In our circles we talk about the nectar, the sweet honey of the practice. When something is especially good we call it juicy, ripe with flavor and meaning. Our language is that of the mystics, the lyrical quality of Rumi. It took some getting used to as this is not the way people talk in everyday company. It’s magical, it speaks to the heart not the head.
What I’ve discovered here is that we are not bound by any walls, our ‘seeking’ is what draws us together. We come from so many backgrounds, years of practice stretch between us, we are a vibrational field. No one is excluded as we are all from the same core ingredients. All that is needed is the desire to take our seat.
There are rules here, ancient ones that go beyond controlling and move into allowing.
Truth in all things.
Permission to all things. And a promise to remember when you have forgotten.
Within these rules, there can be no hiding that happens long, just allowing. The permission of all feelings helps us slip deeper into our unique story. Permission to be right where we are in any given moment allows our story to move from ‘fact’ to ‘turning pages in the never-ending book’. It allows us to shift into new ways of being.
We call our immersion a Shakti bath because we slip inside of it like warm water, it envelops us as the heat permeates our core. There is perfume to this way of being, it clings to our energy, vibrating outwards, transforming all that we do. It’s a seductive way of being, it slinks across the skin like silk and clings to the cheeks like rain. We find the core of the circle, not with each other, but deep inside the breath. But the laughter, the play, the added human layers (that bump against our own story) are why we gather … today I honor the gathering as much as my inner journey, it takes me deeper into my immersion and my life becomes the Sadhana.
“I breathe in darkness and breathe out light, but breath is not my Way. I savor the name of God, but the Word is not my Way. I honor the guru, but my path has no master.
With no ancient chant, no alter, no puja ceremony, I walk in the forest, offering the silence of cedar, trillium, and fern. My chest melts with love, yet bhakti is not my path.
Though I honor the songs and suras of the wise, I follow not the Vedas, the Torah, the Qur’an. I give to those in need, but the path of seva is not for me. I surrender, Lord. But even You, even You, are not my Way.
My Way is not a journey. This bud opens in every direction at once. There are no steps, only fragrance and dissolving.
Every religion is one petal. But I would offer the whole flower. Each lineage of masters is a mote of pollen. But I have sticky feet. I visit the center, where the pollen is made in secret darkness.
My way is the shattering of every window between seer and seen, the sinking of all boats in one ocean of transparency. One moment gazes into the well of eternal aloneness, where past and future drown. This is my Way.
The annihilating kiss of light upon light in the bridal chamber of a single eye: this is my Way. It is the motionless explosion of a rose, containing the scent of all paths.
Down where the pistil and stamen touch in a throb of stillness, I make honey. Come, drink from my heart.”
~ Fred LaMotte