Don't
just unwind your solar plexus. Don't just relax your belly. Release your hips,
closed doors with rusty hinges built to swing open and dance, celeste designed
to rotate like a galaxy of golden pollen. Honor your lowdown seed pod milkweed
silk and toss it in the breeze. Cherish the ley lines of your darkest valley,
harrowed and plowed, fallow wilderness of blessed yearning. You will never
expand your mind if you don't unbuckle your pelvis. Only then can you
transcend, celebrate the cosmic dissolution of your silhouette, evaporate the
veil between flesh and spirit. The whole cosmos is your climax, gently
exploding, just as it is. No need to attain anything. No performance, no
anxiety. If you want to wear a thousand-petaled crown, then sink your stem in
the loam and channel up rose sap. Be your own furrow. Breathe through bone
marrow. Green your physiology. A nurse log lying in a lost ruined temple,
overgrown with blackberries and trumpet vine, boiling with ant hills, tiered
with turkey tail mushrooms : visualize your soul as That! If you want to fathom
the depths of interior prayer, contemplate the juice of gurgling microbes. What
is lectio divina? To linger over hieroglyphs of fungi in your lymph nodes. If
you listen more deeply to the silence in your chromosomes, and tend the
priestly flame in your pineal gland, what you call "the mind" will
glitter with jewels of darkness. Now enter the year of the serpent, the season
of hopeless beauty. The Goddess Kundalini undulates through compost. Mother is Matter
and Matter is holy. Thank everything you smell.
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