Precipice

The bold become themselves. There is a point in meditation, if it is true meditation, when you fall off the precipice of practice, into the groundlessness of your flesh. You can no longer resist your subtle sorrow, that which Buddha called Dukkha, the spittle mixed with matter that formed your embryo again and again.

You've been carrying it for years, for centuries, the stuff made of stories about a suffering 'me.' It is buried deep in the rind of your body, but neatly packaged in the sterile cellophane called 'spirituality.'

Now the time has come to crumple up the wrapper of conceptual thought and throw it away. Be vulnerable to yourself. Be a ruptured pomegranate with 10,000 soft sweet seeds. Allow your every distant ache, the brittle anguish of a trillion nerves, the secrets of grief, the worms of rage, the clogging undigested waste of blame, this whole discomfort you are, to erupt in one magnificent purple blossom of pain, fragrant with the gift of tears. Let it flower from the subtle into the gross, gushing without name, and without distinctions between good or bad, beautiful or ugly.

It is just Dark Energy, percolating wordlessly out of your molecules, yet pulsing with photons of fire and swirling suns. It is holy destruction and healing, cosmic in scale yet intimate with every cell of your body. It is the chaos of possibility. It is the cleansing smile of No Burden Any More, No Secret Me, vast as the horizon. It is pure love, the matter of your bones.

Be bold. There is no one else in all the universe for you to become.