Uradiance

There's a poem that flows before speaking, and a knowing before you can think. There's a body inside this body of flesh which is nectar too sweet to drink. There's a breath too soft to be taken, yet it sings in each petal and leaf, and it threads your heart to my distant star, and it cannot be broken by grief.      

In meditation my mind wanders, but I don't.   In meditation the moth keeps dancing around the flame. The moth is the Lord. I am the flame.   In meditation the sea is wild and the boat is small. It is a dangerous crossing. The ferryman paddles furiously.   My back to the waves, I sit in the bow calling to the boatman, "Follow me! I will lead you to the other shore where my Mother is waiting. She will pay you well."   In meditation when you touch that other shore, the ferryman awakens. There is no ocean, no boat, no passenger.   Only the Mother singing the waves, wearing the dark blue veil of the boatman's breath.       Painting: Monet, Cliffwalk at Pourville

  There's a poem that flows before speaking, and a knowing before you can think. There's a body inside this body of flesh which is nectar too sweet to drink. There's a breath too soft to be taken, yet it sings in each petal and leaf, and it threads your heart to my distant star, and it cannot be broken by grief. Photo: Kristy Thompson

By my meditation seat I place the camellia that fell from a bush by my front door. To the Goddess of Beauty I offer its empyrean of petals, choir upon choir, the clustered symmetry of a thousand galaxies. No need to ascend to a higher world. Just look, my friend, a little more deeply and you’ll see Sri Chakra bursting from the frailest twig, Lakshmi gazing back from every raindrop. Photo: this actually is the camellia  that fell from a bush by my front door.

I removed your face and set it on the bedside table like my grandmother's diamond wedding ring. I fondled your nipples with my breath, purple tipped mushrooms trembling  out of sod, amethyst deceivers, laccaría amethystína, whose roots  mingle with mycelium a hundred  pungent underground miles. No wind can uproot your breasts. I cradled them in my palms, gently slid them into poached egg dishes because the only alters we have left are in the kitchen. Carefully unzipped your spine, the little ping of each vertebra, the sound of bees over a Spring stream. What I found inside your body? Another body. And another in that, mistaken for the soul. You used my missing rib to lever the stone from its cavern of cruor. My heart, freed from the word "until." Your grandfather's golden pocket watch, my face with its big and little hands spread to a quarter of three. Unwound, ticking stopped. You did that to me. You closed the lid engraved with forgotten names, and snapped it over ...

Relax, do not try.  Please don't go out of your body.  Please don't ask a mediator to intercede.  That only dilutes your own divine gift of healing power. Breathe in love's golden light, flowing down into your chest, and there very gently visualize your loved one.  Just a faint impression is enough,  without concentration.  Hold her in your heart space  and as you breathe out,  bathe her in that luminous energy of love. Pour it into every cell of her,  down to the molecules, over the dancing strands of DNA.  Dissolve her  in that radiance. There is a gentle  yet immense  healing power in the Effortless... Now stay there, and rest in your heart.

  'Scrying' is the ancient art of seeing destiny in a reflection: a mirrored image in a bowl of water, or a still lake. I scry the world. The world is an image reflected in a bowl of pure awareness. Let me gaze a little more deeply before reacting. Blaming others for my predicament is the politics of resentment. Seeing clearly how I cause my world is the work of the soul. And the final purpose is compassion.   "Yatha drishti, tatha srishti: As I am, so my world appears." ~Vedas

  Spiritual egos make a distinction between "beginner's techniques" and "advanced techniques." Their intellect wants something difficult to do, a sense of accomplishment. That is why so many new age teachers speak of their spiritual "work." Do they ever speak of their spiritual "play"?   Ease is the cure for dis-ease. The deepest, most healing spiritual practice, we ease into. In fact, we do not practice. We let go of practice. Only the absolute innocence of the beginner, starting over again each moment, can experience the end of the journey, the goal. For the goal is always already attained by Grace. The goal is never an achievement done by "advanced" practice, but the dissolution of the do-er. It is known by un-knowing and done by un-doing. This can only happen to the effortless. The most powerful meditation is the simplest, the most natural.   When you really look at people who carry a bag of "advanced" techniques, you ...

  This is a good morning to kiss your demons. Give them the kiss that Jesus gave Mary at the tomb. Don't drive them away or they must return. Why fear them? They are only your dark angels. Lust is not a demon but a dark angel of moon sap. Anger is not a demon but a dark angel of healing fire flickering in your pons. Grief is a dark angel bearing seven oceans of love in one jar. The angel of Depression keeps vigil with Wisdom, binding her Tartarean bones in nutritious mycelia. Kiss one, and free the other. Addiction is a dark angel bringing gifts under a broken wing, using the other to help you fly, for one of yours is broken too. Bow to your dark angels, embody them. Breathe them until they become sighs. Possess them, or they possess you. Exhale boldly and they vanish in the blue sky of awakening, a swirl of hummingbirds, a sound of tree frogs discussing everything under the sun. But beware of the Enlightened One with no dark angel, who l...

  Today is the birthday of my first teacher. Each morning and evening for fifty-three years I have effortlessly un-practiced the gift he gave me. Some call it nonsense. Some call it science. I call it the whisper of infinity in the heart of surrender through the grace of the Mother's name. Thank you, dear Friend. Jai Guru Dev. 'Love and God' : link

So your animal spirit guide is a panther? A bison? A bear? Mighty powers, my friend! How often, on a Winter morning, do they come to your window? I prefer the wisdom of little creatures. My totem is a hummingbird. Her wings instruct me to discover the highest vibration in stillness. Her delicate bill invites me to sip and get tipsy on the amrit in my chest. Once I believed in my thoughts. I could not escape from the kingdom of fear. Then this tiny turquoise thing of air shattered the ampule of my wound fragrance. Somewhere in these petals of fire there is nectar for the one who is not afraid of drowning. She taught me to perish with every breath, and live in eternity.

  This morning, a raindrop contains the sky. How many stars have perished here, on the tip of a fern? This morning, the pains in my body become warm healing promises. The sun does not have to rise this morning. It has already risen in my chest. An aching turns the earth, gently nudging the seeds, "Wake up, little children!" This is my work, the twinge of Winter that comes from my bones. Tulip and crocus bulbs drink me in sleep. Hyacinths learn my fragrance in their trance. I alarm them with a throb. They stir, hunker, snooze. A little more light seeps in through the crack between seasons. It is the yearning in my own skin that reminds them, "This is only a dream, but a world of musk and color awaits you just over the shell, one breath away." Mist vanishes. "If" dissolves in "Just So." "That" becomes "She," shadowy wetness of languid valley...

Relax your sexuality completely, which means relaxing your hips, and you will transcend, become, celebrate, the cosmic dissolution of your boundaries. The whole universe is already your orgasm. You don't need to "have" it. You Are That. Tat Tvam Asi. Drink the blood of the rose. Rejuvenate the marrow bones of your lost dream. Be a nurse log lying in a ruined city, overgrown with blackberries. Let mushrooms speak their juice in the new language of your forgotten body. Give birth to darkness. Enter the new year of hopeless beauty. Thank everything you smell. NASA photo: Rosette Nebula, Monoceros ('Unicorn') Constellation