Heads up pride
Earth down humble
Not bought by money and fame
To you, ever eternal Guru Rinpoche
I give my fickle heart
And sing: Diamonds.
A SONG OF LONGING TO THE GURUView Post
ROSE GARDENView Post
We began by viewing each other as enemies and ended up holding hands—a young college student and a broken soldier holding hands together in the brightness of early winter. I give his story to you now because it’s all I can do to relieve the heavy tenderness I still feel for him to this day.
Uncover your true self, why are you so disheartened? Even this endless time is looking, for your essence! Chains of perceptions, preconceived ideas, that have bounded you as garments. Melt and make them swords. You are unshakable as a mountain. Vast as a sky. Still, why you are in such a state? All this time you clung to ideas, fears, worry. Made them anchor, attached to belief of others. Saw yourself from their eyes, wanting them to like you.
Article about the painter Yayoi Kusama: Each part of the cosmos is reflective of the whole, like the sparkling jewels in Indra’s Net, our capacity to experience this infinitude eventually becomes exceedingly clear and unhindered. Connecting the dots, from Indra’s Net to the Infinity Nets, the fabric of the universe can be perceived and experienced as one and the same.
My teacher, Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, a Tibetan Buddhist Mahamudra, Dzogchen meditation master and artist, was the most profound teacher of life, art, and mind. I received pointing out instructions from him which brings the investigation and recognition of mind’s flawless nature into personal experience cutting through conceptual obscurations, that is our endless, dualistic thoughts and emotions. My abstract contemplative art practice is completely informed by these realizations.
ABIDE AND MOVEView Post
MILAREPA: SONG OF MEETING AND PARTINGView Post
As fuming smoke whirls around their faces, it takes on the flickering shapes of a myriad of demons who brush against them leaving slimy traces of spit and mucus. Black demons with crows’ heads, human bodies and iron wings fly nearby past, carrying naked writhing corpses in their iron beaks. Phosphorescent green owls with the faces of old women and talons of bronze hoot as they rip brains out of skulls. Vultures red as embers with bloody claws at the end of their muscular human arms pull the entrails from screaming people not yet dead.