Of his many inspiring posts on a variety of esoteric (and exoteric) subjects, I especially loved his reflection on the Immaculate Heart of Mary.
Her Holy Heart is the deep well which I hope to draw from. It's very image is, for me, an illustration and a revelation of the Christian anthropology I strive to realize in my life. The humility of her Heart, its blessed poverty, is postured by her as the receptivity of the gift of God's divine love in Christ His Son. Her heart is after the image under which I was taught to receive Holy Communion in the second grade: approach the altar, they told us, with the back of your one hand resting in the palm of the other, cup your open palm slightly where the Holy Eucharist will be placed.
In this way, we quietly and contemplatively approached Christ with an empty, curved palm. The idea was, of course, to embody an interior sense of openness to Our Eucharistic Lord. Presently, this signifies the Marian Heart for me before the Trinity. She could have been terrified, as so many of us are, when we try to peer into our own depths and reach down to the root of ourselves, so that we can attain an understanding of the mystery of our being, and from there, the world. But the most thorough of us, I do think, find it always eludes us, it disappears like smoke, and we find a merely empty curvature, a kind of shape of a shell, a well, a darkness, and we wonder where the self that we were once so sure we possessed has gone off to in the course of the passage of time, and in our interrogation of its truth.
In this way, we quietly and contemplatively approached Christ with an empty, curved palm. The idea was, of course, to embody an interior sense of openness to Our Eucharistic Lord. Presently, this signifies the Marian Heart for me before the Trinity. She could have been terrified, as so many of us are, when we try to peer into our own depths and reach down to the root of ourselves, so that we can attain an understanding of the mystery of our being, and from there, the world. But the most thorough of us, I do think, find it always eludes us, it disappears like smoke, and we find a merely empty curvature, a kind of shape of a shell, a well, a darkness, and we wonder where the self that we were once so sure we possessed has gone off to in the course of the passage of time, and in our interrogation of its truth.
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