Beloved, Thou makest me fuller every day.
Thou diggest into my heart deeper than the depths of the earth.
Thou raisest my soul higher than the highest heaven, making me more empty every day and yet fuller.
Thou makest me wider than the ends of the world; Thou stretchest my two arms across the land and the sea, giving into my enfoldment the East and the West.
Thou changest my flesh into fertile soil; Thou turnest my blood into streams of water; Thou kneadest my clay, I know, to make a new universe.

— Inayat Khan, The Complete Sayings of Inayat Khan, Sufi Order Publications, 1978

All this time, and I cannot deny it has been many years, I have been hiding what wasn’t mine to hide, in the mistaken belief that it was mine, and why on earth would I waste my time in such an unpleasant fashion? Perhaps I had given up hope. At the very least, I had given up on myself, and at the very worst, I had given up on God… Yet giving up or not giving up are both devices of the ego, and sometimes…the soul.

I still don’t know what God is, but at this moment I can reach beyond the universes of my own constructs and those of others, into the starry black fullness and I can find the vastness and void within, and I know now that there is this intention to do just that: to use this clay to make a new universe, to paraphrase Inayat Khan. I need not do a single thing to bring that into being, because I am part of an emotion that is ready to bring about an upheaval that brooks no denial. I suppose I can go through the motions of putting my fingers on the keyboard, but that too is only a device: “say Allah and leave Them to their devices.”

For how long have I said, pretending to joke: “I have FEAR OF PUBLISHING.” God is publishing, and I am That.