She Comes

 

"When the spiritual power of the Kundalini Shakti enters the heart center, the self-begotten unstruck music of God begins to be heard."

~Jnaneshwar, b. 1275

 

She comes in the form of this breath. She dances as the dawn of awareness in the fading of sleep. The dream was never real.

You need no mala, no beads to invoke her. Darkness sparkles. Night itself has been your rosary of pearls, each moment rounded, gleaming with eternity.

Your Guru is her silence, respiration of the unchangeable. O breath, what do you teach us this morning? Stillness is pulsation - hollow, full, hollow, full - the way of the moon.

Corn and wheat, a withered husk, and finally a seed, the ordinary of the seasons explaining everything in pigment, pungency and musk, in excruciating sweetness, and what rattles in the zero of a gourd.

The order of unsettled weather is the mother of ceremony; rain and sun the daughters of the sky;

Midnight a cup for the elixir of stars, this light fermented by ancient distances. Whatever you suffer is a womb. Enter it more deeply and be born.

Not by knowledge but sensation, expand, each atom more spacious than the galaxy, because the only dimension is being awake.

Rooted in the groundless, grow. Resist nothing. Cling to no name and taste a secret: the vacuum is not empty. The void is a ripe pomegranate, gushing red gems of bittersweet jelly.

Each point in space the infinitesimal ayin soph, a portal and a whirling door to the crystal path; the Way that spirals ever inward through entangled fractals called your "body," woven out of wonder.

Is your flesh not effervescent wine, whose glistening contains all suns, all heavenly and infernal journeys? Sip the nectar of your next inhalation, and thirst no more.

Now let your expiration be peace upon all this holy confusion. One world only exists, dear friend, the great circle of your breathing.