stringing words on wednesday…

singing the hanuman chalisa loud enough for the workmen to hear, chipping away at bricks outside my third story window.  shades are drawn, light is on, for privacy, making the morning feel a little like night.  readying for yoga.  practice deepening.  comes from letting go into the poses, not trying to get into them.  comes from letting go of identities, not creating them.  intimacy is a letting go.  becoming intimate with being a primate.  ever so used to being a fractal pattern, ie: a soul.  raw chocolate bean on the lips.  bleeding heart flower essence.  heart bleeding moonlight.  blossoming as a dusky blue lotus.  no mud, no lotus.  takes time to notice.  pleasure skates a surface.  been there, done that, bought the curtains that mask the depth.  tore them down, and real is all that’s left.  real is much deeper than pleasure.  it’s connection.  not about me.  not about you.  about us.  taken all this time to find me, to discover us.  taken all this time to pull away from the blinding sirens of the world, to regain trust.  infinity symbols lead the way.  tibetan turquoise saves the day.  trusting intuition.  removing grains.  wings taking flight.  watched “fierce grace” for the first time last night.  crying truth tears.  sleeping deeply in the sea of my release.  hanuman bringing me the ring.  ganesha making me laugh again.  illusions playing marbles with our essence.  breathing myself right into presence.  warrior two, square the hips.  look over the middle finger tip.  whose that in the mirror?  not me, but a costume presenting it.  divine feminine.  sexuality.  not in it to please myself.  not an amateur or even a novice anymore.  pain brought wisdom.  empty the cup and start again. patient to show the way.  hidden beneath the shellacked dna…12 strands…free.  22…liberated.  44…in the right place.  i am the tapestry itself.  the larger organism we all are, awoken.  may the message be spoken.  true love is alive and well, dancing in between the false lines of heaven and hell.  the world’s spell is broken.  the workmen whistle and talk between the loud sounds of tools hitting what must be taken down.  breathing in the ordinary.  exhaling the profound.  shadows walk by, reminding me to play with them…