# The Wealth That Clears the Darkness That wealth which dispels the darkness— not gold minted in distant forges, not jewels drawn from earth's deep chambers, not the glitter that catches greedy eyes and breeds envy in a thousand hearts. Rather, the wealth of a single word, spoken in season, that falls like rain upon parched ground and makes it green. The wealth of silence— that pregnant, deliberate quiet which contains more than speech can hold. The wealth of understanding, which asks nothing in return, which does not demand gratitude or carve its name in stone. It moves quietly through the world like light through a room at dawn, asking permission of no one. The wealth of compassion, that strange currency which multiplies only when given away, which fills the giver's hands even as it flows out to others. See how it clears the darkness— not with the violence of a torch that scorches and destroys, but with the gentle persistence of dawn, which asks the night to step aside as if greeting an old friend. The person who possesses this wealth walks through the world transformed. The darkness does not flee from them— it simply has no power to touch them. They carry their own light, not bright enough to blind, but steady enough to illuminate the next step, the next hour, the next breath.

Your splendour, your infinitude—I tried to set all of it aside, to find you in utter solitude, in silence, in darkness alone, to see and grasp you as my soul; but I could not succeed. I saw you as my soul, yes, but that seeing brought me no real satisfaction. Had I removed even that darkness, my very existence would have vanished entirely, as all things vanish in sleep. In this fruitless striving, you showed me instead your grandeur on one side and my wretchedness on the other—and it is in this awareness of difference that your radiance truly shines forth.

In seeking to see unity by abandoning difference, I lose all perception. In the unfolding of the world, in sleep itself, you make it abundantly clear that your manifold universe does not depend upon my small, fleeting knowledge. In infinity, across infinite time, you remain in your full grandeur without waiting for the momentary awareness of any creature. You depend on me not at all, yet I depend entirely upon you. Whatever I call my own dissolves completely into you in sleep—the sense of "I", the sense of "mine"—nothing remains at all.

You awaken me from slumber, gradually clear away the darkness of forgetting, gradually bring the drama of life back to memory, gradually reveal your hidden cosmic form anew. In this process I see both difference and non-difference between you and me. As the all-sustaining, all-knowing, one, undivided, infinite Person, you stand apart from the finite, the little-knowing, the weak creature I am. The world's drama, the play of life, the cosmic sport—none of this could have come into being had you not created the finite being and revealed yourself to it in fragmented form. The creature is distinct from you, yet everything of it is yours, received from you alone. It possesses nothing that is truly its own, nothing independent, nothing separate. This is the mystery of creation—mysterious, and yet true.

Being truth itself, what you are eternally occupied with must be truth itself, what else could it be? Being knowledge itself, what you cannot refrain from doing cannot be meaningless or unnecessary. Being infinite, what you bring forth from your unmanifest nature into manifestation cannot be worthless. The one to whom you reveal yourself, to whom you show your power, must be of infinite worth—surely your beloved. Not merely beloved, but you seek love from them. You wish to make them a lover, to unite them with yourself, to bless them. Through me you speak this, and how many times before you have caused me to speak it—yet I am utterly unworthy of such speech. I could not become a lover; my life was not blessed by you, was not fulfilled.

In every tremor of my life I see your manifestation, your activity—and yet that sight does not transform my heart, does not make my life filled with love, does not make it united with you. What then is the fruit of such seeing? To see in one moment, to forget in the next... thus life passes fruitless. I cannot even believe that a life directed by you, sustained by your infinite knowledge and infinite love, could possibly remain fruitless.

Then show us success. Let your love, your benevolent purpose, shine forth in radiance. Still the restless gaze. Draw thought away from the petty and the hollow, and anchor it in your splendor, your beauty, your grace. Let the stream of love flow toward you from the innermost, most secret chamber of the heart. In devotion to your love, I make this life meaningful.