The Vision is manifesting. I have something else also in the works that will be such a happy blessing to us all! I can’t tell you now until it’s finalized, but since I know it’s meant to be, it’s only a matter of time. Please donate to help us fund this divine miracle. I cannot express in words, now that I am here, the peace and exhilarating wonder of this sacred land. The nurturing clear stillness of the pre-dawn hours and the soft shadowy mystery of the dusk. I have taken these pictures just yesterday and I want to share them with you.

Please donate as we are depending on the many arms of Avalokateshvara more than ever as we have a specific monetary deadline to reach within the next 10 days. Love, Sharada Devi

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There is a huge main house, a healing temple building with a large sauna you all can use, there’s a sweat lodge, a labyrinth….it’s just abundant with blessings! Love Sharada

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the quiet entering moon

Do you know, bloodless, I am alive for you. Do you touch, emptiness, her skin does not lie. Do you hear, forgiven, I fall and never land. Do you reach, for me somewhere, when no one else is listening. Do you hear me softly spinning beneath your feet. Do you tell me, secretly the unspoken words. When the mirror breaks, inside the broken, do you keep running for the light. Do you remember, little bright star, where you live. I sit in a room made of humming and I stare into space filled with you. In my head, all the tears went. In my heart, the dropping song. In my body the pain of ghosts. I am everywhere, because of you, I am lost. In all the words, my message is mortal. In all the aching, my god is known. You left me, without going anywhere. And I stood alone, searching, without moving at all. I stared at you, while you watched me writing. Not noticing why, the words clashed as they did. I spoke at our silence, I kept most locked away. Not because words don’t count but because I am their origin. There is a place you told me that is eternally pure. We shall go when we die, our skulls have been pierced. Together. We will find god there. Not here, never here. The now, aches while we talk about aching. The god rises, of this world commanding his time. You begin to erase yourself right in front me me, waiting. Always waiting for you. There was a break one day. Another day. Lonely, God spirals in these things I’m doing. But what about those who are ignored, not heard. The vengeance between us. The glorious harmonies, the white heavenly force that I clearly revealed, from you. The white lost god from you. Stuck like glass in your lung. Sing for me, I remember who you love. For both of us I remembered, pretended. It was me, I was there. Growing older, softer, more afraid and yet more invincible than any human should ever be. Don’t knock on the door, don’t go near that door at all. Do you hear me, are you hungry. Where are the dogs. It’s getting late, the leaves are falling and the breeze has turned to ice. Between us, I smile, laugh, avoid the ignored. Deep in the night, though. Restless is the silence he won’t hold. Terror is the grumble, the rumbling below this old bed. The ceiling watches, little starlight…and never forgets where you go. My beloved, this body is a rag. I could clean you with myself. This heart is a chamber. I could protect you here. This mind is a whorehouse, I could just imagine the dark and write it. This place is our home and yet we keep driving. The stage, the noise, the thousands of eyes. They don’t know you. They don’t hear me. We are turning inside out for the spotlight, using god as a horse. This is impossible to pretend, the lonely could hear the ignored. We could leave, each other. Yet never can the shine leave the jewel. I could dump out my insides and roll towards the dimmer fire. I could give my head to you. You could stop ringing the bell. We could sit on the side of the road humming the hours of this night away. You, my oldest friend could take a bow and go. They could all disappear. And the lonely could finally touch the ignored. I remember the empty road up the mountain…the quiet entering moon.  Sharada Devi

the emptied golden rose

I was reaching for a string, something to hold. Out here, so tiny the world below. Just shadows and ringing. Not yet, nothing touches, truly. Until it hurts, it really hurts inside, this lonely universe. Turning from night into day, changing sides. Reversing the motion, threads unravel. I come undone and I cling to the blank stare of nothing. But I reach, for the string, any string to make me real. Like a sky root or the water that gives weight to the glass. But now, where I have traveled, has no string. I stare through the glass stirring for life inside. What the pain has turned numb, the words I carry. My ears have betrayed my heart. If a bud has more life, as the fertile promise of dawn’s beloved, I am not it’s blossom, I am not even brightly bravely innocently opened anymore. I am wilted  guarded wounded and struggling. In every moment the memories that fill me threaten to drown me. Out here, water and space. Love could protect me, sounds very easy. But the words, the words I’ve heard have done some undoable earthly damage too deep to fathom and yet the grief is real, more real than the cover up, the inevitable exploitation, the spiritual blanket of the curse this all implies. It’s as if I started out with others and now move only amongst the corpses or the nearly dead. I wonder who I am. With all the years that have passed, what I’ve done with the damage to make me this, today. And yet the trigger of words, awaken the dead who are not at peace, not with me. I let this happen. Because of God. Because of my parents. Because I am guilty for something too far down to describe. Because I do not value myself enough to make anyone else value me. Clearly, the idealized compromises have come to fruition. And I am not perfect, I am not even kind of ok. I am the aftermath of an obscure experiment that they thought they erased when the wise one said, “this just isn’t working.” Yet the others kept pushing and giving and going round and round a dying rose made of ancient vows. Once it’s born it dies whether it blooms or not. These things happen, we will never know why. We will only know the soft grief that the rest ignore. How she glides unannounced in and out of this world, never really here and never really going, anywhere but back to the heart that was told that an effortless bud is better than a sad mass of wilted petals. I have held many flowers that never opened. Love has not ceased to fathom life. I have not ceased to be just because I am not beneath the sun who favors the youth over the broken. When I was young I was too frail to blossom. Conceived by the broken hearted, I was bound to the bottom of the stem, holding up the hope for the flower that was everyone else, just not me. My time has never come…but it did. I missed the light at noon. I missed new eyes. I see through the darkness in all, due to cultivation. I merge with the corpses and those nearly breathless. I seek out that which drains me…just to pay perhaps for my imagined sins or maybe to see what a dead flower might be to someone like you. But the truth is, something sharp was thrown at me, and it went inside and it halted a graceful process…and the world I leave moment by moment, threw in its sharpness too. And I used to wait for this indescribable pain to quietly reach the bottom so that I could just rest there in a forgiven, pale sort of stillness- but instead I move as a raptor within, lightening striking the chords of this danger. I can never be what would stop these surges of a nameless destruction aimed at my perennial virginity, however I might try. I was born a widow and that is what has been removed from this equation. It’s not my fault that I am always roaming and covered in edges and clouds. I have told you that there is no hand I won’t slip through, no knot that can be tied tight enough. Not to put this night born entity to sleep at last -so that the lightness of being can rain her luminous body down on you forgiving and forgetting there is a bottom to her sky -that I am dark and heavy, laden with the death of forgotten human hearts who were never meant to see the sun at noon. Because she is young and forgotten she sees herself in your divulging eyes and feels she is free from the words that have trapped her here below bound to aging and betrayal…in this earth made of time, one by one we fade to black. Yet where there is the shimmer of me seeping and bleeding through every stem, there is the promise of the eternal invisible to the emptied golden rose. Sharada Devi

black flower blossom

I have no more words. Fall, sound. Into the bottom of the lie. I back up further and further. In and away. Cold, remote. I hear the words others could never say. And I stay alone, back here. Listening. There is something about me that pulls at their throats. Two people once stood in the fog, waiting. Now only I stand and I don’t wait anymore. I am here, growing cold and silent. My words were left, undiscovered. The fire I started only burned me. This thing could only ever be a boomerang. An empty head with thoughtless teeth. Aimlessly hurting itself by acknowledging its existence. This isn’t real. I was here for awhile, pacing the shores. The fog was deep and heavy. I found others but they could never see me. All washes away in the tides. The echoes move back and forth creating nightmares and dreams. Promising fear and romance. I know what this does, I just don’t know what it is. I am something that has been rolled back and forth for a very long time, expected to be active, expected to unwind. I am assuming. The head, in command. The tail, shot from a failing nightless sky. I haven’t spoken. I haven’t moved. I stood slowly sinking looking up. As if meaning existed elsewhere, or anywhere. The lost what was lost, nothing. On an empty shore I realize I have done these things and then watch them happen. The way shells lie scattered all waiting for one to say something the others haven’t yet said. I say nothing. I only sound back the white noise as it falls through me. My interpretation for the others I can’t see. The fog, my empty head, my ocean heart. My bottomless sadness at how we will never touch the bottom of anything. We, myself are tossed as redundant vessels back and forth between life and death waiting for morning or love. From somewhere else there is supposed to be a heavenly female voice that eventually calls us all back into the primordial waters…so that the shells go away, the shore has no purpose, the water covers the surface as if this world was never here. And from the place inside I seek these words, the water might as well be filled with the stars of heaven or the God we feel is upward might as well be the heaviest anchor of all. If only I could hear you, sea your eyes as they once were, one more time. I think I could live either way and be full. Whether in darkness or light I wouldn’t be alone. Does anyone know what I’ve done with myself, trackless love. Anchor body, ghostly woman, long cold fingers, the heaviest heart could be mine…sharada devi

for love is a mysterious God

When the water freezes
When the fire devours
When there is no place in between
but where I am…

This place that nothing makes,
but takes. Every piece I had.

I heard the other day that the butterfly feels like it’s dying right before it spreads its wings and flies into the light.

And no one knows how the butterfly knows what to do. If God’s purpose was to stop the flow and kill the flame we wouldn’t be here.

At all, because the only place is home however we feel the dread of dark cocoons and hail. The fire is drawn on the wings of this beauty…

Some call them angels and some call them butterflies. I call it you.

What does the doing. Is way beyond what is seen. Churning sea blue soul. Carry the light however it is born. Whether as ash or as snow.
There is only one looking.

Out upon us as the star we must follow….to find the child of God.

I have searched for the very ground upon which I stand. I have let other’s words fall from my lips. I have woven the stem of my drooping flower around a bamboo stick. I have spun in circles calling the goddess. I have hurt the unloved within me by allowing this to go on. I have somehow believed we could not be alone, you and I with the one. And so I broke out the mirror from under this floor and I stood looking down into every crack I could bare. The darkness seeped and the light magnified. This human majesty, what I thought was wrong. To make me act this way, turn from you. Never go. Luminous magnetic unknown friend. I am bound to your soul as the way. The hand held me up. The hand held me down. We walked hand in hand through the mist and the fog. We called the colors rainbows as every bridge we crossed. Within and between ourselves, me and you. If there isn’t a God, who cares but me. If there is a God who knows but me. If there is only love who feels but me, this anger and pain, this sublime disguise of the masses. Broken in pieces, love has spread itself thin. I look down and see the heavy heart that lies shattered. I look up and see fire rising from my wings. I look inside and I see you. Giving God to me. And so we go back to the beginning and what this all means, only you can say where you belong. Only I can let me in. Heart who is held by us all. I look everywhere for what I’ve lost…

for love is a mysterious God.  Sharada Devi

lost in meaning…

there is a woman groaning across the room. there is a man breathing heavy and a girl laughing behind a wall. i try to stay busy, but i’m not. how did i get here, with them? i do what i can to ignore the emptiness in my stomach, the anxious fear of dissapearing into what this is. but i’ve wiped the world clean, i’ve lost what held me still. and so now i move, for the sake of god i decided. that could be enough. as a disguise to move through more flimsy days, as a blanket to hide what i do, like these bodies that probe into me. i am not a fixture here. i am disturbingly brilliant, i am bright. i type to blend the glare from the noise. i cannot ignore her, she is groaning into a book and the man breathing heavy pretends its because of him. the old man watching is lost and it shows. and i am revolted by the room i inhabit. could i be one of them. am i here inside of them. is the world turning as i listen to the growl. from down deep below, the rumble of fear. i may not be enough to stop the eyes that roam because they can. i am inappropriate, and he sits next to me. i smell him without trying, why did you leave me in here. of all places. time moves slowly, crawling up the sides of this dirty jar. magazine spread, whining baby, cackles from a fat old lady,chairs that never move. steeping words, mean nothing, not to anybody. we loiter, we have nowhere else to go, my life. and so i asked the wrong question, sent the wrong song. needed to explain myself, as if things could get better. i am broken, he is with someone else. i am cheap, he is busy. i am worn, he is stiff, i keep trying to hold the line. checking the notes, and nobody cares. but they talk, and they talk…and he says, you don’t trust me. and i weave in and out of my head with words to mask the white space i feel. like nothing could matter. she won’t shut up. she groans and knows we all hear her. fat legs rub across the room. big mouths make loud sounds at each other. there is no quiet, not even here. i am under cover, i am invisible like a ray of light. thinking about light. thinking about love. planning my route. escape, don’t wait for tomorrow. escape silently in the dark. get underneath the bed, don’t show your face anymore. i sit and stare at the clock who decides for me. i empty god all over the floor. can i borrow a pen. slip away, slip fast, into the stream of the many headed wishes. and i don’t hear you by the way. not because you aren’t caught in my eye, but because you are wrapped in white death. be gone. the sting, the fringe, brink. walk the line. pull me from down under. drape me with god herself who is a velvet lie, soft and promising ascension. and i cannot stare at the ceiling anymore, not all day. not all night. i cannot bear the scars of christ without payment. i am the book who tore out its own pages. you have only seen a fragment, one that doesn’t talk, but simmers. and one day the end will come like they all hoped, and we’ll all get shot down and destroyed. and nothing will matter but the cross and the dangle of prayers that kept you busy looking for a leak in the jar.there is no jar, its all the bone. hard and filled with earth. there are no pictures you can hang on these walls that will comfort me, no cradle that will lull me to groan. the girl just came out from  behind the wall, her laugh had turned to a whisper. a loud whisper we could all hear. my husband is a prisoner she told the guy next to here who did nothing but sniffle and stare at her breasts. she has a dog stuffed in a bag that starts whining. she threatens to beat it and the crying ends. she puts on her hood and walks across the room grinning to herself as she reaches for a feeling that isn’t there. there is nothing there, just the gray zoom of another ending…i am already inside, i cannot leave. the door is useless to me because it is an illusion, somewhere there may be an outside but it isn’t here. the sounds are an endless cacophony of defeat. “i smell marijuana,” the old guy said, “that shit gives me a headache.” the other guy nodded, “somebody’s always smoking dope.” he replied. there is a braindeath going on. i have discovered, that the source is also the smell. reach a little deeper, lost souls. a woman is yelling at a group of children about roosters, “cockadoodledoo!” she yells, “you are looking for five bats that glow in the dark…bright hiding black bats,” she reminded. (how the rooster fit into the picture, i will never know.) “i found something dark!” a little girl squealed.  “good job!” the woman rejoiced, “we have released the spirits of all the barnyard animals!” and the poor children started jumping up and down without understanding what had just happened. don’t look inside, just be one of us. lost in meaning…sharada devi

Be free. Be love. Be heard. Be you.

My notes to you:

Body eating eliminating moving breathing properly
mind and emotions follow, deep purification followed by rejuvenation commences.
Start with body.

Space- a time and spot of your own to practice these things- can’t be abstract.


different techniques- got to do what’s harmonious for us and got to start somewhere,

Can’t be too abstract-

journaling, self portrait, sing your soul, dream yoga, the unseen world. What’s missing is the invitation to go there, down to where the seeds were left.

Rituals, vision quests. 3 days and night inside the magic circle. Alone, drinking water, praying for a vision. Spirit animal comes.

You are not alone. Listen to the ancient trees. Welcome the truth on this journey. Bathe in the moonlight. Be by yourself in the water. Let go. It doesn’t matter.

Remember to remember how far you’ve come. How long it’s been since we left the pin of light.

To come here. To be a flame on the dark ocean.

To ride wild waves, to hear the bottom of the ocean. To bring back the riches.

To the surface:

Who you are is what you do. And the circle keeps spinning itself out. Yoga is union of your mother and father within you. That’s the work. That’s the healing. Both of their love, God gave us life. This pain is about us, not them.

Healing means traveling through these memories, shamanism.

Sound therapy. Crystal bowls, crystal bodies, daggers and wands. Magical earth foods.

Touching her body of grass. Laying face down in the grass naked at midnight. Feeling her heartbeat into yours. Feeling her unconditional love under the cool moonlight. Whispering into the ground, listening to her guide you. Entering the pulse of her universe. Beneath the blanket of stars, inside the womb of night.

A giant white owl sits at the top of the tree watching, bats quietly glide through the dark. And we lay, surrendered. The fire smolders peacefully, the darkness drains from our body.

Softly birds sing, dawn approaches. We have been dreaming. And now we write and pick flowers. Now fruit falls for us to eat and share.

This is the doorway to heaven on earth. We ourselves are the portal. We become our highest love when we water the seeds that lie hidden.
Away from the chaos of manmade glamour. Back into her elemental immortal body of stars and plants.

Growing life means love is light.

All I ever knew was that she is within. That there is a river of white light that flows. That religion makes no difference. We are the religion. From inside we generate her cause.

Her cause is to flow.

The flow of the Mother Light is the cultivation of the highest love, which is you.

We must act with that faith, motivation and intention. Anything less makes her less bright.

There is a voice deep inside that knows what to do always. And we hear that voice everywhere if we listen. And the closer we get to the purity of her simple love, the louder the call to release her becomes.

Be free. Be love. Be heard. Be you.
Sharada Devi


To taunt me is to to touch me. Red letters, legs and broken dreams. Seamlessly we fit. How could I know. The window was open. Deep in the cracks down below. An angel smiles. Undressing. I was lost in your shadow, I drown in your wine. I am stuck in your flesh writing stories and crying. I closed my eyes and it was over. Just a pile, clothes in the corner. Someone I didn’t know felt like me. I watched her for awhile. Squirm the way she does. Lonely and mistaken for another. Black words. A head rises to the surface. Bones. Old familiar places. The door was shut. I pounded for freedom. All alone, broke in the corner. An ancient lover, someone else who sees. She isn’t here, I’ve taken her home. Deep and hidden, away from your pain. The long drowning, your biggest fear. I know more than you think. About torture and solace. This isn’t his. We die without him. A house of mirrors, his body is beautiful. Like a swan and a snake upon the waters of my underworld. Softly gliding. Pretending not to see. Fear in my eyes made of stone.

Ice white pure echo, superimposed…the night growls on. Did you mean everything you said. Blown by the wind into another land. Washed up on a shore far away. I can still see you, small and shimmering. I hang over glass looking down at the water. I am not the only one with horns held captive by mortality. Like you, I am weary of the day. To carry this burden of betrayal means to carry fate. I must go, through another sky, another way. One where I’ll never disappear, where my face will live on. Held by the surface of your longing for God. And like thorns around a rose, I wait for you to come. There are angels we can’t see. There is shattered glass. There are wounds that bleed for this. Nothing gets as close to what this pain can give. A narrow passage into the room of God. Or perhaps just a sliver through my hand. Is all that I will ever know.

She lives in a bottle. She has a long graceful neck and a coiled tail. At sunrise she imagines wings and at dusk she imagines a large hand gripping her throat. In between them the light rises and falls as do all sounds that crash between bodies…

Iris, Sharada Devi

(where this joke will go)

there is a distant sound that i remember, there is water seeping in under the door. there is a moment i must catch, there is a wall of glass about to fall, there is the suffocation of silence filled with noise, there are windows with no faces. there is something i must do. then there is you who appeared from out of nowhere and me who keeps disappearing under these waves. there are words i cannot hear and eyes i cannot see. there are your golden hands that leave the sun. a beam or a current. i still cannot find you. under water, noise, barrier waves, time that took the lightness. i have imagined another land above here. over this ocean of sorrow. and there i live as i’m dying with you. words are floating everywhere, i grasp at what i can. silvery tails slip by quietly through the water in your eyes. and i remember more than just the sound, there is warmth under the light that i float on, there is another body in the distance. a face without a house, a window without a wall, an ocean without a wave. i have taken many things as mine. i have given myself away to you. goodbye as we leave, slowly as we must. as softly as an unnoticed whisper. there is the end of grasping. and where we go we cannot know…(where this joke will go) sharada devi