At Willow Monastic Academy, I lead chanting every day. My voice begins to break, cracking from the effort.
My gaze often returns to the willow tree in the backyard of the Willow Monastic Academy.
Following this loose, unfurling structure of a self(soul)-directed masters, I’ve given myself a “summer break” by tasting the sun-soaked madeleine of school-age youth, the familiar stretch and restless boredom of it.
When she crawls under her bed, she finds a dusty sticker collection and an ancient well.
“April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Disclaimer: It was the worm moon over the weekend, and as per usual, I notice the lunar cycles tracking with the “too-muchness” of the intensity I’ve been holding – the subtlety of which seems to be diminished by words in ways that feel both profound and vaguely irritating.
“What remains of the dream of human autonomy once the subject has experienced itself as a penetrable hollow body?
I feel weird right now. I’ve been bouncing between different frequencies of vibrational intensity, that shake and move me.
“It is as if consciousness rests upon a self-sustaining and imagining substrate – an inner place or deeper person or ongoing presence – that is simply there even when all our subjectivity, ego, and consciousness go into eclipse.
In these fluid times, the soul has changed location: it is neither within…where our religious traditions mostly situated it nor without, among the wondrous and presumably determined order of the material world, where the natural philosophers hid it.