Uradiance

Inhalation rises from belly to crown, bursting silently in sky-blue no-self. Exhalation sinks in luscious black-hole just beneath your breastbone. This nectar that you call a breath  is no mere gift of stillness, air, but the body of the Goddess soft as cotton down spun of diamond fibers from farthest stars. Your vertebrae a winding feral electric stairs where angels ascend and descend. Selah. Her lance is your vagus nerve, keen as lightning, piercing your lungs with a rhythmic gentle thrusting that moves your snake-skin soul out of death, into love. Do not try to comprehend her. Goddess Shakti cannot be known, only tasted, only touched like a pillow filled with maddened bees. Lay your head upon her breast and get stung with the venom of emptiness. O tell them, Kabir! They will not listen to me. She is the strong stuff inside the wine sack of breathing. She is the warrior’s sword that cleaves all hearts with one stroke,  severing the spirit from the soul. The mind slayer, wh...

  It is such a relief to move from intellect to intuition. To breathe out, to relinquish our obsessive need for argument, defense, and polarizing ideology, is like shedding a thousand pounds of armor. The word "courage" originally meant love and referred to the heart. It takes courage to move beyond intellectual certainty, to fall into the liquid fire of Hridaya, where we bathe in rays of love. A time is coming when our survival, our sanity, may depend on pouring the mind into the Heart, and resting here. The Heart is the door through which we expand into a multiverse of infinite possibility. Here we sense the warmth of new timelines and move instinctively toward futures of unimaginable Beauty, where we gasp with gratefulness and say, "Why of course! It had to be so!" Intuition is the sanctuary of lovers in this time of quantum phase transition.  We can experience the transformation as fluid, cleansing, healing, rather than catastrophe. F...

The vacuum is perfect happiness. But manifestation is fun. Is there a problem here? Just don't confuse the juice with the shape of the pear. They are one, but not the same. A bud has no idea What a petal is. The apple is born From the tears of a flower. Seed, blossom, fruit, poop, then another seed. Yet there’s no “me” threading them together, only a wild becoming that sings through death. Nectar bubble in the sun. The worm appears. Then all that remains is a hole. Yet we need holes to fill with breath, with music. Friend, through all that perishes flows the sweetest sap. Taste the honey of absence. Call it sorrow. Call it joy. Image: Empty Circle and Bonzai Tree from Creativemotions

"A Baby Is A Yoga Teacher." ~Sri Sri Ravi Shankar A baby is a yoga teacher. A flower is a yoga teacher, the morning glory, here and gone. A raindrop is a yoga teacher. A teardrop is a yoga teacher. The ocean and the moon. Why? Because they achieve loveliness through aloneness, eternity through perishing. Time is a yoga teacher if you watch it because it is not really there. So is a trout flashing between rocks in a mountain stream when it vanishes. The electricity of a cat doing nothing is your yoga teacher. Or the current in a wire birds love to perch on that would kill you. Anger is a yoga teacher if you gently cradle it in your belly, watching the alchemy of bullet lead dissolve into sorrow, the mercury of tears into peace. Your mother's death is a yoga teacher. When she is gone, she is the soil itself and whatever is green. Now listen to the most distant sound you can hear. It is your yoga teacher, bearing you away into silence on a chariot of sig...

  There are those who pride themselves on being "activists," some believing that their actions are more significant than what other people do. But who can judge the value of an act? The old Bulgarian cobbler - some say he is one of only seven Tzaddiks left on earth - sews a new sole to a grizzled boot. He is so present, and so deep in merry silence, he doesn't realize that he stitches heaven to earth, allowing us to survive another day. The pole star seems to rest in stillness all night. Yet it streaks at inconceivable speed through the heavens. A tiny emerald moth alights on the lupine in a mountain meadow, folding its wings in repose. It's faint pulse sends out a thread of causation that will finally bring a tempest to the other side of the planet. The child falls and scrapes her knee. The mother who treats her wound, not only with ointment but with immeasurable tenderness, lightens the burden of all who suffer, though we never know quite why we sigh and sen...

"Ye are all gods.” ~Psalm 82   Fall so deeply in love with your own heart that you see it blossoming in every face. Name each creature you meet, "Beloved." Are you not the creator? No need to forsake the Holy One. Just abandon otherness. Let your silence ripen into wonder. I learned this by gazing into a rose. It is so simple. Now meet me in the Christ Breath. Photo by Kristy Thompson

Non-duality is a lie. Duality is a lie. This multifaceted crystal creation is a beautiful lie for the sake of love. There is neither one nor two. There is only zero. Only this empty vibrant  zero bubbling over with photons and selves, mushrooms and fur, scents of jasmine and honeysuckle, tears the size of planets, eyes like swirling galaxies, each with a black hole at its center, full of love. The brilliant light of astonishment is all there is. The cosmos bursts into flower and dissolves in the brilliant light of astonishment, now. The bridal chamber of the Beloved is the very form of this moment . Surrender and be held. One breath is more than enough. Painting by Persian master Mahmoud Farshchian

This is the only Christianity I know: At the end of each breath, the death of Jesus. At the beginning of each breath, resurrection. What happened 2000 years ago, what will happen at the last judgment, doesn't concern me. The sound of the wood thrush is the end of time. Because I am awake, a dogwood blossom is the coming of Christ. Let me be a fallen creature plummeting into grace. From what should I be saved? My soul was never lost. I am a pang of fire in the heart of the Magdalene as she kneels in the garden, waiting, longing, bewildered.

I'll be making a series of these videos, teaching nothing, selling nothing, offering no-thing, to invite you to open your Hridaya, your heart center, where the cosmos may swirl through your wide open wounded core, creating the New Earth: not through any Guru movement, or political party, or new-age group-think, for there is no energy that is not You. You are the Creator. I am the Creator. Creation does not flow through "collective consciousness," creation flows through our uniqueness. So we meet as Creators, to blend our beams into one beautiful planet.

For just a little while, un-imagine the outline of your body. Who drew that? Erase it gently. Your skin wasn't sketched with a fine-tipped pen. It erupted from erotic non-binary pollen inebriating suns with such far fire their fragrance of holy astonishment just now caresses your basal cells. There's one solution to this disease: melt your frozen chest. The sickness is having edges. Let your vestigial fur be a desert of sage where species long extinct still roam, nest, have babies in your sebaceous pores. Let your bones be mountains and hills hidden in the mist of the microbiome, your veins and arteries rivers and streams transporting barges of exotic psychotropic herbs and orca-painted war canoes. The insect kingdom buzzes through your diaphragm cross-fertilizing forests in your alveoli. All possible genders frolic through your hollows. Your breath is the sky. Each proton of you sparkles with a distant star, each cell of you a ho...

    "In Bahia, Brazil, April 1832. Sublime devotion the prevalent feeling... Twiners entwining twiners. Tresses like hair. Beautiful Lepidoptera. Silence. Hosanna!"  ~Charles Darwin, Journals You, my dear, are not a secret. Don't wait to be discovered. God has already discovered you and shouted the name of your heart to all the planets and stars, crying, "Look what I did not make, so that she could make herself!" Your light isn't sealed in a case of humility, a gesture of religion, or an asana slathered in scented yoga gel. You are not the pixelated image of virtue on a glossy webpage. You are your body, entwining a riot of fungi and archaea, thirty nine trillion microbes gathered like filings to the magnet of your countenance. In imitation of your joy, earth is dancing. In imitation of your sorrow, earth is weeping. Green nipples quiver out of loam at the faintest thunder of your aimless barefoot wandering. Birds ...

When the feast is over, what do we do with the leftovers? It seems strange, but I find a fierce eternal Easter in the compost. Be not offended. The spoilage of the stinking past becomes a new rose, springing from the ceaseless regeneration of Christ's loam body. In the Risen Lord of the Compost Pile, our own bones will surely participate. Wonder is the way down, the way into the color brown, where we get an audience with Grandfather Earthworm, a darshan for moles. Don't let your spiritual teacher turn it into a practice - The Wonder Technique. Wonder won't take you higher, it will bring you Om. Walk barefoot in your own back yard. Hear the song of clover, tree frog, cocoon. Listen to the Ground. Grandfather Earthworm says, "The way up is the way down. Why do you feel the need to get higher? Gravity is prayer. Feel the pull of things that fall, the seeds, the creatures that decompose into dark energy. Black is the color of silence, the food of eternal...

"Holy places are dark places. It is life and strength, not knowledge and words, that we get in them. Holy wisdom is not clear and thin like water, but thick and dark like blood." ~ C.S. Lewis In the core of your heart is a black hole where fierce immaculate silence drowns the opposites before they escape into creation, submerging all antipodes - left and right, progressive and conservative, doing and stillness, suffering and God - in the primordial waters that are here before God says, "Let there be light. " The portal to this sacred space is an infinitesimal bindhu between breaths. Rest here, where worlds bubble out of your loss. Immerse in the bee-drowning cup of this wound. Deeper than sadness, deeper than sin, the darkness you have fallen in. Neither retribution nor injustice have any meaning here. The vulva-laceration in Christ's side leads to the kingdom of the unborn, pain and beauty commingled in one nectar. In love's fermented vintage, the poe...

Breath of April in the wetland, stirring the cattails. Dragonfly can't cling to her reed, effortlessly rises, golden splendor through diaphanous wings. Which is her body, which the pure light? Now is the time to transfigure ancient flesh. Not into a spiritual body, or a physical body, but a body of Glory, the substance of a new creation. Amalgam of opposites woven through the alchemy of Christ-Consciousness condensed into quarks and leptons, into atoms and molecules, into flesh no less “spiritual” because it is solid, no “lower” because it is manifest. Glory of the New Earth, where each unique physiology embodies the love that moves the stars. We do not have to die and go to heaven to receive this Resurrection Body. We receive it with each breath. The grace of inhalation is the grace of the Holy Spirit, she who danced with God at the creation of the world (Proverbs 8). She pours the living milk of Wisdom into this old body of the beaten heart, so that it may b...

I know it is Spring because the apple tree is flinging away her clothes. The blossoms fall without announcing their joy or sorrow. They need no voice but the breath of April. I’m tired of voices, both yours and mine, yet I could listen to our silences all night long. Forgive me, Lord, sometimes I even get tired of your voice. How many scriptures must a man read before he gets to the end of words? Before he gets to the sigh that means, “OK, I can live now, I can fling away everything and whirl."