Just As It Spills

   

I must post this just as it spills from my fingers, my breath, my heart-eye, now, on a Sabbath morning in Spring....

I used to think there was a macrocosm out there, and microcosm down here. I used to think there was an inner and an outer, an above and below. I used to think there was a feminist spirituality and a masculine spirituality, an indigenous tribal way and a Western European way. Because I was seeing through the shattered lens of egoic mind, seeing with double-vision.

Then I relaxed into who I really Am, breathed down into my chest, and began seeing through the clear lens, the single Eye of the Heart. As Jesus said, "When your Eye is single, your whole body will be filled with light." We all live in one homeland, the kingdom within. We were all born here, in the land of the human body. We appear in eight billion different colors, but there is only one human race. Every one of us contains the mothering energy of the feminine, and the fathering energy of the masculine. They are twined as twin serpents, Ida and Pingala, around the spine, which is the Tree of Life growing in the Garden of Paradise, and that garden is not in the ancient past, or the distant future, or in a higher dimension above. That garden is this human flesh.

The tree of life blossoms in the pituitary gland, lit with stars in the center of my brain. This burning tree is what Moses saw on the mountaintop, burning with Godfire, the tree of his own enlightened nervous system. There is a great golden hand reaching through my body, holding me in its sparkling neurons. How could I hold within my body the golden hand that holds me? The same way I give birth to my own mother, and breathe with each breath the breath of the Holy Spirit that first breathed me, before I was conceived.

Yes, this golden hand that reaches through my body is the Vagus Nerve. It sparkles with stars, with braided strands of clustered galaxies. This Vagus Nerve is Laneakia, the super-cluster of galaxies, in which our planet is but a dust mote floating in an outer arm of swirling suns, in a galaxy that is itself but a dust mote in a cloudy trail of ambient light, in the vast body of the dancing Goddess.

No need to strain to see, or visualize, or imagine. Just relax all looking-for into the one who is looking. I rest in my eyes and find in those closed orbs all the light they would behold, all the energy they want to project into creation as the "seen." And resting even deeper, I sink behind the eyes, into the back of my brain, the blue pearl pineal gland, which is a spiral-shaped diamond, with trillions of glittering facets, each a portal to another mansion, another dimension of worlds. And I see them all at the root of seeing, simply by resting my vision in the dark, for darkness is the womb of light.

Now I know what the Christian mystics of the desert meant when they said, "Go into your cell and your cell will teach you everyting." And what Laot'ze meant when he wrote, "Without going outside your hut, you may know the whole world. Without looking through the window, you may see the ways of heaven." I know what Frans Kafka was talking about when he strangely muttered what must have sounded incoherent to his friends: "You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet, still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet."

Teaching us to meditate, Jesus said, "When you pray, go into your inner chamber, shut the door, and pray to your Father in secret, and what you pray for in silence will be manifested in the outer world." I need not rise, or ascend, or astral project, or strive for a higher world. I need only repose in the glorious hologram of my own body, where macrocosm and microcosm, outer and inner, heaven and earth, Goddess Shakti and Lord Shiva, Christ and Mary Magdalene, are one marriage, one cosmic physiology, one infinite dance of radiant stillness.

Artwork: William Blake, Dance of Albion, 1794