El trueno y las nubes trajeron un aviso de paraíso. Atravesaron el velo de la noche y llegaron jugando con el alba. Atrás quedó el calor opresivo de los últimos días. Se quedan casi en el olvido mientras el cielo juega con luces y estruendos, coquetea con llover, y acaricia mi cuerpo con brisas frescas de días perdidos.
¿Acaso serán estos los días perdidos, los que no viví, los del exilio? ¿Será por por esto que estos relámpagos huelen a olvido recordado? ¿Será por esto que esta lluvia viene sin estar, y humedece la tierra sin caer? ¿Será por eso que en este día vivo sin estar aquí, recuerdo lo que no viví, y te abrazo bienvenido en la ausencia que nunca fue y en el vacío que me llena a plenitud?
Why does the ocean swell?
Is it the pull of the Goddess Moon
high above at the heart of that other ocean,
holding so many stars?
Is it the yearning and the loving of this earthly sea,
stuck here in planetary existence with us
trying to get back to the higher waters,
to that infinite ocean to which our own is but a drop?
Is it that love for the divine,
the love for the womb,
that makes our mother ocean swell and become wave?
Is that what makes you, God, swell with pride and become life?
I don’t know. It’s not mine to know.
For I only know when I am the wave,
and the wave is movement;
and I move and I move,
and I grow and I play,
and I explode and I rumble.
I tumble, then I die.
Maybe after kissing the ocean,
maybe after touching the light,
maybe after giving way to a behemoth well,
maybe after swallowing a ship or two,
I am wave.
As wave I am the ocean
and there is no difference between my water and her water.
And yet I am not her.
I have all her qualities and characteristics.
The composition of me is the composition of you,
and all together we don’t even touch the infinite vastness of her.
From the Telling: Born of Purusha, by Koyote the Blind
This moment, it is pertinent to say, has been waiting its turn from the beginning of creation. When the sleeper stirred first and uttered a tiny vibration, unaware of it––just a single movement creating the beginning of a dream––this moment of time has been waiting, waiting to appear.
Before this moment, there were many other moments––movements, thoughts, words, actions, concerns, fights, death, life, survival, history, planetary events, starlight floating about in the heavens.
Before this moment, there is an ocean of time. After this moment, another equally infinite ocean of time.
This moment is here; empty and meaningless, surrounded by oceans of time and possibility. There will be a time when this moment is not; and whatever is here now, will not be. When this moment is over, the lights will be no more and the the path trail of light that comes into the eyes and makes its way into an unknown jungle of electrical fires inside a mass of liquid and brilliance called the brain will no longer mark a path.
This moment will then be complete, without a trail, without breath, without movement, without a present.
The path you see in front of you is not the path the others see. We all see the same moon, but the path of light reflected in the moving, living waters touch each one of us individually.
You see a path of light leading from your feet to the moon. Your companion sees the light touching her feet, not yours. So it is for everyone. So it is with the truth. It is clear, undeniable, and objective, yet unique to each one who stands in front of it.”
— Tolteca 3
Pregnant with your light,
my soul lies in plenitude
crying for a child.
I see myself through ancient eyes.
An immensity of sound and movement behind me,
I see the odd alien old man sitting alone.
His face, unmoveable.
His eyes dead,
reflecting the distant light of far away stars.
In the silence between word and word, between day and day… in the silence between dream and dream, between knowledge and understanding, between thoughts and emotions… in that silence that exists before thought and feeling become one… in that moment of silence before the pushing forth of meaning, the foundations for the making of the world flowers from the depth of the abyss.
It’s in that flowering that the tides of the waters of my heart flow unrestricted; seeking who knows what;moving where they’re being pulled.
Without the swelling of those waters, without the emanation of that light, no story is worth telling.
Click here to listen to this Telling of the Oceanic Tryptic.
How is it then that speech flows out?
Sound shaped by intent;
behind the sound, a silence.
Here and there perhaps a vision,
What flows out in words
reaches the soil of perceptions
from where, irrigated by time and memory,
new and different crops will sprout in the complexities of the mind.
One day this bubble of existence will burst into a million pieces, sending fire and light, and spread it all through creation.
Or maybe it will dissolve into the liquid nothingness of the solar waters that flow from that sunset that’s been waiting to come for all eternity.
It will then be so that every experience I ever had, every word I ever said, every pain I ever caused, and every hope I ever gave will turn to be just the vibrant resonance, just the booming ocean, just the happy dance, and dissolve in that ocean of experience and move amongst your shadows as meaningless signs and sights.
May I never live through that!
May the memory of me fade away in time.
May my soul not be important.
May my life not be object of remembrance below or above.
May I not be significant.
May my shadows be forgot and go their way, where the shadows go and the light of Her eyes shine brightly.
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In the solitude of the night I stay, and know that all the words and all the stories are lumps of life and meaning; and in the center I find myself trapped in an island, surrounded by life, all rushing at me at the same time.
In this center of life, I can’t distinguish anything at all. There is no name. There is no God. There is no hell. There is no movement of time and space; just the glorious silence; just the breath rushing in and going out; just her touch; the soft fingers of life holding, moving around, dancing around me.
In pain and joy, her hands play with the silent center. It moves. Sometimes I play with her by moving, talking. The light pulls my arm. The wind moves. The face looks and smiles when she looks back, and in the center of this magnificent womb, what can there be if not the warm embrace, the kiss of her ecstasy? How can there be anything but the loving kiss of the angel of death?
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