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.

Without an ancient chant, an alter,or a puja, I walk in the forest, offering the silence of cedar, trillium, and fern. But nature is not my Way. My chest melts with love, yet neither is bhakti my Way.

Though I honor the songs and sutras 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.

Each wisdom-tradition is one petal, but I would offer the whole flower. Each lineage of masters is one 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 sacred vessels in an ocean of transparency. Presence gazes into the well of aloneness, where past and future drown. This is my eternal Way.

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

Being right or wrong doesn't interest me. My religion is astonishment. I want to be more careless. Open all my petals at once and wander like a fragrance
out beyond the borders of my body, into the ancient wilderness of this moment. Get lost in ecstatic un-knowing.

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

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