Forget about enlightenment

Sit down wherever you are

And listen to the wind singing in your


Feel the love, the longing, and the fear in your bones.

Open your heart to who you are, right now,

Not who you would like to be.

Not the saint you're striving to become.

But the being right here before you, inside you,

around you.

All of you is holy.

You're already more and less

Than whatever you can know. Breathe out, touch in, let go.

-John Welwood

Cure yourself with the light of the sun and the rays of the moon.

With the sound of the river and the waterfall.

With the swaying of the sea and the fluttering of birds

Heal yourself with mint, with neem and eucalyptus

Sweeten yourself with lavender, rosemary, and chamomile.

Hug yourself with the cocoa bean and a touch of cinnamon.

Put love in tea instead of sugar, and take it looking at the stars.

Heal yourself with the kisses that the wind gives you and the hugs of the rain.

Get strong with bare feet on the ground and with everything that is born from it.

Get smarter every day by listening to your intuition,

looking at the world with the eye of your forehead.

Jump, dance, sing, so that you live happier.

Heal yourself, with beautiful love, and always remember...

You are the medicine.

-Advice from Maria Sabina, Mexican Curandera (medicine woman) and poet

There are things you can only learn

on your knees

or in a storm

or when the cracks in the foundation

of this modern world

open a chasm of uncertainty

beneath your feet.

Your discontent

with what has been named normal

is both grief and longing

for what your mind has forgotten

but your body remembers.

You can feel it

in the way a child's laughter

disrupts your commitment

to what is appropriate

and makes space

for foolishness and magic.

You can feel it

in the way that water

has taught you

how to be a vessel

and how to spill.

Can you trace your lineage

all the way back to salt?

The same that now stains your face

with both sadness and laughter

excites your tongue

and protects your prayers.

You are diasporic. Ecological, Holon.

A vast territory

of many wild bodies

melting into each other

dressed up as human.

Simultaneously living and dying

shaping and dismantling

filling up and boiling over.

Ashes to ashes

stardust to bone.

What language do you grieve in?

What is the mother tongue for that

which twists and contorts your body

wringing oceans from your skin?

The gravity that pulls you

down to your knees

forehead to ground

broken open

at the altar of all you've lost

and how much you've loved.

Can we fall apart together/

Make a commitment

to search for the truth

but promise

to never find it.

Let myths and stories be the cartograph

for what is both

primordial and brand new

because the present moment

is promiscuous like that.

Compost ourselves down

into the dirt beneath the dirt

and tend the chthonic embers

that light the ancient fires in our bellies.

When the fault lines open

and your mind is grasping

and you don't know

where to go from here;


trade rapture for rupture

let yourself spill

and descend.

-Gina Puorro

Things don't happen for a reason

Sweet child


Life doesn't need a reason

For happening

It simply blooms forth

With breathtaking chaos

Rains down on you

With senseless beauty

And immeasurable heartache

You can make up stories

If you like

About why things happen

The way that they happened

You can close one eye and squint

To make up patterns

You can tell stories of


Or perfection


Or blessings

Or you can simply stand naked in

The rain

You can realize nothing

Will ever really make sense

Not if you're really honest

Not if you're truly listening

Nothing happens for a reason

Yes, this is the truth

This is it

There is nothing else

but your own heart


Into reality

Your own heart

Drinking down

The eruption of stars

That is this radical emergence

Of soul in body

Of breath meeting sky


There is nothing else to look for

Maybe it didn't work out for the best

Maybe it isn't an unfortunate mess

Maybe no great spirit is helping

Anything go your way


Just maybe

Life unfolds


With no holy plan


It is sacred

Just as it is

Its power and innocence

Require no justification

Its perfection requires no meaning

Maybe nothing

Means anything

Other than what the Rose

Means When it blooms

It means

Here I am

Here I am

Here I am

Here I am

-Maya Luna