Apapachar: To Hug with Your Soul

There are words untranslatable, and when translated something of essence is left out. The word “apapachar” used by Mayan influenced people, like in southern Mexico and Central America is one such word. Many dictionaries translate it as “spoil” or “pamper”.

How curious that in English the word emphasizes either the ruining of something in a child (because when overdone, the child becomes “spoiled rotten”), or the indulgence given a person when you do things for them they could do themselves (as it happens when you pamper someone in a spa).

What then, is “apapachar”? It is associated with pamper or spoil because of the image of a parent hugging his child or a lover cuddling and whispering tender nothings.

There is no word in the English language that I’m aware of, and if we were to translate literally from the Mayan, to apapachar is “to hug with your soul.”

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The Sweet Fall from Grace

Do I then bring her down through the rushing of light and matter?

Or does she descend like the gentle starlight: flowing down the empty void to fill up this vessel?

Does she descend gently and loving like dew drops, like the high pitched electrical vibration?

Does she come to me as ambrosia, sweet nectar from above touching the tongue, filling the heart with the most sublime, soft, gentle love?

Is it just the mind that sits by the well in the full moon?

Is it just this silly mind of mine, divided between thought and feeling, that sees a difference between the graceful descent of the utterly tasty and satisfying dew of ambrosia and the rushing of the falling from grace?

The Love of the Father

When the times bring you to that place where you feel unworthy of love and divine grace, think about the love parents have experienced for their child.

When immersed in remorse for past deeds, or when feeling weakened by the chains of habit in the sleeping state, think about the love present when you see a child you love. You do not love him for his strength, his power, or his abilities. You love him for the essence in him. If he is sleeping, you love him the same as when he is awake.

So is the light of your heart; worthy of love divine even when you are trapped in the sleeping state.

The mother sings to the child, though in his sleep the child knows it not, and his small breath is enough for the mother to feel all her loving care rewarded. That divine breath in you, makes your heart love, and that love comes from the infinite in you, and that awakens the love of the supreme consciousness witnessing your heart of hearts.

In the source of that love, no merit or deed is needed to justify it. Its existence is its reason to be loved.

The Weapons of Humanity (pt 1: The Cup)

The four pillars of the world had been corrupted and turned into evil.

The sword, the coin, the wand, and the cup have been co-opted by the power elites of the world and taken from humanity to make a few people rich and powerful and to make the masses enslaved, ignorant, and powerless.

I would say now with all that I am and all that I know that these weapons belong to every single person in the world. That they are the irrevocable and rightful inheritance of every person in this world. That every person alive in the world has the inherent right to use them, just because each person is a direct descendant of the living omnipotent consciousness that encompasses the world.

We are the rightful wielders of the coin, of the sword, of the wand, and of the cup. Which means that every person in this world has the inalienable right to the pursuit of eternal happiness. That means we all have the right to know God, to not be denied access to the fountain of bliss. That’s the cup, always open to the immensity of the heavens. The one who holds the cup, that’s the heart in its maximum potential and expression which is the cup that opens to the blessful waters of infinity.

That’s the cup. And this opening to the blessings of God has been closed off by the religions of this world and it has been denied to humanity by those who have found the secrets of magick and science and have tried to decide that only a few are worthy of it and most are not. So that if you ever want to connect to that source of enlightenment you have to pay them. You have to obey them. You have to work for them. You have to do this and that. You have to be of a certain race or of a certain class, otherwise you can’t do it.

But if you are truly the king (and you are! For you are no other than the direct expression of Brahma, Shiva and Vishnu in human form), then the cup and the knowledge of the love of God is for you. It is yours and no one has the right to keep you from it. No one.

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My Sacred Prayer

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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The Teacher is a Spider

Here’s a note I found from a dear friend after a performance of The Telling:

“It occurs to me this morning that the teacher is a physical manifestation of the Great Spider who endlessly is eaten by her children, only to willingly come back again and again and again.

This sacrifice is for the Great Work. Likewise, the student is a developing spider who is learning the practice of death, rebirth and service through observing her Mother while simultaneously partaking of her, often greedily.” Katheline Dreier

In this Center of Life

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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The Birth of a Poet

The one who reads a poem is also creating it.
The poem the writer wrote is trying to push through words and meanings
meshing in the reader’s mind.

The reader, gatekeeper, judge, and creator
brings to life a poem born from the seeds found on the page.

The poem the writer saw died long ago;
written words stay the remains of its death.

The poem was born from the moment of death,
as thunder from light,
as life out of love’s climatic height.

The reader takes the words as lover’s seeds.
Nurturing with awareness,
dissolving them to liberate meaning;
hidden treasures from beyond the words!

Twin words inside his head:
nursing maids, young, supple breasted
full of milky light of consciousness.

They catch the hidden treasures from the death of the poem.
They bring the poem back to life
into new incarnations, one for every mind;
each read, a creative act.

Yet, each reader as it births a poem creates
in her mind’s eye another god,
creator of poems,
existing also in the mind,
interpreted into existence,
clothed with the splendor and awe
with which the goddess muse covers Her love.

She witnesses her poem child,
and imagining the creator outside Her Self,
gives Him life when She declares Him
Poet.

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Where the Witches Go

There’s a place, old and musky…
up on a green hill, where the witches go.

There, under the full moon,
they dance, sing, and take out their brooms.

Their existence was forbidden,
so they had to learn to go to this place in the dreaming,
from the earliest intents of creation,
to unite with God in sexual surrender.

Here, in the true church of the living flesh.

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Pure Will Is the Splendor of the Sun

Intent is an actionable manifestation of Will. Intent is a reflection or refraction of Will. One Will, a series of intents. It takes a lot to accept your own Will. You have spent a lifetime covering it up, trying to not accomplish it, saying, “Not yet, not yet, not yet.”

Will is not synonymous with desire. Desire belongs to the law of accidents. You come to desire in accordance to the programming that was given to you. Will is more connected with destiny than to the desires of the ego. In fact, when under the light of pure Will, the desires of the ego become nullified, like the light of a tiny candle before the glory of the Sun.

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