The new flashing before the heart, the jealous old, the father, the castle made of the mother, the cries of the newborn, the blinding light of the new world, the absolutely indeterminate nature of the Self, the disappearance of Christ, submerging of the old and the emerging of the new. Addiction to faces, to looks, … More Where Nothing Stands
We came upon a face concealed in the field, One which sees in all directions but is itself unseen. Our ride was an unborn longing, our journey long and burning, Our company a fleeting scent from the farthest lands, and a thousand faces of the Self in the shattered mirror of the heart. Now we … More The All Seeing Eye
The now is a whirling Dervish; it whirls and it worlds. The Dervish sees; the Dervish sees, A seeing that hides; a seeing that shows, A seeing that holds; a seeing that lets go, One veils; one unveils, One is the farthest; one is the nearest, One is the eye; one is the I. But, alas, … More The Ecstasy of the Self, and World as Hearsay
The lovers, caressed by the scent of the beloved, burn their books and maps! A longing heart is their guide. The blind mind missteps; the heart sees, then smiles and leaps. The pebbles sink to the bottom and watch the river dance forward, as the mind is baffled by the dance of the heart of the lover. … More The Journey of the Ink
Life moves the way vines do, quietly, patiently, winding where it can. Even when buried under concrete, it finds a crack. It doesn’t argue with obstacles; it learns their shape. Wise paths aren’t straight because beauty isn’t efficient. Much of what shapes us happens unbeknownst to us until one day we notice what has already grown around our bones. To live well is not to force the way, but to savor the tension and let what is alive find its own ascent. … More The Winding Vines
Some encounters do not happen in time or circumstance, but in meaning. Two lives cross, and suddenly the past rearranges itself, as if it had been waiting all along for this meeting to occur. What once seemed accidental reveals its pattern, and life awakens from a long, quiet sleep into coherence. … More Rendezvous in the Space of the Heart
In the dim halo around Babushka’s rocking chair, a man pleads for a single nod that will never come. His monologue drifts between heartbreak and the deeper terror of becoming irrelevant in a universe that refuses to speak. What unfolds is not a search for comfort but a confrontation with silence itself—the kind that swallows every question and leaves a man facing the truth that meaning is never given, only begged for, and rarely received. … More A Home Built on Quicksand
Everything and everyone is here; the names make them seem far away What’s gone, too, is here; we just call it “gone” and think it “gone.” What’s to come, has always been; we just call it “not yet” and think its name. Near and far, here and there, now and then: these are Its names, … More The Dance of Names
It is that time again, to give the master a visit. Drained by the drag of this swamp, starving for the holy company I must return once again to that blessed deathbed, so that I may sneak through the sliding door, and the clashing rocks, and re-emerge in the field where I am no more. … More It is that time again …
This veil! It is transparent, and the beloved in plain sight. But I am blinded by what I’ve taken to be seeing. There’s a seeing that shows and a seeing that hides. She is near and far, here and there, a yes and a no. She is my Mona Lisa. She is my Eroma. I … More My Eroma
NOEMAYA 