The Sacred consumes us like a fire. The total projection of our
life, untitled by the source of our full self, we become consumed
with the sacred of all we are, even when we do not even know it.
There is a constant vibrancy that yields to no fire, but is consumed
in its willingness to be formed from the flame of potential.
There is a secret way of movement that calls forth the dragons of
consummation, that pour into their open mouths the liquid of source
that burns till the embers become ash, and the ash becomes the
embodiment of all life in manifested form.
The stretch that takes us from the rational to the spiritual is the
reach of one arm to the core of ones own heat.
The labor of eons makes the spine of transformation stiff with the
potential of future. The folded layers of ash move between the legs
of eternity, and the nature of infinity is seen within the embodiment
of time and space consumed in life.
The elements of understanding relieve not the thirst of memory,
as it begins to turn in on its own patterning, to create a leap of
image and character within the persona of one.
The pressure to give is the full diameter of life pouring into the
constant vibrancy of what is given expression. The continual search
for an expression that fills the filled is done, and the holding of the
opening is pushed into a hand that holds.
The frequent passage of what gives speech to the thrust of
motion that creates potential, now opens to a slower pace, and a
more rapid understanding.
The concealed projected into the light for the change in
perspective. All comes, all goes, and all is present. Time comes
into the naked structure of pattern, and the requirement falls away.
Interior falling into the space of world, and world making memory
of what was forgotten before. The feeling of distinction relating one
edge to another, the center of the pattern sews itself into place.
The current combines itself to the threads of pattern, and it
comes through the eye of the needle with an ease of never ending
pleasure. The body forgets nothing, and the heart moves into the
center of force. The placement of head and foot succeeds in
finding the rooted image, calling forth the right motion of time, the
sacred emulates its own holy consignment.
Right meets left as the knowing regurgitates the feeling, for an
assimilated understanding of how the center forms from the outer.
Making ready the words of passage, the outer speaks the center
form into making.
Coming through the edge of cloth, the veil gives the outer it’s
naming, and the naming makes constant its vibrancy. The Silence
of mutual eons moves through the sacred fire of possession, and
folded nectar of realization becomes sided by the purpose of
thought.
Inside the very fabric of the thread a sutra of ancient meaning
moves through the opening that begins to form.
Forward placed is the sequence that then follows, and the
emission of potential rides on the back of whale. The depth of
deep penetrates the cycle of awareness, and the singular
resonance of ancient memory begins to crawl up the walls of deep
pitch, as the whale moves into the center of sound, held within the
mother.
The vibrancy of what then calls, becomes more rigid to its own
color. This creates the full expression of the hues of tonic volume
that flows from the celestial minority of what crests the sea into
measurement of depth.
Depth that created a phenomenon of eagle pitch, that flows through
the eyes of bird, in the sight of deep below.
Creating the grasp of time in a more fingered way, the cyclic
miracle of timing frees itself of justified resistance. The true nature
of what is frequented in space, but never found in the depths of
sea, is the pastoral quality of land edged with deep air sky.
The permitted of time now encloses this registry, and holds no
longer the ignorance of formula. The formula of what creates the
shell of force that flows through the threads of one Sutra, which is
magic within the emission of words, on the back of whale.
Time and timing both sit back to back as the seat of life gives up
its position of own. The formatted space of omission claims itself,
and the thread of Sutra begins to speak in words that make time
happen.
The Great response gives forward its cooperation, and the cellular
definition of many things living become more collaborated in their
individual distinction.
The words of resignation become the willing force of what
accompanies the resonance of force, as it welcomes the essence
of distinction into the well of memory, that formulates at the base of
wellspring of conscious acceptance.
Internal space sits now on the floor. The floor being the space
that supports all that is low and high, tall and short, small and large.
The foundation creating its floor from the edges of memory, that
knows what has now come forward.
A child enters, brown and small boned, a child with big eyes, black
hair, solid lines and easy thoughts. A prayer becomes his words,
and he makes small pictures with his hands.
He moves forward into the eyes of the future, and I can see him
clearly. The floor supports him and he stands firm upon the solid
expression of floor.
The ceiling above creates the enclosure of sides as the boy sits
into this space, and forms a cycle of silence around him. The moon
comes in through the stars, and the openings of stars bring light in
upon his fine head.
The opening of stars become the needlepoint threads for the
saffron, are of whole part to pour through, for him to weave upon
the loom he has formed from his thoughts of sutra within the I Ching
of balance, that spreads through the room’s fusion with the time of
tapestry.
The boy weaves his fingers through the saffron threads, and as he
moves, the fibers catch the light and his memory is caught on the
reflection. The feeling of life warps around his frame, and he bends
into the soft pleasure of beauty.
The folded sets into time the potential of all the possible, making
itself into one small boy, becoming the weaver of vibrancy.
Constantly pulling saffron through red and black, through saffron,
making all color embodied within the heart of the awareness of
time….the child secures the spaces between and his brown hands
embody the rhythm of the earth in gestation.
The sacred wraps into his flesh, and he begins to rhythm his weave
with his breath. A breath of high mountains and small valleys, wide
precipices and narrow openings.
He requires no language beyond the pictures he sees. The
creating of one color upon another forming the pictures with thread.
Meaning becoming the sacred flow of the allowing frame. The
courage to see becomes flooded with recognition, and the boy
child is given room to weave from world to world, time to time,
spirit to spirit, moment to moment, flesh to flesh, heart to heart,
mind to mind, soul to soul, life to life.
To fight the fight of death, employ the body in a greater way. The
raising of raise coming from the voices that see the boy employed
in the sacred willing of phrase as it escapes his mind into the
threads of weave.
Dalai Lama, a phrase of oceanic memory that has the memory of
what rose from the thought of vibrant pose. A child in constant
vibrancy with time, and the being of wonder who sits at the wheel of
fortune asking each to know he is the loom, the thread, the bead,
the thought, the tapestry.
All forgetting remains on the floor of the realization, and what rises
from it is outside of time. Time folds into the layers of oceanic
awareness, and becomes a cloth of memory that washes away the
forgetting.
To forget the reason, to forget the distortion, to forget the flight, to
forget the struggle, to forget the passage of endless beginnings
that never yield the truth of vibrancy. The land rises from below
because the memory ceases to forget the possible, and the
impossible washes away with the forgetting.
Place and time sit together for the first time since the child
started, and they converse on the way that all was intended.
Intended was the child. Intended was the moon. Intended was the
land. Intended was the sun.
Intended was the surface, intended was the depth of ocean,
intended was the ease, intended was the feeling, intended was the
strength, intended was the mind of thought.
Conscious was the way forward, and the child took it up into his
mind and it flowed out through his eye, and he began to see the
pictures of what he now weaves. To be a child that sees the
pictures as well as hears the words, is to be the child of the future
being.
Creation becoming the acceptance. The time of pictures
becoming a world of faster vision, sooner spins of the wheel, but
later realizations of the mind. Bone and body join in the full
acceptance of exile, as the child remembers mountains, but has to
become more acquainted with the sharing of mind to soul, and soul
to mind, outside the solitude where the constancy needs vibrancy.
Inside the well of forgiveness, the child who is there is the man who
left for a reason of need. A need, that had impoverished time, with
its longing. The solid departure of worlds brings him to the
realization of what the world beyond the mountain has come to be.
The sense of constant vibrancy increases as the world becomes
more aware of what it has heard from the other side. The interior
color of life matches the outside environment, and the child knows
that he too is colored by the mountains, the vibrancy, and the ring
of truth within him that threads through all his world.
The threads catch on the edge and flow outside, because he has
always left an opening for his spirit to flow. An opening, that allows
him to never be trapped by the beauty of all that was. The tapestry,
free to travel from world to world, by one running red thread.
To leave the beauty of one world, to build or secure the beauty of
another, so all the worlds learn to beat with one pulse, a constant
vibrancy.
The solid becomes felt as the small moves through the hands of
the man, and the thread he uses to curtain his world for the
protection of all he holds with the past, and now brings over the
mountains of time into the world below. He holds the bead he
threads into the world, that weaves a reality, upon the canvas of the
tapestry.
The sacred corners itself as the support is felt as real, in a time that
relates the sacred as hands, and the hands as his. He rolls the
bead between his fingers and thumb, and the cycle of change
begins. The dullness fades as he begins to dream. To have a
Lama dream in one’s home is magical. To have a Dalai Lama to
dream in one’s world is transformational. The roll and point of
words begin to spin and the spinning becomes a circle of round
that flows from the center of compassion.
The round takes over, the pitch and voice of reality become
measured more by color than speed. The creating relays the spin,
and the original pours into the canvas of the thanka. The eye
appears, but not the soul, not the iris. The iris being the creative
source of the vibrancy, and what connects the flow to the color.
The speed increases as the color connects to the presence, and
the nature assures itself what is ready. The force of will calling into
the pictures, the vision awakens the symbols of speed, accuracy,
presence and power.
The value of one incarnation connected to the thread of color of the
next, all creating a tapestry that transforms the world and corrects
an eon of patterns.
Reality that speaks in the corner is the past falsitude. The nature
of color changes as it becomes the flesh of bone, and the bone of
flesh. Creation combs back its hair, and the power of what is,
steps onto the floor of what was.
The pose and difference of the time it took, now rotates on a small
thin coin, and it does not sit upon the eye. Relationships fold past
the windows of time, and the eyes of the man posed as monk
becomes quickened by the memory.
Past comes to drift upon the fields of lives, and many are crushed
by the omission. The omission of why, even when all know and
many appear mute, deaf, dumb, and blind. The current mines the
process, and the feeling of truth digs deep into the psyche of time.
The man comes deeper into our world, from the thread he left
from the life from before, and he gives us the end to pull the thread,
until we too can come out of the pattern of time we have been
caught in.
The recent world of attachment, we forgot to make a way out that
would allow us to create anew. Once again we become gifted by
the thread, and the life that became unthreaded.
To begin is to forget, and then once again repeat what is was
that we began before. There is only one begin and many begans,
on our way to the forgetting. The forgetting room is large, and many
forget that they are there, caught in the loss of begin.
The letters of our name can make a turn that will show us where
we stand, and we can only move toward this knowing, not away.
How is it we become a world of forgetting, and there are so few
who know where the thread is to pull to remember?
Time gives us the key, and it is between its markings. Markings
that make a foothold into the earth, and hold us to the mountains,
as the memories wash over us like water. Water that curves into
the crevices of our minds.
A constant vibrancy, that holds us to the brilliant color of memory,
that knows what it is that gives us Illumination.
(c) 2005 Raven Su.Sane
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