​If I began the story in the middle
you might be able to smell the nixtamal, the earthy lime
of corn masa, and the tortillas rising on the comal, warm
hands flipping them into being. You might be able to feel
the spot where my long golden ribbon pierces the crust
of the Earth, thrust down through oceans and tectonic plates
even before they were dreamed into existence, looped
and woven into the shape that holds it all into place. You might hear
the rushing of feathers slicing air as thousands of angels fall
through the gap in space that birthed it all into view, each one
bringing a thread to the weaving of life, the matrix of this new world.
You might smell the smoke of the tlecuil, the oven in which life
is cooked into living, matter kneaded into feeling, formed
and pressed with fingers, breathed upon, gazed upon, made
to be something new, something transformed
from nothing to this. And here we live now, in the whole
of creation, remembering, forgetting,
and remembering again, nestling into the weft
of the fibers, yearning to be touched
by her hands again.

​ - Emily Grieves

​Once we were witches
We drew all things
Within the circle 
Because all things,
Including No things, are
Within the circle. 
We drew all into
The magical corridor
Between the heart and the
Belly. We allowed all and
No things to whisper
Their true names
In their many languages. 
All and no things told us
Stories in pictures,
That pierced
The veil of dreaming,
The dream of secrets,
Not secrets after all, but
Life hidden in plain and 
Perfect sight. 

Once we were witches
And told the stories
Given us in that magic
Corridor, between heart and belly,
To heal and soothe
All and no things which
Include beings, human and
Others. But our sight,
Made dim or blinded

By other stories,
Shouted by those who
Wanted the circle
Made smaller. Our sight
Went dark in their fires’
Dense, deadly smoke.
The voices choked, silenced,
and we, who once were

Witches came to believe the circle
Small, a place of precious few,
While outside, the many asked
For alms, believed the stories
Told between the eyes.

Still, all and no things,
Of which we are part,
Find their insistent way to
That place between heart
And belly. Whispering,
They remind us of what
We fear to see, lest the burning
Begin again. 

        - Rebecca del Rio

Inside this new love, die.
Your way begins on the other side.
Become the sky.
Take an axe to the prison wall.
Escape.
Walk out like somebody suddenly born
​into color.
Do it now.
You're covered with thick cloud.
Slide out the side.  Die,
and be quiet.  Quietness is the surest sign
that you've died.
Your old life was a frantic running
from silence.

The speechless full moon
comes out now.

    - Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks

I commend my Spirit unto the Grace of the Great Way
Whether consciously or not,
this has always been the doorway to liberation.

All you lovers of truth
And all you true lovers
I tell you, now is the time to be done with it
Wash your battle-scarred hands in this Presence among us

Cast off your warrior clothing, and slip into your night slippers
Untie your hair or cut it off
The Holy One is present
And doesn’t care where you’ve been
Or what you’ve done
Or what you are doing now

Commend all of yourself - body, mind and spirit - to this Grace
And then, slip out into the night air, into the
waiting
quivering
birth
of this Golden Heart

Lean down now, like wet green grass
and kiss the bottoms of your feet.

​    - Adyashanti