Uradiance

I am the day star floating in the blues two inches in front of your solar plexus. When it gets soft enough, your exhalation fathoms my vast sky. No effort, no image, nothing to believe, just dissolve the concept of distances. The sun that rises in the East and sets in the West is only the mist of breathing on mirror-like awareness. The radiance is less than one trillionth of the width of a hair beneath this thought. If you want to heal the earth or gently massage the ointment of peace into the wound of God, then bask in who you Are. Photo from Surfer Today Magazine!

“Adorn yourself as a bride awaiting her bridegroom so that you may be what I am and I may be what you are. Place the seed of Light in your bridal chamber. Receive the bridegroom from me and contain him and be contained by him. Behold, grace has come upon you.” ~Valentinus “ The bridal chamber is the Holy of Holies.... In Christ’s breath, we experience a new embrace. We are no longer in duality, but in unity.... All will be clothed in light who enter the mystery of this sacred embrace.... What is the Bridal Chamber if not the place of consciousness and trust in the embrace?” ~Gnostic Gospel of Philip There's a feast between your nipples. I think it's a wedding. Powerful vows are spoken here. The sun is betrothed to the moon. Amazement gives thanks as a father gives the bride. Those who say “I do” get crushed, danced on like grapes, and changed into what they were thirsting for. It doesn't matter if you’ve lost your invitation. Just show ...

This is how She works. Beneath the polished veneer of patriarchy- orthodoxy-hierarchy,  She weaves her tribe of dark roots braided into the roots of others. You know you are a member of her species when you pass through a portal of aloneness to the All, entangled in All. You will never gather her complete collected works, only shreds of lost broken scrolls, half-glimpsed intuitions, after-images of flame extinguished in the dark, secret longings of a tongue for the Spirit and the Spirit for a tongue, the pang and purity of every desire. This is how She works. She yearns to exercise the hidden region of your soul, which is your body. The labyrinth of your neurons is a golden scripture of illegible fire, her Newest Testament. You are not like any other book. You fall directly from the mouth of God, like spittle in the clay. The phases of her moon do not repeat themselves. She invites you to drown in the apocalypse ...

Whose breath rolled the stone away? Who entered the tomb to discover brightness in the vacuum? It was you. You who opened the sepulcher of silence, troubling the sun that sleeps in bone dust. Before first light in the garden of your body, hear the sound of the Magdalene's breath. Mistake it for a thrush, for that too is wisdom, just as She mistakes her Beloved for a gardener. And when you're bewildered enough, She'll whet the blade of your inhalation, cleaving your ripe heart in two, one chamber for her, the other for you. Resonance demands a wounding. Now the dead poet, Jesus, wanders through this vineyard of bruises plucking remnants of the harvest from the trellis in your ribs. He is famished, unhoused. He wants his bone hammer back, to be a carpenter again. Isn't it time to let him know what he has become: the nameless warmth in your marrow, generous as morning? You are the bud, he is the season. The invisible nectar of ...

Isn't this is a perfect morning to bow before your body? A perfect morning to touch your foot and say, "Forgive me, I'm sorry"? Isn't this a perfect morning to caress your heart with a feathered breath, and love who you already are instead of who you must become? Isn't this a perfect morning to fix yourself a cup of tea and serve it to your lips? To wander into your back yard, pick yourself a sprig of blossoming plum and place it in a vase, a jar will do, and say, "Why thank you, friend"? When you gaze into that spindle of pollen, doesn't it become the whorl of a trillion suns just for you? Isn't this a perfect morning to honor yourself so deeply in the stillness between heartbeats that you become the sky? And all your enemies disappear so quietly, so softly, because they were never there. Painting: Bird with Plum Blossom, Zang Ruoai

      Ancient Celtic figure of Cernunos, showing him as Shaman, Yogi, and Prajapati,          the original tribal Shiva, 'Lord of the Creatures.' I. Two words much bandied about these days are "Shamanism" and "Yoga." When we demystify their vocabulary, what they mean is very simple: Self-empowerment. These are really one wisdom with different cultural roots. Shamanic Yoga provides us with techniques to derive life-force from our own embodiment, so that we no longer seek life from an external hierarchy, institution, or religious authority. In finding this inner empowerment, the Shaman or Guru is the guide who ignites us, but we ourselves are the source, the fuel for the journey, and the goal. This is completely antithetical to all systems of religion that demand our dependency on the mediation of priests and ministers. The goal of Shamanic Yoga is not to find a savior or mediator, but to awaken im-mediate contact w...

Deep thanks to Naomi Horii for inviting me to share poetry and the healing breath on HeartSpeak, internet TV.

Give, and it will be given to you: good measure pressed down, shaken together, and running over. For with the same measure that you use, it will be measured back to you. ~Luke 6:38 Leave your heart alone, pressed down, shaken, running over. Don't be in a hurry to heal. This wound exudes illumination that can only ferment in a human cask. Something glows, pressed from each cell, each atom of your flesh, from every proton's molten core. Something that overflows the bindhu between this breath and the next one. This is the sap, the priceless Amrit you are. This is the nectar of Brahman, the radiance of your Beloved. This is the Self-born light of Christ that dances in the beauty of Mary. All realized souls are droplets of this mellifluous silence beyond thought. And all are distilled into one ocean of love-wine. Yet the ocean becomes the drop. You too must perish in these depths, until the depths become You. By this bitter sweetness you will know who you are, and why you ...

You wear your silence as a black silk gown, woven infinitesimal, every thread a letter of your lover's name. And your stillness is a trembling at the touch of those invisible lips. The motion of that kiss has no first cause, but a stirring in the groin of loss. One must dance naked as a flame without a wick to entice the dawn. It is not enough to be quiet and empty, because there is honey in each cell of darkness and the tomb is full of wine. If your meditation does not consume the moon, the stars, the pit in the swirl of yearning with a tongue of fire that tastes the subtle, ruthless, delicate blade of love between heartbeats, then you are not singing from the center of your desolation. You are just being quiet and empty, which is not enough. You are still waiting for a God to say, "Let there be light." You must burn off all these veils and dance naked in the moment before you were born. Photo by Dhivakaran S for Pexels

Does God listen to our thoughts? Not at all. That would drive God mad. Does God judge our actions? Not a bit. We judge each other quite enough. Does God descend into our bodies, whirling and tipsy with the nectar of bewilderment? O yes, again and again, with every breath. Clever people search for lovers here and there, but all they find are lonely faces in a crowded mirror. Friend, why not dance to the drum inside, and meet the crazy lover in your chest? When you open your eyes, the world will be a kiss.