To Save the Lost



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“The sun and its light, the ocean and the wave, the singer and his song - not one. Not two.”
- from One Minute Wisdom by Anthony de Mello.

Forgive my reticence. Many reasons prevent my assuming a public persona. Rather than pen a “biography”, I offer a few snippets adapted from an essay, exploring the notion, “Who am I?”


“Who am I?
Two eyes I cannot see, a single vision.
The eyes within see far more than do these faulty, myopic windows streaked with floating shadows like shreds of grey gauze.
“I am the one who was told, “Anybody can do anything,” and whose - now despairing - mother claims, “But I didn’t mean anybody can do everything!” She forgot to tell me that. I have been heaped with gifts and talents and in all of them find connection with an enigmatic fount of creation. My self is many faceted and rich. It seems all the more difficult, then, to let go, to absolve and dissolve the ego and yet what Am I if not, also, It Is? All that stands between this self and that is pride - and yet who would not feel pride in being so richly blessed?“Who am I?
I am life, a gift from my parents enriched by this priceless inheritance: their freedom of vision, their love and constancy, their courage and steadfastness, their artistry. I am not speaking of perfect people but of the people who were as nearly perfect as possible for me: the parents I would have chosen had any choice existed.
I am also the gift of my spouse. True to our vows, we draw strength from one another not only in clement times but also during the inevitable tempests and adversity which tune and temper the ringing metal of our love, deepening our mutual understanding.
“Who am I?
I am one who reached too far, fell into the black hole and found within the light you cannot see.
I am me.”


It is not the faith healer who effects the cure and, although I work very hard, indeed, neither can I claim all credit for what I write. Unsought for bounty is heaped on me and, when I do ask, I receive unstintingly from family, friends, strangers, nature, meditation and that which must remain nameless for fear of being diminished by the labels - like fetters - with which we humans shackle the seen and unseen, both. My gratitude is boundless and explains why I often feel more like a conduit than a creator and why, when a story seems “blocked”, I wait in patience, knowing that when the gate “opens”, it was barred only by ignorance and blindness. The process of learning is unending. Enlightenment arrives in unexpected increments.
Who, what is the writer? Not one, not two.







R. M. Moss