Even upon realizing all you encounter is merely your Self: goodness me how I am spread too and fro across the globe and through the vast universe, and through the whole of time and beyond!! Though conflicts are thus merely you dancing or vieing with yourself, what a mess of tangled twisted webs and weaves, a wonderful and terrible miliuex to dance through as you get to and are privileged to know yourself!!
Wednesday, March 30, 2016
Tenuous dance between life and death, the lines betwixt not always readily discernible, nor e'en between dark and light.
Yet abiding through those illusory dichotomies is, in my experiencings, true Self that abides.
Beyond bullets or shotgun blasts, cancer or car crash, beyond the day and night and cycles of the expansion and contraction of the Universe, beyond the many illusions of dualism, there you are, if you ever were at all.
Thursday, March 10, 2016
So oft in recent years spend my time unwinding storylines are seeming someone's writ script plied and proffered to direct this lila I've been living, channeling or dealving into the "akashik records" to determine the dance as is to be danced, my proper steps as some disturbance in the flow has required more conscious effort on my part, it seems, as opposed to the moksa flow I truly know and know true...perhaps there was a change of directors choreographing this nata, this dance, this play? a revision to the script or screenplay?
Layers of mind and Mind and matter, cidacit and such shit: more than a tad trying to be pressed to attend to details I trusted were already in good yoga with the whole good show, to be weighted unduly with others' karma to be transformed, as I rather thought that yoga flow at work well enough that I had no cause for too much concern.
Tensions raised, I suppose, and uncertainties presented to grant a range of sense vibration and emotion broad enough to accommodate life in this tumultuous time; frictions forced to raise that tejas, that fire, that we need to stay warm in the cold reality of eternity...
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
Subtle intimations of tragedy
and bizarre dramas
presented my mind’s eye,
from ancient secrets
of gods and goddesses
at play through the course of history,
to the same game
here and now
and in the dance I dance
with others day to day
and in the seeming mundane.
There is in truth
little difference between
and the below,
and life lived,
for those patterns and weaves
direct the steps and words,
thoughts and actions,
of both the great
and the small,
and it is in fact
not always clear
which is which,
of great and small,
in the play of it all.
Tuesday, February 9, 2016
It was just the other day
I was clearing trails in the Cascades,
and just another
I was sailing the Hudson, exploring Montreal, London, Charleston, sitting sky clad in hot springs in New Mexico or California or Arizona,
just the other day.
Nor was it long ago
I held her in my arms,
just a moment ago
and not too far from there to here.
The calendar might tell it differently,
as might others who've grown gray since then;
and some might contend that distance insurmountable,
from then and there to here and now.
It is scarce a step, however,
nor even one split second in eternity,
truth be told:
All is here and now.
Monday, February 8, 2016
A Cherokee and a Choctaw both,
Hooray and Hoorah,
whose banter and viewing
does raise mountains
In the tumult.
Black and White,
Darkness and Effulgence,
She and He
If any two really be,
Kali and Shiva.
These dichotomies, dualisms,
Self and Other,
do not abide,
and never really were.
Yet what a lovely dance
is this illusion,
what a wondrous play,
these supposed contentions
grant to life's script.
Wednesday, February 3, 2016
Absurd cycles and recycled themes:
sometimes like a broken record we play those through--
too often not learning the lessons proffered,
so we do it all again.
This is why it is said
Siva is enemy to samsara,
as those cycles are too often
cycles of dysfunction
rather than those cycles of bliss
that lead to liberation.
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
Once you understand that we are embodied expressions of the mind of God,
and in fact (however veiled in the milieu of maya) of God Her-/Him- Self,
it stands to reason some might chance purify their own flows so,
that they might become a worthy vessel,
of an abiding if not eternal face of the Divine,
of archetypal perfection.
This is yoga,
root of the English word "yolk."
Such path is all our potential,
all our destinies,
eventually and always already.
The big question of the most recent 5,000+ years of human history is simply "To be or not to be," basically as couched in the Sanskrit terms brahman and Abrahman. That the later of the two supposed binaries (the dividing line between Hinduism and Buddhism, in fact) sounds rather like Abraham, patriarch of the Abrahamic religions, is no coincidence. Rather, such is at least emblematic of the grand dialogue regarding said question as mulled about in the mind of God and via the lives of those peoples are playing out that query as a grand lila, a grand play that lasts thousands of years long. Indeed we are the playthings of the gods, of God, yet that is merely us ourselves, the gods, God.
Monday, February 1, 2016
Mitra and Varuna; but the ceremony being unsuccessful on aceount of some irregularity from the presiding priest: daughter Ila was born. But by the mercy of the two deities however, her sex was changed and she became a man under the name of Sudyumna. And he again became a woman under an imprecation (from Siva) near the hermitage of Buddha, the son of the moon.
One day while she was walking near the hermitage of Buddha, he became attached to her and beget on her a son named Pururavas. After his birth, the noble Rishis, desiring to restore Sudyumna to his sex, prayed to the glorious Vishnu who is the essence of the four Vedas, of mind, of every thing and of nothing and who is the sacrificed male. By his mercy us: once more became Sudyumna, in which character he had three sons, Utkala, Gaya and Vinata.
On account of his having been formerly born a female he did not receive any portion of his paternal kingdom. His father however at the request of Vasistha conferred upon him the city of Pratishta, and he gave it to Pururavas.
Of the other sons of Mann, Prishadhra, on account of the
sin consequent upon slaying a cow, was degraded to the conditions of a Sudra.
Sunday, January 24, 2016
If history is seen with a view to the grand cycles played, those somewhat scripted storylines we naturally play through as individuals and peoples that are indeed better read as mythology than in the manner of reading traditionally writ history . . . In this guise, Adolph Hitler has become an interesting figure in my deconstructions of discourse and mythology, matter and mind, as I've endeavored to understand history and life in terms of the most abiding and ancient constructs, with myth and metaphor in mind and a reading of the texts as if they were telling truth when they speak of gods and goddesses, magic and providence.
It has occurred to me that in no slight sense, thus, Hitler played a role not dissimilar from that of King Nebuchadnezzar who was, according to the Hebrew mythology and scripture, “the hand of God” in smiting the sinful Jews so they might be purified enough to return to their homeland of Israel from captivity in Babylon. Cycles of captivity or exile is one of the central themes of the Jewish discourse regarding the sacred and the life of their people, and thus it might be argued that Hitler merely played a role in fact manifest and in fact requested by what the Jewish taut as their sacred history and important cycles of penance and reward. Now i would certainly not endeavor to argue, as the Panchen Lama has regarding Mao whom the Lama considered an incarnation of an angry deity manifest to force the dispersion of Tibetan Buddhist teachings. That is, I would not argue that Hitler was any such noble player as a deity in this grand lila (nor would I contend that such a bizarre twist is impossible in the real lila/Divine Play of history), but I would note that when a people lauds a certain cycle, said cycle is not unlikely to be repeated in the life of that people. Two years after what would thus be rendered the Hebrew people chastised by the hand of the twentieth century Nebuchadnezzar, the Jewish people were granted a homeland by the United Nations proclamation.
Again, the subtle absurdity of dualism. I think the Holocaust is rather too recent an occurrence for Jewish prophets to start proclaiming Hitler as “the hand of God,” however. Many other subtle and between the lines storylines do tell very different versions of “what really happened” than the official discourse doth acknowledge . . . more on those later.
Sunday, January 17, 2016
the great illusion of this age,
played that 'I'
might raise the fire of forever,
lovely and warm.
She directs this Grand Play perfect,
with apparent dischord
and seeming disharmony
the tropes and tensions to keep us awake and attendent to the story,
to keep us entertained with eternity.
Death and loss and sorrow
the themes of this lila,
as are life, love, ecstasy and joy,
bad and good,
for all those are not
our abiding Self,
yet grant the impetus
gives us reason and potency
to play on,
to plod on
towards that perfection
that's already ours
and who we are true.
Nothing lost nothing gained.
Sunday, January 3, 2016
Saturday, January 2, 2016
Saturday, December 19, 2015
The Kennedy Ranch was 100,000 acres, neighboring the Flying U where I was employed as a hand for the summer, a spread somewhere around 10,000 acres with another 100,000 acre ranch on the other side, and the scene was as vast and grand as any vision of the proverbial or Hollywood Old West. After breakfast Ralph and I walked through the pitch black to the truck and trailer where we'd tied the horses for the night, saddled our mounts and rode down the wide one-lane dirt road to meet the others gathered to ride out to meet the sunrise and to gather and brand the young of the Kennedy's herd. As the cowboys and cowgirls started down the trail a nearby coyote howled a sweet song to serenade us and to tell of the coming dawn, still only portended by a faint glow over one tiny corner of the broad horizon. The chorus of howls continued as other coyotes answered and their song echoed off the hills and through the valley.
As the glory of the cowboy sunrise approached and we rode lazily down the trail, I contemplated the distance between where I was, astride an old mare riding on a dusty trail with real live Old West cowboys on the vast high plains, and where I was before the summer started, just some Prep School kid in Laramie who'd never had a real girlfriend and who just never quite fit in. Here on the range and ranches of northeast Wyoming I seemed to have a respected, if not revered place. On the Flying U I had learned to drive tractors, to ride a horse proficiently, to do carpentry and mechanics. Here I was where I generally longed to be when I was young, out on the land in some semblance of wilderness, some place I could feel I was free and for real. Even as liberal of an education as I was receiving at the University of Wyoming Prep School, said state of being still felt stifling for a child of the mountains. To be bound to a desk arranged in rows and columns when the sun was shining and the Wyoming wind was beckoning me is tantamount to child abuse for the likes of me and many a wild child. This adventure as a cowboy felt like heaven to a wildman growing up in the institution, if admittedly an institution where hippies and PhDs were our teachers and if in fact raised in a family where the wilderness ethic was strong and ingrained from an early age.
As we approached the herd we were seeking, some portion of the cowboys and cowgirls split off to bring the cows and calves into a tight group. As we started pushin' them doggies towards the corral I was told to ride towards the tail end of the herd and to keep stragglers from straying. It was quite a sense of exhilaration as I would spur my mount to a gallop to retrieve whatever cow or calf or group of same would try to run up a draw or otherwise escape the coming violence of the branding, an experience the mamas of the herd certainly knew well enough from their own time under the hot iron and from their offspring of previous years having been thus tormented. At the time I did not give much thought to the upcoming event, the castration of the males, the brutality of dehorning and the repercussions of antibiotic injections and growth hormones implanted, not to mention the pain exacted as hot searing metal was pressed against the flesh of these young bovine kind. Only years later after I had realized myself a yogi would I contemplate my own part in that play and find my own purifying fire awaiting me on the Hudson River to cleanse myself of that violent karma.
I quickly learned to imitate the calls of the cowboys, “Yip!! Yip Yip!! Common!! Hyup!! Hyup!!” and felt my senses livened by this dance of cowboys and girls and cows as we made our way towards the corral. The sun was well above the horizon by now and we had ridden somewhere near ten miles since we left the ranch house, eagles and hawks and other birds watching from high above with curiosity as a herd of people on horses, dogs and cows and calves traveled on down the trail.
As we arrived at the corral, out on a flat with no other significant structure in sight, the cows and calves were pushed into the pen and the gate closed. After a short rest from the ride, at least one of the women went in along with a cowboy or two to cut the cows out of the herd until only the calves remained in the corral. The swift movements of the cutting horses and the skills of the riders, their movements timed together with a tight synchronicity to meet the maneuvering of the cows endeavoring to stay with their calves, soon emptied the corral of all save the young.
The cutting horses and their riders them left the arena, and the old cowboys with their lassos readied rode into the corral. Pairs of young men, mostly teenagers including myself, would wait outside the gate as the mounted cowboys would whip the loops of their lassos under the hind legs of the hapless calves, tighten the rope around one leg or two, then wrap the loose end of the lasso around the saddle horn (if you ever wondered what those were for . . .), then drag the bawling baby cows out of the corral and to the two cowboys waiting outside the gate. One of the two would then grab the tightened rope and pull one way while the other would grasp onto the critter's tail and pull the other. Once the calf was flat on its side, the cowboy or cowgirl who'd taken the tail would pin the calves shoulders with a knee on either side and bending and binding the upper front leg of the little beasty, and the one who'd grasped the rope now had to secure the hind legs of the bawling babe, which of course were want to kick to regain freedom and to stay the torments to come. The hind legs were held in place by a pose where the cowboy sits on the ground, one foot against the lower ankle of the calf and hands holding the upper leg back, legs spread wider if it was a male calf so his balls could be ripped out of his scrotum after slit open with a sharp pocket knife. Rather a violent asana.
The brand was kept hot by a propane torch, a modern take on the sagebrush campfire which was used of old to heat the iron shaped to a particular combination of letters and shapes to tell of ownership. The smell of burning hair and flesh fills the nostrils as the cowboy or cowgirl brandishing the brand pressed it into the calves side. Another would come along with a blade readied, check the gender and remove the testicles if a male, then another with a hypodermic injector that places either hormones and/or antibiotics under the skin around the neck, then another with a tool with a circular blade with which the horns are dug out to the root, a centimeter or two deep in the calf's skull, while the calf cries out with a gruesome and sorrowful bawl, eyes rolled back and tongue lolling.
After the task at hand was completed, the last calf set free to rejoin its mother, we started the ride back to the ranch. On the way back to the ranch house on either this occasion or on the occasion of a later like gathering of neighboring ranchers to move a herd at the Schuman ranch, I rode up on an old cowpoke who'd dismounted and was hopping around a sagebrush bush and cursin' up a storm. As I approached I realized the silver-haired cowboy was dancin' with a rattlesnake, endeavoring to pin the serpent to the ground with his boot. After I watched him twice or thrice press his worn brown boot into the sagebrush only to jump back with a whoop, finally he stomped down on the neck of the snake and then reached down to retrieve the furious serpent, it's mouth turned 'round and clasped onto the toe of his boot. As he firmly placed his fingers on the back of the rattlesnake's jaw to prevent an inadvertent bite, he held the snake up for the onlookers to see, and then tried several times to get back on his horse, who would have nothing to do with a rider holding a live rattler aboard. Finally the old cowboy decided to kill the snake and keep its rattle as a memento. He told me as we rode on that he had a tank at his place where he kept several rattlers at a time to milk for venom.
After my summer on the Flying U my family moved to Indiana for a year, as my dad was on sabbatical to do research in liquid chromatography at Purdue. I then moved to Oklahoma where I lived with my grandparents, finished high school and attended college, became a preacher then resigned and renounced that, went to grad school in Chicago and then returned to Laramie. After an unsuccessful search for employment in my home town, I found myself on the road and discovered the remnant hippie trails and lifeways still (and to this day) to be found across the land long after the sixties. I began to practice yoga and wandered the country for several years before I ended up living on a Bristol 26 sailboat upon the Hudson River and a tributary thereof. Whilst aboard for this mostly misadventure I would often sit on the settee next to the hatch into the cockpit with one foot propped in the hatchway and posture representing something of a modified asana as I would meditate and contemplate my sometimes sorry situation, as after sailing out from Rondout Creek and onto the broad Hudson I only made it so far south as Beacon before a storm beached my boat. I contemplated the semblance of an asana seemed to be my posture and pose for hours every day and considered it rather like the position one holds while holding down a the back end of a calf for branding. As I sat in sometimes agitated meditation and discomfort on the settee with my right foot extended and propped in the hatchway, I considered that, rather than living the good life of a carefree sailor my time on the Hudson seemed rather more like a tapasia (purifying fire) proffered to allow me burn away karma of days even long since passed. The Sanskrit root of the English word “God,” by the way, is “go” which translates as the English word cow, as in those domesticated bovines which intone the sacred syllable “mooooo . . .”
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
- Indus Valley Civilization
- Rig Veda
- Pasupati and the European Horned God
- The Mother
- The lila of the Indian Diaspora
- Abraham goes west and inversions
- Circumcision and incest taboos
- Yama and Yahweh
- Shiva/Pasupati/the Horned God and Devi Lalitha rendered as “the Devil,” Chetanya as “Satan”?
- Dispersion from Indus Valley Civilization to the east and the American Indians, to Africa from the land of the Zulu to Egypt and west.
- Buddhism and Abrahman
- Trimurti and the Abrahamic religions
- The Play of Cultures and Religion as a conversation/meta-narrative/riddle of the Gods
- Culture and counter-cultures re-present the ancient stories, memes and mythemes and archetypal (even Brechtian) responses to the Grand play, artists, beats and bohemians, hippies, anarchists and punks playing out and voicing most visibly those dispositions of discontent and critical response to societies official renderings, the dichotomy and dualism providing the plot of this theatrical illusion. Plays of opposition that might prove both compassionate and virulent expressions of dissent and differénce (a la Derrida). Often the freer to foment true self expression means freer to find true Self expressed.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
The Hebrews believe that "the righteous" go to a place called Sheol or "the bosom of Abraham" after they die, awaiting judgement day. This place is underground and is translated into Greek as "Hades," in other words, Hell. Essentially, the Jews' god Yahweh is Yama, who is actually a good guy and who is in fact the dude responsible for the teaching and schooling of those not devoted to the true Divine, both above and below ground, despite recent (most recent two thousand years) Western mythology touting that the Lord of Hell is "the Devil," who is represented as evil. It has become clear to me that in fact the mythology about "the Devil" is essentially an attempt to turn God and Goddess, Deva and Devi, into the bad guys. The figure of the Devil is largely drawn from the Horned God, who is more than akin to Shiva, God the Destroyer, and likely Deva Shiva's Consort Devi Parvati, the Mother of the Universe, who is known as Devi Lalitha in Her most playful form. Lalitha is who the Jews turned into their "Lilith," one of their most reviled "demons."
Abraham and abrahman (Sanskrit for "no God") are quite clearly related figures/figurations. Buddhists taut abrahman as one of the tenets of their belief, thus most Hindus call them atheists. From these obvious analogies, apparently Jews, Christians and Muslims are children of someone who's name seems to mean "no-God." More on this in later posts . . .
Namaste . . . Namaskar
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
Monday, September 21, 2015
By the array of the sarcophagi, I have considered the burial seems like nothing I know of in terms of archaeologically known practices other than Egyptian royal burials. Don't wanna come across as one of those flakes who claim they were this or that pharaoh or Cleopatra or whatever in their past life. I have no memories of the life that I had lived previous to said deep interment. As names have proven rather significant indicators in my life as I have sought to determine meaning and subtle significances, upon a cursory search of names of pharaohs one stuck out as rather obvious (at least in said guise): Djedefre. I have yet to discover the details of his tomb, and whether he was buried with his sister-wife Hetepheres II, though, "sounds right . . ." According to Egyptian lore, the pharaoh's "ba" can leave the tomb and transit to live other lives or some such . . . thus the plethora of gold and other forms of wealth in the tombs of Egyptian Pharaohs to enable the pharaoh in his afterlife adventures. Namaste and Hetep Hena Ten . . .
Sunday, September 20, 2015
Insightful and provocative, Archer's candid and scarcely believable tellings grant a view of the life of a modern mendicant, a pilgrim on the trail of truth like so many others who have renounced the tracked and plotted path proscribed them by society's strictures and hit the road to find themselves and what is true of this life. The accounts offered in this amazing narrative grant a glimpse of the world of those post-modern (post-postmodern?) mendicants yet to be found wandering America and the span of the globe, sometimes seen walking the border between consumer capitalism's excess and the wilderness, between suburban malaise and heaven on earth, hiking on the shoulder of the highway with a backpack and a dog and thumb extended, conveying an unusual aura and a divine smile meets the passerby . . .
Sunday, August 23, 2015
Some family through town, a couple of random Rainbow Tribe hippies stayed at my little bitty efficiency apartment for the past couple of nights--fed them some of my famous dumpster-dive gourmet. Some more travelling family at Andy & Crystal's (where I first met the brother I sipped and smoked and conversed with under the bridge). Summertime and the livin' is easy and the wandering is good, and Laramie is more readily seen as Laradise . . .
Monday, August 17, 2015
Friday, August 7, 2015
Monday, May 4, 2015
Subtler than subtle, the love play these days, as a significant her is not here with me nor seeming even near in space or time.
Positively esoteric, if not necessarily supernatural, the love play when She is not present as a yogini (overtly so or no), when not my lover sharing secrets of tantra with me in physically embodied intimacy, when romance is or at least seems distant, when She is Durga meaning "inaccessible" rather than/more than meaning "Invincible," and when siddhis and social media are the medium of those communications and teachings and love at play, and what yoga's been proffered that's supposed to suffice in place of practice with a partner in touch. Subtler than subtle and no substitute for sex or presence, the psychic and electronic . . .
Friday, March 13, 2015
It is no coincidence that cannabis is a central artifact of the peaceful revolutionary fervor of this world since at least the sixties. Devi Parvati introduced Her Husband Deva Siva the Destroyer of sin to said sacred weed ages ago, and tis Siva's devotees have a history of overturning the caste system and inverting the official order to bring justice. Cannabis incites free thinking and attunes those who partake of said sacrament to the mind of God, to celebration and to transformation and to peace. Shanti . . ."
Saturday, February 21, 2015
Coming to know the Divine is more like getting to know the intricacies of a woman than discerning the will of a father...at least for me personally. Already came to understand the Divine Self on the male side as my own self or Self true, ego aside...that leaves Her as what I've to know...I suppose...
Monday, February 2, 2015
Mapping my life (not from an egocentric perspective mind you . . .) I find signs and symbols, writ and portrayed across so many regions, space and time. The placement of persons I encounter living across the landscape of mind and these United States (and a couple or three trips abroad) displays a logic, super-personal, a plot scheme to the dream of my wanderings. Fractaled faces of the One Divine, bespeaking not just their own lives as if separate, but of the Source and sources of refraction, light bent/slowed to make reality.
I have considered that I might try some systematic means to trace those lines, faces and places by their geographic deployal, to discover if thereby I might find Her I seek, else at least a place where I might be myself/mySelf most true and free. Kailash is of certainty a focal point and point of emanation. Other less tangible or obvious or recognized locales of significance might prove of interest if indeed patterns might be plotted point to point on the map, lay lines of destiny . . .
Sunday, January 25, 2015
It is indeed of note that the nature of this age, when people are generally most unaware of the truly non-dual nature of reality, allows certain transcendent leaps unavailable in those ages when the potential potency of (albeit illusory) dichotomies (think of the power of opposite charges in magnetism and electricity) cannot be accessed by the functioning of the already fully Self-aware conscious mind. If one doesn't (albeit mistakenly) believe in "other" or "Other," the play of relationship between self/Self and not-self/-Self loses some potency and poignancy. If you don't believe in the bad guy, you can't play games of good guy vs. bad guy. Not to say that ignorance of the non-dual nature of reality is better that true Self-awareness. Rather, as people play with a dualistic framework imagined, certain possible constructs become available for the play and array of life lived rather differently than for the truly Self-aware mind.
In truth, awareness that behind all illusions maya may proffer, indeed all is brahman/God/good is a better, more peaceful and fruitful mode of being than the ill prospects of dualism. Regardless, to function within the functionally dualistic constructs of culture and society in this dark age, the Kali yuga, the potency of "opposite charges" ought be considered and sometimes employed as potential if illusory means and power, if without any real attachment to that game of seeming opposition and potently/functionally imagined and constructed dualisms.
Monday, January 19, 2015
In separating geographically and otherwise from the homeland of their religion and entering new lands, the Abrahamic religions seem to have found need or want to differentiate, though not willing to let go the notion of One Divine, which is what is noted by the term brahman, nonetheless each posit "God" as something other than brahman, which might be denoted by the A as prefix in Abraham, i.e., "not brahman."
Buddhism, as they deal so with the issue of suffering, decided to let go the "All-Powerful God" factor in the question of theodicy, overtly stating, Abrahman and unatma, no Universal God and no Divine already extant in each and as every souls' true Self.
Christianity tries to replace the supposed lack of atman (that they seem like the Buddhists to believe despite the Christians continued belief in a Universal Divine Self) with their "Holy Spirit." I.e., "If not what we/our forbearers once knew as "God" then what? If there is no seed of the Universal Divine already in us, then with what do we fill that hole?"
The Buddhist answer, "Nothing." The Hebrew answer, "Sacrifices." The Christian answer, "Fill that empty space with the self-sacrificing God we killed." The Muslim answer, "Just surrender."
The answer of sanAtana dharma: God as we have and do know Him/Her does exist and is already the root and core to every being. Indeed suffering does exist, but is properly extant to guide or goad us towards action and practice that are blissful yoga (yoke) with the True Self, i.e., suffering is dharma. Suffering can also exist when the vibrations of material reality and experiencing are ill-tuned, as maya (this illusory reality we call reality) is a fine tuned instrument designed for the enjoyment of experiencing, designed to give something to do with eternity.
Patanjali's Yoga Sutra, first three verses:
Herein is Yoga
Yoga is the alteration of sense vibration
that therein Pure Consciousness might abide . . .
Saturday, January 3, 2015
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