Kundalini Splendor

How We Did It

First, we stood there
listening to music,
first yours, then mine.

We both wore headphones
(this intensifies the vibrations)
as we watched each other
from across the table.

Then you moved over,
ran your hand across the top of my back.
I returned that favor, and felt
what I had never felt before:
something intense and rich,
sensuous, flowing,
like those Indian prints
of Krishna and Rhada making love,
doing questionable
things to one another.

We, of course, were fully clothed.
We never touched at all,
our hands kept a distance.

You called it Lesbian Mysticism.

I called it Kundalini Splendor.

Tell Me


Tell me your sorrow.

Let me hold this grief.

I know how it was with you

the night when no one came

and shadow swallowed the stars.

When the earth shattered

and you fell through

to the underside of dark.


I heard your cries

from that place where nothing is,

where there is no sun.

I followed your weary journey out

and aided your final step.


Now you must find the shore and lie down,

let the salt drenched waves wash over your flesh,

cleanse you, bathe you in love.


These wounds will heal,

your soul be mended,

but your mouth will always remember salt.

Tibetan, Resonant

At first it was a carillon,
resounding all the notes
of my body, making a bright song
of my flesh and inner realms.

Then it became a bell,
Tibetan, resonant,
awakening me everywhere,
sounding god in my body.

Now it is more like light
playing over a surface
of water,
the sun glinting over
reflections of itself,
mountains snow clad
and brilliant
shining white within the lake’s dark waters.

Dorothy Walters
June 19, 2006

Two Lovers

There are two of them.
Sometimes they come,
alone or else together,
when you are not expecting.
One is made of words,
the other of feelings.
Neither can be seen.
Both are capable of ravishment,
each can capture the bride of your soul,
carry you to the hidden places,
places of consummation,
yearnings which then beget
more desire,
on into the dark night
where we meet
and (as someone said)
know who we are.

Dorothy Walters
June 18, 2006

To that Poet of Both Realms

Somehow it did not occur to me
that you would come with a body.
Legs, hips, mouth and all the rest.
That you would trace that form
in a sheen of words,
tell of postures, motions,
the sounds that lovers make.

That you would brush your beloved’s eyes
with kisses, leaving prints for the private
detectives of the soul to discover and
display as evidence.

That you would make altars
in her hidden places,
worship there.

That you would bring her gifts
of fire and water,
feed her the stuff of loam,
its plenitude,
dazzle her with seeds of the sun.

You remind me of how it is to be enfleshed,
to go about in a temple made of light
and soft skin.

You whisper to your beloved,
who is sometimes palpable. like you,
sometimes is that other, invisible She
that we know,
that you have told us of.

Dorothy Walters
June 18, 2006

Once Again

Once again,
I have fallen in love
with your poetry.

Your images perform
a delicate shiatsu
on my skin,
dance over my body
like little bits
of air suffused
with rain.

Something about the way
you say things
brings me into
a different state
of mind.
I feel the scents of flowers,
the distant signals
of thunder and stars.

This is the way they did it,
those ancient seers
who spoke in verse
while everyone stood around
in awe
and listened.

Dorothy Walters
June 17, 2006

(A version of this poem was published a few days ago. Here is the latest version.




Chariot Rider

Oh you dervish
twirling on the desert floor,
firebird spinning toward heaven,
you cast your prayers
and secret spells of redemption
into the fire.

Eyes glazed inward,
body turning,
what is it you seek?

Do you long
to speak with angels,
gaze into the Beloved's eye
until you become a spark
of ash, flying upward on the wind?

Spiraling incandescence,
glowing brilliance,
you are a vortex ravished by light.

(The Merkabah riders of earlier times sought to make their own bodies into vehicles of light (chariots) to take them to heaven. Many died in the attempt.)

Dorothy Walters

Riding the city bus is truly an education. The full spectrum of humanity is represented (in terms of types, not financial position--the affluent don't ride in buses--they travel in the private comfort of their cars.) The rest of us climb aboard, hope for a seat and a quiet ride, with no unexpected delays or catastrophes.

Two days ago, some fellow got on who was quite angry to find the bus so crowded he couldn't get through the huddled riders to a place nearer the back. He cursed loudly, verbally attacking his fellow riders, until someone gave him a seat just to hush him. Such incidents are disturbing. Mostly, people just look away and pretend nothing untoward is happening.

Today was a different story. First, a woman got on and there was quite a delay as she tried to convince the driver to let her ride free--apparently she didn't have the cost of a ticket. The driver finally gave in, and the woman seated herself next to me. She explained that she had been to the hospital to visit a friend. She did not look destitute, but still apparently she had little cash.

A few steps away stood an older man, quietly hanging onto the available pole. There was nothing unusual about his appearance. When his stop was announced, he quickly and inconspicuously stepped over to the woman, and slipped something into her hand. When she opened her fist, she found a ten dollar bill. She was amazed and grateful.

So--indeed, there are angels among us, saints in disguise.

Later, I stopped at the Chinese Buddhist Temple again. Someone was chanting the many names of Buddha at the front, to the occasional accompaniment of a gong and cymbal. When I entered, I discovered that I was the only person in the audience. I stood at the back and listened closely for fifteen or twenty minutes.

As I had anticipated, this chanting did not have (for me) the force of Sanskrit (and certain other forms of) chanting. It was effective in creating a devotional state of mind, but it had no deep inner resonance, did not awaken the chakras or subtle channels. It was exoteric, not esoteric. For me, the latter is always where the action is. I have always felt like a secret member of some unnamed, undefined, unknown church. I think it is the church of nonbelievers who believe what their own hearts speak. I envy those who are more orthodox, but am unwilling to give up independence of thought for the comfort of communal worship. I am eclectic in the extreme, drawing on elements of Kashmiri Shaivism, yogic philosophy, Tibetan Buddhism, Taoism, and Sufism for my personal spiritual mix. Buddha said, "Be a light unto yourself," and I follow his advice.

Yet, despite my reservations, I think the presence of the temple in our neighborhood is a good thing. There is also a Russian Orthodox Church nearby, and I often pass the priests in their robes and their impressive tall hats as they go in and out. Usually, they do not make eye contact when you pass on the sidewalk, but duck their heads or turn away, a gesture which raises a question in my mind--how does this church define the role of women? It is a church devoted to the patriarchs, none of whom is female. Our neighborhood is an impressive mixture of various faiths, quite different from my midwestern home town, where the churches were Methodist or Baptist or Presbyterian, with a single Catholic church mixed in to provide contrast.

I also went to see (finally) "The DaVinci Code" today, that strange amalgam of fact and fiction, rumor and interpretation. I have seen several programs on its many factual inaccuracies, and its deliberate twisting of evidence. But it is a good mystery tale (though somewhat difficult to unravel). What is most interesting is that it focuses on a religious theme in a time when secularism dominates the mass media. It exposes the dangers of radical extremism, both within the orthodox institution and those who stand in opposition. A good lesson for our times, I think.

Even My Shadow

How many years
have I have lain in
the heart of this flame.

Watching as everything
was consumed,
taken away.

First my clothing,
my sinews and flesh,
then my eyes and my hands,
my organs and bones
all glowing like embers,
pearls flowering with light.

Now even my shadow
is leaving,
is being stirred
to dust.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Like Two Flowers Waiting

This is a day
to be quiet. . .

Fog trying the windows
seeking to come in,
soft music of Shiva
floating through the room.

Lovers don’t always
have to be talking.

Sometimes we can just
sit here,
listening to our hearts
beating together,
like two flowers
waiting for rain.

Even Today


Even today

when I did not ask you

to come. . .

How weak I am

I said

today I won't ask

just stand outside the door.


But you came anyway

ready to stroke

my body alive

with roses.

. . . . . . . . . .


What Song


No doubt about it.

I am the string

vibrating

on the lute

which you play.


Here I am again:

Beloved, what song

are you making

of me now?

. . . . . . . . .


What this is


I have gone over it

so many times--

this chronicle

I call my life,

the volume I will

carry with me

when I go.


No matter how often

I search the pages

nothing tells me

who you are

what this is.

The blogger site went down for a few days, and so I was unable to post. Here is a bit of catchup:

First, my body feels infinitely better. Whatever it was which was affecting me has largely passed.

Patricia told me this morning that on the national spelling bee for children, one of the very last words was "kundalini." I had to stop and reflect on this. Some ten or so years ago, a friend who was computer savvy typed in the word "kundalini" on his search engine, and a total of four entries came up. Now at least the word is in the public vocabulary, though, of course, most people still won't know what it is.

On a recent T. V. special tracking contenders for the Holy Grail, a segment discussed a simple bowl now possessed by a monastery somewhere in the British Isles. This bowl was reputed to have healing powers, and seekers were allowed to borrow it temporarily for personal uses. One woman who experienced its energies wrote describing what she felt. The caretaker was rather shocked, and commented: "She said things which she should say only to her lover." In other words, she sensed kundalini power as divine love, and, as usual, the "authorities" felt her response was inappropriate for a sacred object.

However kundalini and spiritual influence is spreading throughout the world, we still have to keep sight of the outer world and its follies. This is the context for the current spiritual revolution, and we cannot refuse to acknowledge its presence.

Molly Ivans recently published the following article which, in her inimitable style, sums up the current state of affairs. Usually I don't include political essays on this site, but I couldn't resist this one--it's a classic which should, I think, be required reading of everyone, especially those currently in power:

Published on Tuesday, June 6, 2006 by TruthDig.com

Flag Burning and Other Dubious Epidemics

by Molly Ivins

Thank goodness the Republicans are around to tell me what to worry about. The flag-burning crisis--here in Austin, there's that pall of smoke rising from the west every morning (it's from an area called Tarrytown, where they burn hundreds of flags daily).

You didn't know hundreds of flags were being burned daily? Actually, you can count on your hand the number of incidents reported over the last five years. For instance, there was one flag burned in 2005 by a drunken teenager and one by a protester in California in 2002. This appalling record of ravishment must be stopped. You're clearly not worried about what matters.

Gay marriage, now there's a crisis. Well, OK, so there isn't much gay marriage going on here in Texas. None, in fact. First, we made it illegal. Then, we made it unconstitutional. But President Bush is all concerned about it, so I guess we have to alter the U.S. Constitution.

Gus and Captain Call (of "Lonesome Dove" fame) will be an item--with who knows who waiting in line right after them.

Also of great concern to Republicans is God Almighty, who, rather to my surprise, has been elected chairman of the Texas Republican Party. That's what they announced at the biannual convention in Fort Worth this week: "He is the chairman of the party." Sheesh, the Democrats couldn't even get Superman.

Also weighing down the nation with a heavy burden is the estate tax, which the Senate will try to repeal this week. The estate tax applies to around 1% of Americans, and I have yet to find any record of it costing anyone a family farm or business. It affects only very, very, very rich people, of whom you are probably not one. And they don't, actually, need another tax break.

These are the things we are supposed to be worrying about, and you notice that it frees us of quite a few troubles we might otherwise fret about.

The war in Iraq? No sweat.

War with Iran? We're carefree.

The economy? Hey, did you see that employment report? Well, ignore it.

Budget out of control, shipwreck ahead? Never mind--Bush doesn't. Worst class divisions since the Gilded Age, rich so much more enormously richer than everybody else, country starting to get creepy? Don't worry, be happy. Torture, massacre, extraordinary rendition, hidden gulag of prisons in foreign countries, Guantanamo and massive violations of international law, American law and the Constitution? Well, you can see why gay marriage is a far greater menace.

Wipe out for the environment; hundreds of regulations and laws changed to favor those who exploit and damage natural resources; all so common no one is keeping track of them all? Let her rip.

Global warming? In the first place, it's Al Gore's issue. In the second place, it's a downer. In the third place, who cares if it's too late in a few years?

Homeland security/war on terror? With the highly excellent disposition of anti-terror funds once more judiciously applied by the Department of Homeland Security, we truly have nothing to worry about. We're ready to stop terrorist attacks in Wyoming, and there are no important cultural sites in New York City, so let's rock.

Oil crisis? Ha! What oil crisis? You want a $100 rebate you can then give the oil companies? Hey, we're going to drill in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, and that should see us through ... oh, about nine months.

Windfall profits? You think the oil companies are ripping us off for windfall profits? Who? ExxonMobil? Why, they would never!

I believe what we have here is a difference over moral values.

The Republicans are worried about the flag, gay marriage and the terrible burden of the estate tax on the rich. The rest of us are obviously unnecessarily worried about war, peace, the economy, the environment and civilization. Another reason to vote Republican--they have a shorter list.

...................................................................

Molly Ivins is the former editor of the liberal monthly The Texas Observer. She is the bestselling author of several books including "Who Let the Dogs In?'Copyright 2006 TruthDig, LLC

(I received this article from Patricia Lay-Dorsey. Once more, I urge you to look at her site, www.windchimewalker.com It is a treasure trove of information about the current world situation as well as other things.)

I think this is cycle that continues forever. For the last several days, my body has experienced rather intense pain. I have never experienced arthritis as such, but this felt like a "flare-up" of something of that sort. Everything hurt, from my toes to my head. What is going on, I asked, and tried to think of answers.

This morning, as I lay in bed doing a bit of self-reiki, I remembered something which we all know but which I tend to forget--physical pain is often triggered by mind states, emotions pressing to the surface. And I recalled that anger is often associated with arthritis.

And then I realized that I was indeed carrying some buried anger, and I went over the circumstances. As I reflected on this feeling, my body grew more and more relaxed. Ultimately, the pain disappeared. Eureka! I said. It works.

I then went in to do my morning practice before the Buddha. I only meant to spend a few minutes there, but the experience was, once more, so exquisite and refined, I continued for more than an hour. I even saw (but dimly) the Buddha's face and form as mine. What is this? I puzzled. I don't think I am Buddha. I certainly don't feel like Buddha. Then I remembered something from my long ago period of awakening. One of the traditions in the Buddhist empowerment ceremony is to allow the candidate to be (literally) crowned, as if he or she were royalty. I had in effect not experienced this part of the ceremony (it would have seemed quite a stretch at the time), although other aspects of the initiation were presented inwardly (such as ablution, hearing my new name, holding the bell and vajra--I seemed to be able to recreate these intuitively, though I had no knowledge of such rites.)

So I wondered if somehow this outer/inner image was presented to complete the earlier ceremony.

I would like to end this story here. Wondrous bliss flowed through my body during the entire experience, as it so often has in the past. And, as it has so often happened in the past, the bliss did not last. My back started hurting again in a few hours. I wondered if the wind, bearing pollen and dust, was at fault. As my friend Jeannine has often questioned, "Is it energies or allergies?"

I took an allergy pill (herbs) and hoped for the best.

Obviously, I am not ready to be a Buddha, though I do seem to get little glimpses of transcendence now and then.

And, clearly, it is indeed true that pleasure and pain are part of the same cycle, inextricably bound together in a single process--as the song says, "You can't have one without the other."

Darn!

I have passed it many times as I walked by. Its sign, written in Chinese and English, tells us that it is a Buddhist temple. But it is never open, at least not when I am passing by. I have often wondered what was inside, what it would be like to visit a service there.

Today...at last! The doors were open, and some sort of service was going on inside. I stepped into the lobby, and stood quietly with the other observers. At the head of our little group were several nuns wearing black robes. Their heads were shaved. Near them were several males, these dressed in silk saffron robes. These seemed to be part of some ceremony taking place just inside the door, something I couldn't see very clearly. There was musical accompaniment--occasional cymbal or gong, and intermittent chanting.

Then the group moved to the front, where a shrine was hung with several portraits of Buddha himself. After some time, I decided to move on, but was immediately approached by a sweet woman who ushered me into a side room where several free books were displayed. She pressed two or three on me, and then provided a nice bag for me to carry them in. I discovered that the ceremony was to commemorate the installation of a new abbot, the old one retiring at the age of 80. The new head was a woman, a doctor who had studied at the University of London. She speaks three languages, so there will be more services in English in future.

What struck me about this congregation (as with so many others) was the sheer beauty of the members. They seemed quite "clear" and peaceful--what we might describe as "very nice people." Although I am not interested in joining a church or a religious institution myself, I realized that it would be very comforting to be part of a communal activity, to devote oneself to an ideal of purity and compassion, such as the Buddha. I felt they were in some ways quite lucky, but knew that I could never make such a commitment. I would always remain the solitary seeker.

As I made my way home, I noticed that everything looked quite lovely, the way the world sometimes appears after a meditation balances your brain waves.

One day soon they will again open the temple and the names of the Buddha will be chanted for several hours. I may drop in.

Here is a wonderful poem by Naggie (n.m.rai), a new friend I have recently discovered. She has several blogsites and I will give you the addresses of these when I can get this computer to copy them correctly. She is a gifted artist and photographer, and often does collaborative work with Eric Ashford, whose poems have also appeared on this site.

It is truly encouraging to discover the many talented writers and artists of sacred themes now at work throughout the world. Through the internet, their creations are becoming more widely known, and they are also able to connect with one another for support and recognition. The artist's path, especially for one who writes from a mystical center, can be a lonely one without such connection.

Spirit Shamans

I move now in you.
Do you hear my raven's voice
chanting winged prayers?

We do not need language,
you and I, spirit shamans,
alive at opposite ends of time.

I breathe from inside your bones,
speak to you of antelope and lion,
and man and woman.
My fears crouch
around the fire in your brain.
You swallow my nightmares
and taste my joys.

Your words on the page
are my sharpened spears
which brought down great beasts.
Often you do not listen.

Your blood runs fierce in your veins
and you do not hear.

Feel my bones which lie under the sands
as will yours when your soul peels off
and your voice drops away and you join me
to whisper of love and awe in the night.

copyright, n. m. rai