Uradiance

Wish I could tell you about the ancient starlight that pours into your body through this breath. Wish I could reveal the power of your heartbeat, how it turns the world. I want to share the withered Gospel of an alder leaf but its whisper is too quiet. The chime of raindrops after midnight threading your dreams. What wind and sky, the moon in her gown of falling snow, and what the white fox, binding her arrow wound in fur, would say if they could... Who you strive to become is not nearly so lovely as who you are. Abandon your vows. Follow wonder.

"We are all meant to be mothers of God, for God is always needing to be born.” ~Meister Eckhart Wise One, drop the reins and let the camel lead you. Follow the rising falling animal in your chest. To be wise is to be guided across the wordless desert of prayer to the birthplace in the valley of your missing rib. There the Unspeakable answers  in the odor of fur, the gesture of a tiny hand releasing impossible beams into the face of the lady who gazes down into the straw through the half-light of amazement. Her silence is immaculate, her heart is the fecundity of emptiness. Her void is moist with stars. Prior to conception She gave birth to light, joy and sorrow mingled in the milk of her nipples. Now the one who cradles all the whirled has become your breath. What can you not say?  

I shed every petal, crushed every pollen drop to fragrance without form, peeled away the seed husk, cracked the casing of the emerald germ down to the black Upanishadic hollow. Still, I could not feel You. I relinquished every veil of innocence, became more naked than the moon before the sun. I melted every photon to its wave of darkness, offered my flesh to the fire before wanting. Still, I could not touch the Love of whom fools stammer. So in your hiddenness I hid my face , tore off my wings and spiraled down into the rhythm of your stillness. I fell into the ocean of Unknowing, where each breath goes before it comes Om... Knelt and stayed, an exile on the shore of my own ancient heart, where no white sail pulsates in one final exhalation, come to bear me away. Then, in a wickless flame of chaos without root or stem, I unfolded, and became infinite. Longing blossomed in the crimson void. I became You. _______ A splash of the Sun that neither rises nor sets, and knows neither solstice...

With your softest breath, polish all those dusty thoughts from your heart mirror.

  I understand there's a Grand Alignment coming! But if you don't align your mind, breath and bones, what use is a horoscope? The new moon in your forehead, the sun in your belly, the total eclipse is a trough between two heartbeats. Your mind is night itself, sparkling with silence. The portal to the New Age is your next inhalation. Why wait for a conjunction of Venus and Mars? Those lovers have been waiting for this very moment in the bridal chamber of your chest. Now ease into that bower. Repose in your Self. This is the shift that was prophesied. Ascend to higher worlds by hugging your own atoms, practicing the asana of a smile. To be joyful for no reason is to master all the planets and stars.     Image: askAstrology

  The true Word is not a mantra or an affirmation that rattles in your skull, but a pure pulsation of silence, a kiss of star-song seducing your heart deeper and deeper into the flower of emptiness. The true Word is given through the whisper of one who has become the breath of stillness herself. This breath contains the swirl of every galaxy and the fire of every sun. Bow to the giver of the soundless song.

'We awaken in Christ's body as Christ awakens our bodies, and my poor hand is Christ. He enters my foot, and is infinitely me. I move my hand, and wonderfully my hand becomes Christ, becomes all of Him, for God is indivisibly whole, seamless in His Godhood. I move my foot, and at once He appears like a flash of lightning.' ~St. Symeon the New Theologian, b.949 Philosophers who asked, 'Why am I trapped in this body?' were not trapped in this body. They were trapped in the mind. Your body is not a tomb, or a trap, or a punishment. Your body is the universe inviting you to wake up and dance. Your body has no edges. It is an ocean of energy expanding in waves of breath, teeming with stars, swirling with galaxies, overflowing the very rim of time and space. And your dance can be as wild as a whirlwind, or as quiet as a heartbeat. You need not even move; your body is moving anyway, hosts of cells, countless atoms in the marvelous ballet of incarnation. Your body is fille...

  Your hair on the pillow. The mare's tail swishing in the dark. Rain scented alfalfa. Fireflies over the meadow. It's a pixel night. You'll go crazy trying to connect the dots. Simply be a dot, so centered you expand to include them all. A small exquisite flash of loveliness, this is how vast you are, how you encircle me when you just occupy your body.

There are good teachers and there are great teachers. They enter this world through your body. They come from some eternity beyond night and day, beyond Winter and Spring. The good teacher brings light and speaks of light. The great teacher says, Do not fear, do not resist the darkness. The great teacher says, Become the darkness so that you may give birth to what is radiant. O Mother, O Child, teach us to breathe in world sorrow, and breathe out fierce joy. This is how it must be. Teach us how Christ is born again in the breath of humanity, again in the womb of my chest. This mystery, this recreation of the sun on the darkest night. Photo: Mt. Rainier by Sveta Imnadze  

  Hello my name is Fred and I am addicted to light. I am addicted to my angel guides. I am addicted to the ashram diet. I am addicted to Jesus, puppies, and vitamins. I am addicted to Christmas and Tibetan sound healing. I am addicted to the golden arches of my heart and the ever expanding cosmos of hope. I am addicted to old Joan Baez videos. I am addicted to love. Hello my name is Fred and I am addicted to my shadow. I am addicted to trauma. I am addicted to Bernie, midnight and the menstrual moon. I am addicted to the numb throb of digital post-modern hip hop sociology. I am addicted to my skin. I am addicted to hot flashbacks of ayahuaska. I am addicted to the violent eternal recurrence of a big bang in the balls. I am addicted to You are addicted to Me. I pretend to be nobody but my name is Legion. Addicted to gazing into your eye voids at a weekend workshop where the teacher says there is nothing to teach and nothing to learn, then charges us ea...

I don't know what a "guru" is, such mysteries are beyond me. But I know how to say thank you. I don't know what a "master" is, and don't really like the word. But I know what "Friend" means, and surely my best Friend must be the one who introduced me to God in the most intimate and personal form of my own breath. And I'm not sure what a "prophet" is. The only prophecy I trust is the whisper of my next inhalation. This is the open secret I would most want to share if this were my last day on earth. Your breath is not just a likeness, a metaphor, for the Divine. Your breath is the very form of God, and God's nearest most intimate name. The one who created the galaxies and all this world descends into your body as this breath. Each inhalation is his second coming, and with each exhalation you ascend. For every breath is a new creation, and every breath is the end of time. Yet there is a vast difference between mer...

"The real Virgin Mother is mystical eternal silence." ~The Gnostic Valentinus, 2nd C. Why not have a merry Christmas? You can't complain the season is too busy or too commercial this year. Stay Om. Listen to Darkness. Feel inward Light. Bathe in the Mystery. Don't take night for granted. Especially at this season. Let Night have her way with you. Turn off every light in your mind of names and images. Just hear the silence and gaze beyond seeing. When you can taste pure night and not jusst what it contains your wonder will give birth to the stars. This radiant darkness is God asking, Who am I?

When you opened your eyes this morning, you broke every law that made yesterday real. Why insist on being who you were before you took this breath? Can you withdraw your kiss, or send the ocean flowing back to mountain snow? Do bees bring honey to flowers, murmuring "Here's the pollen I borrowed"? Breasts of honeysuckle express nectar for the hummingbird, then wither with contentment. So your chest shows hospitality to a wandering heart. Is there an angel in your next inhalation? You must die of sweetness, like a pilgrim who never comes home. This is the Law. Don’t ask the vineyard’s forgiveness. Grapes can't understand why you crush them. Bold naked feet also dance on your bones. Ferment yourself and drink from the grail of your own body. Once the madness starts, be choiceless. Mingle and discard your skin. The bubbling stuff you must become will never be nectar again. Can you withdraw your kiss? Juice is for childr...

Don't tell. Hold the offering on your tongue. Leave the sweetest secret unspoken. Try not to say, "I love you," too often. That will store up the flame in your eyes. It glimmers from your shatterings, the mirror shards around you. Keep your Word, it will warm the meadows, arousing flowers. Learn silent bending from a gracious willow. Let hidden love lift your hand in ordinary gestures - the way you stir honey into tea, the way you wash your grandmother's cup, or hold an heirloom pear from a tree your father planted, gristling your fist around his original hoe. Be sure to keep intimate distances in the otherness of your gaze, and walk barefoot through midnight clover, your body tingling with stars.

After I took this photo I picked the moon off the twig and ate it.

This morning I sense the subterranean Lethe of pain that surges through each earthly atom. My tears are monuments of emptiness, through which I see the radiance of un-knowing: that this is not my pain alone but the ancient lash all humans share; the wise arterial bloodstream of our ancestors; the vomiting gasp of the newborn amazed by betrayals; the oozing laceration of what we've done to one another without taking time for scar tissue; the redounding ache of unnecessary blame, this throb of wanting to forgive but not understanding how. I surrender to uncertainty this morning, the faith that I will surely taste a wellspring of darkness gushing out of my chest where the piercing is deepest, and will follow this river of affliction to its source. I will enter the blackest hole in every uncreated star, which is the temple of the wound in the smallest creature. I will keen the uterine pang of primal separation from the One...

Who dips the full moon in the chalice of night? Who tastes the wine of darkness? You do, friend. A mystery, but not a secret. Let your stillness be rippled the way water receives wind. Let your silence listen to ten thousand sorrows of the voiceless. How will you endure it? By reflecting the whole sky in a teardrop. A mystery, but not a secret. Look deep. Grow old. Rejoice.