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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Eduardo Galeano, the famous South American journalist who wrote The Open Veins of Latin America, was rumored to have a treasure hidden in his home. Inevitably, a thief came to his house one day and, finding an ancient looking chest, took it with him. Hoping to find gold or jewels, the thief opened the trunk once he took it to a safe place, only to find it filled with personal letters. They were all the love letters Eduardo Galeano had received during his long life.
Galeano, of course, was sad. They were vignettes of a life lived with passion and love. The thief, recognizing the value the letters had, a value worthy only to Galeano and to no one else, decided to return them. However, he did not return them all at once. He sent one each week.
Each Thursday, Eduardo Galeano waited with a heart full of anticipation for the mailman, who knowing the story would have the letter of the week in his hand already, waiving it happily for Galeano who ran to receive this missive of love.
Of course, nothing was being returned to Galeano that he did not already have, but the fact that he was getting what he thought lost, and that it was coming to him in such a fashion led him to receive the letters and read them again with such love and enthusiasm that they created in him something beyond what he had lived.
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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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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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The essence of sentience is planted deep in your flesh. All sentience come from one source, and behind the awareness of all sentient beings there is a seed of sentience from the supreme being.
The impulse in every being to seek anything is, in truth, the desire to unite the small seed of consciousness with the consciousness of the supreme. Desire in all forms is a manifestation of the desire for union with your source.
All you need is a genuine aspiration for truth and liberation. Then, let the nature of your desire free. It knows where to go. It’ll guide you true because it seeks its true fulfillment.
Unblock that which represses your force. Let its nature determine the object of your desire, not society or religion. In the true, untainted desire lies dormant the highest aspiration for truth and liberation.
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If I were to think that the Popol Vuh is only for the K’iche’, that the Old Testament is only for the Hebrew, that the Mass is only for the European Christian, that the incense and Om is only for the Hindu, and that the silent brick wall of sand is only for the Japanese, then I would be limiting them all—as I would limit myself.
And if they cannot be mine, then they cannot be true, for I am not limited to a culture, a country a race.
The love of a warrior is not reactive. It is not triggered by any external stimuli. It is not ruled by hope or wish, but emanates from intent. It is voluntary, and do not emerge out of need, but from an over abundance of power. That love is given as a manifestation of the pure will of the warrior.
The warrior’s love is the light of the sun; it sustains all it surveys, unconcerned with what it gets back.
It is the light in the night, warming or destroying, but ever alight.
Just like the flame, the warrior who would give light, must first burn at the core.
A reader asks:
What happens to animals that are tormented/abused by humans? What happens to their souls? What about those people? My heart is often so heavy, I just don’t understand. I can feel it all and it’s challenging to shift out of that. I know we are somehow all connected but I don’t feel like I want to be connected to that. Why does it happen? Just feeling very sad at the moment. 😥
Those who suffer because of empathy and compassion, move humanity to higher awareness.
All humanity suffers the consequences of the cruelty of those who torture and oppress. Those of us who move away from the gross actions of humans, pull the mass of human consciousness in the direction of evolution and refined awareness. It is like a huge ship in the ocean, which to change course needs steady pressure in the desired direction. At first, the pressure doesn’t do anything, because the mass of the ship is so large. However, the constant pressure does make a slight shift, and this shift moves the ship on a different course. This is how the compassion of a few can affect the course of the whole of humanity.
The key is to have compassion for the suffering, while at the same time rooting our consciousness on our higher aims. To fall in despair and hatred for humanity, simply plunges us into the dross of the masses. This does not move the ship in the direction we desire. On the other hand, to become indifferent to the suffering is to disconnect our intent from the momentum of the ship.
We need, then, to stay anchored to the suffering of the innocent through compassion, while pulling on that force to the desired direction by rooting our higher attention in the higher good.
In this manner, not only humanity changes course, but the beings who suffer also are moved with us in the direction of evolution.
“How surprising it was not to find here a book, but an inheritance, connected to the forces of the universe that shall bring you back to your source. The Golden Flower is written in such a way that you experience being in front of Koyote the Blind, listening to his words and silences, discovering his emotions… we know that the beings of knowledge refuse to teach, since the transcendental gnosis is so sublime, and can only give an inheritance for us, the children of hope.“
–Dr. Eric De la Parra, President of Colinde International
This beautiful edition is printed by Gateways Books. The Spanish edition will be available soon.
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She comes to me naked, in the purity of her presence, without the garments of light, sounds, life and thought.
I’ve known her longer than myself. I’ve known her before I, before time, before the memory of her.
I have seemed to forget her, and in the dark dungeons of forgetfulness, in that mindless chaos of existence, I looked for her.
She was there, always, hidden in every desire and every which pain.
Behind every corner of thought, peeking or waiting at the periphery of the horizon of time and experience, she shines eternally in relentless and unwavering wait.
She weaves and undoes the endless tapestry of existence phenomenal, waiting for the beloved to come to her as vagabond, worthless suitor, with his only claim in the secret chamber of his heart–an arrow certain and true.
She comes to me naked, silent, and I am blinded and deafened by her all consuming touch.