Water color by Marney Ward, one of whose paintings is the cover of my new book. She captures the divine light in the sap of matter.
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
laccaría amethystína, whose roots
No wind can uproot your breasts.
with its big and little hands
spread to a quarter of three.
sparkle of previous lives,
Mushroom photo by Steve Axford
Please find more information here: LINK.
Relax, do not try.
and there very gently
visualize your loved one.
over the dancing
strands of DNA.
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 meditate, be a beginner. Always feel the freshness of the first day of creation, "in the beginning," when God and his breath, the Goddess, create the universe again. Now is the beginning. Now is the end of time. How could now be advanced?
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 leads you into the shadow that hides from itself.
Kiss him too, then depart.
Let the names and teeth marks of your dark angels,
hieroglyphs scrawled in the veins of your liver,
neurons twisted into Sumerian runes, spells
thrumming your medulla, rippling the gristle
in your omphalos, untangle their tongues
and sing themselves back to silence.
Let the wickless flame of your lips consume
all your dark angels, and lick your spine clean
with the kiss of soul upon soul.
Now swim down the river of amazement
that flows from the cavern of your hidden grief
over scars of stone.
This is the starless wine of ancient midnights
fermenting the sun of tomorrow.
This is the wine Christ saves for the end of the feast.
How do I know?
I am kissed.
Art by Laura Santi, from Buddha Weekly,
Heruka in union with Vajrayogini
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."
"If" dissolves in "Just So."
"That" becomes "She,"
shadowy wetness of languid valleys,
a mistress for daylight.
Jesus, the poet of death,
walks barefoot this morning,
singing to the unborn flowers
without ever asking for his name back.
What is the most ancient meditation?
Stones feeling their moss.
Artwork, Andrew Wyeth
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
NASA photo: Rosette Nebula, Monoceros ('Unicorn') Constellation