Eight trillion eons ago, She meditated on her emptiness and said, "Shhhhh..."
After another twenty billion years, She whispered, "This is getting a little boring...."
Then, just three billion years later, She said, "Wait, if I'm alone, who am I whispering to?"
That's when She saw Him, and went mad with love. She was his reflection in the mirror of consciousness.
When She had fully awakened to Two in One, He began to woo her. He created gifts. He offered her particles and anti-particles from the vacuum. He offered mud, corn, lace underwear, a sword, a lute, fire, Birkenstocks, and the music of Johnny Mathis. Then he invented war, dancing, and baseball. It was not enough. Sex and poetry. Backgammon. The Earth. Dolphins and honey bees, gifts from the Venetian Lords of the Violet Flame. Wine, a gift from Mars. Still, it was not enough. And still today from the cornucopial void there pours what is from what is not.
Faith in the one rejoices in two.
Revel in gentleness, but wrestle a kiss from every demon.
Rub your body in the healing balm of gelatinous conflict. Smell the stink of Kali's lair, and ask to spend a day in her darkness, picking marrow from the bones of her lovers. Make soup.
Resist not the exquisite lap-dance of angels. Perform the mudras of the Wrathful Deity Mahakala, who is only your mind, rejoicing in essential pointlessness.
Be the reflection of a cloud dissolving in a mirror: but remember that the mirror is made of polished stone.
Don't you see, friend? Sometimes love becomes fierce to thicken the plot.
Be sugar, enter the pan and caramelize.
If you don't have fire in your belly, you will never cook the sun and stars.
Now go forth in a seamless robe of laughter, wearing a priestly garland of tears. Drive the liars from the temple with your sash of doubtlessness. Engage so deeply in your fury that your heart becomes silent.
Let Truth not shrink from the whirl of stillness.
Photo: Wrathful Tibetan Deity Mahakala, an emanation of Avalokiteshvara, the Buddha of compassion.