Transformation

on being a prophet

saints are poets gone astray. we restore sanity in the world by restoring poetry to the world. we must demand of the saints to stop corrupting our poetry, and if they don't, we must...

The Sound of Silence

When does silence equal complicity? Two recent incidents lead me to pose this question. I do not intend it to be rhetorical or merely a catchy introduction to a blog post. I need some advice,...

What She Said

She said, "I am the Power, I am the Shakti, I am creating a new earth. "I do not bring change in the old way, through your activism, politics, or religion. I am subtler and...

Wuji and a Scene from “Homeland”

In the cosmology of Taijiquan, before there is yin and yang, there is wuji: the infinite field of energy, the Universe, the state of energetic potential prior to any differentiation. Within this idea is another:...

The God who sees me

In Positano, I duck into a church, where street sounds are hushed and air stifles and Italian women genuflect, loudly kissing their fingertips and offering the gesture up to God. I automatically look up,...

Don’t destroy that journal!

I am reading Lawrence Shainberg's 1995 memoir, AMBIVALENT ZEN for the third time.  I probably won't read it all again -- just browsing this time, finding sections that catch my eye.  It's laugh out...

thoughts on radical passover

when st. francis exclaimed that he desired to become god's instrument for the bestowing of blessings on all beings, or when the bodhisattva vows not to rest until all beings are saved before she...

A pale reproduction

In printing, an image is broken down into four basic colors — cyan (blue), magenta (pink), yellow and black. If you look through a magnifier, you will see that any printed photo is made up...

Spiritual “Spring Cleaning” for the Holidays

It was Ash Wednesday and I was working from home all morning.  Procrastinating, I logged on to Facebook and read a spate of status updates from people who were giving up chocolate, caffeine and...

Your Opening: An Easter Poem

The garden is not grateful to the gardener. The bud does not cry, 'Open me!' Darkness untangles threads of light without God's fingers, filaments of pollen spilling from the reckless void. The gardener is grateful to the garden. Only...