Uradiance

"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 stay with it in your belly and watch the alchemy of bullet lead dissolving 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 yo...

You are not a diamond. And I am not attracted by your faultless luster, or the jagged symmetry of fleshless asymptotes that touch no curve. It is the fall of your roundness, the dimpled shadows that draw me, the stumble and lilt of little flaws that make you utterly, uniquely beautiful. I see a new season in the darkness of your furrows. If God wanted your perfection, you would not have been created. You lure me to descend into the world of laughter and tears.

The universe is no-thing but vibration. Vibration of what? Pure awareness. The first creation is Sound. The first healing is Music. The first science is Mantra. You and I are melodies entwined in one rhythm. I do not ask you to dance. We were dancing before there was light.