The fragrance of grace is a gift, but you must make your own honey. Listen to the silence inside silence. This is the music of creation. Emptiness blossoms, but if you make the slightest effort it all becomes philosophy. Throw away your method. Let go of concentration and water your heart with tears. Pollen condenses on your forehead whether you breathe in or out. Lightning flashes up your spine the moment you confess, “I don’t know.” I'm not telling you to do nothing. I’m telling you to do even less. Softer than orchids, your wounds will blossom when your pistil and stamen kiss like the sun and moon in your chest. This bee-hum you hear is your name, wings that vibrate so quickly they cannot be seen. Angels? Buzzing admirers with sticky feet who gather around you to glut themselves with the nectar pressed out from the diamond center of a golden flower. Now you are a goblet for the wine of the Goddess Shakti. Photo by Aile Shebar
