Uradiance

Just now, where one breath caresses another, dissolve the difference between the whisper and the whisperer. Just now, where  inpouring and outpouring touch, dissolve the distance between the evening star and the memory of a mother’s kiss on the center of your brow. Between the root in your belly and the core of the earth, learn from the moon how to be full and empty as the radiant void. Just now, with this breath, Let the beam of  your inward gaze be the axis of the turning stars.

When I need food, I listen to Mother. When I need medicine, I listen to Mother. When I need to dance or pray I listen to Mother. When I need to become a fierce blade I listen to Mother. When I need light, when I need darkness I listen to Mother. When I need to listen to Mother I listen to my body. My body is the Mother's voice.

I don’t believe. I don't believe in my heart, yet it keeps beating. I don’t believe in my hand, yet it stirs honey into tea and washes my grandmother's cup. I don’t believe in the taste of an heirloom pear from a tree my father planted, it is so sweet. I gristle my fist around his original hoe, and learn silent bending from a gracious willow without believing anything. I don't believe in the hummingbird asleep on a lilac twig, head cradled on her own emerald breast. Or in the silken cat slipping through her element of moonbeams. I don't believe in your eyes, yet their gaze obliterates my confusion. Empty, empty of every belief, I can listen to the sound of falling stars in my body, like snow, God’s breath brushing my breastbone. Photo by Valeria Boltneva from Pexels

We fail our children when we do not teach them that happiness is their birthright, despite all outward circumstance. Teach them to tap the infinite light of the heart, which the world cannot overshadow, any more than a passing cloud can snuff out the sun. Giving of that light is their greatest service to others. But if I task my child with saving the world, and do not first lead her through meditation to the wellspring of beauty within, I burden her with grief. * Quiet Time Program': Reducing Stress & Violence in Schools https://www.davidlynchfoundation.org/schools.html  Atlantic Monthly Article: https://www.theatlantic.com/education/archive/2015/11/mantras-before-math-class/412618/

Nowadays gloom is easy. Show some courage. Drop the blame, the outrage, the comfort zone of collective despair. Teach your children: you have a right to be radiant, alive like a rose. The world began with an act of joy. Do you need to believe in a conspiracy? Then conspire with the wound in your heart to smile from the Source of creation. 'Plum Blossoms and Wild Bird' by Chen Hongshu

"But why should this make us unhappy? Let us rather love one another, and work and rejoice. I don't believe in this world sorrow.” ~E.M. Forster The world is a cartoon projected through the film of karma by the light of consciousness. It is 'real' to the extent that we allow our minds to be grasped and contained by its fleeting images. It is 'unreal' to the extent that we let it go as it comes, remaining established in the immovable silence of pure awareness. Be the light, not the film. Either see the world as a cartoon, or die of anger.

Many confuse the simple with the shallow, the effortless with the trivial. The intellect feels more accomplishment when it finds something complicated. But in truth, the simplicity of pure meditation is the ground-state of all possibilities. Miracles only arise in the field of the effortless. Transcendental Meditation is so effortless, so innocent, it seems nothing. The most innocent is the most profound. The gentlest teaches the hardest truth, shattering the intellectual ego. In the grace of meditation, we leave behind every sensation and every thought. The nature of a real mantra is not to repeat, but to dissolve in boundless silence. Become nought. Become stillness. Transcend every experience of form, even the form of heaven. Be subject naked of object, awareness without a concept. Here, in the flash of luminous darkness, is a union that is both I and Thou. This meditation actually follows the model of Jesus's kinosis , described in one of the earliest passages...

"Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion." ~James Joyce It’s you, Billie. You are the Magdalene, pouring sweet pangs of sensuality like crystals of frankincense into the fire of Presence, effusing sighs and gazes too fine and mellow for words. You transcend, not by escaping this knotted earthen labyrinth, but by entering its center. You are She who falls so deeply into your own humanity that God becomes your servant.   It's you, Billie, the Paraclete. Regardless of the impurities you committed in a life of addiction and sexual sorrow, your unadulterated devotion to Beauty uplifts you on spirit wings, and enfolds you in the Bridal Chamber of Christ's sacred heart. Enough of holy icons and ecclesiastic symbols! This love is real, stretched out in troubled fallen bodies. Addicted to heroine and alcohol, in love with men who abused you, you beat up white sailors with your fists when they mocked your music in a Manhatten ba...

The Goddess of Spring is passing through. Greet her with a breath of gratitude. As you breathe in, open your crown to the sky, letting clouds, stars and full moon pour down through your nerves into the grail of your chest. As you breathe out, let Winter go, melting, flowing through your marrow out through the soles of your feet, offered to fertilize Earth's dark loam. Now with eyes hollow yet radiant as jewels, see your own pure awareness gleaming not only from within, but dew-sparkled on each swollen bud and blossom burst, and every particle-wave of robin song. This is the ancient ritual called Greeting the Goddess, that you practiced often when you were eight months old. Painting: Botticelli, detail, 'Allegory of Spring,' 1482

  The problem is not the other but our act of othering. The mind is stuffed with knowledge, but the heart is not broken enough. New wine, fresh tears must burst this chest wide open until there is no choice but love. How do we know that the heart is truly broken? There is no other. Painting: Botticelli

  We lovers spend more and more time watching miracles burst through the loam of the ordinary, a seed silently exploding into its still green fountain, a trillium petal crowning from its pink womb bud, unfurling that first white breath bathed in dew. We attend the least significant revelations until we actually see atoms and photons dissolving back into the eye of God, and we become so poor in spirit  we can't find any difference between the Kingdom and a quark. I've spent 10,000 lifetimes learning this art of wonder. Now I'm finally a fool, and I'm just going to enjoy it. 'First Trillium' from Brambled Way

You can dream countless worlds without taking birth on them. Don't fall into the story,  including the story about not having a story. Then you will float on the bubbling song of emptiness, frolicking with photons and galaxies in waves of silence. O that delicious illicit affair of One trysting as Two! Not that there is no I, but that trillions of I's dance and dissolve in every ripple of the vacuum, all of them crying, "Beloved!"

Dear friends, the real battle in this world-age is not left vs right, Democrat vs Republican, one class vs. another. The real battle is positive energy vs. negativity. And it isn't even a battle, but a blossoming. Someday not far from now, we will marvel that our family was ever divided in the duality of 'white people' vs. 'people of color,' socialist vs. capitalist, native vs. foreigner; or that we ever let this mental chatter rend us from our bodily fellowsh ip with soil, wind, sunlight and water. We will marvel how we once bought into the notion that the best way to solve problems is to divide ourselves into two warring parties, and waste all our time and energy vilifying the "other side." We will marvel how we ever believed that pain, rage, lust, and addiction were not our purest love in denser, more contracted forms of energy; or how we couldn't see the stranger as our own self, with an intriguing look in her eye. We will m...

You saw the pure white light of the great liberating Dharma Kaya. Congratulations on your OBE. But the animal guides were not impressed. "Out of Body" doesn't dip their bread in essence of elk marrow. This is why the totem shark bites off your head, an act of compassion to deliver you from concepts. Freed from liberation, you tumble back into embodiment. Ruthlessly committed to not making you spiritual, the Panther means business. Your smell guides her back to the fire in your eggs forcing you to flee, to wound your soles in a moss-green discipline of hidden sticks and devil’s club. Why not let her devour you? Spread the feast of your body on the forest floor. You will survive as ten thousand squirming creatures blossoming from putrefaction. But you are more than food. She won't kill you. She loves the chase, the tease of death, She wants your paws to grow voluptuous black callouses to sense the Groundless. Blessed are your fe...

Grateful for the warmth of the new Spring Sun, and for the gentle radiance in my chest ignited by the breath of the Friend. The star above is just a reflection of the Light within. The revolution is to breathe. The radical act is being present. The golden abundance of the human heart is shared equally by all.

You are not a victim, but a creator. You are not entitled, but blessed. No one owes you anything. Don't blame the past. The present is always the first moment of creation, nameless and new. Instead of asking, give from the delicious fruit of your gratitude. Heal the earth with this breath. * The subtlest abundance is not wealth but beauty. The subtlest beauty is not form but the formless. And the essence of all that is most comely is your Self, whom you mistake for another and call 'God.' Creatures are only beautiful because they catch a ray from the diamond of your own pure consciousness. * Only when I embrace what Is with unconditional forgiveness does Life create something new, something powerful through the grace of my emptiness. The bee does not choose the flower. The flower chooses the bee. * A human is the saddest of creatures because this mind hovers around the body until t...

To scorch into ashes the Archons of Propaganda, the One from whose lips flows the fire of perfect silence is enthroned in your belly like the sun. On her right hand sits mighty angel El Melchesadek proclaiming liberation from the Archon of the Corporate Monopoly. On her left hand sits the mighty angel El Metatron proclaiming liberation from the Archon of the Socialist State. Her lips breathe No Word, for She would rather hum than speak; yet She imbues all creatures with innate intelligence through her ineffable power of astonishment. Yet from the wound in her breast spills the wisdom of 300 million voices, creating new worlds t hrough an indecipherable calculus of soundless phonetic vibrations in the void, manifest as rapturous sighs, ecstatic murmurs, bijas of ananda, mantric tremors of emptiness. Could one possibly transmute their hymn into our speech, this is what it must testify: We are the voices of God. We are the People. We are the birth pangs of Chr...

My true work begins when I am forgotten, especially by myself.   Then I sink and dwell in the kingdom of silence, free of thought, naked of care, kissing the earth and caressing the stars with every breath of my heart. It is the work of healing our one, our only body. Forget me.

I love to fall into the groundless. It is the greatest leap, the deepest adventure. Yet it can happen at any moment, wherever you are, when you let the mind dissolve into the vast space of the heart. Only in that moment when I have nothing, want nothing, become no-thing, can I comprehend how rich I Am, how Being overflows the edge of every cup, and each breath kisses the shores of this body with a tidal wave of grace. O friend, true abundance is to drown in who you are. _____________ Painting: JMR Turner, 'Seascape with Sea Monster,' 1845. I admire this painting because, like most of Turner, it is at once realistic seascape and mystical expressionism. The 'monster of the deep' in the ancient Near East was 'Behemoth,' a name derived from the Sumerian as the Hebrew word 'Bohu.' This terrifyin g abyss, with is suggestion of the ancient beast, appears in the very first verses of the Bible as Tohu wa' Bohu: 'fo...