They say sugar can numb the lasting after-effects of a medicine ceremony, but if there's anything I learned last night, it's that NOW is the time to eat a chocolate-covered strawberry. It's that there are no wrong decisions, that lying down, sitting up, peeing, shitting, puking, and singing, are all the same.

Exactly the same. Every single movement, or lack of movement, is a dance with God. Sometimes an awkward, seventh grade, spend-two-hours-trying-to-build-up-the-nerve-to-ask-her kind of dance, where you bashfully shuffle your feet around the gymnasium floor, avoiding eye contact at all costs. Sometimes a fire dance, an achingly slow poi exploration with nobody watching, the burning Light tracing arcs of heat over your bare shoulders, again and again until the sound goes out, the kerosene is finished, and you are left in darkness, breathing heavy like a pair of lovers, still sweaty, intertwined, and inside one another. And other times an East Coast Lindy Hop, a spinning, turning, kicking ball of laughter, you in suspenders and wingtips and the Beloved, laughing so hard as you flip Her that tears race down Her face and drip onto Her polka-dotted dress, while Duike Ellington faithfully belts out "It Don't Mean a Thing if it Aint Got That Swing."

Everything you do is Sacred. Everything. Every teeny, tiny, itsy-bitsy little thing you do, is Sacred. When you realize that Light is everywhere, that everything you touch is overflowing with God's Graceful Giggles, you see that even washing the dishes a kitchen water-fight with the Friend, making the dish suds into big Moses beards and spitting water at each other, not even thinking what Mom's gonna say when she gets home and finds the mess. You see that kissing someone, kissing anyone, is meeting the Beloved's lips. That laying your hand on someone's back as they purge into a bucket in a Tipi Village in Goa is no different from reaching out and taking God's hand, squeezing it, telling Him, "You and me are in this together. What you feel is also mine."

My fingers and my hands
never move through empty space,
for there are
invisible golden lute strings all around,
sending Resplendent Chords
Throughout the Universe.

And Hafiz. Hafiz, the teacher of teachers, the Guide, the Tavern's Barman. All night long, pouring Light into a spoon, and again and again, raising it to nourish my beautiful, parched, holy mouth. Yesterday, it was "The Warrior," describing a hero, sitting in a circle with other men, gathering the strength to unmask himself. And during the night i finally, FINALLY felt what you meant, as I stumbled around celebrating everything I could lay my hands on, I finally felt exactly what you meant when you said that you and God are like two giant fat people, living in a tiny boat.

Bumping into each other, and laughing.

And this morning, as everyone seemed to return to stillness. The cries, the laughter, the sounds of purging and whispering, singing and crying, all faded and I felt like the only one awake on Earth, my fellow warriors finally resting after the night's great Victory. I took The GIft under a palm tree with a lamp underneath, and sank to my knees. No questions this time, just an open attitude, an open ear. I lay my hand on the book's cover, adorned with Sonia's Arabic calligraphy and the oil from countless fingertips. I chose a page, eyes still closed. page 187...

TIRED OF SPEAKING SWEETLY

Love wants to reach out and manhandle us.
Break all our teacup talk of God.

If you had the courage and
Could give the Beloved His choice, some nights,
He would just drag you around the room
By your hair,
Ripping from your grip all those toys in the world
That bring you no joy.

Love sometimes gets tired of speaking sweetly
And wants to rip to shreds
All your erroneous notions of truth

That make you fight within yourself, dear one,
And with others,

Causing the world to weep
On too many fine days.

God wants to manhandle us,
Lock us inside a tiny room with Himself
And practice His dropkick.

The Beloved sometimes wants
To do us a great favor:

Hold us upside down
And shake all the nonsense out.

But when we hear
He is in such a 'playful drunken mood'

Most everyone I know
Quickly packs their bags and hightails it
Out of town.


Not me, not this time. This time I stayed. I heard a rumor that Grandmother was here, here in one of those moods, and so I got ready to see her again. I changed my diet. I changed my yoga practice. I fasted. I showered, shaved, flossed, and brushed. I trimmed my nails and put on my cleanest clothes. I brought flowers. I welcomed her with Te de Coca, tobacco juice, and Palo Santo. I sat in a circle, framed by a bamboo pyramid, and asked her to teach me about Love. I approached the shaman, knelt before his altar, and listened to him breathe into the Cup.

And I drank.