A Thousand Petals Quotes

Rose petals of a thousand shades fall from the trees as Golds fight beneath them. They're all red in the end.

I will use a flower petal for paper, And write you the sweetest letter, You are the sultan of my heart, Sultan of my heart.

Somewhere someone thinks they love someone else exactly like I love you. Somewhere someone shakes from the ripple of a thousand butterflies inside a single stomach. Somewhere someone is packing their bags to see the world with someone else. Somewhere someone is reaching through the most terrifying few feet of space to hold the hand of someone else. Somewhere someone is watching someone else’s chest rise and fall with the breath of slumber. Somewhere someone is pouring ink like blood onto pages fighting to say the truth that has no words. Somewhere someone is waiting patient but exhausted to just be with someone else. Somewhere someone is opening their eyes to a sunrise in someplace they have never seen. Somewhere someone is pulling out the petals twisting the apple stem picking up the heads up penny rubbing the rabbits foot knocking on wood throwing coins into fountains hunting for the only clover with only 4 leaves skipping over the cracks snapping the wishbone crossing their fingers blowing out the candles sending dandelion seeds into the air ushering eyelashes off their thumbs finding the first star and waiting for 11:11 on their clock to spend their wishes on someone else. Somewhere someone is saying goodbye but somewhere someone else is saying hello. Somewhere someone is sharing their first or their last kiss with their or no longer their someone else. Somewhere someone is wondering if how they feel is how the other they feels about them and if both theys could ever become a they together. Somewhere someone is the decoder ring to all of the great mysteries of life for someone else. Somewhere someone is the treasure map. Somewhere someone thinks they love someone else exactly like I love you. Somewhere someone is wrong.

Enlightenment is blossoming the thousand petaled lotus flower on the top of the head.

Don’t go outside your house to see the flowers. My friend, don’t bother with that excursion. Inside your body there are flowers. One flower has a thousand petals. That will do for a place to sit. Sitting there you will have a glimpse of beauty inside the body and out of it, before gardens and after gardens.

Fireflies out on a warm summer's night, seeing the urgent, flashing, yellow-white phosphorescence below them, go crazy with desire; moths cast to the winds an enchantment potion that draws the opposite sex, wings beating hurriedly, from kilometers away; peacocks display a devastating corona of blue and green and the peahens are all aflutter; competing pollen grains extrude tiny tubes that race each other down the female flower's orifice to the waiting egg below; luminescent squid present rhapsodic light shows, altering the pattern, brightness and color radiated from their heads, tentacles, and eyeballs; a tapeworm diligently lays a hundred thousand fertilized eggs in a single day; a great whale rumbles through the ocean depths uttering plaintive cries that are understood hundreds of thousands of kilometers away, where another lonely behemoth is attentively listening; bacteria sidle up to one another and merge; cicadas chorus in a collective serenade of love; honeybee couples soar on matrimonial flights from which only one partner returns; male fish spray their spunk over a slimy clutch of eggs laid by God-knows-who; dogs, out cruising, sniff each other's nether parts, seeking erotic stimuli; flowers exude sultry perfumes and decorate their petals with garish ultraviolet advertisements for passing insects, birds, and bats; and men and women sing, dance, dress, adorn, paint, posture, self-mutilate, demand, coerce, dissemble, plead, succumb, and risk their lives. To say that love makes the world go around is to go too far. The Earth spins because it did so as it was formed and there has been nothing to stop it since. But the nearly maniacal devotion to sex and love by most of the plants, animals, and microbes with which we are familiar is a pervasive and striking aspect of life on Earth. It cries out for explanation. What is all this in aid of? What is the torrent of passion and obsession about? Why will organisms go without sleep, without food, gladly put themselves in mortal danger for sex? ... For more than half the history of life on Earth organisms seem to have done perfectly well without it. What good is sex?... Through 4 billion years of natural selection, instructions have been honed and fine-tuned...sequences of As, Cs, Gs, and Ts, manuals written out in the alphabet of life in competition with other similar manuals published by other firms. The organisms become the means through which the instructions flow and copy themselves, by which new instructions are tried out, on which selection operates. 'The hen,' said Samuel Butler, 'is the egg's way of making another egg.' It is on this level that we must understand what sex is for. ... The sockeye salmon exhaust themselves swimming up the mighty Columbia River to spawn, heroically hurdling cataracts, in a single-minded effort that works to propagate their DNA sequences into future generation. The moment their work is done, they fall to pieces. Scales flake off, fins drop, and soon--often within hours of spawning--they are dead and becoming distinctly aromatic. They've served their purpose. Nature is unsentimental. Death is built in.

Why are there such long words in the world, Miss?’ enquires Sophie, when the mineralogy lesson is over. ‘One long difficult word is the same as a whole sentence full of short easy ones, Sophie,’ says Sugar. ‘It saves time and paper.’ Seeing that the child is unconvinced, she adds, ‘If books were written in such a way that every person, no matter how young, could understand everything in them, they would be enormously long books. Would you wish to read a book that was a thousand pages long, Sophie?’ Sophie answers without hesitation. ‘I would read a thousand million pages, Miss, if all the words were words I could understand.

She still took my breath away with how beautiful she was. “Hei, Poppymin,” I said and sat on the edge of her bed. “Hey, baby,” she replied, her voice now barely above a whisper. I brought my hand to hers and pressed a kiss to her mouth. Poppy smiled and melted my heart. A loud gust of wind blew past the window, whistling against the glass. Poppy inhaled sharply. I turned to see what she was seeing. A mass of blossom petals went sailing in the wind. “They’re leaving…,” she said. I closed my eyes briefly. It was apt that Poppy left the same day that the cherry blossoms lost their petals too. They were guiding her soul home.

In your body is the garden of flowers. Take your seat on the thousand petals of the lotus, and there gaze on the Infinite Beauty.

Alton nodded. “But why did we have to wait for the cherry blossoms to come out first?” Taking a deep breath, I explained, “Because Poppymin was just like the cherry blossom, Alt. She only had a short life, like they do, but the beauty that she brought in that time will never ever be forgotten. Because nothing so beautiful can last forever. She was a blossom petal, a butterfly … a shooting star … she was perfect … her life was short … but she was mine.” I took in a breath and whispered finally, “Just as I was hers.

They looked for all the world like miniaturized rose petals drained of their color. These pale petals were gathering in the wind like flocking birds—thousands of them, like a spring snowstorm.

There is a whirlwind in southern Morocco, the aajej, against which the fellahin defend themselves with knives. There is the africo, which has at times reached into the city of Rome. The alm, a fall wind out of Yugoslavia. The arifi, also christened aref or rifi, which scorches with numerous tongues. These are permanent winds that live in the present tense. There are other, less constant winds that change direction, that can knock down horse and rider and realign themselves anticlockwise. The bist roz leaps into Afghanistan for 170 days--burying villages. There is the hot, dry ghibli from Tunis, which rolls and rolls and produces a nervous condition. The haboob--a Sudan dust storm that dresses in bright yellow walls a thousand metres high and is followed by rain. The harmattan, which blows and eventually drowns itself into the Atlantic. Imbat, a sea breeze in North Africa. Some winds that just sigh towards the sky. Night dust storms that come with the cold. The khamsin, a dust in Egypt from March to May, named after the Arabic word for 'fifty,' blooming for fifty days--the ninth plague of Egypt. The datoo out of Gibraltar, which carries fragrance. There is also the ------, the secret wind of the desert, whose name was erased by a king after his son died within it. And the nafhat--a blast out of Arabia. The mezzar-ifoullousen--a violent and cold southwesterly known to Berbers as 'that which plucks the fowls.' The beshabar, a black and dry northeasterly out of the Caucasus, 'black wind.' The Samiel from Turkey, 'poison and wind,' used often in battle. As well as the other 'poison winds,' the simoom, of North Africa, and the solano, whose dust plucks off rare petals, causing giddiness. Other, private winds. Travelling along the ground like a flood. Blasting off paint, throwing down telephone poles, transporting stones and statue heads. The harmattan blows across the Sahara filled with red dust, dust as fire, as flour, entering and coagulating in the locks of rifles. Mariners called this red wind the 'sea of darkness.' Red sand fogs out of the Sahara were deposited as far north as Cornwall and Devon, producing showers of mud so great this was also mistaken for blood. 'Blood rains were widely reported in Portugal and Spain in 1901.' There are always millions of tons of dust in the air, just as there are millions of cubes of air in the earth and more living flesh in the soil (worms, beetles, underground creatures) than there is grazing and existing on it. Herodotus records the death of various armies engulfed in the simoom who were never seen again. One nation was 'so enraged by this evil wind that they declared war on it and marched out in full battle array, only to be rapidly and completely interred.

The campus, an academy of trees, under which some hand, the wind's I guess, had scattered the pale light of thousands of spring beauties, petals stained with pink veins; secret, blooming for themselves. We sat among them. Your long fingers, thin body, and long bones of improbable genius; some scattered gene as Kafka must have had. Your deep voice, this passing dust of miracles. That simple that was myself, half conscious, as though each moment was a page where words appeared; the bent hammer of the type struck against the moving ribbon. The light air, the restless leaves; the ripple of time warped by our longing. There, as if we were painted by some unknown impressionist.

Hundreds of thousands of terrified refugees were escaping to France, where a campaign of fear and hatred awaited them.

By means of microscopic observation and astronomical projection the lotus flower can become the foundation for an entire theory of the universe and an agent whereby we may perceive the Truth. And first we must know that each of the petals has eighty-four thousand veins and that each vein gives eighty-four thousand lights.

I see his eyes where petals part tired, remote, another coast.

Don’t go outside your house to see the flowers. My friend, don’t bother with that excursion. Inside your body there are flowers. One flower has a thousand petals. That will do for a place to sit.

Because nothing so beautiful can last forever. She was a blossom petal, a butterfly … a shooting star … she was perfect … her life was short … but she was mine.” I took in a breath and whispered finally, “Just as I was hers.

I see that this body—made of the four elements—is not really me, and I am not limited by this body. I am the whole of the river of life, of blood ancestors and spiritual ancestors, that has been continuously flowing for thousands of years and flows on for thousands of years into the future. I am one with my ancestors and my descendants. I am life manifesting in countless different forms. I am one with all people and all species, whether they are peaceful and joyful or suffering and afraid. At this very moment I am present everywhere in this world. I have been present in the past and will be there in the future. The disintegration of this body does not touch me, just as when the petals of the plum blossom fall it does not mean the end of the plum tree. I see that I am like a wave on the surface of the ocean. I see myself in all the other waves, and I see all the other waves in me. The manifestation or the disappearance of the wave does not lessen the presence of the ocean. My Dharma body and spiritual life are not subject to birth or death. I am able to see my presence before this body manifested and after this body disintegrates. I am able to see my presence outside this body, even in the present moment. Eighty or ninety years is not my life span. My life span, like that of a leaf or of a buddha, is immeasurable. I am able to go beyond the idea that I am a body separate from all other manifestations of life, in time and in space.

Each spring for a period of weeks the imperial gardens were filled with prize tulips (Turkish, Dutch, Iranian), all of them shown to their best advantage. Tulips whose petals had flexed wide were held shut with fine threads hand-tied. Most of the bulbs had been grown in place, but these were supplemented by thousands of cut stems held in glass bottles; the scale of the display was further compounded by mirrors placed strategically around the garden. Each variety was marked with a label made from silver filigree. In place of every fourth flower a candle, its wick trimmed to tulip height, was set into the ground. Songbirds in gilded cages supplied the music, and hundreds of giant tortoises carrying candles on their backs lumbered through the gardens, further illuminating the display. All the guests were required to dress in colors that flattered those of the tulips. At the appointed moment a cannon sounded, the doors to the harem were flung open, and the sultan's mistresses stepped into the garden led by eunuchs bearing torches. The whole scene was repeated every night for as long as the tulips were in bloom, for as long as Sultan Ahmed managed to cling to his throne.

She would curl herself onto the couch and listen to him making paintings out of sound. And each piece was a different picture. In her mind’s eye, she could see a garden full of trees with white leaves and a fountain with blush-pink petals floating in the clear water—that was a concerto. The volta: scarlet and plum-colored ribbons winding around each other, battling for dominance. A requiem . . . a lone horse walking down a dimly lit cobbled road, looking for a rider that had died long ago. From these dead foreigners whose names she was slowly growing accustomed to, Nori was learning what it was to live a thousand lifetimes of joy and sorrow without ever leaving this house.

As new flowers grow, the old petals fall off. As you move forward in life, you begin to lose some friends.

I closed my eyes briefly. It was apt that Poppy left the same day that the cherry blossoms lost their petals too. They were guiding her soul home.

You could stoop down and pick a fallen petal, crush it between your fingers, and you had there, in the hollow of your hand, the essence of a thousand scents, unbearable and sweet.

Because nothing so beautiful can last forever. She was a blossom petal, a butterfly … a shooting star … she was perfect … her life was short … but she was mine.

almost fifteen thousand people died in those French camps, from hunger, starvation, mistreatment, and illnesses. Nine out of every ten children perished.

two thousand or more Spaniards sailing toward that long, narrow South American country that clung to the mountains so as not to topple into the sea.

When the Sun of awareness rises, the thousand-petal lotus blossoms, and the golden light of blissful silence illumines your inner sky.

When your roots are receiving nourishment from the earth in the first chakra, your creative juices are flowing in the second, your intentions are empowered in the third, your heart is open and exchanging love with those around you in the fourth, you are spontaneously expressing your highest self in the fifth, and you are in touch with your inner voice in the sixth, then energy moves into the crown chakra and you remember your essential nature as infinite and unbounded. The thousand-petaled lotus flower unfolds and you know yourself as a spiritual being temporarily localized to a body and mind.

The field was carpeted with the most lustrous show of wildflowers she had ever seen—flowers by the hundreds, the thousands, the millions. Purple irises. White lilies. Pink daisies. Yellow buttercups and red columbines and many others she knew no names for. A breeze had arisen; the sun had broken through the clouds. She shrugged off her pack and walked slowly forward. It was as if she were wading into a sea of pure color. The tips of her fingers brushed the petals of the flowers as she passed. They seemed to bow their heads in salutation, welcoming her into their embrace. In a trance of beauty, Amy moved among them. Corridors of golden sunshine fell over the field; far away, across the sea, a new age had begun. Here she would make her garden. She would make her garden, and wait.

On a nightstand in a teenager’s room, a glass vase filled with violets leans precariously against a wall. The only thing saving the vase from a thousand-piece death on the hardwood floor is the groove in the nightstand’s surface that catches the bottom of vase, and of course the wall itself. The violets, nearly a week old, droop in the light of a waning gibbous moon. Wrinkled petals are already piling up on the floor between the nightstand and the wall, and a girl only six days sixteen stares at the dying bouquet from her bed.

Poppy inhaled sharply. I turned to see what she was seeing. A mass of blossom petals went sailing in the wind. “They’re leaving…,” she said. I closed my eyes briefly. It was apt that Poppy left the same day that the cherry blossoms lost their petals too. They were guiding her soul home.

Because Poppymin was just like the cherry blossom, Alt. She only had a short life, like they do, but the beauty that she brought in that time will never ever be forgotten. Because nothing so beautiful can last forever. She was a blossom petal, a butterfly … a shooting star … she was perfect … her life was short … but she was mine.

Poppymin was just like the cherry blossom...She only had a short life, like they do, but the beauty that she brought in that time will never ever be forgotten. Because nothing so beautiful can last forever. She was a blossom petal, a butterfly...a shooting star...she was perfect...her life was short...but she was mine...Just as I was hers

Mamaw also said that the best things in life die quickly, like the cherry blossom. Because something so beautiful can never last forever, shouldn’t last forever. It stays for a brief moment in time to remind us how precious life is, before fading away just as quickly as it came. She said that it teaches you more in its short life than anything that is forever by your side.” My throat began to close at the pain in her voice. She looked up at me. “Because nothing so perfect can last an eternity, can it? Like shooting stars. We see the usual stars above us every single night. Most people take them for granted, even forget they are there. But if a person sees a shooting star, they remember that moment forever, they even make a wish at its presence.” She took in a deep breath. “It shoots by so quickly that people savor the short time they have with it.” I felt a teardrop fall on our joined hands. I was confused, unsure why she was talking about such sad things. “Because something so completely perfect and special is destined to fade. Eventually, it has to blow away into the wind.” Poppy held up the cherry blossom that was still in her hand. “Like this flower.” She threw it into the air, just as a gust of wind came. The strong bluster carried the petals into the sky and away above the trees. It disappeared from our sight. “Poppy—” I went to speak, but she cut me off. “Maybe we’re like the cherry blossom, Rune. Like shooting stars. Maybe we loved too much too young and burned so bright that we had to fade out.” She pointed behind us, to the blossom grove. “Extreme beauty, quick death. We had this love long enough to teach us a lesson. To show us how capable of love we truly are.

Memory My mind lets go a thousand things, Like dates of wars and deaths of kings, And yet recalls the very hour—’T was noon by yonder village tower, And on the last blue noon in May—The wind came briskly up this way, Crisping the brook beside the road; Then, pausing here, set down its load Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly Two petals from that wild-rose tree.

valentine my friends stitched it up with golden thread like a red satin pillow they gave me other whole ones too roses and charms and red candles milagros to repair the real one they told me i was no longer allowed to give it away a pretty pin cushion a piece of mexican folk art a hundred beating poems left unanswered like a thing to wear around the neck they said you must heal we will protect you but i sat weeping at the computer forging ahead anyway with the small stitched thing struggling in my chest it knew that it had needed to be torn so that it could recognize and receive the hundred kindnesses traveling across three thousand miles at the speed of light a storm of petals and beautiful words and tiny hearts to keep it company

Nothingness is the fragrance of the beyond. It is the opening of the heart to the transcendental. It is the unfoldment of the one-thousand-petalled lotus. It is man's destiny. Man is complete only when he has come to this fragrance, when he has come to this absolute nothingness inside his being, when this nothingness has spread all over him, when he is just a pure sky, unclouded. This nothingness is what Buddha calls nirvana. First we have to understand what this nothingness actually is, because it is not just empty; it is full, it is overflowing. Never for a single moment think that nothingness is a negative state, an absence, no. Nothingness is simply no-thingness. Things disappear, only the ultimate substance remains. The identity of "yes" and "no" is the secret of nothingness. Nothingness is not identical with "no", nothingness is the identity of "yes" and "no", where polarities are no more polarities, where opposites are no more opposites. When you make love to a woman or to a man, the point of orgasm is the point of nothingness. At that moment the woman is no more a woman and the man is no more a man. Those forms have disappeared. That polarity between man and woman is no more there; it is utterly relaxed. They have both melted into each other. They have unformed themselves, they have gone into a state which cannot be defined. The identity of yes and no is the secret of emptiness, nothingness, nirvana. Emptiness is not just empty; it is a presence, it is the ultimate peak of consciousness.a very solid presence. If you want to know it you will have to go into life, into some situation where yes and no meet, then you will know it. Where the body and the soul meet, when the world and God meet, where opposites are no longer opposites only then will you have a taste of it. The taste of it is the taste of Tao, of Zen, of Hassidism, of Yoga.

She is fragile as the morning dew melting in the warmth of a child's smile; stirring at the lonely, lovely waft of a butterfly's wings; tender as the curve of a wildflower petal. She is fierce as a summer storm now raging against the fiery sky; now raining tears to soothe the sun-scorched earth. She is soft as a midnight breeze swaying to the sound of waves breaking on distant shores; whispering comfort to a world steeped in the dark night of inhumanity. She is brilliant as the rising Phoenix lifting the suffering from the ashes; her own suffering woven into wings of fire in the long watches of the night. She is serene and turbulent as the silvered water hiding currents unknown beneath the gentle gaze of a human who has walked a thousand miles and still has more to go.

Because Poppymin was just like the cherry blossom, Alt. She only had a short life, like they do, but the beauty that she brought in that time will never ever be forgotten. Because nothing so beautiful can last forever. She was a blossom petal, a butterfly … a shooting star … she was perfect … her life was short … but she was mine.” I took in a breath and whispered finally, “Just as I was hers.

A moth flying into the flame says with its wingfire, 'Try this.' The wick with its knotted neck broken, tells you the same. A candle as it diminishes explains, 'Gathering more and more is not the way. Burn, become light and heat and help. Melt.' The ocean sits in the sand letting its lap fill with pearls and shells, then empty. A bittersalt taste hums, 'This.' The phoenix gives up on good-and-bad, flies to rest on Mt. Qaf, no more burning and rising from ash. It sends out one message. The rose purifies its face, drops the soft petals, shows its thorn, and points. Wine abandons thousands of famous names, the vintage years and delightful bouquets, to run wild and anonymous through your brain. The flute closes its eyes and gives its lips to Hamza’s emptiness. Everything begs with the silent rocks for you to be flung out like light over this plain, the presence of Shams.

When Arthur stepped through the trees, he froze, heart lodged firmly in his throat. It wasn't the King singing, like a river flows, surely to the sea, darling, so it goes, some things are meant to be. It wasn't the soft breeze ruffling the petals of the thousands of flowers that decorated the backs of chairs, the trees, the ground. It wasn't the backdrop of the sea, or the cloudless sky that seemed to stretch on forever. It wasn't the salt in the air, the call of the seabirds from high above. It was the people.

The little pathway down the valley to the bay had clumps of azalea and rhododendron planted to the left of it, and if you wandered down it on a May evening after dinner it was just as though the shrubs had sweated in the air. You could stoop down and pick a fallen petal, crush it between your fingers, and you had there, in the hollow of your hand, the essence of a thousand scents, unbearable and sweet. All from a curled and crumpled petal. And you came out of the valley, heady and rather dazed, to the hard white shingle of the beach and the still water.

A sweet aroma blooms in the mouth like a fresh flower, while the tongue dances with delight at the crispy crunchiness of the apple! Just one bite and I've already fallen into a fantasyland!" "Not only that, this fragrance! It's precisely what I thought! It's 'Damask Rose'!" "Damask rose? Like, actual roses?" "Yep! These roses right here. They're one of my favoritest flowers. They have such a pretty scent." Even out of the many thousands of rose varieties in the world, the Damask is renowned for its beautiful fragrance! In fact, some people even call it the 'Queen of Roses'! An ancient strain, it's said even Cleopatra enjoyed damask roses, sprinkling their petals in her bath.

The wave came again and carried them out onto the sea of pain, where he wondered again why life ever came into the world...The tide that drew them out into the troubled waters once again spent itself, and they floated slowly back, resting for a minute or so, only to be dragged out again. He held her up while she contracted and pushed inside herself, trying to open the petals of her flowering body...He lifted her, trying to free the load she was struggling with, but she was straining against the traces, getting nowhere, her eyes like those of a draft horse...Who would choose this, thought Laski, this work, this woe? Life enslaves us, makes us want children, gives us a thousand illusions about love, and all so that it can go forward.

The red energy center often is in the shape of the spoked wheel. The orange energy center in the flower shape containing three petals. The yellow center again in a rounded shape, many faceted, as a star. The green energy center sometimes called the lotus-shape, the number of points of crystalline structure dependent upon the strength of this center. The blue energy center capable of having perhaps one hundred facets and capable of great flashing brilliance. The indigo center a more quiet center which has the basic triangular, or three-petaled, shape in many, although some adepts who have balanced the lower energies may create more faceted forms. The violet energy center is the least variable and is sometimes described in your philosophy as thousand-petaled, as it is the sum of the mind/body/spirit complex distortion

God created the human species by materialising the bodies of man and woman through the force of His will; He endowed the new species with the power to create children in a similar ‘immaculate’ or divine manner. Because His manifestation in the individualised soul had hitherto been limited to animals, instinct-bound and lacking the potentialities of full reason, God made the first human bodies, symbolically called Adam and Eve. To these, for advantageous upward evolution, He transferred the souls or divine essence of two animals. In Adam or man, reason predominated; in Eve or woman, feeling was ascendant. Thus was expressed the duality or polarity which underlies the phenomenal worlds. Reason and feeling remain in a heaven of cooperative joy so long as the human mind is not tricked by the serpentine energy of animal propensities. “The human body was therefore not solely a result of evolution from beasts, but was produced by an act of special creation by God. The animal forms were too crude to express full divinity; the human being was uniquely given a tremendous mental capacity—the ‘thousand-petalled lotus’ of the brain—as well as acutely awakened occult centres in the spine. “God, or the Divine Consciousness present within the first created pair, counselled them to enjoy all human sensibilities, but not to put their concentration on touch sensations. These were banned in order to avoid the development of the sex organs, which would enmesh humanity in the inferior animal method of propagation. The warning not to revive subconsciously present bestial memories was not heeded. Resuming the way of brute procreation, Adam and Eve fell from the state of heavenly joy natural to the original perfect man.

Even if they took him, she said, she would go with him. They could not separate them against their wills, she said. Shuffling the edges straight, she did up the papers, and tied the parcel almost without looking, sitting beside him, he thought, as if all her petals were about her. She was a flowering tree; and through her branches looked out the face of a lawgiver, who had reached a sanctuary where she feared no one; not Holmes; not Bradshaw; a miracle, a triumph, the last and greatest. Staggering he saw her mount the appalling staircase, laden with Holmes and Bradshaw, men who never weighed less than eleven stone six, who sent their wives to Court, men who made ten thousand a year and talked of proportion; who different in their verdicts (for Holmes said one thing, Bradshaw another), yet judges they were; who mixed the vision and the sideboard; saw nothing clear, yet ruled, yet inflicted. “Must” they said. Over them she triumphed. “There!” she said. The papers were tied up. No one should get at them. She would put them away. And, she said, nothing should separate them. She sat down beside him and called him by the name of that hawk or crow which being malicious and a great destroyer of crops was precisely like him. No one could separate them, she said.

Like drops of water that fall on the rocks of the jungle, the silence is full of tenderness. Whisper softly my poetry unraveling your admiration. In the name of night. Everything I see is simplicity in your beautiful body Like an incandescent light that dispels the darkness Then it bounced on the rose petals in the dim moonlight. Blushing reconciles the anxiety of the soul Comforting a sore heart Your beauty is a flower that unites to dazzle the majesty of the universe. Ahhh love... Your beauty is like a waterfall from the height of a cliff that is so sensual, showing the magic of a perfect panorama. How seductive and alluring is your soft skin..... As gentle as the twilight wind blew the dandelions scattered under the night sky. As soft as a lump of cotton that lay white on the heart rug. As gentle as the caress of the night breeze, flaking your shiny black hair. Ahhh. Let my breath rest for a moment Here, Between two seas of wine flowing red I find on your lips. How beautiful is love When the stalks of a kiss fall lying down Tickling spoiled and whispering intimately about the love that is heaven behind your ear with a warm whisper blowing slowly And Slowly... caressing your face in a long soft moan Lull a thousand touches and then cast your body into a pleasure that you have not found. In the name of my chest. Let our restless tantrums grapple in the flames of burning love. Until our passion quells the passion, Wet and subside. ️

Creativity is alive And thriving in my body. The energy you bring out in me Is within me infinitely. My power is overflowing. My lips are soft and welcoming To the exhale, The new Braille, The silence that persists After our moans die away, I look at myself and say, "Root down so you can burn. Beautiful girl, it's your turn To create magic within yourself. This time, without his help. Find your roots and find your fire, Be mindful of what you desire, Persist in what you know is true, Stay focused on the endless route Toward your own potential. Allow the existential Void to swallow you whole. Take on your old role: The lone seeker. Become quieter. Become meeker. Become the beauty that you seek. Embody strength if you feel weak. Find love within the walls Of this sacred temple. Let yourself shake and tremble, But keep your eyes ever fixed On the horizon Where it's rising, No revising, Fears capsizing As you sail, sail, sail Toward the wail Of your siren spirit Beckoning you to bloom The flower in your womb, The seed of creativity, Your triumphant legacy." These words, I will carry Within me as I bury Grains of wisdom In the whispers of the wind. And when I arrive To the altar of our origin, I'll be dressed in white and black, And I'll cradle that exact Feeling left on our sheets. And you'll be on your knees, Ready to receive The wholeness of my broken mind, Pried open by The sparkle gleaming in your eyes. And your hands will be full Of supple fruit and you'll Smile at me, and I will see That you have fed your hunger. You'll ooze with courage and wonder. And then, we will know That we've already lost each other A thousand times before. And I have found you As clear water after mud settles. And you have found me As a bee deep in a flower's petals. We have danced before, Pulled art out of each other's spines. We have died and birthed and died. We've already kissed a million times. This wasn't our first five act play, And it will not be the last. So when I thirst for your hands, I will sit and chant. We will meet again. We will meet again.

Outside the snapdragons, cords of light. Today is easy as weeds & winds & early. Green hills shift green. Cardinals peck at feeders—an air seed salted. A power line across the road blows blue bolts. Crickets make crickets in the grass. We are made & remade together. An ant circles the sugar cube. Our shadow’s a blown sail running blue over cracked tiles. Cool glistening pours from the tap, even on the edges. A red wire, a live red wire, a temperature. Time, in balanced soil, grows inside the snapdragons. In the sizzling cast iron, a cut skin, a sunny side runs yellow across the pan. Silver pots throw a blue shadow across the range. We must carry this the length of our lives. Tall stones lining the garden flower at once. Tin stars burst bold & celestial from the fridge; blue applause. Morning winds crash the columbines; the turf nods. Two reeling petal-whorls gleam & break. Cartoon sheep are wool & want. Happy birthday oak; perfect in another ring. Branch shadows fall across the window in perfect accident without weight. Orange sponge a thousand suds to a squeeze, know your water. School bus, may you never rust, always catching scraps of children’s laughter. Add a few phrases to the sunrise, and the pinks pop. Garlic, ginger, and mangoes hang in tiers in a cradle of red wire. That paw at the door is a soft complaint. Corolla of petals, lean a little toward the light. Everything the worms do for the hills is a secret & enough. Floating sheep turn to wonder. Cracking typewriter, send forth your fire. Watched too long, tin stars throw a tantrum. In the closet in the dust the untouched accordion grows unclean along the white bone of keys. Wrapped in a branch, a canvas balloon, a piece of punctuation signaling the end. Holy honeysuckle, stand in your favorite position, beside the sandbox. The stripes on the couch are running out of color. Perfect in their polished silver, knives in the drawer are still asleep. A May of buzz, a stinger of hot honey, a drip of candy building inside a hive & picking up the pace. Sweetness completes each cell. In the fridge, the juice of a plucked pear. In another month, another set of moths. A mosquito is a moment. Sketched sheep are rather invincible, a destiny trimmed with flouncy ribbon. A basset hound, a paw flick bitching at black fleas. Tonight, maybe we could circle the floodwaters, find some perfect stones to skip across the light or we can float in the swimming pool on our backs—the stars shooting cells of light at each other (cosmic tag)—and watch this little opera, faults & all.

Their fingers are long, like flower stems, ending in leaves where nails should be. Snow-white women with skin like leather and smooth, hairless heads wear crowns of thorns and pale roses. Dresses made of thousands and thousands of dry flower petals that rustle in the breeze like unearthly ghouls. I

will use a flower petal for paper, And write you the sweetest letter, You are the sultan of my heart, the sultan of my heart.

Secondly, we have also to know that, of all the centres, we have particularly to remember three,—the Mulâdhâra or the basic, the Sahasrâra or the thousand-petalled lotus in the brain, and the Manipura or the lotus in the navel.

If you tell me that is has," he says, "if you tell me that knowing helped you, I will listen." He looks at me without wavering. "Did it?" I shudder, trying to shake off the feeling of Chris's hands in my hair. Every argument I have for telling Lock turns to a thousand crepe myrtle petals in my hands. The wind takes them all. "No," I say. "At all?" "No." My voice barely breaks a whisper. "Why not?" he asks. I owe him the truth. "Because I have to live with it.

The garden awoke in spring, glorious. Rhubarb, bellwort, bloodroot, blue squill; violets carpeted the earth, and in the woods, trilliums, twayblade, cowslips, cress, lady's slipper, wild iris, wild ginger, wild pussy willows, wild, wild everything. Robert Trout and his fiancée, Lavender, walked often there, and by the river. Her mother's old haunts. All of it a wonder to Robert, for his constant travels over the past years had begun to render most landscapes an indistinct blur. He'd not attended closely to the earth's springtime bounties; there was never time. Now he was like a boy, exclaiming over each tender sprout, each clump of new moss, and "Look, here's one with a thousand tiny white stars." Lavender told him the names of the many early blooms. And their meanings. It was her school of flowers, she quipped. "And here is one named especially for you, Robert---a trout lily. For us." They stopped. She showed him its lovely mottled leaves, creamy belled petals. "And see," she continued, "how it bows its head, as if too bashful to reveal its face. And like we humans, these beauties sleep at night and open themselves in morning's light.

Sun aimed the rod at its head, and one stroke caused its brain to burst out like ten thousand red petals of peach blossoms, and the teeth to fly out like so many pieces of white jade.

They slipped inside between the silent stone. Shadows closed around them, like a mother's arms, to protect them. The lap of waves echoed within the cave. I know this place. It was her father's favorite. On the ceiling and the walls, painted flowers sparkled around them in a magical light show, courtesy of a spell that had been cast thousands of years ago. Marveling, Kiela turned in a slow circle as the petals of ancient roses, lilies, daisies, and flowers twinkled in every color of the rainbow, and she felt, for a brief moment, safe.

Hundreds of thousands of terrified refugees were escaping to France, where a campaign of fear and hatred awaited them. Nobody wanted these foreigners—Reds, filthy fugitives, deserters, delinquents, as the French press labeled them. Repugnant beings who were going to spread epidemics, commit robberies and rape, and stir up a communist revolution.

Thousands and thousands of white rose petals outlined the walkway they were to take to the altar. The chapel was breathtakingly beautiful and fragrant, and Avery had done this for just him. He loved flowers, they calmed his soul and settled him. Beautiful blooms were a staple of their home and this seemed very much a gift from Avery just to him.

who would cry out to the petals on the ground to stay, knowing as we must, how the vivacity of what was is married to the vivacity of what will be?

When I was eleven years old, I gave my life to Jesus. I have no reason to think that he ever gave it back

My lover and I had unconsciously entered the kingdom. Neither of us realized we had attained ‘moksha’ (emancipation, liberation or release) from Saṃsāra - the repeating cycle of birth, life and death. We dwelt in this sensually spirited realm, unaware of time, allowing our unhindered consciousness to guide us towards euphoric provenance, where all things are possible. A distant voice called us to reality. Neither my lover nor I desired to return. With our sacred gyrations suspended, we had not the need for release, but we wanted to sustain the momentum our divinity beckoned us uninterrupted. This was my first and certainly not the last of such subliminal providence.               When we finally egressed from our cogitation, we found the Zentologist dumbfounded and in awe, overwhelmed by what he later described as witnessing the Sahasrāra (“thousand-petaled” – White Lotus) above our heads. The glowing rainbow halo of Kundalini Shanti illuminated my lover and me, encircling our sacred union with asama-prajnata-samadhi – a state in which there is no activity of the mind, no knower, no knowledge, nothing to be known: knowledge, knower and known become unified and liberated.               His virility was deeply buried within my core. My lover and I remained in our Garden of Love. Our guiltlessness deterred us from separation. We abided in this state until our rapturous Samadhi subsided. Only then did we dress and follow my teacher back towards the madding crowd.               That day at the poppy field, Andy and I regained our spiritual eroticism, which the Zentologist canalized as “Divine Providence.

The Shiva and Shakti—the masculine and feminine—join within Sahasrara to create brahma-ranhdra, the transcendence of both. Within this chakra, the individual personality dissolves into the essence of the all. This is the chakra of one thousand petals. These petals represent the fifty letters of the Sanskrit alphabet along with their twenty permutations. The magnitude of these vibrations enhances the seventh chakra’s role in governing and coordinating the other chakras. This chakra is unique in many ways. All other chakras feature upward-pointing lotuses. In the Sahasrara, the lotuses point downward, symbolizing freedom from the mundane, and divine rain from its petals. Some yogis actually report that having achieved this chakra, the fontanel (soft spot) atop the head dampens with the “dew of divinity.” FIGURE 5.12 SEVENTH CHAKRA: SAHASRARA The Sahasrara chakra was not considered an in-body chakra in the classical Hindu system. Traditionally, it is pictured as lying atop the head. More contemporary systems establish it in the top of the head. No matter which location you prefer, the idea is the same: it represents a space unto itself. Sahasrara creates the fifth kosha, the anandamaya sheath that doubles as the causal body. After ascending to the Sahasrara, we shift this sheath and become free from the constraints of the physical realm as well as the “wheel of life,” the vehicle that initiates reincarnation. Once released from the causal body, we enter one of the three higher planes, or koshas, beyond the body, the Satyaloka, or “abode of truth.” We also achieve samadhi, or the state of bliss and beingness associated with transcendence. This state is associated with the teachings of Krishna in the Bhagavad-Gita and the eighth branch of Patanjali’s classification of yoga. (See “Patanjali’s Eight-Step Method of Yoga”.) There are many layers of samadhi, the highest involving an identification with the highest states of consciousness, and finally, the individual is absorbed into the all. The Sahasrara is considered beyond most symbolic representations, although the chakra is usually perceived as white. The Sahasrara is considered beyond senses, sense organs, and vital breath. As such, it is often described without a seed syllable, as shown in figure 5.12, although some sources depict it with an OM.

But why did we have to wait for the cherry blossoms to come out first?” Taking a deep breath, I explained, “Because Poppymin was just like the cherry blossom, Alt. She only had a short life, like they do, but the beauty that she brought in that time will never ever be forgotten. Because nothing so beautiful can last forever. She was a blossom petal, a butterfly … a shooting star … she was perfect … her life was short … but she was mine.” I took in a breath and whispered finally, “Just as I was hers.

Like every year, the peach flowers began to blossom, draping the orchard like a filmy pink dress. Thousands of tiny pink petals fluttered in the breeze. And as quickly as they came, they disappeared. The blossoms withered to leave only shucks, and tiny, hard peaches broke through the shucks and began to grow.

The ceremony consisted of vibrant pink, purple, and coral details that complemented the rustic wood and lush green vines climbing up the chapel. Abigail's team constructed an arbor made entirely of drooping orchids and palm fronds that framed the wooden doors perfectly. The aisle was lined with thousands of coral-colored rose petals and more orchids spilling over the end of every row of seats. It was a tropical dream.

I will use a flower petal for paper, And write you the sweetest letter, You are the sultan of my heart, the sultan of my heart.

It is a field as big as a football stadium carpeted every inch with bright-red poppies. The red is like the kind of color that you see only in oversaturated photos, the kind that doesn't seem to truly exist in real life. Thousands and thousands of poppies stretch out in front of us, one right after the other, as though if you squinted, it would look like a giant red blanket had been laid on top of thousands of gangly green weeds. Dense olive trees line the edges of the field, and behind them, sloping green hills take over the skyline against a cloudless blue sky. I bend down and pick up a poppy, its inky-black center surrounded by delicate red petals clustered and fanning out. It is all so dreamy.

Are you not even a little bit curious about what I have to say to you?” I felt him behind me, that darkness he commanded, but when I turned, he wasn't there. Instead, another black note was suspended in midair with the words ‘Look up’ scrawled in beautiful handwriting. Unable to resist my curiosity, I tilted my head back in time for a black rose petal to land on my nose. I brushed it away as thousands more rained down from the obsidian ceiling like raindrops.

Deep in the silent inner room Every fiber of my soft heart Turns to a thousand strands of sorrow. I loved the Spring, But the Spring is gone As rain hastens the falling petals. I lean on the balustrade, Moving from one end to the other. My emotions are still disordered. Where is he? Withered grass stretches to the horizon And hides from sight Any road by which he might return. —Li Ch'ing-Chao, from “Remorse,” Songs of Love, Moon, Wind: Poems from the Chinese (New Directions , 2009)

The kundalinī is thought to exist in the dormant state at the basal center where she must be awakened and invited to rise along the central channel to the top of the head where she reunites with pure Consciousness. This reunion is described as the communion of Shiva and Shakti, God and Goddess, or Consciousness and Energy. On the complete ascent of the kundalinī, the individuated consciousness of the adept at least temporarily melts away in the state of nirvikalpa-samādhi or transconceptual ecstasy. While this state reveals our true nature—as the transcendental Being-Consciousness-Bliss (sat-cid-ānanda)—it excludes body awareness. It could therefore be considered an incomplete enlightenment. So long as the unconscious contains karmic seeds awaiting fruition, this elevated state of consciousness sooner or later is replaced again by the ordinary state of awareness. Through repeated awakening of the kundalinī and nirvikalpa-samādhi, the karmic seeds can be gradually thinned out. Ultimately, the Tantric yogin seeks to “irrigate” the body with the nectar of immortality that oozes from the awakened thousand-petaled center. This esoteric process transfigures and transforms the ordinary physical body into a supraphysical energy body endowed with extraordinary capacities (siddhi) and immortality. For this to occur, the adept must transcend even nirvikalpa-samādhi and attain complete enlightenment in the waking state as well. This final ecstatic condition is not, strictly speaking, a state of consciousness. It is that which is Real. In the Tantric tradition, it is sometimes known as sahaja-samādhi or spontaneous ecstasy, which is constant and continuous. This realization has been summed up in the Buddhist Tantric formula “samsāra = nirvāna,” or immanence equals transcendence.

As far as her parents could tell from their vantage point behind the spire, Psyche plummeted to her death. They never found her body, but that didn’t mean anything. It was a windy day, and they were too upset to launch a full-scale search. Besides, if Psyche hadn’t died, that meant the monster of the prophecy had taken her, which was even worse. The king and queen returned home, brokenhearted, convinced they would never see their beloved daughter and favorite tourism magnet again. The end. Not really. In the long run, Psyche would’ve suffered less if she had died, but she didn’t. As she fell from the rock, the winds swirled around her. Forty feet from the valley floor, they slowed her fall and lifted her up. “Hi,” said a disembodied voice. “I’m Zephyrus, god of the west wind. How ya doing today?” “Um…terrified?” said Psyche. “Great,” said Zephyrus. “So we have a short flight this morning, heading over to my master’s palace. Weather looks good. Maybe a little turbulence on our initial ascent.” “Your master’s palace?” “Please remember to keep your seat belt fastened, and don’t disable the smoke detectors in the lavatory.” “What language are you speaking?” Psyche demanded. “What are you talking—AHHH!” The west wind swept her away at a thousand miles an hour, leaving behind Psyche’s stomach and a trail of black flower petals. They touched down in a grassy valley blanketed with wildflowers. Butterflies flitted through the sunlight. Rising in the distance was the most beautiful palace Psyche had ever seen. “Thanks for flying with us today,” Zephyrus said. “We know you have a lot of options when choosing a directional wind, and we appreciate your business. Now, you’d better get going. He’ll be waiting.” “Who—?” But the air turned still. Psyche sensed that the wind god was gone.

Could I not hear the silken rustle of the evening primrose unfolding her petals? Soon the cool dews would be falling on the stones where I was wont to sit in reverie beside the flowing water. It seemed indeed that my self had slipped from my body, and hovered entranced amid the thousand jargonings of its tangled lullaby. Was there, in truth, a wraith in me that could so steal out; and were the invisible inhabitants in their fortresses beside my stream conscious of its presence among them, and as happy in my spectral company as I in theirs?

petals—enlarges to two hundred and thirty. The bud is the Fayoum, a natural depression in the hills that shut in the Nile valley on the west, which has been rendered cultivable for many thousands of years by the introduction into it of the Nile water, through a canal

Listen. The Sinspire is nearly sixty yards high, one thick Elderglass cylinder. You know those, you tried to jump off one about two months ago. Goes down another hundred feet or so into a glass hill. It’s got one door at street level, and exactly one door into the vault beneath the tower. One. No secrets, no side entrances. The ground is pristine Elderglass; no tunneling through it, not in a thousand years.” “Mmmm-hmmmm.” “Requin’s got at least four dozen attendants on each floor at any given time, plus dozens of table minders, card dealers, and waiters. There’s a lounge on the third floor where he keeps more out of sight. So figure, at minimum, fifty or sixty loyal workers on duty with another twenty to thirty he can call out. Lots of nasty brutes, too. He likes to recruit from ex-soldiers, mercenaries, city thieves, and such. He gives cushy positions to his Right People for jobs well done, and he pays them like he was their doting mother. Plus, there are stories of dealers getting a year’s wages in tips from lucky blue bloods in just a night or two. Bribery won’t be likely to work on anyone.” “Mmmm-hmmmm.” “He’s got three layers of vault doors, all of them ironshod witchwood, three or four inches thick. Last set of doors is supposedly backed with blackened steel, so even if you had a week to chop through the other two, you’d never get past the third. All of them have clockwork mechanisms, the best and most expensive Verrari stuff, private designs from masters of the Artificers’ Guild. The standing orders are, not one set of doors opens unless he’s there himself to see it; he watches every deposit and every withdrawal. Opens the door a couple times per day at most. Behind the first set of doors are four to eight guards, in rooms with cots, food, and water. They can hold out there for a week under siege.” “Mmmm-hmmmm.” “The inner sets of doors don’t open except for a key he keeps around his neck. The outer doors won’t open except for a key he always gives to his majordomo. So you’d need both to get anywhere.” “Mmmm-hmmmm.” “And the traps…they’re demented, or at least the rumors are. Pressure plates, counterweights, crossbows in the walls and ceilings. Contact poisons, sprays of acid, chambers full of venomous serpents or spiders…One fellow even said that there’s a chamber before the last door that fills up with a cloud of powdered strangler’s orchid petals, and while you’re choking to death on that, a bit of twistmatch falls out and lights the whole mess on fire, so then you burn to a crisp. Insult to injury.” “Mmmm-hmmmm.” “Worst of all, the inner vault is guarded by a live dragon attended by fifty naked women armed with poison spears, each of them sworn to die in Requin’s service. All redheads.” “You’re making that up, Jean.” “I wanted to see if you were listening. But what I’m saying is, I don’t care if he’s got a million solari in there, packed in bags for easy hauling. I’m inclined to the idea that this vault might not be breakable, not unless you’ve got three hundred soldiers, six or seven wagons, and a team of master clockwork artificers you’re not telling me about.” “Right.” “Do you have three hundred soldiers, six or seven wagons, and a team of master clockwork artificers you’re not telling me about?” “No, I’ve got you, me, the contents of our coin purses, this carriage, and a deck of cards.

She carried with her a tender caress for the stems and petals she meant to harvest, thanking them for their beauty and letting them give themselves over to her rather than taking them en masse with reckless haste. She knelt beside the patch of Christmas roses that grew beneath the parlor window. Harriet wondered, as she had a thousand times, how this flower could withstand the colder months with petals so delicate. Small white faces with pale yellow middles turned to look up at Harriet, almost adoringly, and she let their gaze infuse her with warmth. This is how they do it, she thought. They are filled with the magic of love. It was impossible for her to be out in her garden and not feel the love all around, almost consuming her, even on this cold, dreary day.

four petal lotus in money center (muladhara); six petalled lotus in the family center (svadhisthana); ten petal lotus in the food center (manipura); twelve petalled lotus in the heart center (anahata); sixteen petalled lotus in the education center (vishuddha); two petalled lotus in the soul center (ajna); thousand petalled lotus in the cosmic body center (sahasrara).