The feeling of truth

I wrote this for you the other day. It’s for me too.

*******************đź’—*******************

When you feel defeated, change your shape.

When you feel weak, take your power back.

When you feel sad, cry. 

When you feel angry, dematerialize.

When you feel lost, look in the mirror.

When you feel alone, open your eyes.

When you feel frustrated, just sit back and listen.

When you feel like you might not matter,

don’t worry, nobody does!

This world is made of streams and we are inside of all of them. 

So just try the best you can. Because the best you can is good enough!

We cannot solve, resolve or make sense of most things. We don’t need to think so much but rather to go blank more often. Nothing needs to change. Create more space. Be a bigger vessel to hold it all.

Rather than talk, just be.

Rather than preach, just sing.

Because the truth, I have found –

isn’t a word, but a feeling. 

And,

that feeling is very big.

đź’— Sharada Devi 

Freya

There was once a female child that had been left in the forest. Nobody knew how she got there. It was a fertile forest filled with mating and killing. The winters were long and cold and yet this child not only survived, but thrived. It was if the forest itself had become her mother. The only thing this little girl had from the outside world was the blanket that she had been left with. And on this blanket was stitched the name Freya. 

Freya was all alone with only the animals and Mother Nature. She had nobody to teach her to read or write, or even to speak. Yet she was a bright little girl and so she learned on her own, from the world around her. She had seen her reflection in the streams and ponds and so she knew she looked different. She also knew all the animals made different sounds to be with each other and also to scare each other away. Some days she would watch the sky for hours with its singing and soaring birds trying to understand who she was and where she came from. She knew some birds screamed as they swooped down to announce their kill. She also knew some birds sang just so they could be close to other birds. She would also listen to the wolves sing their songs late at night. She had a different feeling inside when the wolves sang. She wasn’t sure who she was and so she decided that for now she was something between a bird and a wolf. Although she knew she looked like neither a bird or a wolf. She, of course knew the fragile lightness of the birds as they hung and threaded through the sunlit skies. She had only an idea of the shape of a wolf as she had seen the shadowy silhouettes in the night beneath the far off trees. There was something mysterious and important about that shape she felt. Like if she knew what it meant it could take her into a place exactly the opposite of the sky. Maybe that place was under the deep water or below the roots of giant trees. She didn’t really know, it was only a feeling. Her feelings were all she had to make sense of a world where nobody looked like her or moved like she did. She did not want to be so different. She wanted to be a part of what they were. Here, together living and dying in the forest.

Freya did not know that she was probably the most beautiful creature here of all. Because she had come to be in such an unusual way an embodiment of all the distinctly sacred ways of both the plants and the animals. She was as swift as a deer and as sharp as a fox. She learned to dance just like a flower blowing in the wind. She would even cry like the sky when it rained. This is how she saw it all. That she was as big as that somehow. She didn’t cry very often but sometimes when she did she felt herself to be the raging storms that would blow through the forest with thunder and lightning and torrents of grief. It was because of the eyes she remembered. Eyes like hers that she never forgot. She would cry until her heart was empty and then she would be ok for awhile, then she would cry all over again. It was always in the calm after these storms that the stars seemed brightest and she noticed this. She wondered if they twinkled just for her or if she even mattered to them at all. She had to think it was for her, that someone just like her was listening far away and yet so close they could hear her aching heart. She didn’t know why she was so sad sometimes. She had grown older and wasn’t a child anymore. The forest had cared for her and taught her. It taught her that she was not alone but also that she was…totally alone.

She was a part of it all. But she remembered another place. And that is when she decided to sing. She would sing inside the storms of grief and loss until some strange invisible love would lift her- higher than even the birds could fly. To a place she imagined the eyes must be. The eyes just like hers.

And no, she could not speak like a human. The only singing she knew was from the birds and the wolves. Her voice was from a place in- between. Very loud and clear. For hours and sometimes throughout the entire night her bewitching sounds would haunt the deep forest. It’s not as if the sounds she made were entirely frightening – but they were a little. These sounds were also the sounds of a truth most humans could not bear to hear. The truth of a soul in the forest. The truth of aloneness. The truth of total togetherness. All at once she seemed to express this in the noises she made. Inside the storms she created as she called for the eyes she could barely remember. And it wasn’t just that the eyes had looked like her eyes and not the eyes of of the forest animals. It’s the way she remembered those eyes looking into hers.

Nobody had ever told Freya what love was. She did not even know of the word let alone its existence. But she felt it, inside herself and she pushed it out onto the world around her. Into the sky and the water and dirt. With these sounds she made because of her vague memory she felt less pain. She felt strangely enough that she was touching what she remembered and that was all she could do for now. 

The forest was huge and dangerous. Freya sat wrapped in her blanket possibly for years. Not yelping, not howling, not chirping. But making the sounds that only she could make. Her voice filled the air. Nobody will ever know how she ate or even if she slept. We do not know who left her there or if they will ever come back. We can only listen to her and try to understand the unbearable beauty of what falls from the stars or what flows inside the rivers. Secret things too wild and powerful for words. Delicate things too soft and light to be seen by mortal eyes.

Sharada Devi 

The Storm of Tara

The name Tara means bright star. It also means queen diamond and goddess of the sea. Tara came from the tear of the great bodhisattva of compassion, Avalokiteshvara. The ocean is made of those tears. That is how powerful compassion is. That is how powerful Tara is. She lives within you as the most pure ocean water. She lives in every tear that falls from your eyes. Everything returns to her. She can contain even the greatest pain and with her very own heart purify that pain into a crystal clear ocean star. This is where the rainbow comes from. This is peace after the storm of Tara. She is the savioress who will save the world. She will first save our world- starting from the inside. The inner space of us- with all the cries and echoes is where we retrieve the pearl at the bottom of the sea. This pearl is our soul. Touching our soul at the bottom of Tara’s ocean brings light to the tears and from that light compassion is born. In this way- we become Tara with Tara, by Tara.

We cannot leave here alone, they all must come. The world, this world must be made bright again by the virtue of her grace- and our surrender that is fueled by constant acts of courage. There is the sacred starlight. There is the hidden bridge. There are the treacherous waves. There is the absolute darkness. 

And then there is Tara who comes as the Bright Star to guide us when we open our eyes to our truest heart’s love.

Om Mani Padme Hum is like a boat. 

Om Tara Tutare Ture Swaha is like the oars. 

Yoga is the hidden bridge and yoga is mysterious and magical. It is when we touch the other and do not feel the other to be separate from ourselves.

Sharada Devi 

Please listen to the English version of her ancient prayer of invocation. This is not about Buddhism or any religion- it is about our origin and our destiny.

listening for the light

I was thinking in my mind
I have nothing left to say
just these ribbons…
that whip and tangle.
I have searched my head
for more to write,
but I fail and am empty
empty like a windy morning
before the sun has risen
but you hear,
the flapping of dark things
about to disappear
to the blue morning.
but I want you to hear
and to know
how it feels to be vivid
and as obscure
as the mixing, churning
bodies of time
overlapping and somehow
deeply in love.

I drown again and again
in my own heart.
Gasping for the wind that blows
over this ocean inside.

I will search the largest places I know
for the words to say I mean this.
The sky, the ocean.

Inside I have nothing but their thoughts.
To blow and to take the clouds and the waves.
that could describe the place we are
in their head.

But in their heart we must be still.
So still we are not ever found.
So that we can stay,
curled in clouds and water

just listening for the light.

Sharada Devi

prayer of the soul

The bleak cold of the raging violence.
The ice wash of another day.
The bare morning blade.
She stood not caring
for the pretty things
that used to hold her up.
Like a shield or a sword.

“I cannot protect you anymore.
I cannot fight you either.”

She stood looking out upon the battle field.
The quiet house, empty and afraid.
Her eyes were made of fire that had turned
to glass.
Her body was made of ancient
impenetrable rock.

She did not need any of the things
she had killed.
She did not need anyone looking inside.
Through the windows,
touching to find
where the great warrior had gone.

Her head was filled with wind and lightening.
Today was going to be silent,
surrendered again to the dead.

She did not bury anything.
She just stood and watched
it all, even her.
Disappear into the hidden place
she held,
like a secret deadly weapon.

A priceless gem.
An entity that never existed.
One about which great stories are told.

“It is not all in my head.
It is also in my heart.
Where nothing ever leaves,
but becomes an artifact
left for the world to hold…

And even if they thought I was never here.
I made them change in ways as deep
as volcanoes. And even if they thought
I was worthless. I gave them my life…”

(And that is who she was,
every God forsaken morning.)

Sharada Devi

(listen to – prayer of the soul- Hanuman Chalisa sung by Sharada Devi)

transforming silence into grace

silence is golden. saying nothing can sometimes heal. words are sacred. use them wisely. you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to listen. so be wise. spiritual things are of an unspoken nature. thoughts are powerful,

yours and others. don’t worry about what their thoughts might be, about you. be silent and reflect upon yourself. listen to the subtle voice deep within you. the spirit communicates from above and the soul communicates from below.

for your silent presence to heal, your soul and your spirit must unite. this is a process that takes time and patience. you have no business with the business of others. we are in no position to judge unless we choose to pollute the silence with ignorance. words are magical creators. in the silence of presence all transmission occurs. that is why association is more powerful than people realize. paramahansa yogananda said if you want to advance spiritually you must only associate with those who are further along the path than you are, with people you aspire to become like. otherwise, he said- it holds you back and it brings you down. but when you are in the right association you will feel uplifted and inspired. you will be purified of worldliness. this is a relief to any lover of god. this is not by the words of anyone, this is by the purity and magnetic pull of their silence. silence is in the aura. it is a cultivated golden light some would call soma. i would call it god’s love. 

so there is nothing and nobody to conquer, not in actuality. there is only the silence to realize. the practices and the lifestyle needed to cultivate silence in the body mind and heart are only understood when our priorities are aligned with our dharma. to choose quality over quantity is a good beginning. to create space transforms silence into grace. 

sharada devi 

Where will you go to make God?

Summoning the muse takes the arousal of air and fire. She would like to make a grand entrance into your heart. She would like the words to rush forth as a river of light. She would like to ignite you with passion and inspiration. Until the muse is summoned, there is a dullness surrounding the aura. She is the brightness of our life, she is the wind that shifts us in a new direction. I speak of the muse who is a dragon and a Phoenix. I speak of the muse who hides behind clouds and isn’t easy to know. I speak of the muse who will make her presence known one way or another. Life itself is inherently destructive, which seems like a contradiction, but it isn’t. For the creativity of the muse to be realized, only the lingam should remain. The focus, the most important point. That is what the lingam is, the force of life. When things get in the way of this force, they must be destroyed for creation to be recognized. The muse is the lover of God, that creative force. She is the one who dances around him. She is also the dance. Without her calling constant attention to the glory of God, life isn’t life as life was meant to be. There are blockages, there are hang ups. The muse is living deep down inside as the intoxicating factor of mysticism. She is a mysterious feminine force that makes everything visible and audible. The lingam is the highest mountain top of her aspiration without which, her existence becomes warped. This is the reason for war and rape, this is the reason for depression and ignorance. The male and female forces of the universe are meant to unite. The level of consciousness at which they unite can be called Bhakti yoga or addiction to pornography. They can be determined in every outcome, the clarity of the intent being the determining factor. The summoning of the muse is the enchantment of life. The mystical outpouring of an unusual divinity. The uniqueness of every being is known especially by the voice of their muse. How well do you know her? Do you hear her in your head, in your heart, in the wind through the trees? Do you see her in the eyes of your cat, in the petal of a dying rose, in the smile of a child? Do you feel her in the suffering and the joy? Are you listening for how she will recreate you from every ending?

“Yoga” is so much more than assuming a posture, it is being the posture. It is in the act of creating and destroying. These moments happen every day- cosmically when the sun rises and sets and you cannot tell if it’s dusk or dawn. Is this birth or is this death? It’s hard to tell sometimes living on her edge. Those moments are cherished times of day for a reason. They are the most magical times when the light and the dark are entangled, embraced and either living or dying. The light and the dark take turns being on top. This happens to us, in our lives too. The muse is always there going up or going down, aware of the lingam that penetrates every moment of existence until time stands still.
Who we are is how well we know her. How she knows him within us. These are not men and women, these are yin and yang forces of nature. These forces have supreme intelligence. We personify them because “God” has made us “persons” for this very reason. To dance in the grace of infinity.

I think that’s why every encounter is an opportunity to see union and to be union. To create with all our heart, to breath as if our heart were the ocean. Inspiration and aspiration are the same as inhalation and exhalation when we understand how sacred the muse is. When we understand who we are so that when we summon her, we are her. 

When we create the space for the friendship with all our demons to occur, her creative essence may be startling. However, in that space redemption is possible. In that space duality is permeable and transparent. This is why we learn to move like an artist over the sea. There is beauty, there is love. First and foremost in everything. Beauty and love are like the ground we walk upon. Nothing can exist without them. It is up to us to perceive deeply with devotion and absolute self acceptance the simplicity of surrender. 

Life can be painful. I surrender to her art. Life can be joyful. I am her art. It works this way. Our purpose is to get clear, find her inside the clouds and let her part the sky for the light to shine on you (and in you.)

We are very important because we are the lingam. That is why she loves us so much.We are the point of creative activity she dances inside of. Always wanting us to remember her and to know her. Because when we do, we remember ourselves, not as little dying humans but as immortal forces of an unstoppable magnitude.

We can make every day profound just by perception alone. God needs the Devil to do his dirty work. The Devil needs God to clean up his mess. It’s a symbiotic relationship, one that – if it did not exist, neither would we. Neither would Michelangelo, neither would Van Gogh, neither would the Mona Lisa or Jesus Christ.

Everyone and everything is our soul friend one way or another. We are interchangeable and we are free to decide where we will take what we’ve been given. Meaning what will you do when you’ve found her? Where will you go to make God?

Love, Sharada Devi 

A poem for the world

A poem for the world

They know nothing of the wild pain that splashes words across the page. I write so that I will not drown.

They know nothing of the digging. I claw, buried alive underneath this rage. My words are made of fire.

They know nothing of anything that tears open hearts infected with a good cause. Their words are not mine.

I did not format well or think straight. I did not attempt to erase my first feeling. I didn’t do anything but put my hand to this page, and feel.

Not just for me, but for the world that I imagine I am becoming.

I will be big enough one day to be heard.

I am calling this how love must come to be, bigger than heads. I am calling this the poetry that is made as a star is falling.

We have only one chance as the days slip by, to find the truth and tell it.

Nobody cares if you’re smart, they only think they do. Because nobody knows where the cut happens is why.

And I love myself because of this. Because of what you have never seen, about me:

The incision from which the light rises as unbearable suffering.

I will open upon page after page. I will die upon grave after grave. I will always be here, like an animal whose head is in the clouds.

Like a god who bows to the dirt that she could never touch.

My words are as perfect as my failings.

And even if I hide forever deep in the bodies of all, the morning comes again. And the little dog opens her bright, enchanted eyes.

To see the one she loves who she can never understand. Who is so much bigger than her.

And yet she knows. As I know.

Sharada Devi

rarified creatures of a mystical order

We do have the power to create a better world. We do have the power to heal and to liberate ourselves and others. We do have the power to raise the vibration of a circumstance and transform it from the inside out. We do have the power to create our vision of beauty and love. We do have the power of mystical enchantment and divine grace. We do have the power to overcome any hurdle. We do have the power to love ourselves completely. We do have the power to accept, to surrender. We do have the power to speak up. We do have the power to lighten up. We do have the power to endure. We do have the power to use our bodies as vessels of light. We do have the power to sing. We do have the power to dance. We do have the power to grow. We do have the power to forgive. We do have the power to let go. We do have the power to hold on. We do have the power to be selfless.We do have the power to awaken!

Music is medicine. Meditation is medicine. Nature is medicine. We do have the power to embody the healing power of music. We do have the power to embody the meditative state of grace. We do have the power to embody the radiance of nature!
We were born with pure potential. Potential that requires development. It’s a work of a lifetime. Everything we need has been offered. Some things we don’t need are there to. Only certain choices will lead to refinement. We are capable of becoming rarified creatures of a mystical order. We are not worldly, we are just passing through this world. What we do with the suffering and negativity we are seeing and experiencing is up to us. There is in every time of great darkness a surge of greater light. The choice as to how to respond to the calling is up to you alone. There are many ways to transform the world. We can pick up trash on the road or we can fast. We can protest or we can meditate.
We can strategize or we can sing. We can fill up the world around us with devotion and music, or we can fill it with philosophizing. No answer is the answer. I mean, it’s up to you. What you feel, what you see, what you know, what you want.
What is true for you is what is!
The path of peace is not so smooth sometimes. But we can rise with the help of angels and devas and nature spirits. When we speak their language it is obvious that they hear us and they really do show up. There is more to this world than what the physical eyes can see. There is a the astral realm which is where all transformation  occurs. When we do the practices to effect that realm we become beings of light. We will know what the darkness is made of and we will pull suffering by its roots. Covering over the symptoms will not create lasting change. Only a shaman has the co-creative power to change things that are deeply rooted. We do have the power to become a shaman. It is a doorway that opens when the sound is pure and you hear it.
In those magical moments, anything is possible.
Love, Sharada Devi

just like a rainbow

(listen. everything fades. my words are just like a rainbow. and so am I.)

For all these years.

To all those faces.
With all your heart.
And now, here.
Facing, erasing,
opening to empty.
Where time is not a reminder,
nor a vessel of memory,
but just another body
to let wash away.
Floating, releasing,
nothing more to give.
Where there is no one.
Truly, all I know.
Is where I rest,
baffled and light.
All these words,
to all these outside people.
I tried to make them me,
but I couldn’t.
I tried to give them me,
because I found no one
for all those years I searched.
But they were not me.
They were not seeking as I was.
They were something else.
A distraction, a frustration,
a source of great helplessness.
Help yourself, whoever you are.
Then come back to me.
When you’ve been to battle,
and you’ve been betrayed, defeated,
undermined, tortured, abandoned.
Left to die in an unknown place.
Come back to me when you know
the truth about who your friends really are.
How death really hunts, how deep down your
hunger is buried.
Only then will you understand.
Where to look for your food.
God does live, but only sometimes upon this earth. Whatever you imagine must be provable.
God does die, usually within the first few years of life. Whatever you think is probably a thought that isn’t yours.
Children, self centered prayer pieces.
What began is not what ended.
Mutation is not transformation.
But who would know, out here.
Where the wild has become the electronic.
Where the spirit recedes into conformity.
Where you purchase food, and believe it is good.
I am not a cannibal. I am not a slave.
It was all lost to greed for power.
Stage power, screen power, face power.
I have been here, inside of it all.
The mechanisms, the generator,
the reason.
The reason isn’t you. You have proven that.
The reason isn’t me. I have changed.
The purpose is only my thumb on each letter.
My head has gone blank, my heart has grown secret wings. My eyes look up and away although I’ve been told that is wrong.
There is trash beneath the trees. There is evidence everywhere. Of what to do and what not to do.
“Don’t let this happen to you.”  That’s all I know.
When nobody loves what God actually is.
Even if God were real. Is when I step back inside and close the curtains. Because I was real.
And nobody was able to notice.
There is loss as there will be, here.
After the hardest war has been fought.
The warrior is left speechless.
You will know when you are me,
until then, we do not match.
The lack of symmetry is killing me.
Actually, inside where truth rages.
Like a wild, irreverent sage.
I will wear a mask when I need to,
to hide my face from yours.
Sharada Devi
listen: