The Friction

Here's a secret: the friction of breath on flesh ignites the grace of the Beloved in your body. You were meant to be born. A Goddess of inconceivable beauty yearns to nurse you with streams of wild joy. There has never been a more perfect time than this moment to breathe.

When grace overflows your soul, it takes the form of gristle and bone. Why not savor the red wine of embodiment? There’s a reason why pain shapes you into a dark chalice; why you have hollow roots and empty places inside you; why a green syllable spirals up your stem, forming a two-petaled cry, "So'ham," why mother coyote sighs, birthing her pups among dark ferns and trillium, why a chant of fire bursts from the lungs of the dying soldier.

Now fall into the grail of pollen between outgoing and incoming prayers. Repose in the silent kiss of breath on breath, the rustle of the Name against your chest. Ashtavakra said, "Layam vraja: dissolve now!" When the inner sky of love annihilates this dream of clouds, your skin will enfold both heaven and earth.

Sheathe a warrior’s blade in your softest inhalation, and the blue flame of dispassion inside the golden flame of yearning. God is the aura in the aura of a wickless burning.

Feel the nerve of lightning in your spine's hollow, where the earth dangles from the sun. Exhale and slay ten thousand fears. Your surrender heals oceans and forests. With the touching madness of the moon in your gaze, turn every stranger's wounded eye into a cave of diamonds.