The Edge Beyond the Edge

Some come to break the veil,
to crack the shell of “me,”
as if light must be summoned
by force of vision or vine.
But the mirror was always reflecting,
even when fogged by belief.

Cactus, chacruna, vine, toad:
these are skillful means along the path
Opening doorways to the infinite
by the thunderclap of grace.

What falls away isn’t illusion,
but the believer in illusion.
And what’s found isn’t new—
only untouched, unborn,
the sky that never began.

Psychedelics aren’t escape,
they are confrontation:
not with demons, but with the desperate grip
of the one who thinks it must awaken.

Until even the one seeking awakening
starts to feel like just another
dancing thought in the great empty sky.

The true sacrament
is not in the peak,
but in remembering
you were always the vastness
through which peaks and valleys rise.

Yeshe Tsogyal whispers:
don’t go chasing rainbows
Recognize the rainbow like nature of awareness Vividly appearing, yet empty and ungraspable.

Glimpses granted by sacred molecules
are not goals,
but mirrors
held up to the face of presence,
reminding us that
our true nature is never separate.

Still, we continue to go on journeys To remember who we really are.
And because some edges can’t be known
by standing safely at the center.
Because silence sometimes shouts
through smoke and song.

And so we walk,
sometimes crawling,
sometimes flying,
but always circling back
to the simplicity of now,

walking that razor’s edge with eyes open,
walking with a heart cracked open
tender with love and compassion
for the fragility and the suffering and the beauty of this world.