Mysticism

Ptesaniwi

And so, she came to me quietly just before dawn, my Ptesanwi.  Silent in the blessed night, revealing the seven sacred rituals, I was parched and famished.  Buffalo herds raced westward into the dusty horizon, disintegrating like a vast army of ghosts.  Yes, she was the prophetess, and she came to accept me.  She taught me everything, all that was, all that is, all that will ever be.  The White Buffalo Calf Woman told me everything was me, everything is a reflection of me, like the mesmerizing rippling surface of a lake, the concave surface of this mother earth that breathes endlessly.  She could divine anything, but I just had to believe, I had to trust.  In this I sought my childhood allies, my tadpoles, frogs, salamanders, and painted turtles.  My enemies tried to destroy them, but I always loved and protected them with all of my heart.  She whispered, "Trust in your guardians, your totems, your talismans since birth.  They will see you through, they will help you rise up through the storm." Thus as I grew into adulthood, I always cherished my friends, and remembered the symbolism they represented in my life, to stay strong and never forget, compassion, love, empathy, and the transformation of our lives since birth.. 

 

A Month of Longing

Folder: 
Spirituality

March.  The earth slowly thaws.  Murmuring ice and the scent of rich soil, engulfs fragile hillsides. Seagulls quietly circle lonely shorelines in a graceful arc. Naked branches carefully ascend, grasping upwards.  Decaying amber grass, thoughtlessly crushed beneath a stranger's feet, echoing unnoticed, speckled among emerald moss.  Spring skies cry, mercurial gray canvases midday shadow.  My heart yearns for just a glimmer, the comforting warmth of the luminous radiant sun. A magnificent ray of light the sole antidote to this endless month of longing. 

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Glossy Residues of Youth

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Spirituality

My luminous world, adheres to mystic twilight.  Prisms ignite and arc across the indigo firmament.  Shattered are the glossy residues of youth.  The tide has swept away unknowing, thoughts float like debris.  Clouds, a prayer that gathers, like dusty smoke.  The veils, the strands that hold the matrix of this world together are quietly fading. Unnoticed, the chasm widens, galaxies appear glowing beyond the synthetic lights of cities, stars flicker over obsidian windswept fields.  Guiding us into the calming peaceful incandescent kaleidoscope tunnel that welcomes us home. 

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Northern Skies

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Spirituality

Around fading embers, adorned a canopy of maple, a chorus of frogs, grains of sand, footprints and an ancient yearning.  Deep, deep, I am lost in wandering thoughts and the eternal night.  The immortal Milky Way my only guide, illuminating pathways unchartered.  Reminiscently haunting, consciousness whispered in the wind, your thoughts drifting carelessly like passing clouds.  I found you today, in an autumn breeze, in a summer storm, in the crystalline form of a simple snowflake, in the beautiful pastel flower petals of spring.  Seasons, I miss the seasons, the turning, the spilling over, the changing, the permanence in the endless stars, that glitter brilliantly over these northern skies tonight. 

An Autumn Burning

Folder: 
Long lost love...

The haunting autumn breeze

Carried auburn thoughts

Into the yearning scarlet dusk

In an Indian summer, long ago

Sunset always suited me

Along with love, your silhouette

And indanthrene shadows, forgotten

In the eternal seasons, saturated

With the scent perfume, sage and lemongrass

I see you've painted your ghostly eyes

Vermillion like the red hills

Contrasting midnight billowing hair

And porcelain skin of the orient

But even if you didn't glow

I'd still burn for you....

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Moon of White Ashes

Folder: 
Spirituality

 

Just like Indra, I am jealous,  drunk on soma.  Asparas visions have distracted me, leading me astray, into the gray.  For I am the atmosphere, the tempest storm, the crackling thunder.  In the silver rain, I ride upon porcelain Airvata,  across the sacred snow capped mountains of India.  in the distance, Vritra the flaming dragon purrs.  Like Buddha, I seek balance.  Like Vishnu, I am the ninth incarnation.  I levitate above the Bodhi trees.  I grew up as Siddhartha, one day in a magnificent dream.  Indiana Maples touched the velvety clouds, I awakened in the American Midwest transfixed.  I walked the streets of Chicago, noting the alignment of skyscrapers, the interconnectivity of the streets, the warmth of the January sun.  It was the time of turning, the time of bitter cold, the moon of white ashes.

 

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Stupa

Folder: 
Spirituality

Tangled up in your prayer flags.  Distant chimes ring peaceful serenity hymns across crimson cliffs.  I bow in respect at the sacred tower, healing waves flowing over me like a soft tranquil tide.  The lush scent of Pinion and Juniper drifts in the magnificent golden translucent afternoon light.  Canyons shelter the hand crafted spires like great arms of protection.  I quietly meditate sitting upon the divine red dirt of the desert, asking for the blessings of Buddha, and for love and peace to be bestowed upon mankind.

Gitche Gumee Gambol

You make me want to go up to Gitche Gumee Gambol.  Pictured rocks speak to me, in drumbeat vibrations, calling me to the Ojibwa shoreline.  Amid the splintered rocks, clear water shoals reflect a mirror of naked unguarded self.  I am a luminous spirit dressed in humble flesh.  I walk in graceful steps, my footprints the stamp of existence.  I listen to the rustling of the caterpillar eaten leaves amidst the hills, the rolling thunder of cloud people across indanthrene northern skies.  This is the profile of my ancestors.  At night the stars ignite like campfires across the plains at a distance lodge.  I climb these sandstone cliffs ascending into copper, iron and manganese.  Kneeling in sacred prayer amidst the promontories and thunder caves.

Forgotten Wisdom of an Elder/Holy Man

The earth is our temple. Every act a prayer.  The seasons are the apostles, the mountains and oceans the disciples of the great spirit, the great mystery that permeates all that exists.  When I look up to the Milky-Way, when I see passing clouds slithering by, I am reminded that this blue firmament is a cathedral, a church.  The alter is the soil, the earth which you tread upon.  Sacredness is recognized in everything, in all of my relations.  Priests are not needed, the air we breathe is a conduit, giving us direct access to the creator.  We celebrate this very moment, forgetting the future and past, recognizing that each day is Sunday.  All life is full of energy and purpose.  Follow your path through the circle, discovering the divine in each passing dawn, absorbing the golden rays of the sun at noon, and celebrating the richness of color at dusk.  The trees stand as statues, saintly reminders of the greatness, the reaching, grasping for something higher and unseen.  In still waters, we bathe, a baptism along banks of cattail and flying dragonfly.  The moth's flight zigzags through silver beams of moonlight shooting ever upward to the outskirts of the spirit world, where we will one day most surely rest.  Our ancestor's voices whisper in the wind.  They try to awaken us by thunder, dazzle us by lightning.  In the forest, in the Black Hills, go to the holy mound, raise up your arms, and touch the glittering stars.  Each star a spirit, each planet and galaxy kindred.  The earth yearns to be your mother again, she is alive and generous.  Each day, kneel upon her and thank the great spirit for your human form, for no one is luckier than you, to have the honor to walk upon the sacred ground as a human! 

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