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Stay, Pilgrim

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         F eel sorry for one who declares, “I am not this body.” Gently ask, "Dear one, who is I? An undigested morsel of pork  from last night's begging bowl?"  Then point to the heart and say, this beat of two syllables  is the name of the Friend. This breath is the Goddess, rising like frankincense  from sacrum to crown. Hidden under seven flowers, Jesus and Magdalene kiss in the vineyard of this flesh. Every initiation, every mystery  revealed beneath the dome  of my fontanel, open to the night,  neurons entangled  with trompe l'œil stars. This fetus pierced with doorways,  wounded with portals to other worlds before I was born. Ah, this cathedral of bones: what Bride, what Groom ascend  the nave of my vertebrae,  to be united in the sanctuary of a single Eye? My father and Mother perhaps? My first ancestors? Or those two mournful exiles  returning to the garden, to walk ...

Don't Worry

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  What is there to worry about in the present moment? Five times in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus tells us not to worry. Don’t worry about your life, about what you eat or drink, about the clothes you wear, or about the future. Take no thought for tomorrow!”   Can you worry in the miracle of Presence? Worry is the past and future. The mind of worry is the mind of time. And time is made of your thoughts. When thoughts of the past and future dissolve, there is no time, no worry.   On this Sabbath morning, for a few minutes, or at least for a breath, can you relinquish the past and future, let go of stories, and simply feel this inhalation, this exhalation? Not in your mind, for that is only the concept of “breathing,” but in your chest, as pure sensation. Put your hand on your solar plexus, with tender love, in the valley just below your beating heart, just above your belly. This is the valley of prayer. Feel the rise and swell, then the fall and kenosis, “...

Activist

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      What is an “activist”? You can be an activist planting Winter squash, walking in a fern forest, listening to your children, or smiling from your heart at someone who is lonely. True activism means, to gently immerse your whole astonished body in the river of Presence. To be moved by the breath of beauty like a golden leaf, falling right where you are. To drown in the mystery of communion with whoever stands before you, and serve them by Being. Out of Being, doing arises. This is love. And whatever action happens in that moment is your politics. The politics of compassion has no party, and no platform. It is groundless. A disheveled crow, a boy in the rain with his shining basketball, a spider web catching the moon, a crone at the grocery store marveling at all the soup. These are your tribe. This is your native country. It is all a sacred homeland. Now crush a late-summer blackberry on your tongue. Surely this is why you are here. Earth is not transfigured by...