Some call Tantra a Yes to life. And life…
Life is God, life is Guru, life is mother. Life does not abandon, does not relent, does not accept your resignation. I don’t know about God, or Guru or mother, but I know about life, because there is nowhere she isn’t. She bangs on my chest to be let out, breathes me, occupies me, accompanies me, ever present. There is but one presence here – hers. She lives you and she lives me, equally and radically differently.
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Life was a huge plate glass that shattered into 100 billion pieces, shards everywhere. And here we are, scattered about, believing vehemently in our separation, denying vehemently our inherent and undeniable exact-fucking-sameness.
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The game, as I understand it, the deal, as I understand it, is to allow her free and total reign of my every breath. To do nothing to contain or curb this force that animates me. Life is my God, life is my Guru, life is truth and life is true. Always. She is true, but she ain’t fair.
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I can doubt God, or Guru, but I cannot doubt life, she is utterly perceptible, she is not in Heaven or some other intangible esoteric sphere, she is right here, in my body. I don’t need to go anywhere to find her, or become anything to be like her. There is no worthiness, no striving, no one is more, or less, alive than anyone else. My only prayer is that I learn to get out of her way. My only prayer is to learn to bow to the awe and magic that she wields.
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We want perfect, but perfect is not alive. We only love what is perfect, which means we don’t love. We want it to be good all the time. We want the bad guys to lose. We want shit to be fair. But somehow that’s not how life is. It is never just one thing. It is always everything. It came into my mind, during these dark days of wicked recognition of just how fucked up we are as a people, just the degree of hatred we are capable of, that if there is a God, maybe he is imperfect too. Maybe he’s got a stutter and he’s wall-eyed and full of warts and sometimes he drinks to much and hurls furniture around and feels ashamed about it the next day. They say; “As above, so below.” And “Whatever is here is everywhere, whatever is not here is nowhere.” Is it also true that as below so above? So, what is here? Dark and light. Imperfection.
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How much ‘what I don’t want’ can I contain? How much space do I have for discomfort? For sorrow? How much of my own imperfection can I bear? How much of your imperfection can I bear? If what I want is life, then I’m going to have to work on that threshold, because dark and light are in direct proportion. I can only handle as much light as I can handle dark.
And when I close my eyes and I feel her there, in my chest, in my heart, I do want it. To just be part of all this, as it is. For a short time I am the steward of pulsating life as it occupies this tiny geography, the arising and passing of this particular fragment of life, never to be expressed in exactly the same way ever again. May I not fall into the trap of depriving the whole of the full range of this fraction.
And in realizing the totality of the fragment, may I reach the whole.