Belly of a Star

my practice of compassion



I seek a reflection of purity and refinement, of chiseled intention, an instinctual driving force fashioned from a universal foundation of love. What is not derived from love is derived elsewhere, outside the landscape of freedom, entrapped in fear.

What is not love is fear. What is not love is self-serving. What is not love is greed. What is not love is habitual attention-seeking to mask that which is unrefined.

What is not love is to burrow reeds in a stagnant water valley of shame, of shattered blame, to build castles of shifting sand in the shadow of rising tide. What is not love is to think one mighty above the growing flames, to raise flags amongst the heat and refuse to see the approaching cinders. What is not love breeds ignorance, intolerance, and the perpetuation of rigid goals, to drill plans into the brittle bones of innocents. What is not love is a vision of danger, to lance ears with spectacles fashioned in blades.

What is love casts out the dark shadows of children cowering and leeches burrowing. What is love blows free in clear air an ever emerging adobe to spirit, a gentle, whispered uprising of hope and serenity.

I seek what is love and love alone, from the intention of love, from the foundation of love, and place of love. I seek that which is equal reflection, eradicated barriers without hierarchy. Those that gather as invisibles beyond the hypocrisy of invented truism, of invented word.

I am a refined version of light, without obligation or room to be taken temporary captive of needled words. I know not. And in my unknowing, I am unraveled and set beyond the bellowing walruses, warped from overfeeding. I am what I seek. I shall emerge empty and take feathered-flight from the evolving space of rummaging soul that seeks recognition at my side.