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.

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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

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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Gracias, Mujer

Ya que es de noche,

Y la diosa se extiende

En su infinito silencio,

Digo “gracias, mujer.”

Por tu lucha eterna.

Por tu resistencia inmutable.

Por tu omnipotente entrega.

———–

Now that it’s night,

And the goddess extends

In her infinite silence,

I say, “thank you, woman.”

For your eternal fight.

For your inmutable resistance.

For your omnipotent yield.

Holy Spider Mother of God

I learned a lot from the Jesuits. From them, I learned the obscure history of the Catholic church. None of my friends’ Catholic schools ever talked about the inquisition, the burning of the witches, the persecution of the Jews, the suppression of science, the utter corruption, and the waged wars that plagued the history of the Vatican.

The Jesuits, however, where exemplary in their brutal honesty, their relentless questioning, the ruthlessness of their historical analysis, and their commitment to true education.

It was from the Jesuits that I learned that there were at one time one hundred and fifty six femurs of the Virgin Mary in the Vatican vaults—each one considered authentic by some church or commission. Collected throughout history, along with enough fragments of the cross where Jesus died and so many prepuces of his penis incensing the lust of his nun brides, these holy bones were sacred relics once belonging to our Holy Virgin Mother of God.

So, my friends and I called this otherworldly virgin who had carried the seed of the Angel of the Lord, the Holy Spider Mother of God.

In my mind, I visualized this image of beauty, extending in tiny, tiny legs touching the different spaces of the universe. I wondered if all around there was this motherly womb surrounding me, touching with spider webs every nerve ending of my body.

Sometimes, when sitting on the roof of my house, overlooking the star-rich Salvadoran sky, I could feel the tiny quiet legs pulling at my brain. One day, I heard a cracking sound and felt the touch of the Holy Spider Mother of God digging its way into my head.

I stand too, next to you.

To all the women who are posting “me too”:

I stand with you.

I wanted to say, “me too.”
But it is not the same.
Yes, I too have been a target.
As a child, I could have said “me too.”
Instead, I wanted to be strong.
Pretend it never happened.
Explain it didn’t affect me.
Insist I was strong.

Still, I won’t say “me too.”
As a child I could have.
But I never had to live with it.
My life was not inundated with it,
day after day.

The emotional overwhelm of a couple of years
has been the every breath of so many
of my sisters, my mothers, my friends, my daughters, my lovers.

I felt I’d drown once.
As impotent as I felt then,
it can’t compare.
You battle each moment,
each relationship,
not only to overcome.
To thrive.

I can’t say, “me too.”
I can say, “I stand with you.”

I will fight at your side,
against this toxin that pretends
this is normal and expected.

With you, I say no more
to this false masculinity,
out there in the world
and in here, in this old mind.

I stand with you.
I will fight at your side.

I Woke Up Lightning on the Other Side of the Mirror

I remember my mother walking all around the house, in a hurry. She was carrying a bundle of blankets and towels. Outside, the rain was hitting the rooftop and streets hard. The noise of the rain is harder in the tropics. The cloud forests of El Salvador makes condensation of water stronger, producing thicker drops and more abundant rain falls. Against the symphonic canon of tropical rain, the dissonant thunder would strike to the core, evoking a primal fear that left at its wake religious women crossing their chests and clutching rosary beads.

For some of us, the flash of lightning that traveled like rivers of light through the night sky did more than evoke fear. It announced the shattering sunder of the ordinary. This night, like so many tropical nights outpouring water, light and stentor, I sat in the living room watching my mother going to all the mirrors in the house, covering them with cloth, to keep us safe. She was convinced that mirrors had the power to attract lightning. It was a simple and obvious matter of sympathetic magic: the reflection of lightning has the same properties as the emanation from a lightning bolt, and so the destructive power of one could be felt in the mirror. Transitive properties clearly applied.

I just sat there and watched the family dance. My mother covering mirrors, and the rest either securing all windows, doors, and leaks against the invasion of water, or unplugging electrical cables to protect us against the invasion of electrical surges. And so, protected against water, light, and magic, the night went on. The supernatural fear and awe, however, seemed unaffected by any barrier. As used as we were to tropical storms, we had not yet become rational enough to disregard the raw power of the gods of nature. The power of light and thunder still managed to reach us, even through all the protective barriers of glass windows, towels and rosary beads. Each thunder still made our core tremble, and something that had listened to the storm since before civilization, and reason, seemed to awaken little by little with each tremor.

Each lightning and thunder, a soul-quake.

That night, I overheard my sister tell my brother that she had heard from mama Juana that if you look at yourself in a mirror for too long, you will go insane. Was this the maddening power my mom was keeping at bay? Would a primordial spirit from the abyss awaken if the lightning struck? Would it also awake after being watched for too long?

I must have already had been mad. Why else would I do what I did? With the heart girthed tight by a panic fear, like a serpent around its pray, I slipped unnoticed to a remote room, one of the ones my mother had already protected with towels in the mirror. I told myself, I really did, out loud, that this was crazy and to go back to the safety of the blankets and the stories of the family. But I didn’t.

I went into the room, and opened the veil between me and my image. Removing the white blanket covering it, I saw myself. I stared into my image. I stayed there beyond the fluttering of heart and the crawling of skin. I stayed there, watching attentively, after I recognized the one looking back. After I saw the changes of the face, the demons and angels peeking back at me, I stared longer. I even stayed there after I clearly felt that I was the one behind the mirror staring out into a world of light and thunder, tearing apart all forms and worlds.

I felt as if I had just woken up from a long, long dream in which I had been many, many beings: man, woman, criminal, judge; where I had been a saint and a sinner.
A fish.
I had seen myself as daughter and mother.
Lover.
I was the betraying one and the one who cried in desperation, betrayed.
I had had many dreams and I had seen myself lost in all those dreams.
I got lost in all those worlds. Using myself in the dream. Identifying with the drama.

I remember myself collecting pieces of me, calling them my companions. Members of a group that searched for an idea, an illusion called reality. Futile enterprise. For nothing in that dream could be called reality.

There is only this room.
Only this mirror.
Only me and no other.

I am where I have always been and there is nothing else.
I have always remained in the here and now, even throughout all those changes of form and vision. Immersing myself into the hellish vistas of pain and unending suffering with the hope of forgetting the real world. Searching for heavenly spheres of life and peace and happiness; eternal happiness. Only…

Only to briefly be able to forget the stark reality of the here and now.
That here I was again, all alone.
Nowhere to go in this room called Reality.