Define me, shrink me: you starve your self of Self. Keep me nailed in a box of unyielding words, That box becomes your coffin. I do not know who I am. I live in brilliant astonishment. I am not Christian. I am not Jew. I am not Zoroastrian. Even a Muslim, I am not. I don’t belong to land, or to known or unknown seas. I am not claimed by nature or by heaven. Not by India, China, or Bulgaria. No place is my birthplace… You ay that you can see my mouth, ears, eyes and nose? They

I marveled at an Ocean without shore, and at a Shore that did not have an ocean; And at a Morning Light without darkness, and at a Night that was without daybreak; And then a Sphere with no locality known to either fool or learned scholar; And at an azure Dome raised over the earth, circulating ’round its center – Compulsion; And at a rich Earth without o’er-arching vault and no specific location, the Secret concealed… I courted a Secret which existence did not alter; for it

Here are the miracle signs you want: That you cry through the night and get up at dawn, asking, that in the absence of what you ask for your day gets hard, you neck thin as a spindle, that what you give away is all your won, that you sacrifice belongings, sleep, healthy, your head, that you often sit dow in a fire like aloes-wood, and often got out to meet a blade like a battered helmet. When acts of helplessness become habitual, those are the signs. But you run back and fort

Rumi, not Maher It’s the old rule that drunks have to argue and get into fights. The lover is just as bad: He falls into a hold. But down in that hole he finds something shining, worth more than any amount of money or power. Last night the moon cam dropping it’s clothes in the street. I took it as a sign to start singing, falling up int the bowl of the sky. The bowl breaks. Everywhere is falling everywhere. Nothing else to do. Here’s the new rule: Break the wineglass, and fal

Who Says Words With My Mouth? All day I think about it, then at night I say it. Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing? I have no idea. My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that, and I intend to end up there. This drunkenness began in some other tavern. When I get back around to that place, I’ll be completely sober.  Meanwhile, I’m like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary. The day is coming when I fly off, but who is it now in my ear who

The Self We Share Thirst is angry with water. Hunger bitter with bread. The cave wants nothing to do with the sun. This is dumb, the self- defeating way we’ve been. A gold mine is calling us into its temple. Instead, we bend and keep picking up rocks from the ground. Every thing has a shine like gold, but we should turn to the source! The origin is what we truly are. I add a little vinegar to the honey I give. The bite ofscolding makes ecstasy more familiar. But look, fish, y

This is a Rumi poem about Soul Artists–those that guide the motion of energy that is given.  According to Coleman Barks, Hakim Sanai was one that, it was said in Sufi circles, could “hold two opposing energies in one gesture. You have a source inside you, a cool spring that sometimes stops flowing, frozen or clogged with silt. A voice says, “Consider the situation more deeply, my friend.” Such advice is not idle. It is immediate companionship with a soul artist like David, w

Since my own significant personal transition began just about three years ago, I’ve experienced the world in a magnificent manner than most do not have the opportunity to.   It is that of the mystic.  It sometimes feels rarified to me and must seem that way to others, but it is truly connected to all of us. I’ve documented several of the more fantastical ecstatic experiences I’ve had that have shaped my knowing elsewhere in this blog: Revealing, revolution and becoming everyb

I received this email last week from a client I worked with a week before. Hi Ingrid, I appreciate that you took the time to make this list for me. I truly believe you are highly intended and that you have helped many people in very positive and profound ways. I am sorry to report that my experience has not gone well at all.  I have suffered much physical illness and many extremely unpleasant disturbances on all levels. During our session a door was opened that must be closed

Some commentary on the verse, As you start on the way, the way appears. When you cease to be, real being comes. Zuleikha shut every door, but Joseph kept rattling the locks.  He trusted and kept moving back & forth, and somehow he escaped.  This is the way to slip through your non-spacial home. The same way you came, you leave. You wander landscapes in your dreams.  How did you get there? Close your eyes and surrender. Find yourself in the city of God. But you’re still lo

This is a prelude to a new post coming tomorrow about the recognition of my loss of identity and others’ need for ‘the story’. Not Christian or Jew or Muslim Not Hindu Buddhist Sufi or Zen. Not any religion or cultural system. I am not from the East or the West. Not out of the ocean or up from the ground Not natural or ethereal. Not composed of elements at all. I do not exist am not an entity in this world or in the next. Did not descend

What follows is a little something to consider on this rainy day. It’s a little long but I’ve kept the translation intact (I often slice and dice) because I think it speaks best to and through us in its entirety. It also has a special significance to me as I move with the realization that I’m not overcome by anything during my experiences alone and with you but that I’m merely moving into myself–my true nature. I hope I can continue to share that with you so you may experienc

Inspired by Rumi, blog posts about hate, love and god; and 24 hours steeped in connection with all that is. In Between Stories ~ Rumi Did you hear that? It’s the man who was looking for treasure. He wants me to finish his story. You didn’t hear him? Then, he must be inside me yelling, “Over Here! Come over here!” Don’t think of him as a seeker, though. Whatever he’s looking for, he is that himself. How can a lover be anything other than the beloved? Every second he’s bowing t