Metanoia

From the top of my head to the pit of my belly, dangles a rosary of 10 thousand jewels.

Each precious stone is a cluster of distant galaxies in the hologram of my body. For distance, though invisible, is the last veil of illusion, leshavidya.

This breath is the hand that tells these beads without a word, only a whisper of fragrant light, in a realm of subtly beyond thought, where all the senses are one delectable nectar.

Sap in an undulant green stem, my inhalation flows upward, offering its sigh to the sun that is, after all, just a golden droplet distilled on the breeze of the breath itself.

And from this spacious intimacy, where there is no other, the gentle rain of my exhalation showers down, nourishing the loam of bones and flesh.

Beneath my feet, the groundless dark Mother, whose womb is alive with the larvae of the dead.

Above, the interstellar emptiness, virgin bell of the void, unstruck yet ringing, ever so faintly, with the murmur of all forms, davening out of the formless.

And upon my crown a ringlet of flames, with no center but blue silence, opening into the desert of heaven.

Swirled through a vast chaos of beauty, I am reduced by metanoia to one primordial power - Listening.

Listening is the answer, the ecstasy, the Name.