Maybe I could see it if I had eyes on the side of my head instead of looking straight, as if I’m a fish, perpetually suspicious about the possibility of water—as if I once knew of it but have forgotten. That is, if I, a fish, believed in existence.
Grief is a way of loving what has slipped from view. Love is a way of grieving what has not
America is under racist assault. It has been this way for centuries—as though a cult of the undead, the empty
There is nothing further left for me in data-heavy climate tracts. I have to turn away now. I don’t want to know—at least not in the cognitive sense of knowing–because I already know.
Here by the water the only constant is the wind, the waves behave as if they couldn’t be bothered to
Gratitude, I am your listening post,perched on the shoulders of mountains,in the grasses, in your granite faces,reclining in the long
Reading Andrew Harvey’s 1994 book, The Way of Passion, about Rumi’s relationship with his teacher Shams i-Tabriz is a riveting and enlightening dive into the poetry Rumi produced from that time.
In this time of Covid, economic upheaval, the climate monster bearing down on us, unrest and uncertainty, many are suffering.
Whatever else it might mean, emergence implies the most intimate character of life, a constant unfolding of arising and disappearing,
My lineage is the vast space of Longchenpa, the precision of Jigme Lingpa, the tickster Patrul Rinpoche and heart of