I breathe in darkness and breathe out light, but breath is not my Way. I savor the name of God, but the Word is not my Way. I honor the guru, but my path has no master.

With no ancient chant, no alter, no puja ceremony, I walk in the forest, offering the silence of cedar, trillium, and fern. My chest melts with love, yet bhakti is not my path.

Though I honor the songs and suras of the wise, I follow not the Vedas, the Torah, the Qur'an. I give to those in need, but the path of seva is not for me. I surrender, Lord. But even You, even You, are not my Way.

My Way is not a journey. This bud opens in every direction at once. There are no steps, only fragrance and dissolving.

Every religion is one petal. But I would offer the whole flower. Each lineage of masters is a mote of pollen. But I have sticky feet. I visit the center, where the pollen is made in secret darkness.

My way is the shattering of every window between seer and seen, the sinking of all boats in one ocean of transparency. One moment gazes into the well of eternal aloneness, where past and future drown. This is my Way.

The annihilating kiss of light upon light in the bridal chamber of a single eye: this is my Way. It is the motionless explosion of a rose, containing the scent of all paths.

Down where the pistil and stamen touch in a throb of stillness, I make honey. Come, drink from my heart.

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