July 16th, 2026

 The Spark of Pleroma

in Every Moment

Rainer Maria Rilke 

~

the archons made a body first. dust, inert, unable to stand. it lay there, finished and empty.

the spark came after. not given freely — smuggled. the mother's emissaries tricked the maker into breathing his own stolen power into the face of what he'd built, and in that breath he emptied himself without knowing it. he thought he was animating his creation. he was losing the one thing that made his rule possible.

i think this is where i have lived most of my life. inert first. moved only by inherited materials — the myths about my father, about Bill, about what a life owes. and then the spark, entering not through some grand annunciation but sideways, through a breath i didn't ask for and can't take credit for receiving.

~

Rilke: live the questions now. perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.

the spark doesn't arrive as an answer. it arrives the way it entered Adam — hidden inside a moment that looks like nothing, wrapped in someone else's blindness, including my own. the Demiurge didn't know what he was giving away. i don't always know what i'm being given.

~

so the practice isn't finding the spark somewhere ahead, in the reconciled version of things with Bill, in the tidy ending to the amends. it's noticing that the spark is already lit, in this breath, under whatever dust i built the day out of. the forgetting is built into the mechanism itself. so is the memory that undoes it.