Posts

Cloud Of Witnesses

-
Image
"Communion of saints... Cloud of witnesses..." These are two exquisitely accurate phrases used by scripture to describe the field of awakened silence where we truly dwell at last and before the beginning. In the East they are called the "Buddha fields," where the humble have dropped like seeds into the furrow of your missing rib. Here you will find Beethoven, Rumi, Einstein and Blake, Lalladev and Rabia, Veda Vyasa, Milarepa, Pythagoras, and Fra Angelico. They slept but a moment at death, then awakened as unborn stars. They did not return to the ocean like drops. In each of them, the whole ocean became a drop.  Their cosmic silence is not beyond but within you. Enter their limitless expanse, not by merging with a universal, but by penetrating a minute particular. This breath, this heartbeat, this moment. Through the trembling electron in one atom of your little toe.  Each of the humble, at death, became their own name.  Boundless silence vibrates with the names of t...
Post a Comment
Read more

Altar

-
Image
         A few last roses from your Autumn garden sharing a table with your favorite old books. A little altar igniting the flame of prayer,  illuminating your heart with the silence of meditation, filling your room, your home,  your whole day with the fragrance of gratitude. A little altar, a fulcrum where the sun, moon and stars balance vast turning wheels, moved by one breath. Your breath. Parts of one body. Your body. Gathered in one presence. Your presence. You don't need to live in a mansion. A little room is enough, when you have an altar where sacred solitude expands to hug all sentient creatures. Like a humble chink in a dark wall, yet a window to the inner Sun, lifting vast clouds, clearing a thousand storms…
Post a Comment
Read more

Don't Tell Me How To Whirl

-
Image
Moons, planets! Don't tell me how to whirl. You have your dance, I have mine. If everyone would just stop  trying so hard to live in harmony  and not offend each other  we could stumble like drunken pilgrims, laughing and lifting up  these broken hearted children, ourselves,  every friend a fallen stranger. I'm not you, you're not me. Love laughs at non-duality. Its because we have nothing in common that we taste some erotic fiery juice pressed from wingless bodies clinging like magnets bosom to bosom. Now can you hear the two-syllable name in your heartbeat? Jesus, Allah, Shiva, Ya'hov. Don't get too multicultural: they all have the same Mother. This breath, fragrance of emptiness, who dallied with the Almighty, conceiving the world in her belly of darkness, God's untainted harlot. Here's a riddle from the kingdom of Loss: The Father is silence,  the Spirit ululation. Wave and stillness give birth  to the Child. You dripped from the wounded anvil...
Post a Comment
Read more