Priestess Pamela

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retreat with relics

Any ordinary family house in the city suburbs that it is presided over by a Spiritual Master takes on a new quietness, a holy stillness, a synthetic sacredness. It must become an exclusive and open channel for Her or His Holiness.

It is no longer a domestic niche for family and status: door lentils for measuring growth, carpets for wearing out, furniture for rearranging, beds to replace cots or wallpaper to be replaced to match recent trends. And it is not for her or his disciples to put down roots there as was intended, for their roots are already set in the Beloved who resides in paradise. They are pilgrims you see, and their residence, wherever it is, is a tent. They barely graze its structure.

It is not safe now for precious Masters to be outside the crowded tower blocks and urban sprawl. Gone are the…

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Radiating from a pure core: religions are dying

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Excessive rituals and doctrine are a sure sign that an organized religion is dying.  They are beautiful and even alluring and we may be tempted to believe that they will make deep changes in us.  But we are of the natural world and this kind of transformation brought about by exterior influences is completely unnatural. Some practitioners convince themselves that they are changed beyond their control.  But the reality is that only we can make changes in our view because the world does not exist if we do not view it. Real change must come from inside and radiate outwards into the physical, material, visual world.

Nothing happens in the outside world, the world beyond our skin as we perceive it, without some inner root cause or change.  Consequences.  Shadows. Effects.  All of these are the result of a stimulus in the unique consciousness of an individual.

We each have our unique ancient religion: that of the individual.

 

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Slither out of the dead skin of your past and future

Your past and yourfuture are like unwanted skin!  Rub them away with sharp awareness and slither into reality.  No past = no karma! 

Ego and persona with all their limitations are simply grooves etched by repetition and reaction into the mind  

so that our daily lives become like a laser that habitually falls into the groove and makes it ever deeper.

Awareness is the only virtue.  It is your true power so embody it.

Prowl with every hair into each moment of each waking interval in search of its very centre.

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Such awareness is a narrow bridge leading you out of the groove of necessity you have created into your unbounded True Nature, your absolute sincere heart.

Here and now you mirror each moment exactly as it is, and by doing so, you act and you laugh with relief.

Nothing else is needed.

                         

images courtesy of Mariko Kinoshita, Linden Thorp and megapixyl.com

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Beliefs

Your Lands, Stories and Songs

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Why do humans lay such store by what they believe? ‘Belief’ seems to be the ‘real thing:’ it has the weight that makes ‘opinion’ flippant.

It asserts that something is true or exists, even in the invisible or unknown, which is converted into ‘faith.’ Then, you are forced to choose between faith and no faith, and each has its social consequences. This is the paraphernalia of belief.

But what you believe is of the Mind, born from thoughts which die the moment they are thought. It is a complex delusion because there is no ‘I’ to believe, and no other ‘I’ to believe in.

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Belief is fretted with arguments and comes from ignorance: it is actually hiding what you do not know.

When you know something, you just-know.

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The moment ‘you,’ the ‘believer,’ disappear, the divine enters because reality is One, not two.

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6th Point of Atisha’s 7 Point Mind Training

Your Lands, Stories and Songs

1. Preliminaries

a) You are truth

b) Mind is Barrier

c) No-mind is the Door

2. Think that all phenomena are like Dreams

3. Examine the Nature of Unborn Awareness

4. Let the Remedy itself go free on its own

5. Settle in the Nature of basic Cognition, the essence. Relax. Do nothing.

Above are the first 5 points covered in previous daily posts. Read them calmly and swallow them into your unconscious mind. It is of no matter if you cannot ‘recall’ them or feel you ‘understand’ them completely: ‘recall’ and ‘understanding’ are functions of Mind and as we can see above, Mind is Barrier. Instead, just inhale the fragrance of them.

If you would like to see all the points in one article, then you can read Atisha’s training and my response (not commentary) at https://niume.com/post/212645; and http://lindenthorp.com/2017/01/04/atisha-and-the-7…-it-for-yourself/

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Point 6. Between Sessions consider Phenomena as…

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Soul Management: Atisha’s 3rd Point (7 Points of Mind Training)

Your Lands, Stories and Songs

Point 1: the 3 Preliminaries

a) You are Truth  (https://niume.com/post/213775)

b) Mind is Barrier (https://niume.com/post/214873)

c) No-mind is the Door (https://niume.com/post/215633)

Point 2: Think that all phenomena are like dreams (https://niume.com/post/216613)

Those are Atisha’s Points so far. Keep these gems close to your heart not in your memory like knowledge! Feel the effect they have as you read them once more.

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Point 3: Examine the Nature of Unborn Awareness

You have experienced going beyond subject and object now. Now you know there is more to existence than just knowledge and thoughts. You have a tiny glimpse of your higher mind, your consciousness, your full awareness – an unaccustomed feeling of awe, of the unknown perhaps.

Your awareness is a crystal mirror, so look deeply into it pushing yourself to be as aware as possible, and you will speed away from any habitual thinking…

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Soul Management: not priests or nuns!

Your Lands, Stories and Songs

We don’t need to become robed priests

or wimpled nuns to feel our true nature

and the sacred! We do not need to take vows,

to strap ourselves up with symbols,

and live in a cloister accountable to our superiors.

Our humanity is our creed and

our faith combined. Each breath is an

opportunity to experience it.

Humanity is our robes and regalia,

our bible and vajra.

Our church is ‘understanding’ and listening

to others with full sincerity. It has no walls

or boundaries, and there are no rewards for

good works at any time, except one –

the sheer joy of being fully alive and

awake each moment!

We need no mediators, no clerics or shamans,

to communicate with our own true nature,

and that is the way, that is the divine.

We are the dynamic pulsing way of pure love

and compassion! Religion is…

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The role of the past!


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The past is so forceful. It pulls us away from reality like the strongest of magnets. But it is dead; a dead weight; a burden. The past belongs in works of art so that it can be re-evaluated, re-visited. So that we can cease to identify with it as a part of our ‘self.’

It liberates us and makes more space for the present, for the ‘now-and-here!’ Tibetan Sand mandalas are painstakingly created with an inner bow for each grain and then abandoned to the master artist, the weather. This creation is witnessed by the universe, the visible and the invisible.

When we create art we can be assured that we have contributed a little of our unique minds and our spirits, a little of what we consider we ‘know,’ to the universe which we can never ‘know,’ without expecting rewards or benefits. This is real freedom.

 

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After all, we cannot desire the unknown, so we can give freely to it without any attachments, any strings. Desires – the future – are repetitious and delusional; and the past has been repeated so many times that it is easy, habitual, representing no challenge whatsoever.

All the challenges lie in the present as we navigate our lives as tenants through breaths which we borrow. Our spirits are the only authentic art – formless, divine, and indestructible.

 

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Two Angels

 

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Dawn is an eminently suitable time for angels to leave the down of quilt and pillow, to slip away from the smooth cotton snug, to move further than just turning over.  A loving observer said that your dark red eyelids showed thousands of glow-worm lights as they flickered.  Your luminous clavicle bones trembled, widening, and your swan neck grew long.

The pale sheet bandaged around your breasts slipped allowing dark, mystic nipples oratory and your spine became a shifting spire making scarecrows beneath the sheet.  Several kisses were captive on your argent forehead, but your eyelids could not be caught.

Your keeper told you that you had had a fit, convulsion, apoplexy, petit mal, grande mal.  Gave you the precise time and duration, the clinical description, of your episode.  Stopwatch.  Jotting down notes.  A part-time biologist. You told me, toying with a description like un-relished oysters or snails, and I knew.

“I move in and out of consciousness.  It is timeless.  I am ashamed.”

As a dark-haired angel child you were never alone for the legion Sistine blue butterflies which lived in the orbs of your huge blue eyes may carry you off somewhere at any moment.  Your father held on hard to you when you blinked and walked with you into sleep until the butterfly wings were paired and still beneath the surface of your eye-lid lakes of heliotrope. Then, pale with watching, he would imagine your sleep, never knowing that your head was filled with moon-crazed creatures.

When you heard him pad away with worried steps, you would get up to let them out of the skylight in the hallway, listening for the moon.  As they dotted up into the stars, you compared the constellation in your head with that beyond the glass.

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Your life was filled with trees which you collected behind your eyes.  Eventually you had enough to plant out the pattern of stars in your head.  This tree chart which you often looked at was designed to be a forest of sound.  The breeze would rustle through many different species of leaves, and the wind would resound around the carefully positioned trunks, the excited air silvering through uncountable spruce needles, cymbaling birch leaves, tinkling the berries of rowan and holly. 

You would stare up from the ground looking through thin clouds and tree vapour, your eyes dangling azure fruit on very long stems, or sometimes a pair of errant bluebells in late summer.

Later, you would plant out your own tree garden to make a map of the world.  Moscow. Budapest. Delhi, all with the appropriate tree.  You were not daring enough to use the constellations of your childhood, but there is still time for that.

The huge shiny Bechstein piano took charge of most of your young years.  It was very difficult to get you away from its big body; your dextrous fingers constantly summoning sounds from the slim, smooth keys.  They were your white friends who carried around younger black siblings which you tolerated.

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Your intent eyes stained the manuscript with their blueness because you read on and on, hour after hour. And when your eyes began to flicker, your fingers learned to stay still while your mind extemporized blissful forays into your sound garden.  Then your fingers would go on as if nothing had happened.

Sometimes you would sit under the piano and flicker the pink and blue, and your mind would fly up into the dark vault of strings.  You would lie with your disheveled head on the sustaining pedal so that the inter-stellar hum would go on forever, or until some meddler came and insisted that you climb up on the huge leather stool with its buttoned hills and valleys to play something soothing. 

As soon as you were alone again you would climb down and yelp up into the strings, hungry for harmonics, marveling at the coarse copper of the bass notes, the triplets of wire for the treble.

You.  A listening creature.  A honeycomb of receptive cavities.  A gentle twinkle of star.  Breathing. Flickering the minute muscle screws of the membrane in your ear, tightening or loosening the skins as you pleased. Later, they wanted you to read and write about sound.  Paragraphs.  Letters.  Ruled pages.  Wanted you to turn sounds into history, morality, even to make politics out of it. 

You left the university in haste, going alone, unsafe, to flicker in the bottom of the domes of Florence.  Frescos were your cushions and clouds into which you bedded.  Your eyes always played the part of angels, sexless, weightless, circling close around the Madonnas, your fingers deftly activating spheres of coloured sound.

You left your first love behind.  A Rasputin who draped his gigantic beard across your white belly and shared his opium pipe with you.  He had travelled a little way into your world by this means but he hadn’t learned listening and how talk was only the voice playing with shadows.

You have learned to flicker at your will now, standing in the well of the Duomo, flying up into your dreams, or diving into memories if you desired. But always preferring the dark softness of Now, your senses working at full pelt.

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Then one day you thought that the coloured patterns and pitch of your messages were received. 

Far across the great dark dome in which you had been always alone, aware only of your trees and of walking again and again through huge mirrors, suddenly you saw other flickering, glistening eyes.  They were blue but darker.  Beneath the eyes, long dark fingers were operating vessels of sound, only some of which you recognized.  Above, a head was slightly bowed, intent, listening unmistaken and beautifully.

There were wisps and sibilances of a struggle for breath as the two beings realized they were no longer alone.  Their throats became blocked, crammed with sapphire spangles of tears of joy.  Only a thin trickle of air passed through which prompted strange intermittent sounds.  Breath-speech.

There were many diversions through mirrors before the two beings approached each other.  In time they held each other’s faces in long lit fingers.  Their neat hair became disheveled, blurred, and their commingled sounds were sustained into eternity.  They spluttered out colours from the octaves of their spines through the tiny trap-doors in their porcelain throats.

Dawn was an eminently suitable time for the commingling of two angels.

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images courtesy of Megapixyl.com and Mariko Kinoshita