To my mother, who taught me the reality of prayer

Last night I had a strange weep, I was reading Rumi poetry and I felt a strong connection immediately.  Vision blurred, I felt the familiar swelling from my heart.  I called out, with complete abandon.  I saw with closed eyes, a projection of the world moving outward to the universe, and somehow my silent cries-not the physical ones, broke its silence.  (The image of the universe was invoked by a Rumi quote: "The universe and light of the stars come through me.")  Somehow, almost not of my own accord, I started to cry out my own name-this had never happened before.  Something in me started to build up, alongside the swelling and through it at the same time.  It felt as though the beating swelling from my core became unfettered.  At the same time, I felt almost a gravity pull (my) focus inward.  Next thing I knew, I started to see that same universe inside myself.  There were large parts of me that were dark, deep, empty spaces, and galaxies upon galaxies of cellular activity, emanating a kind of starlight.  I stopped crying out to something undefinable, cried out to myself, lovingly gathered my own tears in my hands, gently pulled and caressed my own hair, all the while pouring that swelling sensation from my heart right back inside myself.  It hit me with the suddenness of laughter.

None of it matters.

None of these things to which I cling.
I could not help but laugh through tears.  

Anything can come my way.

None of this can take away from me

because not in a thousand lifetimes

could I fill this universe inside me.