Uradiance

To the bud, blossoming is a catastrophe.  But chaos is just another word for Becoming. Nothing you cling to is who you really are. The seed dies in a sprout. The stem holds up her tiny fist, bursting into petals of ineffable fragrance. Pollen, nectar, honey, fruit.  Use your ommatidia. You have thousands of eyes.   Soften your perception,   the way a bee sees. And if you cannot learn this from the body of Jesus, learn it from the breath of Spring.

             Why are you awake at 3 a.m.? To make a home for the wandering angel of this breath. To hear the name of the Friend in your heartbeat. Why do you say, I am not this body? There's a garden in your chest where the sun and moon touch, twining their gold and pearl-white beams around a tree. The tree catches fire. From your belly to your crown, seven blossoms, coral, crimson, viridescent blue, other tinctures too soft to name, songs without words. And a chuppah made of clustered vines beneath your rib cage, where Christ meets Magdalene. You are the priest of silence who unites them. Their wedding is why you are awake. Please don't say, 'I am not this body.' Each atom of your dust is nothing but the light you've been longing for. Painting: Marc Chagall

Full grok I Am in wondrous suchness sole to soul to sol of solitude the sun my bare feet open mouths that hunger for the lunar pulse of Ourobóros serpent spine my wounded skull bent to devour the dust in Hebrew "adamah" my flesh and spirit one ancient language revealing how to breathe not think the Qi the Ruh the Pneuma Shakti pun of shock electric Goddess sighing bellowing Adamic sod into a living person "nephesh" meaning exhalation through hooves unshod now free to wander in the garden under new moon of first planting then inhale from earthworm toes to loamy fontanel through furrows of my cortex musky fountains alchemic of dark mycelium juice transmuting clod to consciousness a larva full of stars. Image: Walking meditation, from Buddha Weekly