Singers and dancers and running backs work it for a living, but ashtangis would make it a mystery.
It is hydraulic-pneumatic. It switches on and off. It exists in the world.
It is the flopping fish in a wise man’s throat, and the Boschian flowers that sprout from his down-dog when the coccyx does the thing that brings delight.
It is the source of earthly bliss? (Is it more than earthly?)
Some teachers will tell you it is the source of delusion! The maker of unconscious dead dreams. A temptress, perhaps?
It’s wound up in snake lore, for sure.
What is it?
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Oddly today ESJ sent this:
The mind is like a serpent, forgetting all its unsteadiness by hearing the nada, it does not run away anywhere.
Hathayogapradipika 96
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P.S. For those who have written to say that reading this journal makes you crazy: Well, writing it makes me sane. What do you do?
It's really not that weird. And if I open the text by force, it’ll become an energy drain for me instead of an energy release. You know how that works.
Don’t get me wrong: it is only hyperactivity and good intentions. No truth-claims! Nothing serious. And nothing suspicious except for other people's secrets. (Lauging.)
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