Uradiance

There's no straight and narrow in the labyrinth of love. So leave the path and drink from the grail of this breath. Be where you were before you were named right now. Get drunk, get lost and wander.

Each exhalation is humanity offer ing the world to Shiva: Ham'sah. Each inhalation is Shiva's energy, filling our humanity with Shakti: So'Ham. Each breath contains the Holy Spirit as milk contains butter. Our inner work is this ceaseless churning.

Have you noticed that 'anti-war' movements don't seem to end wars? Wars end when they exhaust the fuel of stress and anger. Then, after a period of exhaustion, the next one starts. Being 'anti-war' is like being 'anti-night.' It doesn't hasten the dawn. And after the day, another night comes. War is part of our messy, mysterious, absurdly human condition. A Utopian demand for perfect peace makes us all the more frustrated and tense, because it imposes what Should be on what Is. Hence 'anti-war' movements are often full of anger, preaching to their own choir and rejecting friendly dialog with the very people whom they wish to change. Jesus never says, 'End the war!' He says, 'Love you enemy,' which is profoundly different. Arising in the non-duality of pure Presence, in which there is no future Utopia, the kingdom of Jesus is always here and now. He even praises the centurion, a soldier of the Imperial occupation, because the c...

When you take a walk in mindfulness, your feet performing one miracle after another, your eyes filled with clouds and flowers of emptiness, you will discover in sudden Satori a milkweed trellised in spokes of a broken bicycle, the gentle sea-sound of Interstate car-waves washing your mind clear, a garden snail's Diet Pepsi home, a lanky condom looped over blossoming heather, a plastic nalgene bottle perfectly thrown in suchness next to a tulip. Filled with sorrow, please remember: this too is nature. And when you pick it up, this too is meditation.

Don't wait for the world to say, 'There she is!' Create the universe by spreading your wings. Start flying and stars will appear like droplets shaken from your feathers. Unfolding spaces will yearn you into that ancient heart of blackness whose attention has been captured by your willingness to fall, your refusal to be named, your divine impatience. I too by outstretched wings am a Creator of stars, space and longing. When our wings touch, we create each other.

I am no smarter than my dog. He just thinks differently. My cat is no smarter than I. I just think differently. If schools and teachers knew this they would not give grades. They would give food. They would rub bellies and run their fingers through fur. No creature would be left behind.

We grow in circles, not steps. Nature knows no Level 1 or Level 2, no higher plane or lower plane, no straight line, no narrow path. Only circle & curve, gathering & return. We expand, we vibrate, we ripple. As warm sun opens us up, roots go down & tangled branches spread in all directions. Let's not stand in line: let's dance! Let's not join a movement: just move! * When the spiritual family becomes 'the movement'... * When the circle becomes a hierarchy... * When relationships of power replace friendships of care... * When bubbling springs of truth are pasteurized & canned in dogma... * When those who claim to know speak code, & words of the heart must be proven by science... * When a bow replaces a smile, and you say 'Master' instead of 'Friend'... * When the Companion who walked beside you becomes a glittering celebrity on a distant stage... * When you can no longer enter the guru's presence with...

Just be at home with your self. When you're utterly at Om, others are healed by your presence. The radiant hospitality of your centered heart draws them to their own inner light. Love is an attracting power. That is love's secret, Krishna's secret. The Sanskrit root of 'Krishna' means 'all-attracting.'

Truth took off her robe and showed me the scars.  Truth took off her smile and showed me the tears.  Truth dropped her words into the bottomless well of silence and they became pure shining. Truth removed the I, and there was only Seeing.

No messiah, pope, priest, rabbi, imam or guru has any religious authority over you whatsoever, until you project your inward Light on them to create a surrogate parent. The only religious authority is the Light within you. To reclaim your Light is the true revolution, the real freedom. Dearest friend, do not conceal yourself in false humility, making an external idol of your luminous inner birthright. There is no hiding from the fierce radiance of God, who fashioned your heart as an opening, a door, to divine splendor. Why should you be separate from That to which you are merely the doorway?

'Only the holder the flag fits into, and wind. No flag.' (Rumi) On a sky-blue prayer flag the color of one who watches dreamless sleep, I write this name. At evening I plant the flag in stones. Wind rises. At the first watch of night the name is gone. Wind. At second watch the flag is gone. Toward dawn, the flagpole, the stone, the ground itself, gone in wind. The world in free fall, lovely without hope, blown through groundless silence falling and from everywhere this nameless cry, "Shiva, Shiva!"

Self-Discipline? Who can discipline the Self? Can 'I' change 'Am'? In the vast graceful space of Presence, without any 'I' at all, change blossoms spontaneously, according to Nature's invisible hand, whose design is never foreseen by logic or language. Therefor, the only discipline is Awareness. The artist knows this. Luciano Pavarotti said, "People think I am disciplined. It is not discipline. It is devotion. There is a great difference." Picasso wrote, "You have to have an idea of what you are going to do, but it should be a vague idea." He knew how to enter the still space of Presence, and allow the hand of God to dance.

You gazed back at me before I started looking. You were inside me before I thought of You. When I looked my looking was your gesture toward me. When I thought of You your name was a finger pressed against these lips. Candle, wick, and flame, all You burning Me away. Branches, trunk, and root, all You implicit in seeds. But then, whose longing causes Spring? Who bleeds from twig tips of forsythia, plum branches and first thistles? You or I, yearning new roots? Pressing through whatever royal smallness, green and pungent, quivers up from darkness and bursts from loam?