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now is the time (thoughts from dead, naked + crazy word-slingers)


Now is the time to know
That all you do is sacred.

Now, why not consider
A lasting truce with yourself and God.

Now is the time to understand
That all your ideas of right and wrong
Were just a child’s training wheels
To be laid aside
When you can finally live
With veracity
And love.

Hafiz is a divine envoy
Whom the Beloved
Has written a holy message upon.

My dear, please tell me,
Why do you still
Throw sticks at your heart
And God?

What is it in that sweet voice inside
That incites you to fear?

Now is the time for the world to know
That every thought and action is sacred.

This is the time
For you to deeply compute the impossibility
That there is anything
But Grace.

Now is the season to know
That everything you do
Is sacred.


if you don’t know of Hafiz, he’s the crazy cohort and inspiration of Rumi (the rather famous 13th Century mystic poet).  Rumi’s the more well-known one, although Hafiz is the reason Rumi got all Divine-Love Crazed in the first place and couldn’t help but speak beautiful love haikus and epic devotional tales all about it.

i often think that if Hafiz was alive today, he might look (and act) like that guy with the really long dirty beard on the corner, spouting poetry enthusiastically at the pigeons, his grungy backpack his only possession.  that guy, when you see and hear him, you might cross the street, just to be sure.

another contemporary of Hafiz and Rumi was a woman poetess who chose to wear no clothing, Lalla. his poems are just as feisty as Rumi’s and Hafiz’s, all about the worldly ecstasy of communing with the Divine.  if Lalla was alive today, she might look like the dreadlocked, bare-breasted mama rocking out to the drum circle at the street fair.  that lady, that in your head you might label either brave and beautiful – or a hussie.

in fact, if Buddha was alive today, in his pre-fame era, he’d be that weirdo nerdy guy in high school that didn’t say much of anything, and just sat … and sat … and sat … under the tree in the yard.  and you might wonder, from your table flecked with safe comrades, if he was special or just sorta slow.

like Joan Osborne said, what if god was one of us?  what if the seemingly weird, colorful, odd-ball and out there, were portals to mystical wisdom and wormholes to sacred love?  what if they too were tattooed by the searing embers of the Divine?

maybe instead of crossing the street, keeping your distance, or letting your mind stop with the finality of its judgment (there are other options after judgment), you’d lean in close.  you’d get curious for their story.  you’d search their eyes for the stamp of All-Holy, because if god’s among us, and i’m sure she/he/it is, her/his/its sense of humor would indicate that she/he/it would show up in the most unlikely of places.

so, your mission, should you choose to accept it:

:: look the super market checker in the eye and beam love into his/her heart.

:: listen to the street poet’s words as if encoded with a message for you from on high.

:: shake your ass a little bit as you pass by the drum circle disco, and see if you can’t feel your own kundalini rising.

to Love in all his/her/its forms,

PS: yeah, yeah, yeah, LiYana; love yourself and stop fighting with yourself, but HOW?

that’s the whole point of my mentorship program, Meant To Be: The Mastermind, my 6-month beaut of a high-touch program. Check it out.

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