The tree that was always waiting for me.
Nine hearts and radiant circuits
joy, gladness, awe, appreciation and gratitude.
splendour and spontaneity.
Stability and ease
get up off of your knees,
you are my son, not a servant.
you have the dragon pearl.

Drop into the present moment.
Into the state of receptivity, open awareness
step into presence.
Eternity, bliss.
union, connection
rooted. unclenched. spacious.
able to breath.
in fact able to be breathed.
to just let life flow through unimpeded
soothed by the ebb and flow.
released. Present.

here I am.
right here, right now.
just watching the weather roll in.
and it is enough.
I am a sitter.

The rain has arrived.
the air is cool on my skin.
the deep hum of the mahamrityunjaya mantra swirls around me
heaven rushes in
I am home
the rain falls harder.
the valley shrouded in cloud.
the life giving waters nourish the dry earth.
I hear the message of the Kogi Elder Brothers echo in the distant roll of thunder,
How sacred are our water cycles.
Mist creeps down through the wooded slopes
wind rustles the jasmine tendrils.
raindrops drip, plop, bounce.
and slide down the windowpane.
the Alchemilla mollis leaves displaying them proudly.

In the brief moment of silence
There can be no doubt that nature is grateful
as the thirst, of too many days without rain, is satiated.
The water starts to pool into puddles,
The village settles in stillness
And realising how cold I have become,
I leave this moment of stillness to find some extra layers.


Stop, drop,

Drop into the present moment. 

Into the state of receptivity, open awareness.

Step into presence. 

Into Eternity.

Here is bliss, union, connection.

Rooted, unclenched, spacious.

Able to breath. 

In fact, able to be breathed,

to just let life flow through unimpeded,

soothed by the ebb and flow. 



Here I am. 

Right here, right now.

Just watching the weather roll in

and it is enough. 

I am home.

Mist creeps down through the wooded slopes, 

The air cool on my skin. 

The deep hum of the mahamrtiyunjaya mantra swirls around me.

Wind rustles the Jasmine tendrils

And Heaven rushes in.

I hear the message of the Kogi Elder Brothers echo in the distant roll of thunder, 

How sacred are our water cycles.

The rain arrives.

The life giving waters nourishing the dry earth. 

Raindrops drip, plop, bounce.

In the moment of pause, as the moisture is received, 

There can be no doubt that nature is grateful,

the thirst, of too many days without rain, satiated. 

The Alchemilla mollis leaves proudly display the glistening jewels.

The rain falls harder, 

sliding down the windowpane. 

The water starts to pool into puddles. 

The valley shrouded in cloud,

The village settles into stillness.

The Rudra Mantra or Mahamrityunjaya Mantra (Sanskrit: महामृत्युंजय मंत्र or महामृत्युञ्जय मन्त्र, mahāmṛtyuṃjaya mantra or mahāmṛtyuñjaya mantra, lit. “Great Death-conquering Mantra”), also known as the Tryambakam Mantra, is a verse (sūkta) of the Rigveda (RV 7.59.12). The sūkta is addressed to Tryambaka, “The Three-eyed One”, an epithet of Rudra. It is identified with Shiva in Shaivism.[1][2] The verse also recurs in the Yajurveda (TS 1.8.6.i; VS 3.60).[1]

The mantra

The Mahamrityunjaya Mantra reads:ॐ त्र्य॑म्बकं यजामहे सु॒गन्धिं॑ पुष्टि॒वर्ध॑नम् ।
उ॒र्वा॒रु॒कमि॑व॒ बन्ध॑नान् मृ॒त्योर्मुक्षीय॒ मा ऽमृता॑त् ।[3]oṃ tryambakaṃ yajāmahe sugandhiṃ puṣṭi-vardhanam
urvārukam iva bandhanān mṛtyor mukṣīya mā ‘mṛtāt


As I look out the window at the rains arrived at last after the extensive dry period, the words resonate
Aum tempest, Storm/rain.
we worship, “the fragrant, the virtuous, the supreme being” “the bestower of nourishment, wealth, perfection” literally “him who possesses the growth of nourishment” increase, growth”.
as a fruit from the stalk/stem “from bondage”
may I be freed/released from death
not () from immortality

Shadows – Mary Oliver

Everyone knows the great energies running amok cast
terrible shadows, that each of the so-called
senseless acts has its thread looping
back through the world and into a human heart.
And meanwhile
the gold-trimmed thunder
wanders the sky; the river
may be filling the cellars of the sleeping town.
Cyclone, fire, and their merry cousins
bring us to grief—but these are the hours
with the old wooden-god faces;
we lift them to our shoulders like so many
black coffins, we continue walking
into the future. I don’t mean
there are no bodies in the river,
or bones broken by the wind. I mean
everyone who has heard the lethal train-roar
of the tornado swears there was no mention ever
of any person, or reason—I mean
the waters rise without any plot upon
history, or even geography. Whatever
power of the earth rampages, we turn to it
dazed but anonymous eyes; whatever
the name of the catastrophe, it is never
the opposite of love.

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