Uradiance

There's a poem that flows before speaking, and a knowing before you can think. There's a body inside this body of flesh which is nectar too sweet to drink. There's a breath too soft to be taken, yet it sings in each petal and leaf, and it threads your heart to my distant star, and it cannot be broken by grief.      

In meditation my mind wanders, but I don't.   In meditation the moth keeps dancing around the flame. The moth is the Lord. I am the flame.   In meditation the sea is wild and the boat is small. It is a dangerous crossing. The ferryman paddles furiously.   My back to the waves, I sit in the bow calling to the boatman, "Follow me! I will lead you to the other shore where my Mother is waiting. She will pay you well."   In meditation when you touch that other shore, the ferryman awakens. There is no ocean, no boat, no passenger.   Only the Mother singing the waves, wearing the dark blue veil of the boatman's breath.       Painting: Monet, Cliffwalk at Pourville

  There's a poem that flows before speaking, and a knowing before you can think. There's a body inside this body of flesh which is nectar too sweet to drink. There's a breath too soft to be taken, yet it sings in each petal and leaf, and it threads your heart to my distant star, and it cannot be broken by grief. Photo: Kristy Thompson