I’m spouting. I must be dead to sprout. Spirit, echo, music, play your fingers upon my heart, make me dance in your vibrating, pull my strings. I sprout colors: leaves of fertile summer, boundless pinks and yellows at dawn. Leaves growing out of my head,...
Around eight years ago, I had a dream about my teacher and then spiritual friend, Kyogen Carlson. In our relationship as disciple and teacher, we were very close. I lived and practiced in the Dharma House on Madison Street, then close by the new property on...
Our original seed or spark is woven into vow. I am capturing bits of sun in my cup. I am drinking its daylight. Its warm honey nectar streaming Its golden amber warming my throat, oozing, Its thick golden liquid Seeps Into the intricate hollow chambers of the...
In the cool, fresh of the early morning, August Eugene, Oregon around 4am, before the sun begins to rise, the heavens open, into, . . . an invisible eye. Slowly from the east, the edges melt, boundaries open and flow, whoever you are, whatever you have, know that...