Deep below the surface, a wash of insight lay, an unspeakable presence of self sits untouched by the outward variations of the world. This mysterious pearl of pure self is wrapped in bodily architecture which has slowly assembled itself over the years from the wild resources of life that muse abundantly and constantly. To reach this embedded purity is a marvelous task or possibly just the opposite. To sit slowly with the weathered self is to beget the innocent self that glows below the wear. It is pre-child, pre-knowledge, unburdened with neither sadness nor happiness, an all consuming curiosity that hasn’t the slightest idea of how to protect itself. For it does not have to. It need only be.

At this point, there is no structure, no form, no state, nothing to measure or connote, only essence – an internal permanence that illuminates the impermanence of the external. It has no hunger, no needs, no defiance. It is uniform and luminous, indecipherable and lucid. It cannot be known, cannot be named and is not distinct. It is the former and the latter, the most subtle and most substantial. Nature speaks to it, tends to it, lends to its permanence. All forgiving, all resolved, fundament to all. Silent and resounding, the heat of a desert, the cold of space.

And so… to let it breath below the tides of experience, we let its mystery become us and lark at the intersection of worlds, full and frolicking, delicately dancing between theory and evidence. So softly it plays, greets life, and shares its spirit – it is kindred to everything. A gentle breeze lets it sail, to spark the dim, to lift the low, and to lighten the heavy. All things mingle and move, the tides are always, and tis only the wind that will take us. And the mist sits sweetly behind the ears…