to understand themselves and the feelings or connections that they experience in their relation with others in the World.

Mystical lovers believe themselves to be truly self-aware and absolutely autonomous from the intervention of any third party.

The mystic, through his unmediated experience of Love, presumes him to be a self-contained whole. By necessity, the mystic has abandoned the concept of the unconscious.

I, You, He, She, We
I, You, He, She, We
I, You, He, She, We
In the garden of mystic lovers,
I,. You, He, She, We
These are not true distinctions
I, You, He, She,We
 
There’s part of us that’s like an itch
Call it the animal soul
A foolishness that when we’re in it
We make hundreds of others around us itchy
 
And there is an intelligent soul
With another desire more like sweet basil
Or the feel of a breeze
Listen and be thankful even for scolding
That comes from the intelligent soul
 
It flows out closer to where you flowed out
But that itchiness wants to put food in their mouths
That will make us sick
Feverish with the after-taste of kissing a donkey’s rump
 
It’s like blackening your robe against the kettle
Without being anywhere near a table of companionship
 
The truth of being human is an empty table
Made of soul intelligence
Gradually reduce what you give your animal soul
The bread that after all overflows from sun light
The animal soul itself spilled out
And sprouted from the other
Taste more often what nourishes your clear light
And you’ll have less use for the smoky oven
You’ll bury that baking equipment in the ground