I
love infant Jesus. Love the Pagan Solstice Christmas pine. Love Madonna
Mushroom. Love Goddess Shakti. Love the 2nd Century Gnostic Valentinus who
said, "The true Virgin Mother is mystical eternal silence." Love the
wild vine of my Buddha nature, broken jar of Mary Magdalene, spilling juiciness
over my crown, already fermented as it trickles down my vertebrae. Love the
perfect consistency of my contradictions. Love luscious holly berries of fire
and snow entangled on the cross of paradox. Love the tree of life in the garden
of this body: I am the worm in the apple. Love the newborn sun, and what his
gurgling baby bijas say: “Hum! Phwat! Bham! Zing!” which I translate to mean,
"Every particle of me is made of Mother Mater Matter Dust, each atom a cathedral
where pilgrim gamma rays arrive from the clustered salty rim of Margarita
galaxies to celebrate the miracle of my flesh. O Christ, irradiate the world
through these fingers and toes. I am your circle dance. Let there be no more
talk of our separation." Here, after thousands of years of religious
combat, body and soul Christalize into a single magnum mysterium, granulated in
subnuclear particles of glory. And where does this alchemy occur? In a stable?
A tavern perhaps? Or the nameless roadside shrine of my chest, the oat crunch
of cows and the dander scent of dog fur, through the flame in the hay in the
manger of my heart, that has ever been burning yet never lit til Now. Here I
celebrate the birth of God, who is this Breath.
Painting: Sacred Bond by James Neafsey
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