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A Morning Without Drama

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Maybe the cosmos isn't out of tune.  Maybe you're out of tune with your own  broken heart.  The sun is taking a Sabbath today.  No flares, no drama.  The stars recline in orbits of repose,  like elders on a summer porch  in white wicker chairs.  Without really going anywhere,  the constellations wander  and whirl their parasols  very slowly.   Look, it's happening again,  just as it did one moment ago,  this gentle flow of the silent stream  you never slow down enough  to float on.  Your mind is the  melodrama.  The apocalypse won't happen  out there.  It happens  just beneath your breastbone in  this valley between breaths.  Now wash your doom away with gentle tears.  This  isn't the end, or the beginning,  just another day on earth,  a planet where every sparrow  is an empath,  every fawn an indigo child  with star-splashed fur...
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It happened so softly, you thought it was a robin's egg,  tiny, edgeless, blue. But it was the sky in your chest... 
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Carry

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An awakened heart carries the pain that others can't bear. A boundless heart weeps cleansing tears without knowing why. The gift of tears is a sacrament, revealing that your hridaya only appears to be a separate particle, but is actually a wave in the ocean of Love, subtlest energy-field in creation. A friend feels both love and pain. We are all connected in the field of the heart. We are all friends of the Friend. Photo:  Aile Shebar
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Make Your Own

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The fragrance of grace is a gift, but you must make your own honey. Listen to the silence inside silence. This is the music of creation. Emptiness blossoms, but if you make the slightest effort it all becomes philosophy. Throw away your method. Let go of concentration and water your heart with tears. Pollen condenses on your forehead whether you breathe in or out. Lightning flashes up your spine the moment you confess, “I don’t know.” I'm not telling you to do nothing. I’m telling you to do  even less. Softer than orchids, your wounds will blossom when your pistil and stamen kiss like the sun and moon in your chest. This bee-hum you hear is your name, wings that vibrate so quickly they cannot be seen. Angels? Buzzing admirers with sticky feet who  gather around you to glut themselves with the nectar pressed out from the diamond center of a golden flower. Now you are a goblet for the wine of the Goddess Shakti.   Photo by Aile Shebar
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