Uradiance

        No more pilgrimage to Machu Picchu. No more chugging droplets of rainbow poison from the spine of an Amazonian frog. No need for a selfie in front of the Great Pyramid or standing with your Druid clan under Glastonbury Tor. If you want to meet Mary Magdalene, you don't have to enter the Grotte de Sainte-Baume, or stroll the beaches of Provence searching for her Gospel in an ancient jar. She is waiting for you in your chest, between the rise and fall, the flowing out and in. Why jet off to the ashram in Bangalore to chant electric bhajans and bow down to a robe, a beard, a pair of sandals? These journeys are over. That quest was a dream. Now it's time for a cosmic re-set: bow down  to your next door neighbor. Stay where you are and find what’s always been inside you, velvety, melting, luscious and gold, the ancient forgotten Creamsicle of gratitude. Taste, close your eyes, murmur “Mmmmmm.” Her...

If you want to bless the earth, practice listening. There is another heart beating inside your heart, a rhythmic silence calling, "Don't even answer, just breathe love." Your sabbath prayer a pulse of stillness, twin-syllable name of the Friend. Lovers meet here in the secret chamber of your darkest sweetest blood. Build a hut of vines. Let the garden of your body spring from loam into golden bewilderment. Image: Persian Miniature by Bahman Farshchian