Life Lessons in a Time of War, 3

Cling to something and you have already lost it. An embrace is all the grasp you need. A touch is the mark of love; clutching is the way of oppression.

Turn on the television, and then shut it down. See how much of life remains unbroadcast, and let that be the guide of your life's movement.

When you can talk to god and be heard—when you pour the wine of eternity into the chalice of Mind, realizing that it's your mind—then the evening news becomes a poem read by a machine.

Never walk down the stairs with a hand in your pocket. Look all ways before crossing—there are more than two. Infinitely more.

Before you read or watch the news each day, listen for the voice of change within yourself. What child has been born? What devil dispatched? What remains undisclosed, obscured by the dust of culture? Whose voice is repressed, and what garish light prevents you from seeing clearly?

Do not punish your demons. Just discard them. Death is not the end of life; it is the beginning of transformation. When you kill a demon, you give birth to an angel. Do this every day, in the moonlit solitude of god.

When you have discovered a treasure, such as a truth, show the universe what you have. Tell god, but speak to no one.

Share what is yours as if you are returning something. Spell god without a capital g.

When you take a shower, place your light-body under the stream. In winter, let your hair grow as long as it will; for no one is completely bald by nature. Meanwhile, strip off the beard that the tricksters planted on the face of god.

Rebel noiselessly to conformity—but not against it. If you strive to obtain anything, you are consuming your self. A consumptive body cannot breathe; a consumptive soul cannot expand.

Kill an imp a day. This is very important, though you needn't be impulsive about it. For that would impair your presence and impugn your nature. You may never be Ideal, but you are never imperfect.

Make every day a rite of spring—a carnal festival of merging flesh—and the stinking breath of perversion will dissipate, around and within you. A penis is not stiff except when forced by death; otherwise it is supple and alive—the stem of the nightflower that has been horribly misnamed Vagina (the sheath to the sword).

Give things names that resound with your truth, that further animate your lived moment of being. For while it is not blasphemy to call nature an enemy or a slave, it is the height of emotional incompetence. Firmly refuse to use language against nature, or intelligence against god.

Talk to poets regularly, even if someone tells you they are dead. A poet is never dead, and poetry never mysterious or supernatural. Poetry is merely god with a woman's shape, a child's look, a lover's breath.