POEM

Some long to hear a “channeled message” from Mary Magdalene. But Mary Magdalene doesn't channel words. She channels tears.


Her tears do not drop down from above. They well up from an unfathomable dark spring inside you.


Are they tears of pain or tears of joy? Is there a difference? You must choose. They are your tears now. Perhap

Some long to hear a “channeled message” from Mary Magdalene. But Mary Magdalene doesn't channel words. She channels tears.


Her tears do not drop down from above. They well up from an unfathomable dark spring inside you.


Are they tears of pain or tears of joy? Is there a difference? You must choose. They are your tears now. Perhaps all tears are made of her bittersweet myrrh.  


Mary speaks no message from the past, no message for the future. She is the message, gazing back from the radiant night of the mirror I AM.


Mary is not an archetype. She is a Person. She is not a symbol of some deeper truth. She is Truth. And her wildest passion is for you to become Truth too.


Mary is the vessel of Divine Silence. Without a sound she pours more wisdom through a single breath than 10,000 verses of scripture could contain.


Ascended masters descend from a higher plane to meet you, creating the illusion of distance. But Mary has no need to descend. She is already here.


The Magdalene is not above, but below. You must bow down to meet her, touch your forehead to the loam, scent the musk of fungi and the wine of toadstools.


Teaching no esoteric doctrine, she simply wants you to re-member your body.  


Jesus and Mary are not ancient stories. You will never discover them in history, or herstory. Their Presence outshines the past as the first ray of dawn outshines a candle.


Are they not wingéd serpents of Wisdom and Beauty, entangled on the Tree of Life in your spine, the lunar and solar currents of your own up-spiraling delight?


Do they not burst from your crown as a fountain of splendor, clothing each atom of dust with rose and violet rays blended in the royal garment of your flesh?


You hear their wedding song, not in language, but in sighs, wondrous sudden inhalations, held breaths of bewilderment whispering:


“Take, eat, this is your body. Nourish yourself with divine joy. You are the radiance you've been praying to.”


Now is the time to take back your happiness. Give up the false humility that separates the Christ I AM from your own I AM.

Awaken, this is truth. You say "I am" with no less Being and Presence than God.


Mary became the first of the apostles, the apostle to the apostles, because she was the audacious one, the impertinent one, the wild and equal companion who spoke with the same I AM as her Beloved.


Where is the Bridal Chamber of Jesus and Mary? In your chest. Pulsing with ananda, their imperial bedchamber is your solar plexus.


Their kingdom is your physiology, the cosmos their effulgence. Matter is made of their love-sparks.


Let this secret spill out of your eyes. Let your gaze sing the nuptial hymn: “Christ I Am. Magdalene I breathe.


"Lover and Beloved entwined in my vagus nerve, one love, one nectar, fermented on the vine;


“Winding up the trellis of my vertebrae, giving birth to the Pluroma, they fractal forth the vast and infinitesimal alike, the inward and outward as One;


“Galaxies, neutrinos, hosts of angels, animal guides with tawny fur, the dazzling fecund glory of the biosphere, countless worlds suspended like dust in the golden sunbeam of my body."

F LaMotte