Bardo Between Seasons

Are you clinging to light? The sun may disappoint you.

Wild irises poke from the soaked half-frozen earth. Lapis stars sparkle from their underground sky. Snow is over, then it snows inside your bones. The moon melts.

Gray stuff in cocoons is your true destination, neither wing nor worm. You pretended to know the Way from Winter to Spring, but all journeys end here, in the Bardo between seasons.

Heaven may disappoint you. Gaze downward. Don't be afraid to finger the roots like a harpist. Find absences and hollows where feathers nest, where fetal larvae curl, and mammals hunker for the pregnant night.

A white stag leads you from the ruined cathedral of certainty, into a wander-mist nine months lost in your om-land. Bright as silence, an infernal rabbit offers your egg to the pole star. Now you can be born.
You can dance at the center of chaos, in the waveless space between your thoughts, where it's never past or future. You can dwell where flames go when you snuff them out, darkness not the opposite, but womb of light.

Let others make decisions. Let others receive the  consequences. You have a quieter, more foolish vocation than judgment or time.

You are the midwife of Spring, roaming like Magdalene from tear garden to tear garden. You lead the dazed and resurrected gardener out of his tomb, to plant his seeds in the loam of your footprints.

You coax hyacinths to die in their blossoms, whisper "awaken" to the sleeping fur, enter the dream of the caterpillar like a rainbow, encouraging clouds to breathe, push, crown, deliver raindrops.

Are you clinging to light? Heaven may disappoint you. Gaze downward.

Artist: Wendy Andrew


Is A Blossom Right Or Wrong?

This blossom covered with dewdrops. is it right or wrong?
The mind's first need is to be 'right.' The heart's first need is to feel connection. I can survive being wrong. I cannot survive being disconnected.

On a Spring morning, breathing this blossom in has nothing to do with right or wrong. It is electric connection to the Shakti pervading all creation.

Here is a meditation for clearing your circuits and re-booting your Presence: Spend a minute assuming that you are wrong about almost everything. Then gaze quietly into a flower, breathing in nameless beauty.

Why does such a simple act of non-doing restore so much energy, not only to one's self, but to the environment?

Because you discover that being 'right' or 'wrong' isn't very important. Even when the mind is 'wrong,' the heart can connect, responding profoundly to other hearts, to a raindrop, the moon, the sound of a robin at dawn, the pollen on a stamen tip.

In fact, it's easier to be connected when we're 'wrong,' because the mind is humbled into quietness. We just shut up and listen. This is response-ability.

Would you like to walk this planet as a joyful healer? Then please remember, it has nothing to do with your righteousness, nothing to do with imposing your moral code on the world. Joyful healing happens organically, as a practice of embodiment, when you connect the earth to the radiance of your heart through the soles of your feet.

I could be wrong about this...


Wild Flower Yoga

'There are 196 verses in Patanjali's Yoga Sutras. Only three of them deal with asanas.' ~Sadguru

No one teaches yoga to a flower.

She bends toward warmth in the breath garden, with no precision of posture or form - no mortal wound of perfection.

Her floret undulates and falls into its own embodied gush of unseen root-wine, spilling upward from a burst kernel through ancient humus of the un-dead.

The gesture of her blossom a continuum, the seamless river of aboriginal darkness churned with comet grit.

You feel empty air around you: she tastes spirals of luminous food in leavened space.

Let her teach you to repose in effortless green gravity, discovering your own wild flower yoga, your kiss connected to its inhalation...

Petal to stem, sprout to seed, soul to loam, mind at rest on your breastbone, yearning threaded to the embryo you honed with 10,000 deaths...

Sway gently in your exhalation, a wheel of stars between your nipples, boundless void between your ligaments, muscles washed in waves of pure attention.

Remember no sequence, no program. Just sink into your intergalactic dance, the swirling pollen of your chromosomes, Wordless creation of the infinitesimal...

No sutra, no instruction, only circles in silence ever-returning, micro-movements inventing themselves from molten golden stillness.

You were sown in a windy rainbow, flung into the blood tide of your Mother, O too thoughtfully up-rooted one!

Now come Om, bow down to the nearest scarlet-tousled weed and cry, "Teach me!"