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Altar

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In these days of exhaustion, when outrage rattles our bones, and the voices of separateness drown out the voices of reconciliation, it seems a bit old fashioned to tend a little altar in your room. Doesn't need to be much, just an icon of the divine Mother, a small photo of your beloved Teacher, a few last roses from the Autumn garden, sharing the same table with your favorite old books. Yet this little altar can ignite the flame of prayer in your heart, illumine the silence of meditation, and fill the room, the home, the whole day, with the fragrance of gratitude. It can be a fulcrum where the sun, moon, and stars balance their turning. Are they not moved, with all the galaxies, by one breath? Your breath. Are they not parts of the same body? Your body. Are they not gathered in one presence? Your presence. You need not live in a mansion. A little room is enough, your sacred solitude expanding to embrace all sentient creatures. I highly recommend an altar. It is li...
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Men

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  Men who believe women. Men who care for women in pain. Men who praise women when their bodies grow old. Men who listen to women even when they repeat themselves. Men who hear women even when they do not speak. Men who grasp the whole radiance of a woman's body, not just the part, who hug with their own radiance,  Rahman i'Raheem.  Men who father daughters and sons. Men who father mothers. Men who linger by forest ponds and gaze into green stillness, speaking to the great mother. Men who travel deep into the wilderness not to hunt or kill, not to climb the highest peak, but to Be there. Men who know valleys, observing the etiquette of mist, the customs of cedar and willow. Men who understand that the fire in their belly is the Goddess.
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Hug

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There is a hug so ancient and round, so empty and deep it has no name, a hug that absolved the moon and stars before creation, a hug that encircled you before you were conceived, when the whisper of your soul had not been spoken. A hug that clasped your form when mountains were inside wind and wind was the sap in a pine, and the blues of the sky had not gleamed from your pupils, and the sun had not yet burst its golden seed in your heart. Why have you forgotten to hug yourself this way? Why do you shrink from the honey that was already poured before your cells were shaped to contain it? Don't you know that you cannot embrace another until you hug each centreless electron of your own flesh? Sink into the sweet dark well of your body, the abyss of never having needed to be forgiven. You think this is foolish? It's what angels fell here to feel. Run into the garden this very moment, whatever the weather may be. Immerse in the sting of wet grass. Spread your arms and hug the horizo...
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