I have seen the dunes of time, rolling with the shifting sands of the endless desert between the dream of life and the wake world of the House Absolute.
Who can cross this unforgiven vastness?
Who survives the ancient whirlwind that tears apart gods and worlds?
Who stands whole before the terrible stentor of The Heart Of The Sky, whose voice creates and destroys the infinite abode?
Who will cross this desert, whose ever shifting dunes are formed out of the cold breath of the eternal void upon the sand of time where every grain is the unique divine point of view of every traveller, of every dreamer of the House Absolute who ever entered this desert void?
And why is it, beloved of my soul, that I would lay that very soul to be torn apart, to add one insignificant grain to the infinite sand? It is so that you too may come to find your completion, your satiety in the constant embrace of the beloved, and that you may also know the glory in plenitude as I have.
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?
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 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?
(SUBSCRIBE TO MY EMAIL LIST FOR ANNOUNCEMENTS AND GET A FREE BOOK)
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.
(SIGN UP FOR MY EMAIL LIST, AND RECEIVE UPDATES ON EVENTS AND BOOKS–AND A FREE BOOK)
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.
(Sign up here for a free book on shamanic voyaging)
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.
YOU ARE INVITED TO MY BOOK RELEASE: THE TEACHINGS OF A TOLTEC SURVIVOR
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.
Sign up to my email list here and get a free ebook: http://eepurl.com/gmrK_5
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.