“Universal Consciousness is one’s own nature…

Knowing the individual consciousness as one’s

own nature and not knowing the Universal Consciousness

as one’s own nature is bondage.” Siva Sutras, vss 1&2

Worship the sensations of the day

Kiss the pink of an elderly man’s cheeks

Invite the vibrant white of a young woman’s

blouse to pulse thru your bones

Be very still and feel

the friction of blue jeaned

thighs swish-swishing

against your breast,

penetrating your skin

and vibrating along

your spine

Some say we are surrounded by impermanence

they say–‘contemplate the impermanence

that everywhere deceives

and hides the real behind the unreal,

the true beneath the untrue’,

‘Seek that,’ they say,

that is not this,

or this,

or this…

I say,

Not a moment passes

that is not full of ME

I am your baby’s

soft skin-

Observe me

and you will

know yourself

I am the melody

of your thoughts,

listen to me

and all songs

become One

I am the gravity

in your footsteps-

feel me and

walk the length

and breadth of

the cosmos

To live with

abiding joy,

one need only

surrender the illusion

that each is not One,

that always is

not Now,

that the infinite

is not Present.

 

 

 

Your Heart Has Wings

“The essence of all things is said to

be the Heart of the Supreme Lord.”

–Utpaladeva, Isvarapratyabijna

A December afternoon

walking beneath a blissful sun,

lost in Your Heart, dear One,

A bird in flight dropped

its doo on my naked head-

it felt warm and moist-

I touched the gift

with a fingertip,

ah! the scent of jasmine,

And pressed the ambrosia

to my lips in a kiss–

Your Heart burst inside my skin.

Today, there rests a crown

to celebrate the Touch

of Your sublime anointing.

An artist friend had promised to draft a design I’d given him for a tattoo that I’d planned for several months. I’d offered him payment, but he’d refused. It took me a couple of months to set aside the cost of the work I wanted done.

I hadn’t pressured him at all, but when only a couple of weeks remained before the appointment I’d made with the tattoo parlour, I’d mentioned it to him. He replied that it was absolutely no problem. I didn’t pressure him.

A week before I planned to get the tattoo done, I again reminded him. He said, sure, it was no problem. Finally, the day before I planned to get the tattoo done arrived. I met my friend at work–he was also a co-worker. He said that he’d been up all night talking with a friend and barely managed to drag himself to work, let alone remember to bring along the drawings he said that he’d completed.

I said, “Well, o.k.” He said that he’d call me the next day.

I was peeved. This was an event I’d worked up to for several months. The tattoo marked a new phase in my life. My last tattoo had been years before, in the midst of another life phase.

I sat to meditate, set the alarm, got comfortable.

I focused on my annoyance. I brought to mind my friend’s face, his voice, our phone conversations, other conversations. I thought about him staying up all night chatting with his friend, a mutual co-worker, whom I also knew. I focused on how it made me feel that after staying up all night talking, my friend had simply, “been too thrashed” to remember to bring the renderings that he had promised. I focused on my feelings of doubt that he’d actually cared enough to complete the design.

I found where the sensation of my annoyance produced tension in my body. I focused my awareness on that place, on that feeling of tension. The sensation, the shakti of annoyance, was a tangible presence that I could reach within and touch with the focus of my awareness..

I followed the feeling of this vibration of annoyedness for some time. All other thoughts and sensations dissipated and departed.

After awhile, the frequency of my annoyance brought me face to face with the whom that the annoyedness had affected. I looked at that whom. I recognized the whom, since it was myself that I recognized.

The self that I recognized was the same me that I had always been, each and every moment of my life. All the events that had ever transpired during my life belonged to this me. The funny thing, however, was that this me that I recognized and knew had always been me–was always the same. I’d never been without this me, but this me had never been affected or changed by any thought, feeling, relationship or circumstance of my life. The me that I recognized was like seeing the light of being aliveness in my own eyes. It was more like the screen, or canvas, the background against which the time and activity of my life played.

This light was not itself the specific activities of my life, yet it somehow was responsible for there having been a “my life” at all.

My focus became fixed on this immutable me-ness. It was vast and deep and consuming, and yet–really, nothing at all. This me was absolute, whatever it was, it was that.

I became lost for a time. When I opened my inward gaze, I saw my beloved standing before me.

He took my hand in his and we walked together. I began to hear the musical sound of water flowing. As we approached the source of the growing sound, I felt the percussion of thundering water in the ground beneath my feet.

When we arrived, I saw that from more than a hundred feet above, a frothing cascade of water rushed downwards. My husband stepped aside, and I saw a lake so clear and still that the sky and the clouds were perfectly mirrored on its surface. To my astonishment, I saw that the roaring waterfall descended on the lake and entered its water without a splash, without creating the merest hint of a ripple in the lake’s crystal smooth surface.

My husband said, “Come on, let’s swim.” He threw himself into the water and began to swim about, rolling and turning like a porpoise. “The water’s fine,” he said. “Come on in!”

I followed him into the lake. The water was wonderfully cool and soothing. I dove fully into the lake and emerged, my hair wet. Yet when I shook my head, my hair seemed to throw off its moisture without releasing a drop of water. I stood in the waters of the lake and watched my husband swim.

I asked him, “How is it that your arms and legs churn and kick, but not a single drop of water is displaced?”

“If the lake refused my body,” my husband said, “how could I enjoy my swim?”

He rose and walked toward me. He cupped his hands, lifted some water and offered me a drink. I drank from his hands. The water tasted sweet and pure. “If the water did not surrender to your need, how could your thirst be quenched?” he said.

He reached out his hands and held my face. He leaned in and gently pressed his lips on mine. “If your lips could not feel, how could we enjoy our kiss?”

The alarm sounded. My big poodle, Jack, nudged my leg with his nose. “Enough quiet time,” I knew he meant. “Time for my walk.”

We went for an evening stroll.

You long to

know your Self?

Consider this:

breath never

departs but that

it is returning.

You are the child

of this

marriage of

flow and ebb.

Seeker of wisdom,

find the erotic

sensation

where at once

the breath

comes and goes–

discover this

blissful Between,

and there surrender

heart, mind and will.

Heed this promise,

seeker of Truth,

a flower will grow,

free from time’s

hunger,

never thirsting, yet

ever in bloom.

For this, O free One

is the fertile

Heart of Tantra.

You want to know
who you are?

Your Heart beats
within–
Listen, with your
eyes,
Watch, with your
ears,
Feel from inside
your skin–
abandon all thoughts
to the Graceful Percussion.

The hour will arrive
blessed seeker,
when the inner
pulse soars,
and the Heart’s
incantation grows
sensuous as the
chaste string
surrendering love
to the bow’s
liberating kiss.

Return often,
in devotion,
to listen,
watch, and
feel the
ecstatic rhythm.

In this lifetime,
beloved,
you shall meet
your Self.

Christ Climbed Up

or,

The Silent Sermon

(thanks & acknowledgment to Lawrence Ferlinghetti)

He is that Man,

a God-person,

“Jesus,” whom some

years ago I put aside,

but last night

in a dream

awakened me to

a scene on

Interstate 5,

jammed,

horns blaring, drivers

heads poked out windows,

“What the fuck’s going on

here, goddammit?”

Someone shot a pistol–

“Crack!” into the air.

Few noticed.

“Hey, watch it with

that thing, buddy-“

In a matter of moments

dark clouds began to

gather and thicken.

Headlamps popped on

illumining license plates and

rear view mirrors.

Distant thunder sounded–

rumbling closer. Horns

improvised a

dissonant chorus.

Flashlights glowed 

like lasers.

Rain began, and hail

came with windshield

shattering force.

A firefight of lightning

waged in the in-country

of feuding clouds.

As every eye turned skyward,

the earth groaned and heaved,

opening a crack belching

green and purple mists.

His fingers appeared first,

grappling the wet asphalt–

a head followed,

bald on top, but indeed,

a beard,

long and dark,

peppered with mud.

The Redeemer pulled his

body up and onto I-5.

Horns died in a cascade

around the man.

Flashlights flared in his face.

His hands shielded his eyes.

“Hey, cool it, assholes,” shouted

a compassionate motorist.

The beams shifted onto

Jesus’ wet, dirty pajamas.

He wore no underwear.

He lifted his hands

and squeegeed water from

his bullet smooth head.

Bending from the waist,

the Savior gripped each

side of the fuming crack and

muscled the blacktop shut.

Jesus sighed.

He looked at the mass of

stalled automobiles,

six lanes north,

six lanes south.

He began to speak.

No words came.

His lips moved but

no sound emerged.

“Louder, speak louder!”

yelled a woman’s voice.

“We can’t hear you!”

He cranked up his body.

I saw his neck strain with

effort–“Must be shouting,”

I thought.

Still no sound.

“Hey, put up or shut up, dude,”

said a man’s voice.

“Yeah…yeah,” a refrain of

agreement.

Jesus stopped speaking.

His gaze swept the

rain drenched crowd.

A horn began to wail.

Jesus raised an arm and

motioned us to follow.

He threaded his body

between steaming cars and

off onto the freeway shoulder.

People watched him climb

the fence dividing I-5 from

the cement viaduct headed

toward the Pacific.

Jesus paused, straddling the

fence. Barbed wire tore

his skin open and when a

hand signaled us to come along,

we saw blood seeping

from the wound.

Christ climbed down into

the littered, barren canal.

I watched a thousand motorists

drown in expectation as Jesus

walked across the littered aqueduct.

A little ways out, he turned

a third time, raising his arms

in a “come follow me” gesture.

The rain stopped. Clouds parted.

Autos came to life.

Engines sputtered and roared.

A few of us watched the

distant Voice in the Wilderness

hike up the slippery

embankment a quarter

mile away.

Ten minutes later,

cars had moved into

currents and twelve

lanes of traffic

again flowed.

A woman, a man, and

myself watched the

shadow figure climb a

second fence and

drop off beyond.

The woman said,

“You know, that’s the

second time this has

happened to me–

in the last six months.

What are the odds

of that, do you think?”

“Don’t ask me, ” I said.

“I’m not really here.”

The woman shook her

dripping, blonde head.

She walked off muttering,

“Second time in six

months. Unbelievable.”

The man on my right said,

“If you’re not here,

I’m not here, either.”

He dodged speeding

cars to reach his

vehicle still blocking the

southbound diamond lane.

I had no car, of course,

asleep all this time.

In the morning, I woke

with a pounding headache

and a cloud of exhaust

hovering over the bed.

I sat and crossed my

legs to meditate and

surrendered time to the

throb behind my eyes.

Pain receded and emptiness

began to accumulate.

Thoughts, like wisps of

high clouds, floated,

disappearing.

Some time later,

the still, wordless,

Voice of Jesus came,

and I followed.