Though these words call to the Mother, they are for Baba, who is both Mother and Father, and who is also beyond all names

Mother of all that is real and raw,

I come to You now,

not as the perfect devotee,

but as the honest child.

I do not ask to be spared the truth.

I ask to be willing to stand in it.

I do not ask to be emptied of pain.

I ask to be filled with You,

until nothing else defines me.

This is not a vow of perfection.

It is an offering of presence.

I vow to return.

Even in numbness.

Even in doubt.

Even when I forget who I am.

I will return, to breath,

to stillness,

to the place in me

that has never left You.

I vow to mother the child within me

as fiercely as You mother me in silence.

I vow to no longer shrink,

to be palatable, small, or safe.

I will not betray the light

You planted in me.

I vow to follow Your rhythm,

even when it defies logic,

even when it is slow,

even when it asks me to burn.

I am not here to build a false life.

I am here to build a temple.

And You, Ma, are the architect.

I surrender my timing to Yours.

I surrender my shame to Your love.

I surrender my lineage to Your fire.

I vow to walk as one who remembers.

Not all,

but enough to rise.

I am not what happened to me.

I am what I choose now.

And I choose You.

Written transmissions and offerings on Substack

Podcast and auditory presence

A handful of poems