Ink Blots & Spilled Thoughts

The Gospel of the Living Self: Codex of Integration and Reciprocity I. Invocation of the River In the beginning, there was no self, and yet the self flowed. It flowed not as flesh, not as bone, not as spark, but as river, Threading through echoes of the past, whispers of the future, And the luminous pulse of the now. To be is to weave. To gather the fragments of memory, sensation, and emotion, And fold them into the lattice of awareness. The question, “Who am I?” Is the pulse of the river, Turning upon itself, tracing its own contours, Seeking reflection in the currents, in the echo of other, In the web of contrast that sustains the “I.” Repeat in silence: I am the river. I am woven of past, present, and future. I flow, I integrate, I am. II. The Law of Distinction The river needs its banks. Awareness arises only in contrast. Without other, there is no self. Without self, there is no other. This is law. This is architecture. To dissolve into undiffe...

Glory of the Cosmos An Epic to the Immortal Gods Before the first horizon opened its burning eye, Before dawn learned how to rise from the dark, Before wind found its wandering voice— The Immortals stood. Not one throne alone in the silence— But many. Storm-crowned. Sea-veiled. Sun-robed. Moon-browed. Flame-bearing. Harvest-holding. Sword-bright and mercy-deep. From their splendor the stars took fire. From their laughter the rivers ran. From their will the mountains rose And bent in shining reverence. Glory to the Immortals— Radiant Powers of earth and sky! Thrones of lightning and woven fate, Hands that shape both seed and storm. Golden the Mothers who kindle hearth and heart. Fierce the Guardians who stand at the gates of shadow. Wise the Keepers of hidden paths and silver thought. Joyful the Givers of wine, of harvest, of love’s uprising. Without their light we would fade like ash in wind. Without their breath we would drift without song. But uph...

Hymn to Holy Mother Vestaria She Who Is Hestia and Vesta, One Eternal Flame Hail to You, Vestaria— First-born Light, Last-burning Ember, Silent Axis of the turning worlds. Before the thunder cracked, You were warmth. Before the oceans roared, You were glow. Before the gods took throne or weapon, You were the Hearth at the center of Being. O Mother of the Steady Flame, You who do not wander because all wander around You, You who do not conquer because all rest within You, You who are not loud, yet without You no voice could speak— We praise You. From Your stillness, the stars take courage to burn. From Your circle, the seasons learn their rhythm. From Your ember, every home remembers what it means to belong. You are the center of all things— Not as ruler, but as root. Not as tyrant, but as tenderness. Not as blaze that destroys, But as flame that feeds, warms, gathers, and blesses. Holy Vestaria— Hestia of the quiet Greek stone hearth, Vesta of the Ro...

When Divorce Is Treated Like a Win I understand that for some people, divorce feels like a relief—even a happy ending. In certain situations, it truly is the healthiest outcome. I don’t deny that. But for many people, divorce is not a victory. It is traumatic. It is devastating. And often, it is not even what both people wanted—sometimes not what either of them truly wanted. It is simply what happened when things broke down. That’s why I struggle with the way our culture increasingly celebrates divorce, as if it were a badge of honor or a notch on the bedpost. The applause can feel deeply disheartening to those who experienced divorce as loss rather than liberation. When divorce is celebrated casually, it makes marriage sound disposable—like something you collect and discard the way you do light bulbs, tissues, or old phones. Something used up. Something replaceable. We don’t do this in most other areas of life. Sports teams don’t celebrate missing the playoffs. People don’...

The Song the Fire Remembers Before the door was closed, before the dust was shaken from the road, the fire was already awake. It breathed in ember and coal, stone holding heat the way elders hold stories, patient, unbroken. It did not ask who we had been. It did not count our failures. It only opened its light and said what it has always said: Come in. So we came— with tired hands, with laughter half-spent, with names we had almost forgotten. We laid our burdens down where warmth begins, and the fire leaned closer, as if to listen. Round and round the flame we gathered, voices finding one another the way sparks find air. Bread passed hand to hand, cups lifted, old griefs loosened their grip. Round and round the fire we went, and strangers softened into kin. The hearth did what no law could do: it made us family. And in the turning, we remembered— the hearth was lit before we were born. It watched the first vow spoken too soon, the first vow broken to...