Uradiance

If you breathe through the place where you already are, you will slip down the stem of this body and return to your see. You will meet the aboriginal Grandmother deeper within you than the sky, and the tribe of the first people will emerge from the loam. Some say an ant hill, some say a yoni between three blood-red stones.  You will remember how to play the drum of your diaphragm with dancing bones of love. How to pluck the antelope- horned lyre of your heart using fingers of the moon, and scent healing sage in the desert of your teardrop. We've spent so many lives becoming “you” and “me.” Yet there is no other power but the way we melt into  each other, and become rain. The way we are poured as one sizzled offering into a fire that heals the earth. Image: aboriginal painter Colleen Wallace

There are 196 verses in Patanjali's Yoga Sutras. Only three of them deal with asanas.... No one teaches yoga to a flower. Learn bending from her stem, what the hurricane cannot crush. Breathe from the seed. Abandon every sequence and routine. Your body is a river of postures flowing toward the ocean of repose. Valiant and gentle as an oak, stand and sway in the breeze of your own exhalation. Mind falls like a feather on your belly. The estuary of your lungs ebbing, rising, as you listen to the moon. Inhale the night, the emptiness into your bones. Feel your ligaments dissolve into swirling galaxies, your muscles washed in awareness rolling out of the ocean in every cell. A goddess guides you now, thinking not required. Your backbone is her wand of bewilderment. Your pelvis her boat, laden with its cargo of unborn stars. No Word of creation but an infinitesimal murmuring, the Godspell of your body, every molecule a hologram of the heart. Fr...

Maybe the cosmos isn't out of tune. Maybe you're out of tune with your own broken heart. Let the sun take a Sabbath today. No flares, no drama. The stars recline in orbits of repose like elders on a summer porch in white wicker couches. The constellations wander whirling their parasols without going anywhere really. Look, it's happening again, just as it did one moment ago, the gentle flow of a silent stream you never slow down enough to float on. Right here, for a little while, there is no apocalypse, just a gentle revelation beneath your breastbone in the valley between breaths. Wash your doom away with gentle tears. It's not the end, or the beginning, just another day on earth, a world where every sparrow is an empath, every fawn an indigo child with star-splashed fur. Maybe this is the morning to celebrate your slightly bonkers yet uniquely kiltered bones, these fingertips, these eyes that let the...