Traveling Light – A Nice Arrangement

I have a rather nice arrangement with my Creator.
I sit in my private little corner of the room, breathe in depth,
bring my mind to single priority, let thoughts pass through –
(mind is the sovereign host, the thoughts merely guests).
No one gets thrown off my train of discourse, only saboteurs, all others remain.

All concerns which come, any panic, any drama, any sadness,
any desires, wishes, debts of gratitude, longings, all this
I bring, greet as real, feel, and give it to Him, breathing in depth.
He gives me immeasurable joy in return, strength to reach 150.
My cat comes and joins me, remains as we breathe in depth.
Traveling light, I've nothing to buy nor to sell, neither ideology nor religion.
It's 2:30 am, I've slept, I have days off; job is good, as are breaks.
My work is 24/7, no breaks, but inspiration is constant, active or in repose.
Work is always better than none, sloth is what kills.

It's nine hours earlier in California, also a constant.
My granddaughter there has just celebrated her 4^th birthday,
she and her little sister don't know I exist, but I know they do.
That suffices to hold her, them, in my priority, breathing in depth.
If you choose to stay inside and eschew all sunlight, so what –
the sun could give a shit, it sends its warmth out anyway.
Sun is sovereign without judgement, cat comes and shares priority.

If no one reads this, it still gets written; if I don't get my way, so what –
I am free to think, to dissent, to give and take criticism, to remain constructive.
I am free to love, to reflect, to intervene where it's my business to, or to fight.
I am free to breathe deeply, to hold priority.

The self-proclaimed "Antifa" – the Stormtroopers of the day, indulged darlings,
communist-wannabes with Che-banners from another decade – these enjoy
a nice arrangement as well: perennial students with nice digs, no job no need,
atheistically multi-culti by ideology (no conviction), politically-correct and violent.

For their ceaseless aggression and staged slogan-frothing, property destruction,
open defamation, attacks on person and possession, welcoming mass suicide
of their own native democratic society which pampered them. They have
rather a nice, paid arrangement with all the Parties and Lobbies of the dominating Left:
the Greens, The Left, Pirate, the mainstream SPD, and what oddly still calls itself CDU.
These hoodlums are ever on retainer, maintained by a gangster-regime in Parliament.

What do I care? Is this a popularity contest? So what, if I'm a "racist, xenophobic,
homophobic, Islamophobic, patriarchal Nazi"? What a joke. But as it is a joke
which happens to rule, I happen to care. Germans, like the Swedes, have no say
in the matter, "refugees" who aren't are compared with Himmler's Jews, invited
by a Chance-Liar to come and repopulate here, to assuage a Hologram of Guilt
which no one wants to heal. Sure I care, I came to see just that healed.

And I sit now, breathing in depth, my cat purring in confirmation,
she looks at me, regarding me with love from the Natural Kingdom,
reminding me to travel light – it's a nice arrangement.

Who Should Believe...

Put a center in that gut, in the pit of that belly.
Maintained there, find your anchor: stable, sober, objective,
open to seeing, hearing, reflecting, forbearing –
without panic responding in depth, in that breath.

Heart can open without losing touch with ground, deep grounding ...
deep-ends on the quality of sincerity.
There where your ass is set is your asset.
Who should believe, but that desire has brought you here to manifest!

Temple As Body As Temple: Resurrection

When in John 2:19 it reads, “I will rebuild this temple...“

this body was meant – his body, his temple.

Scrub those walls clean, scrub yourself raw,

make yourself holy, obey every rule and law!

He also said, your piety is its own reward,

if it's reward you're after you have it. Word

is far more important than rules and diet:

for in the Beginning was it, so don't deny it!

When the word, each syllable and letter's intaken,

on the breath in devotion, out of sleep you'll be shaken.

The prana of conscious breath drawn by concentration

of will toward the Beloved, courses through – anticipation

will not help you here, but arduous patient dedication

and service, living life to its fullest. And no easy sollution

will make suffering go away, that is the nature of our condition –

still, when spirit is followed and ego is stilled there comes a fruition

of love's tireless work, and the body is temple, even that crucifixion

proved the fulfillment, your temple's his Body – your body, and no fiction.

Not a Sparrow Falleth...

How often do I hear demanded
with the same easy umbrage and scorn –
sometimes quite poignant, often quite banal –
always easy, because to drop anchor in deep waters
and to wait it out requires work – and character:
how often have I heard demanded,
"Where was God?" or "What kind of 'God' would allow...?"

The real despair is entirely understandable,
the righteous indignation behind it makes a lousy argument
for self-styled atheists and agnostics or followers of
a materialistic gospel leading ultimately nowhere.

The Question begs an answer, for it assumes an intellect,
yet is intellectually weak and wanting a breath of life –
I will try to give it that, a goose in the ass, a jump start.

Putting aside any chat of "predestination" or joining the chorus
of misusers of the term karma, consider for one moment:
if I get in my car right now and someone else climbs in one,
and each of us has a preconstructed plan for the day
based on habits and wants and needs and routine – clueless,
neither of us plans in an accident, but we arrive
at the same intersection and it happens.
Someone wasn't paying attention. God always does.
(But we shell out dough for "navigators,"
and we ask, What kind of God would allow this!)

A child is murdered, a pet is run over, an elderly woman
is mugged, a homeless man is beaten half-dead, a girl is raped.
There are so many persons all at once, whose person-selves
are each planning an agenda without knowing everything,
mostly without a clue because you cannot know everything –
people crash, slip on the ice, commit suicide, shoot their mates.
Where is God? On the breath, but we aren't.

There are mass atrocities, all ideological, committed with religious fervor,
the latter unspeakably committed in the ever-abused name of that "God"
of whom we are now demanding, How can He! How dare He!
The natural world is being laid waste, greed and crass consumerism rule,
construction and de-construction and destruction – millions of egos
carrying out their grand or petty agenda simultaneously over lifetimes.
With such odds, something's bound to occur.

Ah, "God" – that laughing, scorning Psychopath with a sadistic sense of humor,
infantile and pathologically narcissistic, surely a Deity with issues.

There is one very unpopular and uncomfortable reason
for all this: we are free to choose, we are not machines.
It is a characteristic of that same God, that we are born
with this very freedom, that we came here of our own free will,
to be and to become human, to dis-cover Him as our own true nature.

It does not mean we are born conscious, nor that it will make us so.
But we are free to wake up at one time or another, and when we do,
we may also choose to stay awake and live in an awakened state.
This requires of us the most intelligent responsibility.

So where is God now, and what is it that He appears to allow?
He didn't give us ISIS, ISIS gave us ISIS. We gave ourselves
all the shit we see before us, from the most intimately personal
to the most regional or global – everything which causes some to
ask ceaselessly: WTF was God thinking! In short:

"God" will not solve your problems, remembering Him might –
that would be to mindfully and with devotion stay in the breath –
But God will not "solve" your problem.
We are given the freedom to responsibly pay attention.

And there is being with each other and for each other.
And staying really close, and really loving.

A poor woman came to Buddha,
wept over her dead son,
begged Buddha to bring the boy
back to life.
Buddha said, fine, okay, I'll do it.
First bring me a mustard seed from a
household which had never
lost a member and mourned.
She went out, she sought all over, she returned empty handed.
And she got it, and she took the Path of Dharma.
And she began to pay attention.

"For a few pennies ye buy yourselves a sparrow,
but I tell you: not a sparrow falleth, but the Father knoweth."

Not a sparrow falleth.

 

Faithing the Music – For a Song

The love which I bear the reader is not my love,

nor mine to own nor claim; for were it that

it would be limited by my own weak capacity to bear its fullness.

No, the love which I bear my reader is my Source, not I its –

it is a love of overwhelming proportion, blinding

with its vastly unlimited presence while likewise focusing

on whomever appears before me.

The love which I bear the reader includes you and me both,

embraces us equally on a breath so fine, so subtle, so intimate.

This love includes alike all forebears, after-bears, grizzly Yogi-bears,

and all future generations to come.

I'll confide to the reader, but only for love of you:

the in-tone-ation of love's mantra is just the engine it takes

to power all this. It is not religious songs or hymns – these are all

about God in your life, you sing them, that's good, they may inspire;

but … that comes and goes. Even at their best, they are still: mind.

This however, is something else, this engine: it is God in every syllable,

it is hear and now and in reality – and it sings you, it's not about but is –

you're the Music – it is consciousness itself,

conscientiously paying attention.

And the secret of its working is this:

no ego taking it hostage, no I-dentification,

just going back into and back into and back into

the tone in depth – letting it vibrate, circulate in the chest,

in the crown, the throat and the belly, the gonads and anus, every limb –

undoing knots, opening doors. Let that engine idle (just don't you be idle):

don't let your ideals become I-deals and then from there I-dolls,

for Joyful Joe reminded: "No-Mind makes no deal!"

Proof of love's mantra is this: where no comfort may be possible

in your own worst trials, this quite guarantees it.

This sovereign joy no one can take from you,

it is your heritage and your birthright, there on your own tongue;

in every fresh timeless syllable is poignantly, majestically That

which alone draws the grace of faith and the line of your destiny.

http://samuelinayatchisti.blogspot.de/2014/06/pregant-with-radiance.html 

http://samuelinayatchisti.blogspot.de/2014/05/which-mantra-which-dhikr.html

 

Real Humility

Real humility, or being humble, isn’t about pleasing others

or forgetting oneself,

not even necessarily about staying agreeably inconspicuous.

It is about standing firm in one’s own identity in the face

of every diversion, debate, digression, or detractor, undeterred

and staying the course – while appreciating others’ perspectives

and craving no one’s approval or recognition or acknowledgement

(and accepting the same graciously if it comes)...

It is about asserting without ego or conceding without resentment,

it is about sovereign command of breath and mind,

about simplicity or non-complexity.

Neither self-hostile nor self-doubting nor self-sabotaging,

it can afford to be wrong and own up to it.

It is not helper-syndrome. 

Grasping this, one forgets oneself in the reality of God
and serves others.

One who demonstrates this humility can be emulated,

as - according to the Beatitudes,

such will inherit the earth.

What I Told The Kids

What I told the kids was this:
God is Love.
God is as vastly impersonal as outer space (I said)
and as up close as a lamb's snooter;
as grand as galaxies
and as intimate as your next breath.

I told the kids:
God is as male to the core as it gets,
and as deeply, unspeakably feminine as well –
while not necessarily either-or, certainly in their creative union.

God is Love, I told 'em,
greeted you on your arrival,
greets you on your departure,
entering and receiving you your life long
on every breath you take.

Forever isn't "a long long time," I told 'em,
but is outside of time altogether.
So God is here and is now, and in reality –
just eternally-forever that.
All else is suffering, all else is suffering.

And you are That,
whatever anyone else tries to tell you;
remember, you are That.

So you really can afford to show kindness, feel empathy,
have patience and consideration, and learn to trust yourself
to have faith.

If you can carry this on the tip of your tongue and give it a tune,
learn to sing it, God will dance there,
you won't ever be bummed out for long.
Yeah, God is Love, and your wildest source of joy.
Now just go be happy.

Well, that's what I told the kids.

Self-Realized Santa

(San Francisco, Dec. '85 – prior to leaving for Army Basic, having failed to snag a job as Jumbo Jolly in any dept. store in The City – but also prior to “The Suit,“

where I did – and one better)

Amid the flashing, multi-colored chaos, the hustling and bargain-grabbing, the floor-walker bells popping off and the humming buzzing tide of parents and children drawn into this jungle of commercial mayhem, Tuesday afternoon's Santa Claus composes himself . . . and waits it out.

He is not bored or disgruntled with his job, pressed as he is by sticky-fingered, runny-nosed, often howling toddlers, not to mention the ones that are getting a little bit big for this. He is actually not watching the clock, in fact he is waiting for something else, he is sniffing out the crowd, this department store package-promiser, the brat-appeaser, stuffed elf. Ho Ho Ho . . .

One whining child gets to popone to the Wiz and receive a striped cane; then a quiet shy one, who mouths a big Thank You (for Mommy); then a ram-bunctious one who tinkles a little and hops off before he remembers his token candy (so he can drive his frazzled mother over the brink, since she'd agreed to drive him to see Santa). And on it goes, and the queue grows and diminishes, and then . . .

A girl of about five years, perhaps six and small, edges forward with her mother, a few yards down yet. He takes note. What is unusual about her, this girl, is not the precocity which movies are about, nor any visible confidence, poise, grace, ésprit which set her so adorably apart from the rest. What is unusual in her only he knows, what is rare in her only he will see.

He patiently takes each child on, he does his gig, he relishes the spontaneity when it's there, reassures nervous mothers with a gesture of his hand, waves each family on, then looks at the next bundle of 1980s mess squirming on his lap; he looks down into its face with a benign, casual indifference, reserved and pleasant, and sees hundreds of voices, all desiring for its future . . .

They are clutching the tiny hands rather more snugly this year, these mothers; they are aware, grotesquely aware of the growing number of posted facials reminding them to sharpen their radar against thsoe who covet small children. They are chilled, this bunch, as they give themselves cautiously over to this warm ritual of handing the tots to the old man in the red suit.

His eyes are moist and twinkling, occasionally he has a private word or two with the mother or guardian, as the case may be, listening like some country family doctor to the fractured twittering of trivial concerns. The photographer stands ever ready for those who need the souvenir. She does not look particularly nervous, this girl's mother, and the child is reasonably well-behaved. Yet even at this distance the clutch she holds her in is evident. The line is dwindling, he takes his own time, he is not rushed by all this nonsense, theirs or the store's. The photographer is having a cigarette.

He shifts his position while the next customer is coaxed to the jelly-bellied counter to place her order, brushing off cellophane candy-cane wrappers to make a fresh place for her. Her forehead is wrinkled with the weight of the responsibility she is entrusting to his care, as she'd put a lot of time into this beforehand. He nods and shares her seriousness for a minute and then lightly raises her off his lap to hear the confession of He-Man, or whatever this kid is. Power of the Universe. That's it, that's what he wants. OK, kid – you got it. … Then: she arrives.

There is a pause, a fraction of a pause, not a delay in proceedings but that pause which occurs when you open the door and there stands the guest you'd been expecting anyway, but you have that little pause, because that brief second is frankly timeless, and it is to be savored.

In one fleeting glance his earlier recognition of her is confirmed; not from her,

you see, not consciously by any means – but she is natural, guileless, and their eyes lock as his gaze penetrates into her skull and sets atoms into motion creating new orbits . . .

He leans forward ignoring the girl now, but rather motioning her mother over with a friendly but sober flick of his fingers. She checks the position of her daughter, and the Santa shrugs away her awkwardness with a simple gesture – no one's walking off with the child, who now sits at the step where Santa's great boots are planted. Santa motions the mother closer, still closer, and looks into her face. He says nothing.

Though his breathing is nearly undetected underneath that pasted beard, she is somehow aware that she stands within his breath, engulfed in a most sovereign atmosphere quite independent of the whole department store. And she is oddly comfortable standing with her face so close to that of this calm, sober-looking stranger – Santa or not – who has mesmerized her while taking no possession of her. Something, something now – gently opens in her and Santa speaks . . .

"I want you to listen carefully to each word I use, each thing I say, because it is going to matter to you greatly. As I share this with you, you must drop every untoward reference from your mind, suspend in other words, every innuendo and conditioned impulse to react, so that you can just get what I am telling you. Can you do that?" She nods and poises herself to listen; his voice is kind and it projects gently, his cadence is natural, steady, and his manner direct. He continues without breaking the rhythm of this brief interlude . . .

"I have already plugged in to this child. As your daughter sits with me I am going to open her subtle bodies up and enter her most sacred core, and I will place a seed within her; I am going to stimulate and activate her inner growth. And this seed will blossom in her at a later time, and she will experience her true and sacred Womanhood in a very beautiful and natural way, you may mark my words. And then at some future time, she will find her way to me and I will guide her through an intensity of training which will prepare her for the role she is to play on this planet, for the very hope and salvation of Humankind..." He pauses to let it sink in, scanning the aisle quickly to scope the growing new line, never turning his head from the woman, whose eyes are becoming moist with awe. "Are you getting this?" he asks, gently bringing her into the present.

She brushes a tear with her ring finger, draws back into place a blonde strand of hair. His eyes are incredible, but not threatening or vulgar. They are auspicious to her, and she nods with the movement of a young intelligent woman who doesn't require speech to cut through the confusion and the flood of chatter and claptrap she feels during this new pause, to say Yes, yes I do, strangely, painfully, poignantly, somehow definitely know you. "This is her destiny . . ." he concludes, and the contact breaks and dissipates back into the crowd, all subtly reabsorbed into the commercial onslaught.

He sits, Santa-like, playfully unconcerned, as this young mother thoughtfully raises her yawning daughter and with unpretentious reverence places her squarely into the hands of the Master.

http://samuelinayatchisti.blogspot.de/2011/12/suit-or-truth-about-santa.html

http://samuelinayatchisti.blogspot.de/2011/05/cinderallah-dervish-folktale.html

When A Man Makes Love

(July 1987, Monterey)

My lips parted   and I asked the Woman:  Woman,
       how does a man make love?  And she replied
       with such direct simplicity:  O - and
               are you a man?
My ears blushed and my breast flushed full
         I said Yes. I am.         Listen, she said,

For a man first makes love with his ears.
   He listens intently for the silent rustle
      of love's whisper, of skin wishing to yield itself
            to the hand's good touch.
From the fingertips to the soles of his feet
does a man make love   his tongue
    quivers at the mere thought of his beloved's form
                                     his ears
   carry the beloved's name whether it is known or not.
 

The lover is always erect,   never asleep,
                                     his attention steady.
His body is clean but washed with abandon,
     not primped as some self-adulator.  Every hair
       on his body responds to the scent of his beloved
         and his nostrils are always flexed for it.
   What of her absence, I asked, How
           does a man stand the loneliness?
                   She drew so close

 
I lost my breath in the sweetness of her kiss
   and therein was imparted - as the vital sap of my loins
      rose from root to trunk to branch - that
             Woman is never absent.
A man can never love enough.  To love as a man makes love
   is to come out his top    because
   while he loves the Woman he worships the Goddess that she is.

Woman is a body   and so she is every body
  and all that is beautiful in the eye
    of the Man who beholds her
             is Woman.
And in recognizing her she must be touched
   and kissed and carressed and looked at
     and fondled,    every inch of  her
    must be loved and dearly cherished first
       for her to be enabled to enter
         the body  where she belongs.

My eyes hazed in sweat      I asked How
     is a Woman's body never absent?  And her form
    burst over me and I was bathed in her
as though she were liquid air, and I saw with all my heart:
Woman is an aura, and even as you would stimulate
  all those areas of her flesh with your gentle fingers
     and tongue   so must you skillfully and generously
                                     speak to her.

A man makes love
   when he is direct and kind   firm and assuring.
  A man without sincerity never makes love  there is
       no interest there   and no balls.
A man makes love
    when his gifts are frequent and thoughtful -
    their spontaneity is what makes them original.
    Timing is everything  for the man.
Never an abusive word   never an abusive gesture,
  never even in jest hurting the Feeling of the Woman -
      That is how a man makes love.

For him she is ageless, a man does not make love
   by judging looks or counting rings on a tree.
       His eyes are fixed on the Woman timelessly.
I have wondered, I began - and she quietly
     inclined her face to hear -
           Can a Woman love too much?
She smiled and brushed my forehead
    and my temples with such affection I held her
        hand there with mine and breathed
            its touch into my pores.  She answered,

She might change her mind as to the choice of men -
   but she cannot love too much.  No one can love enough.
  When a man makes love he is knowing all the time
    that everything beautiful that he could ever set eyes on
          or give ear to   or touch and hold,
            every expression of beauty,
              every affectionate gesture    is Woman.
        That is Whom he loves.

And Woman?  She is herself the bottom line
        and the last word
           on the very Beauty of God.

 

Denying Air

Denying not just the "existence" per se, but the creative, dynamic and actively real existence of God, or Divine presence, in this very world and coursing through our very lives and Being – never mind what you want to call it, God or Goddess, or by whatever name or form – but to deny at all, is really really just like denying the existence of oxygen, no kidding.

  I have no more gripe with an atheist than I do with a fundamentalist, so long as they don't start enforcing on others and scoring political points, a waste of everyone's precious time.

You don't have to make a religion out of your appreciation for O2, but if you require and find or formulate one that is suitable to your needs and temperament, to develop that capacity in you for more, well and good. If you make an agenda or an ideology about oxygen or claim to own it, the absurdity of this is pretty obvious.

To question what it's about, this O2, is scientific and valid as long as you really and sincerely want an answer, otherwise you're just playing around with lab-rats for shits'n'grins your whole life until it's time to close shop.

But to deny that there is oxygen, because you don't see it, and you call it at best, entirely theoretical (or theo-logical vs. "real"world-logical) is to miss out on the fact that you draw it in every second and send it out every other second, that it courses through your lungs and pipes, feeds your entire physical and mental system, and without it you would cease to function and expire.

  God is like that air, that air which is in us, in every cell and space between, in every fluid, in every breath we draw. Here. Now. And in reality. No shit.

Air. Space. Breath. So where do the space in which I am standing and the Space of the entire Cosmos and Realm of Possibility meet – or were they, are they, can they be, ever separate at all? Check it out, Friend, check it out.

And on this very breath we can draw into ourselves all the love that is there in the Space to draw from, and all the joy, and all the peace and presence. The very presence of our own original and true nature.

  And we can send that out the same way, out into our world, this world this Cosmos - and to any and every individual we might hold in the thought of our heart.

And that is Divine. I cannot deny it.

Being Beauty

I will admit it, no denial:

I am the most beautiful creature
I have ever encountered.
How do I know this?
Everyone is my mirror,
and every thing.
I see my beauty in every face,
in every animal or leaf or rock
or wavelet, I see my beauty.
The breath of this is in every sigh,
I hear it there and in the mighty winds,
in nature and in humanity I behold my
most poignant and effervescent beauty.
Here, now and always.  Simply,
and without fanfare.