The cosmos explodes from your eyeballs. Beauty arises within, then pours into what is seen. But your life is too feverish. Why must you think so much and invent other worlds?
The small green patch at your feet is Shivaloka, the center of the labyrinth, the holy thorn that un-knits all entanglement. Only here is there no mind. Plunge your sacrum into black loam, and thrust your crown into the cobalt void, igniting stars with your diamond fontanelle. The Goddess wields your spine like an ivory scepter.
She uses the flame of your body to illuminate all bodies. Some say everything happens for a reason. I say nothing happens for a reason. Milkweed ripens, snaps and billows from its pod, spilling countless bewildered selves. Be-wilder. Ebullient chaos is the nature of bliss. Why not become a peacock feather in Tara's fingers, brushing the forehead of every stranger with the shakti of your searing glance?
Like silk is matter spun, but who is the spinner? Don't try to understand, for then you become a believer. It is better to drown in astonishment, where agitated questions turn to pearls of gleaming silence, unasked. Simply let Not Knowing become an electrical force. Then you will start whirling.
The gush of grace arises from a pool of trauma, like melted stone, Kundalini from the compost of your dreams. If you can't find wholeness in the hot mess, where else would you look? This thirst for Soma juice is futile. Your own nerves are the mycelium network under Mount Kailas.
Surrender confusion to a vaster confusion. The fever subsides with the jolt of awakening. You ARE the mandala, the indecipherable kaleidoscope. Entropy contains a secret counter-force that orders chaos through hidden laws of wonder. We have told you this before. We, the sparrows of dawn.
Now be thrown into the sweet-smelling cauldron of your ancient heart. Here is your duty: heal the planet by savoring your Self.
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