I thought You were the Other, standing in your ocher robe before my kneeling bones; but by the grace of this breath, I see you are the flame of my incarnation, rising from my belly, swelling heart and lungs, undulating through my throat to touch the bindhu between my eyebrows, to glow beyond form in the space above my crown. Who breathed this breath? Is it yours or mine? The spiritual teacher is the teacher of the body.
All mantras vibrate in these molecules, each proton threaded to its native star. All my ancestors, their pain, their trauma, their ecstasy, their healing songs, ascend like sap through the stem of my spine, brewed into this wordless fire. All their stories are distilled in the nectar of silence, amrit not to be named, but savored as presence, as sensation in my physiology.
The past ferments into bewildered forgiveness, relished this moment, not stored in the cask of memory. What heals is the taste, not the telling - the flavor of the wound. Each bruise and blow, each secret tear from the wellspring of my loins, each bursting germ of erotic delight, sweet angel's touch of infancy, made flesh this moment in the unendurable softness of my heart. Piquant with hints of oak and caramel, birth and death, yet they are all one vintage, one inebriation, one somatic edgeless breath, a single sensuous soul with no circumference.
O my ancestors, O gurus and gods, if you dwell anywhere else but in my body, I am done with making offerings to you. For breathing now, I see: the portal to all other worlds is my own flesh. You are the glittering galaxies scattered across the boundless night of my amazement; and yet, in this very same instant of awakening, you're infinitesimal love-sparks are dancing in my blood. I have done with counting the parts of myself. Now I am the whole.
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