Soul Mate

We've all spent lifetimes looking for that special someone, the One
who must be our final soul mate, our eternal partner, the One who
will make our life so smooth and complete.

But the One we yearn to meet can never be another person, a partner,
a lover, or even the perfect Guru. Impossible. Because then there
would be two, and that wouldn't be the One, would it? It's pretty
obvious, really.

I cannot encounter the One I've been searching for until I surrender
my very search, until I melt into fathomless impeccable solitude, 
until I merge with the edgeless radiance of my own spontaneously 
self-fulfilling energy-field, which is the field of Wholeness. I'm
pretty sure my cat figured this out a long time ago.

No one else can possibly make me happy but me, because happiness
is my nature. It is something to share, not to attain. 

To touch true happiness, I repose in the One I Am. Then, in the
clearest day or the darkest night, I find ten thousand partners to
dance with, all of them waves of the Self.

 Friend, meet me here.


The Weight

Every body has the substance of an echo. We all exist in a lightning bolt, instantly flashing. It has already happened. The universe is as weightless as pure space, the rippling stillness of a mirage. Why be concerned about anything? It is our worry that gives gravity and mass to the appearance of things. Drop the weight, drop the worry, drop the mind.

Is Intelligence Thinking?

Most people equate Intelligence with the power of thinking.
I equate Intelligence with the power of not-thinking. Truly
intelligent people think only when necessary. They spend
 the rest of the time reposing in radiant emptiness.

"Drop all concepts." ~Nisargadatta Maharaj



It is so small, and such a waste of energy, to accuse others
of being "privileged." Such resentment arises from a dim
view of oneself. In truth, we are all privileged. It is a
privilege to breathe.

We are privileged because we are the radiance of the Divine.
We are privileged because we embody boundless Light in
every atom of this human form. We are privileged to be
fair-skinned or dark, to be umber, beige, or the color of soil.
We are privileged to be citizens of the earth. We are privileged
to receive the gift of Awareness.

Unfortunately, we have cultivated an entire culture of blame.
Instead of resenting others, why not ennoble our Self-vision?
Why not look inside and see how magnificent we are!
Dropping resentment and comparison, we can discover how
much more energy we have to create happiness.



14 thousand years ago, when I was 9 years old, my father sent me into the meadow to herd his small flock of cows. From the nearby forest, where I was told never to wander, I heard the sound of a thrush, so melodious it almost seemed like a human song. At the time I did not know that all human song comes from the animal kingdom.

Allured by the voice, leaving my cows to graze contently on thistles and clover, I plunged into the woods where it grew thickest, greenest, most seductively wild.

Under a blossoming dogwood tree I met a boy my own age. His skin was blue as a rain-laden cloud in early May. His eyes were like trillium dancing in fern shadows. Being the king's only son, he superciliously gave me a commandment: "Leave all your duties and make mischief."

"Is this permitted?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, " because this world needs mischief more than work."

"What about following the rules?"

"There is only one rule, and I have given it to you. When you fall in love, it is your duty to break every other law."

He taught me how to turn my body into a wounded flute with seven holes. He showed me how to pour tears through it. He taught me to catch peacocks by the tail and follow their outraged flight to the moon. He taught me to transcend both sleep and dreams, and to sing all night.

Then my dark blue playfellow led me to a deep pool filled by a waterfall in the forest, where the daughters of his royal cousins were bathing. We tiptoed over the moss and stole the clothes that they had scattered on the bank. Climbing up in a yew tree, we hung them from every branch, laughing and teasing the ladies below, who shrugged their shoulders and covered their buoyant breasts with crossed hands.

I accidentally dropped my wallet into the pool, a little bag filled with my most precious heirlooms. One of the girls dove for it, then came up gasping, waving the purse and shouting, "You must give us our clothes to get this back!"

I called, "There's nothing in that bag but my name, my grandfather's diamond signet ring, and the deed to my father's property. Throw it back into the water."

She did just that, causing the blue boy to laugh with delight. "Well done!" he said, clapping his hands. A very large salmon leaped out of the water with my wallet in its mouth, then swam down the stream toward the sea.

But the blue boy wanted to give the girl some punishment for what she had done, not to fulfill the laws of karma, but simply to play with her. So he blew his breathe upon her and she changed into a mourning dove. "You may return to your human form tomorrow," he said.

Beating her wings in distress, the girl who was now a dove flew to the branch of a willow that wept over the water, and began to mourn that plaintive coo that only those who long for something lost can understand. She mourned all night, and at dawn her sweet cry came from far off, muffled by the mist.

When the sun was high and the mist had burned away, she wandered back to her friends, naked and human, her bare feet delicately pressing last night's dew from the moss with each step. "Sorrow is lovely," she said. "Now I will never be afraid. I miss the dark."

Almost 10 thousand years later, while wandering through China, I met the Old Master of the Way, hitchhiking out of the empire. I was still a young boy. "Before you escape from civilization," I asked the old fellow, "what can you teach me?" He taught me to breathe through the soles of my feet. I still hate shoes.

I followed the caravan routes across Persia to the Roman Empire. On the way, I passed through a picturesque little kingdom called Israel, noted chiefly for die-hard zealots who kept challenging the authority of Caesar, getting themselves crucified, then coming back for more.

I befriended the son of the High Priest while I was stealing pomegranates in the crowded marketplace. He took me to his father's house and, discovering that I had met some sages in the East, the High Priest asked me if I wanted to visit the temple. Of course I did. He made me bathe several times and cover my body in a white robe, then escorted me through the court of the gentiles and into the temple, where I had no right to be.

"Are you sure the temple guards won't arrest me?" I asked.

The High Priest just winked and said, "You're a traveler. Speak well of what you see here. We need the publicity."

He led me down aisle after aisle, past many tables where merchants were selling doves, pigeons, lambs, wine, and bread for people to offer in sacrifice. There were pots filled with dinarii and other trinkets of silver. In the heart of the temple, I walked up the stairs through the alters of incense and sacrifice, carefully stepping over carved trenches in the floor that ran with warm blood. The priests seemed entranced by their work of slaughter and didn't notice me, a 12-year-old goy in their midst.

Then the old man led me to the Holy of Holies, its door barely visible in the cloud of incense that perpetually gloomed the pillars and alters. He asked me not to speak, then opened the golden door. We walked into the shrine room at the center of God's little kingdom.

Imagine my surprise. There I expected to see another alter, with a holy book lying upon it. Or perhaps the Ark of the Covenant, containing the tablets that Moses brought down from Mount Sinai. Or even the lost tablet, the one Moses broke in fury, on which a single commandment was written: "Love thyself." But instead, I saw another door, wide open. Actually, it was more like the black mouth of a cave. The High Priest beckoned to me with a sweeping gesture, and I walked through...

Before my eyes grew accustomed to the dark, I seemed to be spinning through a vacuum, tumbled by waves of pure possibility, like a wildly unbalanced quadratic equation searching desperately for Zero, buffeted and baffled by expanding and contracting bubbles of space-time in the swirling maelstrom of infinity smaller than Planck's Constant.

Then I was on solid ground, seeing. I had passed through the portal into an ancient forest. Thick with cedar, hemlock, ferns and trillium, green shadows echoed with the sound of birds, shrieks of monkeys and other hominids, only the eyes of whom were visible, glinting from the dark. Reptiles with women's faces twined around every tree trunk, smiling like flowers, singing so softly that their descant was an all-pervading whisper, mighty in its quietness.

I glanced at the High Priest, yearning for an explanation yet unable to speak. In a very deliberate and barely audible voice, he said, "Adonai, the Lord of Creatures, whose true name is not known, can never be contained in a temple. God is wilderness and chaos, not order. In the presence of her mystery all words must die, all thoughts fall silent. A holy scripture is holy only because it conjures images of the ancient forest. If you would become an enlightened being, you must be wilder than any animal."

I walked even deeper into the green shadows, and swooned... Then I found myself sitting in the market place, eating a pomegranate, among the merchants booths. Where was the High Priest and his son? Had it merely been a reverie? Were the seeds of the pomegranate fermented?

Not many centuries later, strolling through a village near the source of the Ganges, who do you think I encountered? Bodhidharma, the 6th Patriarch, on his way to the North. He invited me to go with him but I answered, "I'm too young. Besides, I've already been there."

That night we lay under the stars. Bodhidharma gave me a pearl and said, "Rest this between your eyebrows." So I did. "Now look into the stars." Then I saw my seven grandmothers riding galactic wheels through child-bearing light years of virgin silence.

On my way home, I wandered through Macedonia. One night I left the path to sleep in a forest cave. About midnight I was wakened by a goat-footed singer with a three-stringed lyre, climbing through the cave on his way back from the Underworld, where he had been dallying with his lover. He gave me a drink from his wineskin and played the richest harmonies, the most haunting melodies, on just those three strings of his mysterious instrument. I began to weep with incomprehensible waves of grief. He said, "You must make a lyre of your flesh if you want to turn your tears to laughter."

I am not sure if this was a dream, but he touched his lyre to my lips and it melted like a piece of maple sugar candy, dripping down through the hollows of my ribcage, each drop echoing in the cavern of my belly. The goat-man said, "Loop these strings through your nostrils and stretch one to your heart, one to your navel, and one to the tip of your spine." I did as instructed. "Now breathe," he commanded.

As I inhaled, my nerves tingled with love songs. As I exhaled, strange rhyming couplets spilled from my lips in words of evaporated crystal. Even today I breathe these bejeweled sounds. This is how I remain just twelve years old, though I have outlived the world's most ancient volcano.

About 2000 years later, I met Jesus. He was an honored guest in the house of my master Levi, where I was a servant boy. Reclining on his elbow by the low table, as was the custom at Hellenistic feasts, Jesus said, "Come here, boy. What are you serving?"

"Olives, sir." I offered him my plate of succulent brown ones.

"Not sweet enough for me," Jesus said. "Do you have any grapes?"

The whole room grew quiet. My master Levi and all the men reclining at the feast wanted to see what I would do, for it was a great sin to insult a guest, and I was a slave boy. "No grapes, sir," said I, "Only olives; but my master's olives are more luscious than any fruit."

At that, both host and guests sighed with relief, resuming their debate on the philosophy of love. Jesus reached his fingers into my dish of olives, drawing out a dripping fistful. Holding his hand over my head, he crushed the olives in his palm and drizzled their juice over my hair. It spilled down my forehead, into my eyes and over my lips. Jesus said, "Boy, I anoint you with oil. You are the Christ, just as I Am. Together, we will become pure breath, and enter the bodies of both saints and fools."

Deeply disturbed, my master Levi cried, "Why do you anoint this servant boy as if he were a prophet? He belongs to me!"

Jesus simply gazed into my eyes and commanded, "Speak, boy!"

My mouth made sounds, but were they words? Was this a language anyone could understand? I had no idea what I was saying, but I knew exactly what I meant:
"You have wandered too long in blazing desert sun. Come to my oasis of figs, pomegranates, cocoa and apple boughs. Rest in my green shadows.
"When your eyes take root in my fecund darkness, you will see gemstones lying among the lilies: rocks of amethyst and jagged topaz, blackest onyx, sapphires gleaming with their own inward light.
"Turn them over one by one and behold, a gushing spring under each stone. And see, dwelling in those gurgling fountains of night are all the serpents that were ever banned by priests of religion from every nation on earth. Now they dwell here, in my oasis, beyond good and evil. Press your face into my streams and drink of these serpent waters!"
That was a very sweet night.

Several centuries later, I wandered through the ancestral hills of Eire, searching for elves and leprechauns, having read in a wicked book that Ireland was the last place on earth where the little people could still be found - at least out here on the world's surface. I climbed over a mysterious mound covered with clover and eglantine. Ancestral commotions rumbled from under the ground. On the other side a four point stag was waiting for me. He whispered, "Follow quickly, we are hunted."

Hearing the huntsman's horn, the buck and I ran into the white fog, then emerged in a cedar forest, walking along a deep crevasse in the broken earth. I heard no horn of huntsman now, but elfin music rising from that cleft in the earth. "Fairies?" I asked the deer. But the stag had disappeared.

As I was very tired, and it was evening, I lay down among morning glory vines whose blossoms were folded up. A sweet breath of warmth pervaded that cluster of green. Falling into deep sleep, I dreamed that tiny dancers entered and left my body, carrying excavated treasures which they loaded into carts of bone, pulled by winged dolphins, who flew up into the night, exporting my whole body, atomized into tiny dust particles of pure starlight.

I awoke among sunbeams, refreshed but hopelessly entangled in morning glories. The blossoms opened wide and gaped at me, yet the songs they sang seemed to tremble out of my own marrow.

Then I noticed a little man sitting beside me on the ground, his endless wheaten beard spiraling around him. Those vacant limpid eyes were like pools of cream, and somehow I knew that he was blind. But he gazed upon me with second sight, holding a ruddy glistening fish in his arms, as one might hold a fat furry cat. The fish had no trouble breathing, for he was the magical herring who swims among the constellations. I have no idea how I knew this.

"Who are you, sir?" I asked.

"My name is Turlogh," he said, "Turlogh O'Carilon, the Blind Harper."

"Have you come to teach me to harp, or to see?"

"Ah," he said, "You are so clever! But have the little people not been teaching you all night?"

At that, I remembered to consult the sensations in my body. I watched my breath sink into my chest, and a flame burst out of my heart, undulating in the form of an emerald lady. She had a serpent's tail, on which she could tiptoe and spin, spreading enormous rainbow wings. Her eyes were filled with tears, her lips with a succulent smile. A harp was singing inside me. And a deep underground chorus answered the song of my body, echoing from the fissure in the ground. I realized that the elves who lived down there, in the heart-wound of the earth, had been teaching me their songs through the hours of darkness.

"Now you understand your name!" Turlough said. In fact, I had always hated my name: Alfred. But I never knew what it meant. "It is Anglo-Saxon," he added. "Aelf-Raed, which means, Taught-by-Elves."

Then I awoke a second time, and Turlogh was gone. Or was it the third time I awoke? I am losing count. My life has been a never-ending necklace of awakenings. There in the grass beside me was a rabbit, a squirrel, and a fat crow. They plucked, pulled, and untangled the morning glory vines from my body.

The crow said, "None of the beings you have encountered until now were real. Not one. But we are real. We are animals. We come to you in dreams, disguised as other sorts of people whom you respect more. But you have been learning from us the whole time."

The rabbit and the squirrel stared at me with great kindness, then hopped off into the forest. The fat crow beat his wings and rose into the air, making a croak that seemed like the gong of a deep bell. At that, I seemed to awake again.

"Wait!" I shouted, "Was this a dream within a dream?"

The crow called, "Yes!"

I shouted back, "Not so, because crows can't talk!"

And the crow, now very high above, disappearing into the morning sunshine, shouted, "This too!"


If You Want Peace, Just Refrain From Being Right

In the actual world, conflict does not exist. There is just a perfect
ocean of energy, dissolving and recreating waves of form, un-caused
and absolutely one. The motionless unbounded whole dances in
itself for the sake of play. Where is the possibility of conflict?

My mind creates conflict, superimposing duality onto wholeness.
Why? Because my mind stimulates itself on opposing viewpoints.
Mind only feels alive when judging, protesting, struggling "against."
To be free of conflict would destroy my belief system, my mental
interpretation of the world. Every belief needs duality, needs a "wrong"
against which it can be "right." The mind feeds on conflict.

The way to peace is just to refrain from being right. Don't solidify
a permanent belief in anything.

Plunge naked into the sea of energy without an interpretation.
Flow through the present moment as a wave of exhilaration,
a sparkling current of Shakti. Freed from all opinions, live in
perfect agreement. Say yes to everyone. Be a newborn child,
a wayfaring fool, a breeze in the sky, a tree dwelling deep in
the forest, even when doing business in the market.

Lost in the green woods,
I forgot both war and peace
Listening to a thrush.

As mind becomes empty, conflict dissolves by itself. I perceive
the world as a dance of stillness. Liberated from belief, how could
I possibly wish harm to any creature?

"This sounds dangerous!" 

Yes, awakening is very risky. Nostrils flare, a panther sensing the wind.
Spine rises, undulating like a cobra. Heart unfolds, an ancient jungle
flower releasing the fragrance of inebriation. I practice the most
extreme and wonderful sport: to believe in nothing.



Human existence would be anxious if all we knew was the ephemeral, and monotonous if all we knew was the imperishable. But the Creator has graced us with a human nervous system, and gifted to us the arts of yoga, pranayama and meditation, so that we may cultivate a capacity to taste the changeable and changeless together. Beauty is bittersweet, the evanescence of eternity.

Picture: 'The Cosmic Rose, Amphitheatrum Sapientiae Aeternae,' Heinrich Khunrath, Hamburg, 1595
                          hEart    havE
                 edgEs ?


Don't Feel Bad, Feel God

"God's treasures are buried in broken hearts..." ~Rumi
Seeing so much pain and injustice in the world, we often say, "I feel bad about this." Yet feeling bad doesn't uplift anyone. Earth doesn't need us to feel bad. Earth needs us to feel compassion. Feeling bad lowers our energy. Feeling compassion emanates a cool healing wave of Life Breath. To feel compassion is to feel the Buddha. To feel compassion is to feel the Christ. Don't feel bad, feel God.

Vibrate with Love

When someone whose body does not vibrate with love speaks of love, it is just a four-letter word that quenches your thirst for beauty no more than an empty paper cup. 

But when someone whose every atom resonates with love speaks that word, the galaxies melt into ghee pouring onto your forehead, dissolving your mind into the heart. 

This is how our most silent vibrations communicate much more than our words. 

We should not be surprised that one who truly loves can speak of nothing else, the way a rose can do nothing but open and share its fragrance. 

We expect nothing else from a rose but opening, fragrance, and roseness. Yet a rose's openness contains the sky and all the stars, very lightly.

Song Sparrow

Can you remember the thought that seemed so important to you five days ago? Can you remember the thought that seemed so important ive minutes ago? Five seconds ago?

The thought I'm having right now always feels important, no matter what it is, because it is charged with Presence. But the thought I had five seconds ago doesn't feel important at all. In fact I can't even remember what it was. Because it doesn't exist.

Only Presence makes a thought come alive. Why not dwell in the energy of now, without a thought? Thank you, sparrow, for your song this morning, not the one you sang yesterday.


Sat Sang

One of the most response-able things we can do is just hang out together, with no other goal. I'm pretty sure that's how worship, dance, and all education began. When we forgot the art of hanging out, we had to invent governments.

Green Tea Haiku

New Age getting old,
Whole Earth frayed at the edges,
but green tea still works...

The world doesn't need
your mind in ceaseless revolt.
It needs you to breathe.

In a sip of tea,
Politics do not exist.
Here, just you and me... 

The whole world conflict
dissolved in green aroma
this very moment.

If you think you are
oppressed, then you are oppressed
by your thoughts. Just stop.

Pour out your anger,
dear desperate anarchist,
into this warm mug.

Surrender your greed
and busy-ness, wealthy one,
into this warm mug.

Come sit together,
sipping some bitter green tea -
no past, no blame.

War is inside you.
You brought it here with you, friend.
Leave it with your shoes...

Sit on this cushion.
Drop injustice at the door.
Presence is your work.

The now of this cup
drowns all yesterdays, may I
serve you more green tea?

You may listen to this poem HERE


Don't Worry, You ARE Crazy

The problem is, you are worried that you might be crazy. The solution is, know that you are crazy and drop the worry.

The first and last fear is the fear that there is something wrong with me. When I begin to see that the world is melting away, dissolving each instant, like a thin layer of snow on groundlessness, I may doubt my sanity, because I have identified with the ephemeral for so many lifetimes.  

It is precisely at this time that one needs a Guru. The role of the Guru is to assure you, with a gentle whisper or merely a glance, that it is perfectly all right to let go of shadows and reflections. You can simply Be the omnipresent light of pure awareness, without grasping at the world.  

Before his outer form passed from the earth, my first Guru Mahesh Yogi gave me this gift. A group of us were gathered round him as he spoke of the subtle, rather disturbing stage of transition when the world appears as it truly is: an ever dissolving cloud. Then we have no refuge but our own pure awareness, "I Am." Through a Self-confidence instilled by the Guru's grace, we cease grasping these fleeting forms; we let the world come or go as it pleases. Ironically, this is when we become most fully response-able, most capable of love, for we are in the present moment, unburdened by the non-existent past. 

Here is the eternal truth about the non-entanglement of  Purusha with Prakriti, consciousness with the world. Jai Guru Dev.

Thoughts are Sensations in the Brain

Feel your thoughts as sensations in the brain. That's all they are. It is not necessary to convert a thought-sensation into an image or a word, just feel it as electric energy passing through the neurons.

Now become aware of awareness, the space in which these sensations arise and dissolve. This wakened space is not just in the brain, it is around the brain. This space is vast, without edges.

Now listen to the sound of 10,000 galaxies exploding in your chest as the light of bliss. This sound is the pulse of silence. This silence is the soul of love.


Celebrate Your Moment Of Apathy

There are times when we fall into a neutral state, when we feel neither positive nor negative, but simply de-void of enthusiasm for anything in particular. This is often called "apathy."

Apathy has gotten a bad rap. The word is derived from Stoicism, one of the most under-appreciated spiritual movements in our history. Philosophers like Epictetus, Seneca and Marcus Aurelius should be the study of every American student. But our teachers are afraid of them because they said things like:

“It is not the man who has too little, but the man who craves more, that is poor... Misfortune weighs most heavily on those who expect nothing but good fortune..." And our culture is founded on craving, rooted in the quest for good fortune.

The Greek word, "apatheia," is a Stoic term which may represent the influence of traveling Buddhist teachers in the first century A.D. "Apatheia" is what Buddhists mean by "Sunyata," emptiness. "Pathē" means a disturbance of the mind. To neutralize this disturbance of thought-waves is to find "a-patheia". The term was borrowed by early Christian mystics in the Eastern Orthodox Church.

Likewise, in the practice of Yoga, "apatheia" corresponds to "vairagya," dispassion, which does not mean suppression or indifference, but inner freedom. In the Yoga Sutras, Patanjali defines Yoga as "neutralizing the thought-waves of the mind." We allow the mind to return to the soul: pure awareness, which is simple stillness and clarity, prior to the arising of any thought, either positive or negative.

Therefor in our spiritual practice, "apatheia" is not a depressed or troubled state, but quite the contrary. "Apatheia" is freedom from obsessive thinking, from the culturally-induced compulsion to seek positive sensation, and avoid negative sensation.

Yet our media, as most of our schools, teach us that every moment should be busy with grasping for "the good" or avoiding "the bad"; and when our minds take a rest from this hyper-activity, there must be something wrong with us. If we fall into a neutral state, we tend to panic. We feel guilty because we have dropped out of the rat race, the quest for the pleasant, the flight from the unpleasant.

Then we judge ourselves as lazy, unhappy, "apathetic," simply because our mind is taking a break from stimulation. Conditioned from the earliest age to grasp the positive and suppress the negative, we are terrified by neutrality. Even in our political obsessions, we regard neutrality as cowardly, irresponsible. But ceaselessly grasping the positive, rejecting the negative, won't make us more response-able, more active. It will only drain our energy and make us re-active, slaves to outward circumstance.

What if the moment of neutrality is a blessing? What if the moment of emptiness is a portal to peace? What if the moment of "apathy" could be the gateway of grace?

In truth, the gap between thoughts and emotions, when we feel neither "high" nor "low," is an opportunity for deep spiritual practice. Precisely when we are freed from positive or negative reactions, we can be nakedly aware, throw off the garment of past and future, dissolve the despair of seeking. Liberated from the chatter of a culture that entices us to constant sensation, we can listen to the silence...

Celebrate your next moment of apathy. Use it to sink from the mind into the heart. Let this moment be a Sabbath. Repose in freedom from the search. When we root down in the fertile ground of emptiness, we emerge as a blossom of brilliant energy. The energy to love.

Photo credit


The Search Is Doomed

It takes tremendous maturity to see that the search for happiness is doomed from the start, because the very act of seeking is a subtle form of despair. And it requires tremendous valor to give up this search, even for a moment.

But even a single moment without seeking is a precious diamond, a sparkling explosion of stillness that annihilates the future and past. Something far more wonderful than happiness dawns the instant we give up the search.

Photo by Amy Lamb


Be Smaller Than The Smallest

"Ano raniyan, mahato mahiyan: One atom of the smallest is greater than the greatest." ~Upanishads

Become small. The sum of the divine All is found through subtraction. Be the unambitious sunbeam in a dew drop. Then you can dissolve into the boundless.

Jesus says, "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the whole earth." Here the Greek word is πραεῖς (praeis), "powerless and small in stature." It means that those who become smaller than the smallest embrace the vast.

In the Old Testament, Elijah has the same experience. He does not find God in lightning, storm or earthquake. But God speaks in "a still small voice of silence." The Hebrew says, קוֹל דְּמָמָה דַק, "qol d'muma daqa." Literally it means "a voice of finely ground, atomized silence." In his cave on Mount Horeb, Elijah practices deep meditation and enters the sub-nuclear awareness of the quantum vacuum. He hears the voice of the infinite in the infinitesimal. This cures his depression and gives him strength to go back into his prophetic role. (1 Kings, chapter 19)

Every photon is a mass-less, dimensionless, instantaneous portal to eternal Light. Here is the paradox of power. When we humble our mind, reducing the impulse of thought to the finest vibration of silence, our consciousness becomes the boundless expanse of the universe. This is the practice of transcendental deep meditation

"...We are thinking from that level of being - softest, softest, softest - because that is the level of intelligence that is lively at the basis of all creation. So our thought travels all over, and invites all the creativity of innumerable values of natural law (which are the angelic beings and devas). And then with the parental role of the Almighty God, nothing is impossible. Absolutely nothing is impossible.” ~ Maharishi, 14th January 2004.
 Jai Guru Dev


Only Persons

Our violence will not cease until we recognize the radiance of each human 
individual, without identifying people by race, class, profession, or tribe. We
are one human family. Black and White, Rich and Poor, Left and Right,
Christian, Muslim, Eastern, Western: these are just memes invented by the
political mind, with no basis in the real world. There are only persons.


On Not Joining A Movement

The skill of Bhakti lies in living the wisdom, not in joining a movement.

So many think that they must abandon the Master's sadhana because of what they see happening in the movement. This is a tragic mistake. As a movement grows in success, it inevitably becomes less like a family and more like a business, and finally like a corporation. Conflicts between egos arise, hierarchy solidifies, the innocence of the early days fades away. But true innocence flows from your heart, not from the organization..

The Master and the movement are completely different. Will one reject the beauty of Jesus because of what one sees in the Church? So it is with modern spiritual organizations and ashrams. Perfection lies in the formless, not in the form. Take the honey, leave the flower. The form blossoms, releases its fragrance, and fades away. But the formless is bliss.

There is a Student, a Disciple, and a Devotee. A Student visits the ashram to take a course. A Disciple works for the spiritual organization. A Devotee tastes some banned substance bubbling up the spine, then dissolves into the face of the Beloved.

We can't judge the level of devotion by one's degree of involvement in the movement. Some devotees stay under the umbrella, and some don't. Devotees may serve the Master in other, less visible ways. For some Devotees, there are no more courses and no more movement, just vanishing into clarity.

The Student acquires a blessing, the Disciple acquires salvation, the Devotee acquires nothing but divine madness.

The Guru slaps the Devotee hard in the face, then touches his chest like a feather. (This actually happened.) The Devotee never stops tingling with the sting of that wound which cleanses his mind like the space between stars. He feels that feather touch forever in his heart, yearning never to be healed.

You don't understand this? Neither do I. I am no longer singing. I have become my song.

The student goes to the market to purchase a single hothouse rose. The disciple works hard to cultivate the master's garden. The devotee just stumbles through the forest, where it is most pathless and green, ecstatic at the sight of a wild iris.

"Good-for-nothing lout" you call him? I agree. But which one of the three is most likely to play a golden flute? Or dance with babies at the supermarket?

Which one will stay drunk when the righteous throw us all into prison where there isn't any wine, but the stuff that ferments in the charred barrel of the ancient heart?


Art and the Motherland

Great art conveys the secret longing of a pilgrim for home. Great 
art is seldom created by comfortably rooted citizens who have 
always stayed in the same place. Nationalism spawns first-rate
propaganda, but second-rate art. Art expresses displacement, 
uprootedness from the ground of origin. All beauty is bittersweet, 
pervaded by the musk of longing and return. The artist transforms 
this yearning for the lost motherland into omnipresent beauty.

Morning Walk

On my early morning walk, I was absorbed in thinking about the coming day, my mind busily creating the future, which of course does not exist; when I suddenly noticed I had walked right past this perfect green chaos of sky bubbling out of the earth, full of tiny golden stars cupped in amethyst miracles - otherwise known as weeds. Forgive me, mother.



Anyone who is bored should be thrown in jail. No one has the right
to be bored. Apathy is the one unpardonable sin: it signifies ingratitude
for the gift of life.

Wherever you are, whatever you do, every particle of your body is a
sparkling galaxy of miraculous new worlds. Right now, you are breathing
atoms that Jesus and the Buddha breathed. Feel the DNA whirling in
your flesh; you contain ancient histories, unfathomable destinies, yet you
are only here for an instant of light. What will you do with this single
moment of infinite significance?

Even if you are unhappy, engage in the night. Taste the textures of your
darkness. Follow the wound, it suppurates wisdom. Enter the bruise, 
it's pain melts into compassion. Let your darkness be a precious stone. 
Allow it to solidify, like an onyx in your chest. Then breathe out,
an offering.

Look at the palm of your hand, a landscape of adventures, mountain
journeys no one else could take. From every cell in your thumb,
ancestors are shouting, 'Yes! Begin! We are with you!' Right now,
sitting on the subway with your blank stare, or riding up the escalator
toward the discount floor, absorbed in Bluetooth replays of your
favorite 70's songs, you could awaken. You could awaken now, get
on the big toe of your left foot, and start spinning.

You could let the Enormous Smile that has been patiently waiting
to swallow you up, expand across your face, devouring your entire
universe in causeless happiness.

To fall in love with existence, even for one second, heals the earth.
Let every heartbeat proclaim, 'From now on, fuck it, I'm crazy!'

He Said She Said

He said, "Every man  should have ten wives."
She said, "Every woman should have 10,000 husbands."
He was so offended he started to buzz, and flew back to the hive.


Blame or Blessing

Either blame others, or bless them. But you can't have both. Blessing and blame won't co-exist in the same heart.