A Master of Meditation

I am a Neo-Tantric Nyingma Holy Mountain Nondual Sufi Meditation Master. My depth of un-knowing is legendary, my wisdom of no-mind unrivaled. 

My myriad followers seek ecstatic miracles and outrageous healings. Each morning, they attend my satsang, though few of them are human, in any sense that you would understand. But of course they're all people, since every electron is made out of love. 

My body is the temple. The soil is my sangha. Thousands of mitochondria gather in the domed cathedral of a single cell to chant the Omkara, maintaining the homeostasis of the whole planet, joined by trillions of microbes from ancestral corpses in the loam, and subterranean fungi star-catchers entangled in a single cilium, whose name is Legion, whose kingdom is blackness.  

My ceremony of stillness draws hummingbirds, tree frogs, a family of Cooper's Hawks who live in the woods just over my dilapidated fence, itinerant Norwegian rats, a doe with four fawns, and a coyote. At dawn I hold space for the Milky Way, who trickles down my backbone. 

I mutter one syllable in the melting mist, too quiet for you to hear, too faint to signify anything but evanescence. Yet this marvelous muttering ripples an infinite circumference, spilling over the edge of time, giving voice to uncreated supernovae, healing forty generations past, and forty to come. 

I invite you also, whispering, “Welcome, friend.” But you cannot decipher whether the words arise from within you or without. So you turn over and go back to sleep. Of course, you're already here, you just don't know it yet. Meditation is to realize this, very gradually. If the realization happened all at once, you wouldn't know whether to scream in terror or giggle like a fakir, and you couldn't tell which end of your donkey was the tail. 

There is only one rule for this satsang: you must bring all your diseases, including the angelic bacteria that ripen and drop from the overhanging bell blossoms of a decomposing parent. Ravens will greet you at the threshold. Are you awake? Have you entered the underworld? Say Amen. 

The mantra that I give you dissolves into feral emptiness, swimming down through your solar plexus with glittering flagella, which are secondary syllables like "Hum," “Shri,” "Svaha,” undulating through your bone marrow like flames of darkness in sweet black honey. These charming sounds form a setting of quark bijas surrounding the self-effulgent diamond of pure Silence. 

I charge nothing for this initiation. Of course, you can't afford Nothing. No matter. Since I am empty, I already encircle your soul. I tremble in a stone, but the stone breathes so slowly, it must be your gravestone. Take all the time you need. In a thousand years this rock will shrug your death from its shoulders, and speak a summer rose.

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