The sadness of the old man.
The deep sadness of the old woman.
Their bones moving under skin
like constellations on a cloudy night.
The seed of the boy in the old man.
The loam of the girl in the old woman.
The weeping of the old woman in the girl.
The fear of the old man in the boy.
Time shaped like a flower,
petals mirrors containing the faces
of the old man and boy,
the old woman and the girl, their
gazing the shape of this moment,
unfolding, releasing a sweet fragrance,
the scent of the girl and the boy
in the gaze of the old ones,
their faces and their tears unto
one another an offering,
a scattering and fall of petals,
relinquishing their sweetness.


The Pearl

O my weary soul, listen! The pearl you seek is buried in the mud of seeking. Bliss is the pulse of your own existence, before you give it a Sanskrit name.

As soon as you turn the grace of this breath, the vibration of this silence, into a technique, it is lost for another thousand years.

Why is every one else your 'life coach' but you? Can you turn off the new age news, shut down your computer, go app-less for an hour, and gaze into the only webnar that can ever teach you wisdom: the tiny blue forget-me-not that grows by the bird bath, where you forgot to mow the weeds?

When will you realize that this clutter of 'spiritual teachers,' online meditations, enlightenment workshops, and yoga cures are just more of the dis-ease: information overload?

Have a little courage: grok the source of all dharmas, sadhanas, chants and mantras, asanas, pranayams and darshans in the luminous clarity of your own Eye. Stop looking and melt. Melt into the Beauty of the one who looks.

Who will savor, in your next breath, the nectar that angels thirst for? Who will taste the pomegranate of God that has just split open in your heart, gushing ten thousand seeds of love?

Here's the secret, friend: Nobody reveals anything to you but your Self. Your real Guru is the one who whispers this secret, like a lover at midnight.


O Student of Astonishment

O Student of Astonishment, you are not your intellect, you are not your memory, you are not your will. These are but three veils on a paper lantern. You shine beyond within.

Truth is not a concept. Truth is not an answer. Truth is the Seed whose hollow is unbounded. No thought will lead you there, only a surrender in your chest.

Don't be a star, be night itself. Darkness mothers everything bright. Be that womb.

The dignity of your mind is not
the accumulation of knowledge, but the sparkling of emptiness. Instead of being certain, be a window.

Polish your intellect
like crystal with the soft cloth of this inhalation, this exhalation, until you can see through the transparency that once was clouded by concepts.

The sun of your heart appear
s in the awakened sky.

O Student of Beauty, nothing is attained by seeking.
If you want to find what you were looking for, get lost in the wild garden of amazement.

In heaven you were filled with a terrible longing. On earth your longing is fulfilled.

By the grace of the one whose
fragrance allures you to a most auspicious drowning, suffer the sweet catastrophe of Now.

Carry her secret name on the wings
of breathing. Make honey from the nectar of invisible love.

Angels cling to themselves, jealous of your courage.
They yearn for this birth, where
everything pulsates with life and death, and the rhythms of your annihilation feed the world.