St. John of the Cross was a mystic who wrote of the transformation of the spirit, and the necessary challenges and introspective journeying one had to experience before true union with the Divine could be achieved.
He spoke in particular of what is known as the Dark Night of the Soul, which I cherish, because it suggests that the mystical road isn't all hearts and flowers; rather, it can be painful, winding and thorny, and that there is no easy stairway to heaven. If your life seems to rightly suck at the moment, never fear: This too shall pass, and meanwhile, you are learning the needed lessons to proceed onward. The Severan mode of discipline and "hard knocks" may well fit with John's understanding of the Quest.
Some of John's writings are quite beautiful and evocative. Here are two of his poems.
DARK NIGHT
On a dark secret night,
starving for love and deep in flame,
O happy lucky flight!
unseen I slipped away,
my house at last was calm and safe.
Blackly free from light,
disguised and down a secret way,
O happy lucky flight!
in darkness I escaped,
my house at last was calm and safe.
On that happy night --- in
secret; no one saw me through the dark ---
and I saw nothing then,
no other light to mark
the way but fire pounding my heart.
That flaming guided me
more firmly than the noonday sun,
and waiting there was he
I knew so well --- who shone
where nobody appeared to come.
O night, my guide!
O night more friendly than the dawn!
O tender night that tied
lover and loved one,
loved one in the lover fused as one!
On my flowering breasts
which I had saved for him alone,
he slept and I caressed
and fondled him with love,
and cedars fanned the air above.
Wind from the castle wall
while my fingers played in his hair:
its hand serenely fell
wounding my neck, and there
my senses vanished in the air.
I lay. Forgot my being,
and on my love I leaned my face.
All ceased. I left my being,
leaving my cares to fade
among the lilies far away.
THE FOUNTAIN
How well I know that flowing spring
in black of night.
The eternal fountain is unseen.
How well I know where she has been
in black of night.
I do not know her origin.
None. Yet in her all things begin
in black of night.
I know that nothing is so fair
and earth and firmament drink there
in black of night.
I know that none can wade inside
to find her bright bottomless tide
in black of night.
Her shining never has a blur;
I know that all light comes from her
in black of night.
I know her streams converge and swell
and nourish people, skies and hell
in black of night.
The stream whose birth is in this source
I know has a gigantic force
in black of night.
The stream from but these two proceeds
yet neither one, I know, precedes
in black of night.
The eternal fountain is unseen
in living bread that gives us being
in black of night.
She calls on all mankind to start
to drink her water, though in dark,
for black is night.
O living fountain that I crave,
in bread of life I see her flame
in black of night.
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