The "heart" they talk about in yoga studios is not other than the one who beats in your body. O mind, don't evict the soul from its flesh temple!

If I think my anahata chakra is different from the blood-puddled throbbing thing in my chest, whose silent red tongue hungers for a word, I uproot heaven from the earth. To distinguish the "physical" from the "metaphysical" is an act of violence.

This musclebound tangle of neurons and grief is a flame without edges. The flame flickers, but the smokeless burning of its un-caused fire can never cease.

O mind, don't wrench the particle from its wave, the proton from its void. There is no spirit separate from the pulse in your sacred body.

These venous and arterial caverns of yearning are the pathways to innermost worlds, lokas of heavenly light, buried in dark crevasses. This bewildered beast, who howls at the night from your rib cage, deserves to be fed with stars.

Come Om to your wounded animal. Kneel down and feed her, clothed in nothing but a breath. Lay your breast upon her breast. Repose in the only heart you have.

Art by Helena Nelson-Reed

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