Quantum Entanglement

The tiniest photon
of instantaneous light
is hopelessly entangled
in eternal spaces
of your body.
That is how you are
entangled in God.



The moon is full.
Bare footsteps on forest moss,
But one tiny ankle bell?
A single breath
on a wooden flute?
Or only a midnight breeze
among cedars?
Whoever is coming
wants to be heard!
A little time
for longing to arise
in Radha's heart...

Message in the Dark

Try to read this message in the dark.
Light a match and hold it near.
Too near.
The page ignites.
A widening circle of fiery emptiness
consumes the paper, the words,
their meaning.
Only the flame remains.
The light by which you see
annihilates the seen.
Come near me now.
Too near.
Open your eyes.
I am interested in burning,
feeding this flame.
I am interested in love
annihilating lovers.
So far, a story of eyes only.
But what about mouths?
A tale of fragrance, taste and song?
What if we tell it with the whole body
and burn up everything we touch?
What if we are widening
circles of fiery emptiness
and consummation?

Unstructured Structure

Highly organized systems spontaneously emerge from the unstructured chaos of the quantum vacuum.

Not as polarized opposites co-existing with each other, but as each other, the vacuum pervades the particle, spirit pervades matter, silence pervades action. Chaos is creation, and creation is chaos.

The mirage is no different from the still air. The waves are no different from the sea. There is no conflict between liberation and structure.

Those who rebel against structure to attain liberation are deluded. They are simply reacting: but a reaction is determined by that against which it reacts. Rebels are the most predictable and conventional of creatures, for they let their enemies define them.

Meditation is the deeper revolution. Meditation is not a reaction.

Spend a few minutes each morning and evening in deep meditation. In the midst of organization, transcend organization. Dissolve the mind into the structureless infinity of pure awareness. Then emerge into action, not reaction. This is creativity. This is how the beauty of creation spontaneously self-organizes out of the structureless beauty of the void.

Don't destroy institutions, teach them to meditate. Don't demolish structures, inspire them to dance.


When the inner light of the believer outshines all objects of belief, it is not necessary to believe in anything. Then a dragonfly is a dragonfly, and a poppy is filled with God.

Awaken Yourself

Does the guru awaken me? Or do I awaken myself? The master attracts me to the beauty of awakening, and inspires me to awaken, but can anyone else actually awaken me?

I do my own awakening.



'Above' is a deception. The highest wisdom comes from below. Get down, sink in. The sign of the prophet is the mud between her toes.

The mind of God is a celestial brain in the earth. Its thoughts are the laws of quantum physics, marvelously irrational, its neurons interwoven in the mycelium fungus of self-healing and compassion.

Beings of pure light lead you astray, brandishing glorified weapons of war. Better to seek angelic guidance from owls, ravens, dolphins, sea turtles and mushrooms. The heavenly voice that heralds the day of judgment is the sound of the first bird every morning, just before dawn.

Find the ancient well in your body, drink from there. That is communion. Don't just be grateful, be the gift.

Your breath is the Holy Spirit, the priestess who descends to open the portal of your heart, which is the only temple. Let the movement she teaches your chest be gentle and round as a smile, for it stirs all the stars and turns this galaxy, where countless souls are waiting in less perfect worlds to be born here, as children of the Earth.



The Beloved said to me, "You will keep falling in love and falling out of love until you realize, you Are love!"

"Then who are you?" I asked the Beloved.

But the Beloved was gone, and a new breath-full of Love was already stealing into my heart..."

Citizens of Out

 Burning hills of trash on the "out" skirts of New Deli

This morning I said, "I'm taking out the trash." The question suddenly occurred to me, "Where is Out?"

When I throw out light bulbs, batteries, plastic bottles, not to mention all the other garbage, is Out a place? Who lives there? What do I owe them for taking my trash? Billions of human beings never ask this question. We just assume there is a place called Out.

Like everything else that matters in life, garbage is a Circle. My trash pours into the landfill, from landfill to fire, from fire to rain, from rain to sea, from sea to soil, from soil to shard and kale and spinach, from green plants to my body. In earth's bio-web, trash doesn't really go anywhere. It returns. We eat and breathe each others garbage.

There is no such thing as Waste. We are all citizens of Out.

Presence is not Information

The past is too much information.

The future is so many gigabytes it crashes my hard drive when I download it, yet not a bit of it actually happens.

So I move the past and future to the trash, and clear the desktop of the present moment, which contains no information at all. My screen saver is the blue radiance of an empty sky.

I am not here for information. I am here for light.


Whoever Swims in God

Fish have no concept of the ocean.
Whoever swims in God need not believe.
I didn't pray for this breath:
it was given by the mother
who stirs the stars like sugar in tea.
I don't need faith to have a pulse:
my heart is beaten by gratitude.
The blue sky of empty mind,
lit by a rose-gold sun ever streaming
rays of silence from the source of joy:
believing didn't create That!
That arose, and I surrendered.
Fools like me give up on god, truth,
temples, creeds, holy books.
We drink whatever flows from green
brown ruby nipples of the earth,
and call it prayer.

"Relax and Let Go" - Not!

Meditation Instruction
"Just relax. Let go..." Lots of luck.

A New Meditation Instruction
Do not even try to relax. Do not even try to let go.

Welcome tension, anger, anxiety, with open arms. As the blue sky embraces clouds, do nothing at all but observe that anxiety. Give it space to intensify, solidify, expand and dissipate. You are the space in which that anger is boiling, you are not the anger. You are the space in which anxiety and tension arises, you are not the anxiety and tension.

But please do not expect a bright happy little "me" to be there when the anger and tension are gone. For that expectation is the real cause of your tension.

Isn't it frustrating when you hear a meditation teacher give you the instruction, "Relax... Let go..."? Can we get clear about this? If I am tense, anxious, angry, telling me to relax and let go is utterly worthless as an instruction. In fact, this instruction reinforces our ignorance, because it assumes that there is a "me" who has the power to relax and let go, or to cling and hold.

The instruction to "relax" and "let go" is doomed to failure because it assumes that after I relax and let go, there will remain this bright happy little "me."

But real meditation only happens when I'm willing to give up the little "me" along with its anxiety. The truth is, the effort to maintain a bright happy me was the cause of my tension in the first place!

Are you willing to become nobody in order to give your anxiety space to dissolve? If you are not willing to become nobody, if you are not willing to become pure empty space, there will always be a little "me" there to call the anxiety "mine."

If there is unhappiness, then there is a "me" at the center of it, clinging to "my" unhappiness yet at the same time trying to "relax" and "let go" of it. See the contradiction?

At least for the next 20 minutes, am I willing to be nobody? That is the only real question in meditation.

When "I" am willing to be nothing but this empty space, then "my" anxiety is free of a holder, a center. Tension is free to dissipate like a cloud in blue sky. Only then is revealed the real nature of this blue sky: compassion, peace, pure nectar.

The anxiety, and the bright happy "I" who wants to get rid of the anxiety: can't get rid of one without getting rid of the other.

Yes, it is impossible to "let go": but it is quite possible to shift awareness to the one who wants to let go. This shift of awareness is the real meditation.

Shifting awareness to the one who is tense means discovering that there is no one there to be tense. There is only a cloud of tension floating in pure consciousness. Then "I" dissolve into "Am." This is the only solution to the problem of tension, anxiety, and anger.

"For the enlighened yogi, the true relationship between the soul and God is not a relation of 'I' and 'Thou' but a relation of 'I' and 'Am'." ~Yoga Vashishta

This may sound very cold and impersonal as an intellectual concept. But as a direct experience, it is the final end of anxiety, the transformation of anger into bliss, and the portal to divine Radiance.
I tried to renounce all my impurities. But that was too hard, and I was too weak. Now I surrender my breath, and that purifies everything.

Who Beats My Heart?

I can't keep track of my atoms.
I don't even know the number of cells in the tip of my pinkie. 
I have no idea how to command my molecules, "Rearrange yourselves for I have just drunk wine!"

At night when I'm sleeping, who breathes me? 
Who beats my heart, and how much do I owe him?
When I meditate, who orders my neurons to fire in synchrony? Who whispers, "chill out" to my adrenal gland
And when I wake up in the morning, who shouts to my pituitary, "Less water, more fire!"

I asked a scientist to explain all this, but he couldn't measure the light-years in a single atom. 
I asked a guru, but he just mumbled in some lost language full of M's.

How do you expect me to balance my checkbook when I can't count my electrons, or tell you who performs this body of miracles?


O friend, how many workshops will you attend,
how many ashrams and institutes of spiritual healing
must you visit before you learn the truth?
Every dimensionless point in space is filled
with 10 thousand suns that you just don't see
because you're living on all of them at once.
This is called 'consciousness.'
Now here is the final spiritual practice.
You won't need any other.
I learned it from a fat golden poodle.
When anyone, friend or foe, approaches you,
throw yourself on the ground before them.
Lie on your back with a vast empty smile and
invite them to rub your belly.
This is the only way.



  "The largest organism on earth is a fungus."  ~Scientific American

Dank the root cellar of your fruitfulness,
the mushroom odor of germinating silence,
swollen, connecting the mycelia of yearning,
the fungal awareness deep underdown
within the within.
Sniff out the truffle in your hypothalamus,
the aromatic spore of ancient desire.
Spread your tendrils, grandmothers,
co-minglers in loam, entwining
hopeful fingers in a new humanity,
earth's largest organism.
Who knew these tiny golden nipples
wriggling up to suckle sunlight
were a single vast sensation,
the touch of the Other
nestled in your heart. 

"Mycelia transmit information across their huge networks using the same neurotransmitters that our brains do: the chemicals that allow us to think." ~'Nature's Internet: The Vast Intelligent Organism Beneath Our Feet'


Another Silence

Don't cover your beauty with a veil.
Inside the absence of noise there is another silence.

Not the quietness of the flesh, but the seed of light.
It is Christ resting in Mary,
it is why there are stars in the darkness,
the tremor of a poem before its words,
the place where angels churn the milk of emptiness
into the golden butter of your body.
Don't cover your eyes, your lips, your hair.
Take off the veil and dive naked
into the ocean of your heart.

Art by Rashichaturveda

Five Milestones on My Spiritual Journey

On the occasion of my 65th birthday, I share five milestones on my path. Or rather I should say, my pathlessness. For each milestone is but a melting of the path into the goal. I was going to call this little essay, 'Five Essential Spiritual Ideas,' but the first essential spiritual idea is that there are none....

1. There Are No Spiritual Ideas. 
Spirituality is freedom from ideas. An idea can no more contain the Spirit than a cloud can contain the sky. The first and last steps on the spiritual path are exactly the same: let go of thinking.

2. There Is No Time.
This milestone on the pathless is like awakening from a dream. It is simply the realization that past and future do not exist: all is Presence.

Time is thought. Past and future only exist as neural activity in the brain. Is your brain in the past or future? That would be pretty good trick. My brain is always right here. Thank God.

I sense this miracle of Presence momentarily, but flee back into my cocoon of thought. When I have the courage to fully emerge, the Now magnifies a thousandfold in intensity. I ride the cutting edge of the wave of Now, ceaselessly electrified, never one moment old.

My neural energy was previously bound up in sustaining illusory images of past and future. When time collapses, this energy is liberated from thought and is available as Now-Consciousness. Dropping past and future, my mind not only feels lighter and clearer, but my nervous system is augmented with free energy, heightening every sensation. Ordinary living takes on color and is saturated with bliss, because so much more energy is here for alertness, sensation, and availability to others. My life is no longer siphoned off into the ghost-world of thought. The work of Presence begins.

3. Space is Awake
The next milestone: reversing the polarity between abstract and concrete. What used to be empty becomes solid, and what used to be solid becomes empty. This too is an awakening, peeling off another layer of the dream.

The so-called 'material' world now becomes the abstraction, ever dissolving, devoid of any lasting substance. Awareness itself, which used to seem abstract, now appears solid as diamond. Consciousness, not the object of consciousness, is the only concrete reality, because everything else dissolves into it. Now the very ground of being shifts from object to subject. In fact, I Am the shift. I stand not on the passing mists of this world, but on pure Awareness.

The space between events is alive, sparkling with eternity. The path between goals is self-luminous and lovely, an end in itself. Awareness, not its object, is the ground.

4. The Heart is the Center of Creation
Now a third monument on the pathless way: I realize that the only real wealth is the radiance of an awakened heart.

This is a shift of "center." All outward centers dissolve into my inward core. To love my own heart is the beginning of all true relationships.

The fire of stars, the black hole at the center of the galaxy, the Word of creation, radiate not from external points in space, or from any Creator above, but from the pulsing silence within me: quite literally my heart, beating in this human body. The heart is not only a physical organ, but a portal to the heavens.

Now I understand that every theological concept and every name of God was but the description of a possibility in my own consciousness. Vishnu, Shiva, Mother Divine, Brahman: all states of me. Father, Son, Holy Spirit; the Christ, the Comforter, the Kingdom of God: all radiant faces of my own heart. The influence of the constellations and planets, sun and moon: my chakras seeking alignment with my inward sun, through the waxing and waning of my breath.

I no longer dwell in the dark ages of mythology, astrology, or religious belief, giving away my spiritual power to heavenly ghosts, or projecting my spirit onto the stars. The universe is the expansion of my heartbeat. The light of the galaxies radiates from the blue flame burning at my center.

One photon in the tip of my little finger contains the electrical energy of the cosmos. An atom in my toe incorporates countless suns. I am astonished by the mighty chorus of creation. But this music pours not down from celestial spheres. It emanates from my depths. I experience this universal harmony not as sound, but as the silent vibration of simply being alive, right here.

5. Love Needs No Object.
The last revelation is just beginning to dawn for me. I am struggling to express it...

For eons we have assumed that in order to love there must be an object of love, and a relationship of lover and beloved. It might be another person, a spouse or child; it might be a guru, a savior, or a god in heaven; it might be a goal or project to complete. But there is someone who is the lover, and something else who is the beloved. We project this assumption into our religion, our conception of God. We assume, therefor, that God loves us and that we are the objects of his love.

But then of course, things get personal. Because God is personal, he might be disappointed in us. He might get angry or jealous. He might even want to punish us, or get a divorce.

Personal love is so limited!: first, because it confuses love with attachment. When love needs an object for its gratification, then even the most selfless and "spiritual" love becomes narrow, and quickly shifts into its polar opposite. Fearing loss of the love object, the lover becomes jealous, or possessive, suspicious, even hateful. That is why the "god" of the Old Testament becomes "a jealous god" and a god of "wrath." Wherever there is relationship between subject and object, wherever love needs an other for its object -- and it makes no difference whether the other is an "it" or a "thou", because the flaw is in the very duality of lover and beloved  -- then love's selflessness becomes self-seeking, love's scope becomes narrow.

But divine love transcends relationship. Love is absolute, not relative or relational. Love does not need to confine its heart to a lover or beloved, for true love dissolves the subject and the object, until only love remains. If I really love you, then I cannot say, "I love you." I can only say it like this:
"(I) Love (You)."
This love is cosmic and dispassionate, bathing every creature in divine intimacy without attachment, without any "me" or "mine." This love is what Jesus called "Agape". It is neither the passion of "eros" or the familiar attachment of "filios."

Relationships are just rehearsals for divine love. In the words of William Blake, "We are set on earth a little while to learn to bear the beams of love." When we are ready, we discover the truth: the glory of God is passionate dispassion, love without a lover, consuming all creatures in the uncreated fire of bliss.

II. Autobiography of Nobody

In the eight grade, I awoke through some great books. I should mention them: Alan Watts' 'Way of Zen'; 'A Coney Island of the Mind' by Lawrence Ferlinghetti; the collected poems of e. e. cummings, which I immediately stole from my school library since no one, it appeared, had ever checked it out, and the poems in it filled me with ecstasy.

A little book of haiku called 'Cherry Blossoms' introduced me to the essence of Zen in the poems of Basho, Issa, Buson. Then I stumbled onto Laotzu and I knew I was on a quest for something called enlightenment. I would take these books to an abandoned grave yard in the woods and read all weekend, alone.

I heard John Coltrane and started playing the sax. I called him up on the telephone and pretended I was a "jazz man." I didn't want him to know I was only 13. I said, "I love your music. You are great." He said, "Thank you." He was kind.

This all happened when I was in the eight grade. None of it happened in school.

From the green earth I had a sense of what enlightenment was. I used to wander through the woods and fields, just listening to silence and gazing across space. When I was five I wandered far into the fields and got by boots stuck in the mud of a freshly ploughed field. The fire department came and found me standing there.

The distance from one apple bough to the wood pile, the shimmering space over a plowed field expanding to the edge of the forest, the sky punctuated by a drifting red tailed hawk: space itself seemed to be filled with living consciousness, but I had no words for it then.

I assumed that this space was God, and knew that God was formless, an intimate Presence gazing at me from every atom and every star. I knew even then that God could not possibly be a form. I loved Winter, because the spaces around twigs, between branches, over fields, stretching to the moon and stars, were so alive with emptiness. There were many moments as a child when it seemed that space was the solid substance, and the material forms that filled it were just dreams.

I escaped from Sunday School by wandering off into the forest before my parents awoke. I hated Sunday school. But in the woods, there was God shimmering between twigs, gazing back from rocks and singing in the brook. I named the forest creatures after Native American tribes: every fallen tree that gave me a bridge across Red Clay Creek, every rock, every bend in the stream had an Indian name. From a very early age, I knew over 60 tribes and where their homeland was on the continent of America.

I played Indian warrior. I killed and died over and over again, in every possible way. But the great moments were when I delivered funeral orations over the bodies of dead warrior, honoring my enemy's soul and prowess. My friends grew weary of playing with me because I would insist that, after I killed them, they must lie there a long time and listen to me deliver a funeral oration. Then they would have to deliver an oration over my dead body in the next battle. They just wanted to play, and kill, and die. I wanted us to give funeral orations.

In 7th grade, I tried to get into the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer, because I was forced into Confirmation classes. But it didn't work. Prayer, I realized, could not be read out of a book. It had to emanate from my own breath. One day after Church, I was out on the green lawn gazing at thunderheads in the deep blue sky of April. I realized in a flash what the Holy Trinity really was. I understood that it had nothing to do with Church.

God is the blue sky father. The Spirit is the green earth mother. The Son is their offspring, Me. A human body is the link between sky and earth, and each of us is the offspring of Sky and Earth. The Holy Trinity is our family, Father, Mother, and Child. I laughed at how obvious this was, and how ridiculous adults were, making it so complicated. I had nothing but disdain for priests and ministers who preached sermons that turned the sparkling sky, the barefoot tingling earth, the glory of this human body, into a frozen system of beliefs.

Years later, in seminary, I remembered this experience and swore I would never be ordained as a priest or minister, for we are all priests, all offspring, all Christs in the Holy Trinity. That is when I became a Quaker.

Spending three years at Princeton Seminary made it very clear that I would never find fulfillment in orthodox religion. The reason was simple: Christian orthodoxy is based on stories from the past and promises for the future, but it leaves the present moment devoid of significance. That is why I followed the way of the mystics, not the theologians.

I went to Europe on a quest for the Christian mystical experience, through contemplative prayer and Gregorian chant, wandering through France, following the Medieval pilgrimage roots. I've shared this story in a post here: 'Searching for the Magdalene' (LINK). I've also shared my attempt to understand the meaning of Christ's incarnation and sacrifice in the Christmas story, The Magi (LINK).

My path became more formal when I started Transcendental Meditation in college, then became a teacher after my personal study with Mahesh Yogi. I have never stopped the practice, never needed another type of meditation. It's been that way for over 40 years. My life energy is also enhanced by the Sudarshan Kriya, the healing breath technique taught by Maharishi's one-time disciple, Sri Sri Ravi Shankar. My many personal encounters with Sri Sri, including his stay in my house in Philadelphia, gave me invaluable openings and incalculable gifts of Grace.

I can truly say, he is my Guru. On a summer night, a mall group of us were sitting with him in a field under the full moon. We were singing kirtans, and weeping, because it was his last night with us before he returned to India. This was in 1990. I watched him dance into the mist and disappear, dance out of the mist, reappearing in his white veil, then disappearing again into the moonlight darkness. He was teaching us that form and formlessness are no different. He was saying what Christ said to Mary in the garden at dawn on the morning of the Resurrection: "Do not cling to me."

Once when I was meeting with him alone in his room, I told him, "Guruji, you have something we want. What is it?" He said, "No, I've gotten rid of it. You're still carrying it."

Then I asked him, "Who are you, really?" He looked at me with intergalactic eyes of boundless love and said, "I am nobody." He meant it. That is when I knew he was my Guru. It has taken me another 25 years to understand what he meant.

But this spiritual autobiography does not deal with events and places. It simply highlight the inner milestones of realization on my pathless path. I leave you Five Milestones on the Pathless Path.

Jai Guru Dev


Silent Nest

The silence of your heart
is a nest
where miracles break forth
from the smallest shells
of blue.
Yet they require some
rustling softness
resting warmly upon them: 
your breath,
the mothering power.
Nestle in that place.
Give birth
to wings, possibilities,
the sky itself.


All Conspiracy Theories Are True

If you believe only one conspiracy theory, it will distort your world. The key to mental health is to believe them all.

Accept every conspiracy theory that comes along, left or right. Just say, 'Yes, that too!' Then they will cancel each other out and the world will appear as it is, radiant, clear and sweet.

The truth is, your heart conspires with the stars to put a huge smile on your face for no apparent reason. I promise, everything is OK.

Now which worries you more? Black UN helicopters flown by Kenyan Muslim homosexuals coming to take away your guns, or fleets of unmanned surveillance drones using gamma rays to secretly photograph your private parts?

Personally, I think the greatest threat is the fluoride and other rat poisons that pharmaceutical corporations put in our flu shots to lower our IQ and make us vote Republican. Of course, we already know it was alien Greys and not Al Qaeda who attacked us on 9/11: that explains why Obama has such big ears.

The space of your laughter is more vast and mysterious than any conspiracy can contain.


Dante and Beatrice: the Role of the Muse

'In that book which is my memory...
on the first page that is the chapter
when I first met you,
appear the words...
Here begins a new life.'

~Dante, first line of La Vita Nuova, his earliest work

'Such was the living light encircling me,
leaving me so enveloped by its veil
of radiance that I could see no thing.'

~Dante Paradiso, Canto XXX, summit of his last work

From the time he met her as a child, to their 'courtly love' as young adults, Dante's muse was Beatrice. He hardly knew her, hardly met her, yet devoted all his works to her inspiration. She died at 24. In the final book of the Divine Comedy, it is the beauty of her light that guides him to the beatific vision of divine light. He keeps turning to gaze at her face, and she chastises him for gazing at her beauty, rather than the self-luminous rose of beauty itself.

She merges into the rose, to take her place among the celestial choirs, as Dante enters into the final vision, the radiance of pure love.

Through the personal form, we merge into the personal formless. But it is never IMpersonal.

Bow down to your muse in gratitude.

Another Heart

Something inside me broke its golden center,
spilling all circumference,
drowning edges in a sea of breath
like ancient ruined cities of coral.
I thought it was my heart
beaten by yours, torn by silence.
But no, there is another heart
where your name and my name are lost
in rhythms of yearning,
where form's boundaries submerge
in the music of an inhalation and a sigh.
No, there is another heart, dear one,
deep inside yours and mine,
whose only joy is the wound of love.

قلب آخر
شيء ما تحطم في داخلي
وجوهره الذهبي،
فاض على المحيط،
فأغرق الأطراف في بحر من النَفَس
كأطلال مدن الماضي المرجانية اللون.
ظننته قلبي
تحطم على يدك،
ممزقاً بالصمت.
لكنني أخطأت: هناك قلب آخر
بضيع فيه اسمك واسمي
في إيقاعات الحنين،
تغوص فيه الأشكال والحدود
في موسيقى الشهيق وتنفس الصعداء.
هناك قلب آخر، حبيبتي،
في أعماق قلبك وقلبي،
قلب لا يفرح إلا بجرح الحب.

Translated into Arabic by Dana Chamseddine



So now, after the solstice of 2012, we have entered a new circle on the evolutionary spiral: a settling of energy into the heart center is taking place, with a discharge of stale forms and concepts in the mind.

This discharge of old patterns may make the mind confused, uncomfortable and cranky for a while as attention gradually stabilizes in our new orientation. Mind is resentful about its loss of rulership now that awareness has shifted its magnetic North to a deeper more silent place.

For mind is no longer the guiding force. The guidance comes from the heart - quite literally from this pulsing radiance at the center of the body. Now mind is the disciple of silence.

We want to cling to old arguments, old habits of justification, but they are passing away like yesterday's newspaper. This is frustrating. What to do? Simply stop clinging.

Remember, this mind is smoke, but you are the fire. In the previous age, you identified with wisps of thought, flying in every direction. Now you can rest in your hearth at home. Let the breath-breeze sweep away the beliefs and the fears of a bygone age.

The keynote for this period of time is the discovery that old paradigms just don't work any more. Those who are stuck in them will experience conflict. They will project this conflict onto imagined adversaries in the world outside, but the conflict is within themselves. It is the conflict between brain and heart, between a mind that won't surrender and a deeper Radiance. So these people will get increasingly frustrated, fearful and angry, and will polarize into the negative force. Please don't butt heads with them. Let them butt heads with themselves! Just smile, bless them, and let them go their way.

But those who gracefully breathe out the past, and trust with utmost simplicity in the Present Moment, will experience constant renewal, with a transparent mind and a heart unencumbered by the world's negativity.

You now have a choice whether to immerse in confrontation and conflict, or be free. Previously it was not a choice. Your karma was too thick and heavy. Now you can choose to let the heaviness go.

This is the time to rest at the Source, even in the midst activity. Where is the Source? Where in-breath arises and out-breath dissolves, the stillness before thought. Act from there.

Stop looking for that place and start looking from that place.

See, you traveled effortlessly from the rim to the center without even knowing it! Welcome. You are a survivor.

From now on, live each moment as royalty, and honor the royalty in others. No one has to justify themselves anymore. We are all sparkling facets of one royal diamond.

In the radiance that is always now, everything is as it should be, as it must be, as it is.


Rose of Emptiness

Whatever I can name, I can let go of.

When I let go of names, I make listening sacred.

When I let go of names, every breath, every particle of dust gets interesting. Life begins.

Do you want a name for it? Laotzu called it Tao, but he warned that it really has no name. Jesus called it the Kingdom of God, but he said, "It is not over here or over there: it is within
you." Buddha called it Nirvana, but he refused to say anything about it. He wouldn't even say whether it was existent or non-existent!

When I hear these religious terms, I mythologize them, imagining them as places, objects of perception, or states of existence. I assume that these words describe some content of experience. But if Truth were the content of my experience, it would just be more stuff that I could let go of. It would just be another name.

Truth has no content or name. Happiness is not an experience. God is not an object of attention. What we're talking about here is precisely what remains when all is abandoned, including 'me.'

So what remains?

Look into the motionless explosion of a rose. Look deep into its atoms. Gaze all the way down through its sparkling architecture of pure light, into photons bursting from unfathomable night, where the most infinitesimal particle contains the information of all the stars.

Fall into holy loss, vibrant annihilation. Fall into the luminous thunder of divine silence.

This is the rose of emptiness. 



A pellucid inner window transmutes the dross of the world into golden light. A self-luminous crystal lens, nearer to me than thought, an unbroken stream of seamless transparency, is awareness itself. In thast sweet invisible sap creation dissolves, the seer dissolves in each petal of the seen. From the lucidity of my own pure awareness creation springs, a rose floating on the void, roots dangling inward...

No matter how conflicted this world may appear, the self-evident truth is that it always arises a priori in the perfect unity of my own awareness. I cannot escape from the boundless freedom of my blessed solitude. I cannot know anything but my Self."

Keep the window clear. Polish the glass each morning and evening with the cloth of breath. Gaze until you become the light by which you see.

The Book of Practice

There are 10,000 pages in the Book of Practice,
containing 100,000 instructions
for uniting Heaven and Earth,
for making God Human,
for infusing lumps of soil with stars and galaxies,
for irradiating your naked body with a splendor
beyond the delights of man and woman,
for turning the sex of infinity into the breath of life
and the clarity of pure awareness
into a solid diamond.
These practices are sweet and terrible,
demanding at least 777 lifetimes.
But the wise cheat.
They read no further than page 1, Step 1:
"Rest the mind in the heart.
Thought is just smoke: Be the fire."
Then they go straight to the end of the book,
the very bottom of the last page, where it says,
"Rest the mind in the heart.
Thought is just smoke: Be the fire."
This is all they do.
It is the way of Masters and Beginners.
We who need to do anything else
are just sophomores, fiddling
with intermediate knowledge.

Whirl of Stillness

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.


Two Poems by Dana Chamseddine

تحرقني الحقيقة فأفرح! وتذرّي رمادي الحالم فوق أنهار الموت، فتعيد إليها الحياة!

Truth burns me: I bliss out!
Then It disperses my dreaming ashes
on the rivers of death,
restoring them to Life!

عندما أحببتك، رقصت الفراشات في السماء وتركت النور لتنظر إلى عينيك! حبك المستحيل صار محراب الفراشات التي تتلمظ بمازوشيتها!

When I loved you, butterflies
danced in the sky and left the Light
to look into your eyes.
Your impossible love has become
the sanctuary of moths
who savor their masochism.



Something bigger than all the galaxies,
more golden than 10 billion suns,
is pinned to this old body at the heart.
Whatever such vastness is,
one breath fuses it with bone and marrow,
earth touching heaven like a baby's mouth
meeting a nipple.
In the synapse where neurons exchange
a kiss of fire, there is a spiral of stars,
and somewhere inside that
this green droplet we live on.

Gentle Manifestos

Blessing, not protest. Justice is in compassion as grapes are in wine.
Do you really want to change the world? Get off the wheel of opposites. Stop reacting.
Be a creator. Reaction is just karma. Creation does not arise from previous conditions.
I plant a seed of peace, a seed of friendship, a seed of joy. But if I have no Silence in my heart, where will it take root?
Action devoid of Silence is stress. Action from Silence is love. This is why we pray first, then light a candle.
I have never seen a mountain swept away by fog, only made more beautiful by its passing and dissolving. Selah.

Photo by Laura Converse


Stars, deeper stars. Stars within stars. Why is it always a surprise, this thing called night, so alive with namelessness? One enormous empty singing bell whose silence says: "Enough melodrama! Stop all this falling in and out of love. You are love!"


Right This Moment

All is a breath. Don't ask whose. Just keep offering what is given.

Right this moment, it makes no difference what you ate. It makes no difference what you did yesterday, or this morning, whether it was right or wrong, success or failure.

Right this moment, it makes absolutely no difference what you believe, or disbelieve, whether you are a Christian or an Atheist, a Buddhist or a Wiccan.

Right this moment, it only matters that you know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, you are loved by an infinite love.

You are engulfed in an ocean of love. Love's tidal waves sweep gently, silently, in and out of your heart with every breath.

Each atom of air, photon of food, electron in your body, swirling galaxy of stars, is made from the same radiance, the radiance You Are, the radiance I Am, the radiance of pure love.

Love is the nature of consciousness, just as it is, right this moment. Perfect love is always already here.

All we need to do, all we have to be, is awake.

Artist Link: Josephine Wall


Big, Little

Have you noticed? If you do little things very very carefully, big things disappear, but each little thing is filled with a starry heaven. The journey from what you are doing right now, to the most important thing in your life, is the distance from your forehead to your chest. A single breath. Do you understand this?  I don't.

Photo: Milky Way over Mt. Hood, Oregon


Of Guns and Bibles

I am sick of the gods of war.

We can’t explain our gun culture by scapegoating the NRA, or Hollywood, or a few mentally ill people. We have to look deeper, into our disturbingly violent religious heritage.

Our "holy" books call us to battle. The military propaganda of ancient scribes we consider "scripture" (see Deuteronomy 20). The story of Joshua's genocide against the native tribes of Palestine gave religious justification for the treatment of Native Americans by white colonists, calling themselves “the new Israel.” Biblical notions about “the chosen people" conquering a “promised land” inspired “American Exceptionalism," with our imperial invasions of the Philippines, Central America, Vietnam, Iraq, and now Obama's drone war against Third World villagers.

Americans glory in war. We don’t just idolize hunting or sports guns, but military assault weapons. For many citizens, arming ourselves for a coming apocalyptic battle against dark foreign powers is not just a right-wing political conspiracy, but a religious duty.

Yet such violent fantasies are far from the true spirit of Jesus, who said, "Love your enemy… Put away your weapon." (Mat 5:44, 26:52)

Let us abandon the old gods of tribal warfare and honor the living God of compassion. Sacred history is not the past: it is what we do now for justice. The "promised land" is not a country conquered with guns, but a society that cares for its poor, its elderly, its sick and homeless.

The chosen people are the people who choose peace.

Illustration by Gustave Dore: Joshua and the Hebrew army sparing one inhabitant of the city, Rahab, because she betrayed her own people.


What Wine Doesn't Say

The wine doesn't say to the grape,
'Let me back in,
I want to be juice again.'
You've been uncorked.
Your job is to make everything 


To Her


Love poets only write about five things:
earth, air, light, water, and you.
But you are only known through images.
Therefor when we speak of you
people imagine we are talking about the world,
the flame of your caress, the ocean of your glance,
starry wind of your voice, landscape of your kisses,
a garden of lovers who burn each other up
as roses in fragrance, or bees not knowing,
not caring, who will drink their honey.
When I met you, love, it all became so real.
I could not see or taste or touch your lips,
no, that was because you filled my heart
with a fire from inside,
and the distance between us was God's
blinding Now of light.
Who will understand this? Only you,
and blades of grass whom the Master's feet

Left Right

A butterfly has two wings:
a Left wing and a Right wing.
They are not angry at each other.
They lift one another.
Your name is written on both
in hieroglyphs of blackness and fire.
Isn't this how opposites dance
into the sky?

Artist: Don Ray



Unclench your fist;
anger is not the way.
Unclench your heart;
the radical act is compassion.
Buds, cocoons, broken shells
teach us to change through non-violence,
a passionate expansion of wings and petals.
Yes, things burst, but only
as beats of rhythm within rhythm.
Save your blood for deeper
more musical veins, the ones in your heart.
The real revolution is to breathe.

Tree of Fire

I don't want information, I want light.

"Information" is creation's first fire imprisoned in bytes of silicon, trapped in dendrites of cerebral protein, snuffed into memes of smokey thought. At least for a few minutes this morning, in deep meditation, free my radiance from knowing!

Isn't this what happened to Moses when he saw God in the "burning bush?" It wasn't a bush but his own brain stem. His spine was the Tree of Life, branches catching glory, spreading the fiery first commandment of the hypothalamus, 'Let there be light!'

Doesn't the Bible say, "Our God is a consuming fire?" The Word of creation is not information, but bliss.

Let the burning breath of my sushumna surge through the root-ball amygdala, brilliant sap bursting synaptic twigs in radiant blossoms of the cerebellum, leaves of electric flame. The Lord did not plant this tree to overload the branches of my nervous system with the Knowledge of Good and Evil, hanging in clusters of opposites.

I was pruned to bear more fire.

Thank You

Sixty five years old. I feel about seven most of the time. Jesus have mercy on me.

I don't have enough courage to be a pacifist, enough humility to be a christian, or enough purity to be a yogi.

I get angry and harbor impure thoughts. I eat and drink unwholesome foods. I wander too wondrously among many gods. I study and study, yet seem to know less each day. Of dubious use to humanity, or even to my loved ones, I am mere baggage on this planet, and my carbon footprint is very heavy.

I am the very incarnation of incompetence. All I do is write poems and feed them to the wind, hoping somebody will find one, and they don't clutter the planet too much.

Yet for no apparent reason the universe has accepted me, and allowed me to dwell on the precious green earth, embraced by sunlight and air, enfolded in the miracle of mere Being. Something vast permits me to say, "I love, therefor I am." And this fills me with unspeakable gratitude.


A Question for Stars

Petals in a bud, rivers in a spring,
twins in a womb, lovers in love.

Once it was like this: I Love You.
Now it is like this: (I) Love (You).

What longs for me in you
longs for you in me. Between

your breathing out, my breathing in,
one stillness.

Feathered seeds on ocean winds
carry my words to your distant loam.

Only you can hear them, gently
disturbing the stars with a question:

Why don't we fall in love
with Love itself?


My poems written for a Spoken Word & Sculpture Project with artist Liz Miller, whose paintings and sculptures are pictured. Her works are also featured at the Iron Works Art Gallery in Hilo, Hawaii. 


Raven Brings Life to the Earth

Insects in cedar amber, honey of the dead
mother fir and nurse log, words
in silence of the virgin mind.
Who carries this dream away
in her black beak as I


I am riding the black waves of silence
into the beauty of your annihilation,
where the kiss of creating rises to greet me.
It happens in one beat of the raven's wing,
the uncomplicated soaring we are.

It is not a lover that our body needs,
but the flame of Presence
upon the wick of its agreement.
Every promising stranger you fall for
is me, and I am your own dark lips.

Between the domed emptiness of listening
and the red eruption of your fissuring heart
there is a mouth for answering the whisper
of love's black radiance. Somewhere
in sweet astonished silence
your wing beats next to mine. 

Raven In the Cosmic Egg
Madonna Raven sleeps in Mother Night:
motherhood in motherhood,
Layers of crystal emptiness
feathering embryonic dark
where colors of silence flicker
in a thingless sea.
Galaxies unleavened,
floating on albumin night
in a Presence unsalted by birth.
Two helix-twisted lovers,
Past and Future,
fizzle in a dance of strings.
One is named Not Yet, Not Yet,
the other Until, Until;
she in a veil of logarithms,
he in a blanket of regrets
woven with beads of possibility.
Womb dancers, frantic
phantom birth pangs!
Raven mother is pregnant
with unbearable quietness.

Raven In Flames

destroyer of day,
each flame an eye
of night, the seer
in the seen.

Raven On The Beach

At the beach, Ravenhears
men moaning from clam shells.
Ravenhears lobster gods,
blushing with frustration,
click their claws.
Ravenhears the croaking
of sea turtles, creaking backs
inscribed with faces of the unborn.
Ravenhears the wail
of hungry spiders in exquisite
empty webs,
coyote ululation in a hemlock breeze.
for the world to come,
then gets to work
pecking things to bits,
freeing the voices.

Raven On the Beach, 2

down the shore.
Fat Yoruba Ju Ju Mama
rattle in each claw
rumbling haunches hunched high
breast low
croaks and coaxes life back
over the beached whale....
Don’t make fun of Raven's cakewalk: 

it's compassion.

Behind Every Great Speaker, A Silent Raven

Before the world, a word.
Before the word, desire.
Before desire, a wing
beating through darkness,
rhythms of silence.
A beak as black as the moon
carries the seed
of the world before this one.

Raven Kiva

If you would go high, get down.
If you seek heaven, dig.
If you want to fly, surrender
to gravity. A shadow
is never humbled. The grass
is never felled by wind.
Coyote scratches up a dry bone
which sprouts black feathers
and dances upward,
pulling your blood to the stars.


Raven Teaches Men to Hunt

I've had strange dreams three nights hungry,
sick of eating roots and nuts, hallucinating
unborn children, singing curves
of death in their hands, piercing
winged glistening sticks and
white-eyed antelope fear,
dreams that died in first light.
Raven flew out of dream clouds,
dropped a terrible rock in my hand.
Like no other stone, it spoke
obsidian prophecies, engines of grief,
nuclear furnaces, cauldrons of war.
"Is this a tool or a curse?" I cried.
Raven answered, "Ghraawh!"
Flew away.

Raven Grows the Tree of Life

Look at me, I'm Raven.
I'll be still if you sling me a fish.
Look at my long round talons
for holding, not tearing.
Loose eyes for weeping, not seeing.
Beak of night for opening and closing
in gestures stranger than knowledge.
Claws root deep to monkey-wood seed,
pumping sap through wing-feather veins.
Think you see me but I'm
leaves against the moon!
Come close, enter the humming
bell of my throat.
Swim through the gullet of my heart
stinking of other worlds
deep inside this one.
Gut me to my ebony craw,
rosewood liver and spleen:
find carcasses of mastodon in tar.
I nestle uncarved in trunks.
You are my branches.

Now throw me that fish.

Raven Among The Trees
What really matters is immaterial.
That's why, at the end of every argument, 

we say, "it doesn't matter"
and instantly return to the silent
forest. In the forest,
raindrops glisten from twigs,
every fir needle weighted
down by a terrible droplet
filled with unnamed planets.
The forest at night is a shapeless bell
which is the voice of Raven.
It cannot be struck
by the clangor of thought.
A bell, nevertheless,
ringing with possibility.
Raven glides low among the pines
along the salmon-mad creek.
One wide-eyed insomniac hears
her caw, caw, caw
and runs from a cedar bark kiva
shouting, "Throw that trickster a fish!"
Some fish-spearing warrior responds.
And to catch that fish,
Raven drops the Sun in your hand.
What will you do with it, warrior?

Raven Shows Us How to Make Petroglyphs
Women carved stones while men paddled out beyond the breakers.
Draw a smiling whale to put the whale out there to sleep.
Draw your big-bellied grandmother with a mouth like an earthquake,
you might make berries grow.
That's the language of desire, but I give you a language of astonishment,
scrawled by old men at the end of all-night dancing:
a language for living on the edge of creation and death.
They dreamed that they were salmon, I brought worms and minnows, 

dangled them before their mouths, you should have seen them writhe!
Then I shouted, "Write it down! 

 Make maps of your blood and marrow if you want to eat!"
Famished, they drew with their own bones.
They became artists.
When it was over, they ate silently.
That silence was the point of it all.
You find your Word in their ancient stone scratches.
But I make deep-throated sounds of power 

that have no meaning at all.


Aphrodite Ourania: Divine Love

St. Theresa in Ecstasy, by Bernini, Santa Maria della Vittoria, Rome

There is a love that has no object. This love is not a relationship. It is beyond relativity, beyond two, for this love annihilates both lover and beloved. This love falls in love with love itself. This love whispers a new commandment: "Love no one else." But this love is not far above. It is intimate, and very present. It is Presence alone. All creatures are burning up in this love without knowing it.

From Plato's Symposium we have two Aphrodites, two kinds of love: Aphrodite Ourania and Aphrodite Pandemos, that is, the Love Goddess of "the heavens" and the Love Goddess of "the common folk."

For Neo-Platonists, these two Aphrodites became two distinct goddesses, and their distinction had a profound influence on Christian mystics. In fact, Jesus himself made this distinction when he used the Greek word "agape" for love, as distinct from "eros" and "philios." Eros is passion for an object or person. Philios is the biological attachment that unites family and tribe. Jesus pointed to a spiritual love, Agape, that is distinct from the more common types of attachment.

Most humans have no conception of the divine Aphrodite, though we're quite familiar with the ordinary Goddess of love who smites us with Cupid's arrows. The common Goddess is a love that always has an object. Therefor she is always a subject, and possesses the subject. Her love is a form of madness, of possession. This romantic erotic love is short-lived, and all too easily reverses its polarity, turning into the very opposite kind of energy: jealousy, envy, grief, loneliness, and even hatred. She is not only the Goddess of blind lovers, but the Goddess of divorce lawyers.

That other heavenly Aphrodite is quite different. Botticelli portrayed her in Birth of Venus, alone-born from Zeus's oceanic power (Greek, monogenase, "of one parent") The Greek word monogenase occurs in the Nicaean Creed, 325 CE, because Jesus, like Venus, is alone-born of the Father. Botticelli was a mystic artist who intended to portray her as the feminine aspect of Christ. Here he evoked an ancient Gnostic tradition: the Holy Spirit as the feminine form of God.

The Virgin Mother is the creative power of divine love, generating the universe ex nihilo, from nothing, monogenase, without any partner. That is, without any need for the second element which the Greeks called "primal matter."

The earthly Aphrodite, then, is always caught in subject-object relationship, spirit vs. matter. But the heavenly Aphrodite is beyond duality and is, therefor, love without an object. Since she has no object, she is not a subject either. Yet She pervades all forms formlessly, blessing all objects without attachment, sweetening all subjects as consciousness itself, without become an "I."

The early Christian Gnostic, Valentinus, described the true Virgin Mother as "mystical eternal silence." She is the silence prior to creation. Therefor she is neither creator nor creation, neither I nor It. Yet from the mystery of her Womb-Void worlds arise. The modern analogy is quantum physics, where matter emanates as vibrating energy from a vacuum devoid of any inherent substance. Thus the Virgin generates all creatures and souls, subjects and objects, without herself being either. She is uncreated creativity.

Now what does all this have to do with our spiritual practice? I write from the experience of Transcendental Deep Meditation, as taught by Maharishi Mahesh Yogi: I can only share my own perspective. Perhaps you would like to add yours...

Most spiritual practices remain enmeshed in the duality of subject and object. Even the sweetest devotional experience of Lover and Beloved remains trapped in the dualistic structure of relative creation. Our tenderest devotion to the Guru is still a relationship: I and Thou. Such a relationship is the subtlest form of Aphrodite Pandemos: sweet as it may be, it does not transcend relativity to taste the Absolute Being of the One at creation's source. Even when we are inebriated with the bliss of devotion to the Master, we remain caught in the sticky subject-object web of the lower Aphrodite, albeit in its subtlest and sweetest threads.

This is why the practice of Transcendental Deep Meditation is so unique, and so ruthlessly loving! Truth holds not only the lotus of Krishna, but the scimitar of Shiva; not only the rose of Christ, but "the sword of the Spirit." Eventually sweet devotional love, like a web of dew, must dissolve in the blinding formless sun of Truth, if we are to soar into the heavens of Aphrodite Ourania.

As daylight transcends the glow of a single candle in a hut, pervading the whole landscape, so divine love transcends the particular relationship of lover and beloved.

The grace of deep meditation gently snaps that silken thread and frees our awareness completely from the field of subject-object relationship. We transcend the exquisite two-ness of Master and Devotee, yes, even the Magdalene's love for Jesus, or Radha's love of Krishna, drawn beyond two into One. We sink into the abysmal unity of Absolute Being, the luminous darkness before God said, "Let there be light."

Do not suppose that the formless invisible power of this unitary divine love is far away. It is near, more intimate than a kiss! When lover and beloved kiss, they lose sight of each other and fall for a moment into exquisite unity, closing their eyes and dissolving their forms, do they not? When we are lost in a kiss, it may only be for an instant, and we are so lost that we do not even notice our complete annihilation.

This kiss is an important symbol in the literature of mystical love. In the Gnostic Gospel of Philip, we are told that "Jesus loved Mary Magdalene most of all, and used to kiss her on the mouth."

Those who worship only Aphrodite Pandemos take this passage literally. But the kiss described here is not the momentary kiss of sensuality; it is the spiritual kiss of which true troubadours sing, Hafiz, Mirabai, St. Theresa: "There is some kiss we want with our whole lives," Rumi whispers, "the kiss of Spirit on the body." So the Song of Solomon yearns, "Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth!" But this is not the kiss of lover and beloved; for where this kiss is given, lover and beloved dissolve in unity.

Divine love irradiates the universe yet clings to no-thing. Aphrodite Ourania tenderly enfolds all creatures in the wings of Presence, yet knows no single one as lover. Her love is beyond knowledge and knower. She cares for a blade of grass as much as a king; infuses a photon with light as bright as a supernova; regards the distance from earth to the center of the galaxy as no greater than an electron's distance from the nucleus of an atom.

All distances are one exhalation to her, and that is the journey from your head to your chest. The cosmic expanse clustered with galaxies is the space of intimacy inside you, traversed by a gentle breath. Here you will encounter her, and nowhere else, in the beating core of your heart! O lover, breathe in, breathe out; surrender to the mystery of your own rhythm; sink from your mind into the abyss of love.
We can define unitary divine love as a state of Transcendental Awareness, prior to the manifestation of any subject or object, prior to the emergence of an "I" or an object of awareness. Pure self-luminous consciousness alone, she is her own content.

Pure Awareness transcends every thought. It is unconditional silence prior to any word or image. It is absolute stillness prior to any act of thinking. Not that our awareness beholds the Prime Mover, but our awareness becomes the Prime Mover. Not that our awareness hears Divine Silence, but our awareness becomes Divine Silence. This unity is the goal of love, and the source of love.

When we say there is no object for this love, we mean no thought as well as no sense-object. For a thought is an object too, an other that creates an "I", a perception that manifests a perceiver. Thus the faintest thought, even the thought of "God," produces a subject-object dualism just like an idol on the alter. This is why the anonymous Medieval Christian text, Cloud of Unknowing, declares, "God can be loved but not thought."

Now one might ask, Could this experience actually be part of the Christian tradition? Indeed. We might assume this is Indian non-dualism, Advaita Vedanta. Few Westerners have any idea that such an experience is essential to the Christian mystics.

Meister Eckhart, in the 14th Century, called this loving union, "the Godhead beyond God." Cistercian mystic, William of St. Thierry, a contemporary of St. Bernard in the 12th Century, wrote, "Not that we become God, but what God is." Saint Catherine of Genoa declared in the late 15th Century, "My me is God, nor do I recognize any other me but my God."

For St. Theresa of Avila, this experience is "the prayer of union." Her autobiography, The Book of Her Life, offers many examples of unitary divine love:
"When the Lord suspends the intellect and causes it to stop, He himself gives it that which holds its attention and makes it marvel." ~Chapter 12
In other words, it is the pure subjectivity of God-Consciousness which becomes the object of Theresa's awareness, the self-luminosity that I Am. In Exodus, chapter 3, God tells Moses that the true divine name is, "I Am that I Am." I Am reflecting on itself as the light of infinite subjectivity.
"Often I had been bewildered and inebriated in this love, and never was I able to understand its nature... for the faculties are almost totally united with God... The intellect is worth nothing here!" ~Chapter 16
"Once while in prayer I was shown in a flash, without seeing any form, how all things are in God and how He holds them all in Himself. How to put this in writing I don't know... The Divinity is like a very clear diamond, greater than all the world... Everything we do is visible within this diamond, which contains all things within itself; there is nothing that escapes its magnitude." ~Chapter 40
St. Theresa sees all eternity in an instant of crystal stillness. She calls it the "diamond." Indian scripture also uses this image for unitary love: "chittamani," the jewel of pure consciousness. "Chit" means consciousness,"mani" means jewel. In an instantaneous flash of silence, Theresa's diamond-like awareness holds the eternal past and future, all possible selves, every lover and beloved, essentialized in a sparkling singularity beyond relationship. This diamond singularity is the One who loves all without a lover.

Divine love is the holographic jewel that embodies infinite facets and faces, yet none is other than the whole, and none is sought out for particular relationship. Aphrodite Ourania is love in love with love alone, burning up everything.