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Wu Wei

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  You make honey  by doing even less than nothing.  When you act, no one honors  your tranquility,  the part of you that  merely listens to the silence  inside silence, where  the music of creation comes from.  Your grace is the fragrance of wu wei,  the pollen of emptiness.    You prune away thinking and drop concentration in with the compost.  If you make the slightest effort, it all becomes philosophy.  So you sink into the furrow beneath your breastbone and use this breath the way your ancestor used  her hand-carved hoe. Sap condenses on your forehead whether you breathe in or out. The lightning in your spine hums more softly than orchids.  With no names but the bee-mad  sound of invisible wings, your pistil and stamen bend to kiss without the slightest breeze.  Only souls that buzz understand this. They have sweet  sticky feet like yours. The shameless way you glut your...
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AI

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The radiance glowing from your chest contains more energy and intelligence than all the AI data centers technocrats could ever build. Rest there. Return to the kingdom of your heart. Real intelligence is never artificial. It is You. The survival of humanity depends on whether or not you have the courage to take your sovereignty back.   Image: by Rashani Réa from the book of poems and mandalas we created together. LINK 
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Paschal

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Nothing is pure that has not fallen. Be an apple petal on a stream, a pale seed in the mother-brown furrow, a spark of the iron hammer on the lock of the prison door. Be lamb's blood on the lintel, and the silent footstep of a slave escaping in haste at night. If you cannot stay for one hour, stay for one moment and be whole. Nothing crushed in these green shadows fails to rise. Be the glut of a rain drop on the mouth of a lily, the starry wine that pours into the hollow grail of this body. Breathe Christ through your broken places.
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Easter Message from Issa

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Burn marks on this fragment of ancient scroll indicate that much  of it was destroyed by fire before it could be hidden in a jar of honey.         "No need to ascend. Just keep falling into Grace. You need a new name for the heart.  Call it the wound  at the center of the world.  A new name for love. Call it the courage to breathe,  to breathe through the wound.  Savor this inhalation, it is the Holy Spirit,  your anointing, your Christhood. Here on earth, taste each photon of flesh as infinite light: this is my Resurrection. Welcome all into the radiance that shines from your chest: this is my Kingdom. Crucify my otherness, glorify me as your Self.  What is suffering? To cling  to the ever-perishing outward form. Be risen from the tomb of the past into the garden of this moment. When Magdalene reaches out her hand, let her touch you. Bathed in dawn, don't wash off the smell of loam and ro...
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