T U R N
O F T H E
T I D E

What is washed away as the waves roll out at the shore?
What keeps you afloat?
Do you feel the waters of the soul synchronize with the cycle of the moon in your orbit?

H I G H A N D L O W

yet still the same,
neither coming nor going,
fluid and lively,
with the turning of time.

To my fellow ladies out there - are you aware of the magical powers in your hair? ✨🌙

Long hair, beyond being a symbol of freedom and strength, has the potential to wield energizing and pacifying power.

Depending on the cultivation of the bearer, their overflow of life energy can accumulate in their hair, dripping from the crown and seeping into the protected treasure we each carry on our heads. You wouldn't let just anyone touch that.

Gifting a lock of hair to someone or allowing their touch is extremely special and a gesture of devotion and trust.

So take good care of your energetic secret...

- Wash according to your bodys needs, but as minimally as possible
(+ low ingredient products, ideally organic)
- massage scalp with organic olive oil from time to time
- wear protective styles (e.g. braids, a neatly twisted bun)
- brush regularly
- wear your hair tied/up/wrapped at night
- NO heat whatsoever
- minimal maintenance cut every 6-12 months
- eat well
- get sun

May your locks be happy and healthy! 🤍

In all chaos there is a cosmos, in all disorder a secret order.
— Carl Jung

When the atoms glare at you
May they pass through
You are Them

There's no need to grasp at what is already there
And no need for aversion against the elements of Form

When fear glares at you
May it pass through
You are not it

There's no need to grasp at an Illusion
And no need for aversion against the concept of an illusory experience

🙏🏻🤍

Tantric Evolution

Amid obscuration, practice uncovers pure ground.
Amid recognition, the practice a spontaneous display.

Before we see, we are deity forgetting our nature.
After we see, phenomenal forms: the deity's game.

The performance of the ritual and the deity invoked,
Here, subject and object: an indivisible awareness.

Confidence dawns; I assume the form to remember.
Recognition deepens; the face and mask are not two.

Before knowing: samaya; a vow guarded with vigilance.
After knowing: the uncontrived integrity of awareness.

Action without strain; no claimant to have authored.
Mudra, mantra, visualization arise; yet who acts?

A seeing practitioner engages, as if, bound by rules,
while abiding in the certainty of absolute freedom.

No tension between effort and effortlessness;
preparation, execution, dissolution: one taste.

Realization matures into unerring conduct.
Ritual fully alive, fully free; its emptiness seen.

Awareness displays: concealment and revealment.
The fire burns bright; a smirk gives way to laughter.

I wink at the dakini and she winks back blushing.
Still, silent, yet aroused: neither has batted an eye.

Like a lover who, after a long exile, finally beholds her beloved and is lifted into motion before thought can intervene, rushing to embrace the companion whom she has loved in the innermost chambers of her heart, so too the soul rises on wings of yearning and delight, hastening toward reunion with the One, her eternal Sun.

Spleen et Idéal. Carlos Schwabe, Symbolist, 1907.

Realize the profundity of the quiet.
Right here, right now.

You, Holy Hunter

In your eyes, the designs of a billion stars.
Aflame and roiling by the light of your inevitability,
which had across aeons pierced,
at last,
into my darkest centre,
like an arrow strung from the very arc of God.

And your wound unto me commanded that ultimate transgression,
of all they had blessed with sanctity unbroken,
to be broken and bled and opened,
irreparably to the face of a pregnant world,
who looked at me with the designs of a billion stars.

In your eyes, I foresaw time was simply ended.
For your point, o’ holy hunter, had nailed me in place,
to be opened and bled and broken,
that from your inevitability I could move naught,
neither toward nor from what you had strung aeons ago.

And my wound unto me begged to be touched with ultimate transgression,
by all you had blessed against the border of the known,
the world who’s face became increasingly foreign,
as I was made irreparable and then saw only…

In your eyes, the designs of a billion stars.
Aflame and roiling by the light of your inevitability,
which had across aeons pierced,
at last,
into my darkest centre,
like an arrow strung from the very arc of God.