Uradiance

Action is what I do when I'm lost. Being is what happens when I find myself. Appearances are deceiving. When out of touch with my Being, I feel active, yet to others my actions appear as sound and fury, signifying nothing. But when I truly Am, I feel that I am doing very little, yet to others I appear to be a man of accomplishment. This is the miracle of Wu Wei. The universe has the structure of a joke. The punchline comes when you find out that action is stillness, stillness is action. The widest embrace is to let go of everything. So when in doubt, hug it all. P.S. I wrote this at 3 a.m., then went back to sleep.

I cherish most of my body very deeply, but I am at war with my belly. Perhaps you are not getting along with one of your body parts? If so, here's what to do. Expand it to fill the sky. Let it encircle the moon and all nine planets. Perhaps it is your penis, like a majestic tower rising beyond the rim of Andromeda. Perhaps it is that trembling golden water lily, your clitoris, floating on a lake of stars. Your drooping eyelids, one always stumbling a little behind? Let them be horizons of twin galaxies. Or are you ashamed of your brain? Turn it into a cathedral whose spires poke through the Crab Nebula, horns for the Rearing Horse   of Cosmic Dust where new suns are born from the womb of Unknowing. How could anyone be troubled or bound by a body-part that is really a temple of fiery intelligence, a singing bowl whose circumference outshines God? I hope this works for you, friend. It wor...

If there is half a particle of pain in your flesh, where is the other half? In my flesh, though I be a thousand miles away. Through the quantum entanglement of prayer, these halves collide and kiss, annihilated by love, replacing pain with spaciousness. The healing we seek, we Are. Shift attention to your quietest energy, which physicists call the field of least excitation, an undulating stillness, ocean of gratitude in a dust mote. Just become aware of what Is, the Wordless essence of this moment. Merely to Be is thanksgiving. Deep inside the fibers of your most ancient trauma, mad charm-quarks spiral, spun from uncreated blackness in the belly of creation, weaving mother-love into each wisp  of DNA, entwining your marrow with jungle flowers, serpent fangs, raveling up wonder into photons of primordial sod. A fetal hum in your body of brilliant shadows already sings thank you, I'm sorry, forgive me, I love you. Image of...