Be kind to old woman
A mirroring of the Self
Your future reflection
Be kind to old woman
A mirroring of the Self
Your future reflection
Purno’ham vimarsha refers to the concept of awareness of one’s own perfection. It comes from the Sanskrit, purna, meaning “complete” or “fulfilled,” and aham, meaning “I am.” Purno’ham, therefore, translates as “I am complete” or “I am perfect.” Vimarsha means “reflection” or “contemplation.” It refers to the ability to see the reflection of the Absolute Reality in one’s self.
Yoga asana practice, meditation, pranayama and mantras are all tools the yogi can use to experience purno’ham vimarsha.
Some who ruminate about “conspiracy theorists” could spend at least half of the time that takes to confront themselves with matters at hand instead of being focused on defending their pre-existing worldview.
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This is a guest post from Woodsy ~ https://woodsydotblog.wordpress.com~
Not many people knew about my romance with Fawn. We kept it wrapped up secret in a little pendant which neither of us took off, guarded by one of those secret floral combinations that the old forest scribes used to write into flower petals.
Not that most people would have been interested enough to break the code.
You’d think, given the nature of our relationship, that we’d have been the talk of the town back then, given the way we used to hop everywhere like a couple of demented cartoon bunnies.
Surprising, though, most people seemed unable or unwilling to see us, hopping down the street, hopping through the supermarket aisles, hopping into all the little offices where all the little regulations were implemented in an attempt to frame our lives in more static terms.
We hopped through phone calls from people who had better ideas about what we should be doing with our lives.
We hopped through conversations where people explained what was wrong with the world and why society would start to function so much better if people learned to sit still in chairs.
We listened to people for whom life was all about money and responsibility and special lenses (available at a discount through mail order catalogues) that allowed you to twist and shift the light around you, so that people only saw the most appropriate use of time and finance and effort when they were scrutinising your files.
We hopped down filthy alleys, looking for things we’d been forced to throw away and would probably never find again.
We hopped love circles ’til our feet bled, usually around people who wept and smiled every time they saw us, and showered us with kisses and made us stumble, then hauled us back to our feet and pushed us out the door in the hope that our hop dance might leave a kinder rhythm on the world’s stale air.
Most of the time, we would never see such people again. Or if we did, there would be only the tiniest specks of recognition, damp behind eyes in which all the lights had been turned off.
We hopped through the woods, over soft mossy carpets and dry bark trampolines and up the side of massive trees.
We hopped along beaches, tapping out a shell-crunch drumbeat against the bolder melodies of the tide and splattering phosphorescent fireworks in the roaring air as the spray bounced off our bouncing bodies.
We hopped over each other’s skin, stretching as we did so, opening up places that had lingered unspoken and undiscovered in our consciousness. We punctuated each other’s aches and passions with our secret bunny-foot choreography, and entire galaxies began to tremble at the pulsating warmth of our embrace.
We sang so deep and so wild, the Universe still talks about us over coffee and burnt-out stars.
Right now, however, I just walk a lot, generally through places I don’t want to be, waiting for the moment when I can’t take any more and the little hopping backpack in the corner of my room becomes too heavy to ignore.
The phrase “I wish I could help you” echoes everywhere.
But what they really wish is that the hopping would stop.
I have Fawn’s heartbeat locked in a pendant. I have the snores of sleeping galaxies in my feet. I have words that bounce along the ripples of lakes like stones skimming across a page. Every time they tear the rhythm out of me, I unlock my secret place and claw a piece of it back.
But sometimes, in the middle of all their probes and prods, I start to hate it too.
To see more of this poet’s work: https://woodsydotblog.wordpress.com
Your soul has a perfume
Recognising soul family through the essence of their scent
Infused from God, heaven sent
The light of compassion opens the petals of the heart
When the petals unfold fragrance spreads across the valley.
Can you smell it, down dreams alley?
Smelling is a potent arrow form of travel
It tears through layers and finds the centre to unravel
When we are crushed, our forgiveness escapes in this sweetest universal scent
Exhaling the intoxication of your fumes
Perfumed in narcotic warmth of mornings flame dyed sky
Wafting the nectar of your love
Drifting in helm wafting along the wings of a dove
As below, so above.
Tower of babel
Intended to reach from earth to heaven
The building of which was frustrated when Jehovah confused the language of the builders (Genesis 11:1–9)
The city, probably Babylon, in which this tower was supposedly built
Unifed once in time
Confusions of tongues
The human family as one
Scattered onto the earth
Fractals of the eternal geometric flower
Taking back our power
Transforming the serendipitous moment
Creating a world a new
In the winds these transient words flew.
Claustrophobic numb miserable shell
Glass shards jabbing from within this body meat suit hell
Which way to go, left or right?
It doesn’t matter, far from alright
Eyes glazed, slacking in bright
Sold soul to pharmaceutical companies
To fill their greedy economies
Muffled vision, decaying immune system, stagnant waters I tread
Shifting personalities full of dread
Zombie stale habitionalites
I don’t know who or what I am turned into
Now I can’t live a day without swallowing you
Slowly letting go, silently crying
Days are numbered, slowly dieing
Implying you want to fix the world’s problems by stating the symptoms
Begin to dig the root
They’ll tear away your health
Then steal all your wealth
There’s no profit in a world where health exists
Disease and illness is that which they push and persists.
Her crown and glory writhing and hissing, rising then tasting the air
Man averted his eyes and medusa grinned in her underwater lair
She knew mere morals could not appreciate her rare beauty stare
Be an admirer, explore the underwater hidden beauty treasures
Leaving behind predetermined societal measures
Bioluminescence lit up the waters above
Jellyfish swimming in and out of man-made discarded masks and a hospital glove
Be an eccentric captivated by the whisperings of the heavens below
Neon purple and greens, an ephemeral glow
The underwater world yet to be explored by human beings
What myths and legends will remain true in our seeings?
Diamond refracting fractals
Human family anatomical dactyl
Omnipresent permeating tactile
Reflecting forevermore spirited
Expanding unprecedented unlimited
Infinite soul incarnations
Siddhi sensory levitation
Null comprehension of causation
Eternal universal duration
Spinning into and through creation
We unify within the birth of the same maker
We are the dreamers and the wakers.