Wlid Flower Yoga

No one teaches yoga
            to a flower.
        Bending in the garden's breath
                            toward a warmth more golden,
without precision
                of posture or form
                        (perfection being the sign
                                 of stiffness)
   the blossom undulates and almost      
          falls, embodied gush
              of unseen root wine
       spilled from a seed that bursts
           into nourishment
                        through ancient loam,
                                 humus of the un-dead.
                   the flower a continuum,
      the seamless river of
             aboriginal darkness churned
                         with comet grit,                 
aligned with starry
                 wonder spirals in a
      petaled tongue
              all running through its food,
                              the scimitar we humans
       no longer carry
                     in our empty sheath
                                     of expectation...
Let us repose without effort
               in such green gravity,
                      remembering this wild
                                           flower yoga,
root to blossom, your kiss
             connected to its inhalation,
      stem to seed, your mind
                     at rest on its breastbone,
sprout to loam, your yearning
              threaded to the embryo
                   you honed with 10,000 deaths,
 your soul but a portion
         of this planting whose pollen
              explodes on blood wind
                                     in your Mother.
O too thoughtfully
              up-rooted one,
                     bow down to the nearest
    scarlet-tousled weed and cry,
                 'Teach me!'

Flower: Asclepias curassavica, commonly known as tropical milkweed



Sometimes we fall in love with our anger - an exciting but dangerous romance. Anger tastes delicious for an instant, then turns sour with time. It flashes like lightning, then vanishes - wild, energizing, beautiful. But if we cling to the lightning bolt, we get burnt.

To last beyond a flash, anger needs a story. Drop yesterday's anger by dropping the story around it. What remains is love. Love needs no story.

In Tantric and Tibetan Buddhism, anger is actually a "wrathful deity" named Krodha, a matrix of potential energy that can be used for healing, and dissolving obstacles to evolution. The skill is to embrace the wrathful deity without grasping or resisting. Resistance is also a form of clinging.

Kiss the anger, then let it go: Krodha will transform into a mighty angel of creativity. Yes, the daemonic is but a constricted form of the divine.

For we honor not anger as anger, but the transformation of anger. What is useful and healing is the energy that anger becomes, when we do not hold on to it.


"May the lightning sword of anger pierce my heart, releasing the victorious energy of the Lord of Knowledge!"


We Perceive Only Ourselves

"Passing beyond the three Gunas of nature - purity, restlessness, delusion - repose in unity." ~Bhagavad Gita

Constantly driven to action by a restless mind, this same restlessness judges its own action to be superior to another's. But without any still and timeless center of reference, how could this mind judge whether the construction of the world's tallest building is more monumental than the silence of a trillium blossoming in forest shadows?

Whether a million marchers in the street are more significant than one healing touch on the forehead of a feverish infant?

Whether the overnight collapse of Wall Street is more meaningful than the imperceptible rise of one degree centigrade over a decade in desolate arctic ice fields?

Does the cry of a loon through mist on still water herald a transformation of the entire earth? Will you notice it when it happens?

"Meaning" comes from the mind, not the world. We superimpose our own mental qualities onto our perceptions. The violent look for violence. The tranquil find tranquility. The restless seek meaning in restlessness.