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Secret

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There's a secret in this madness. Everything is breath, a toadstool Spirit-blown like glass, a moss-furry stone the supreme Being because it merely exists. On the wing of a housefly a thousand verses of Rig Veda, but you need to look. The shaggy golden shelter dog infested with celestial messengers. And you next inhalation the intimate name of Lady Sophia whose whisper only lovers know. How does Mount Fuji float on a cloud? How do a billion stars rest in your open palm like a black moth? It happens through the science of astonishment. The sun and planets in free-fall, caught and held by some colossal stillness. Be a pilgrim, then you'll understand this secret madness. Let the radiance of your destination illuminate your starting place before you take the first step. Let the space between the beginning and the end be a single exhalation. What stands in your way is seeking. Polish the earth with you...
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The Vertical Dimension Of Now (Video)

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The present moment is not the tick of a clock, a disappearing point of horizontal time. The present moment is an ocean with a deep vertical dimension you can probe in meditation as you descend from the mind into the heart. The image here is Doré's illustration of Danté's Paradiso, as the poet gazes into the empyrean of the present moment, and beholds the lineaments of a human form within the divine Formless.
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Paradise Lost Again

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             I've just read Milton's Paradise Lost for the third time. But this time I did not spurn it as obsolete mythology. I honored it as actual history. Dynamic inner history, happening on subtler planes of energy and consciousness, in the causal realm behind the surface of the material world, where a very real struggle takes place between angelic and demonic powers.  I know how old fashioned it sounds, but in my dotage this reading of Milton explains the drama behind earth's theater much better than the smug materialism of Marxist economics, Freudian psychology, or sophomore sociology class. The astral conflict in the subtle realm backstage can no longer be contained inside us. Now it overflows into the plane of our sensory experience. In Shakespeare's words, "Hell is empty and all the devils are here."  The moral relativism of our intellectual class is impotent when trying to explain why seemingly stable people suddenly perform...
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