the sprung sprout’s first colors are fine, tiny greens—they mean the plant’s begun to match a drink of sun to soil’s food. but when the tips take on a tint, then we can see its accent, its signature, its masquerade and, under that, its mood—in short, its personality; what’s enfolded and emerging heralds inne[arbo]reality. a sliver of silver, a peeking pink, an azure aspiration; the petalets are to the cheeks as sap is to the blood. this is where [re|in]flection enters oureciprocating inspiration. the body is the botany; the countenance, the bud.
this is a middle, this is a beginning; this is how nature is known. at once the two come pres[s|enc]ing through; this is an end all its own. risen from the ground to root through stem up lightward wound, this in[candescent ef]florescence is permanently in evanescence, passing out of here for want of now.
so primed for the path’s next stretch of ascent, we came to this class with that restless contentment that signals secret stirrings, intensely intent, and drew an arcing arrow from our crossed and crouching bow.
the budlike mudra now flow[er]ed fluid into other guises: the familiar fi[r]st, the peerless palm, the spear, the wrist that rises. those hands traced out tightened tracks, circleswings compressed; the oval took over to counter attacks as whiplike strikes were stressed. and these, when falling from orbit to ground, brought lateralignmentality to a bed of blooms unbound: every flicker of new flora augmented the aura our senses could seal and surround. wheeling to ward, cutting the cord, churning to chase and chide, each chisel, check, and charge let our reach be writ larger, left our blind spots less room to abide.
the legs learned more freedom, sidewound like an asp or lifted at last out of gravity’s grasp to unseat, unsettle, each piston-press a pull[ulat]ing petal, a promise under pressure that released itself in thrall turned throw, in th[o]rough-thrust, in thrumming thrift, in thresher. spiderlike stances stood stable by length—though wary of hooklifts that sweep aside strength—and dipped into deeper reserves of control over heels, under hands; the post of each posture preserves itself whole, and digs in to darken the dirt where it lands.
and all these grades were all the more made to move with greater grace, especially when intended to entwine and interlace. one response was a circlestorm, a swarm of counterstrikes; another lightly launched legs to both sides, swift and sharp as spikes. a bold step forward, a swift sure embrace, and a foe’s found folded and flat on his face. a knee’s not nearly used to kneel as knuckle makes way for two kinds of heel, and if grabbed from the front, the blurred hand’s barrage would blind in its blend, a malevolent mirage melting into a shove and the whip of a kick winging in from above. two who would take, fore and aft or at sides, find none of the protection their number provides, as double-edged pulses pierce on push and pull, puncture their ramparts and render them null. one leg held up doesn’t leave us off-balance; our singlestance is solid as an[y]other’s two are [st]able. versatile, varying, our multiplied method lets us lay a braver’s banquet at the table.
in longer forms, the flurry of hooks re-turned for second servings, while an ovaline overture rose to crescendo in its cascade of crescented curvings. we could dowse a new scroll from the old scattered [s]crawl when sidebound and crosswound and strewn with sta[r]men’s fall. our most basic battery bent behind and beside, and gilded our gyres with guile and glide, while a sometimeseen latecomer built foursquare foundations and chronicled the twintercept’stylistic transformations.
the circle of our sparr[ow]ing lets what’s [per]muted speak. it proved those preparations, brought the pieces to their peak; nothing showed increases clearer. first, when face-to-face, our encounters mounted nearer; then came the long-anticipated, much-desired day when one stood bare against a pair, twin perils poised to play. many games refined ourite, with this of all the mother: a simple switching, back and forth—first one side, then the other. from there we turned to turnings, tuning tendencies to twist, capping each cyclonicurl with unfurled wrist or fulminant fist. the nextask was to break the balance built between assailants, make chimera of their chemistry and violate their valence. the culmination mirrored us chaoticast and chiral to where we’d been (or thought we’d be) at any point now past; we became a force of nature when set loose into that spiral, arachnidanced apotheotic, lungsong sung through true to last. a force, that phrase says standard, but our flow here wasn’t forced—we nipped that nuisance in the bud, when diversion was divorced from mere division, and reimmersion reinforced each relevant revision.
arisen to action, alert and alive, the thirst for this thrill drives desire to thrive. from opened intent to closing exhale, from surety to shaking, the core of this lore’s been no lullabye tale; this story’s one of waking, and walking its way once again with these words, [con]noting content with the tensions conferred, we hear them as simple suggestions, humble hints of the deeper impression each insight imprints. but if they can convey even the smallest part of how much this habit’s found home in our hearts, they’ll make plain to all what we knew from the start: something latent in our lives was liberated by this art. and now taking that freedom to its greatest height yet, our focus[sed lens] is flaring, our certainty [sun-]set.
we’ll move on and up. we’ll flash and we’ll fly. we’ll seek out the sun. we will take to the sky—for skies are as high as our interest intends: just above our heads, no more & no less—so, for a flower, that’s to say “at our ends”, where our colors are showing now, burgeoning, bright, and our blooms are near ready to open to light. a bud is a flower not yet ready to open, but we’re nearly past nascent; soon our scent will be spoken.
night comes, claiming colors, sending us into sleep, but the urge to open with the dawn is in us now, root-deep. so here, in the white blue rose gold purple black, we’ll go dreaming our flowers, trusting in the sun to sing us onward, as surely as the breeze of breath can always bring us back.
- Udaboa, the Scribe
Boabom North
Happy Solstice, Holidays, and New Year from all of the Boabom Schools!!!
It was fall,
To the Boabom Schools from Tibetan Altruism Association
A Library for LamSang Language School (Lhasa)
Thangka of the 
The Boabom Vortex: a real experience
than after its rapid rotation my sight was fixed again back to the floor and wall in-front of me. all the floor and wall was vibrating and shifting up and down – it was like a wave of sound . slowly and gradually the movement reduce its shift and speed till all came back to normal and the vibration Stop. it last for some time , it doesn’t matter how long but i felt like about a moment in this experience.
it was so vivid and I felt just great energy inside me, everything was sharp and clear, and couldn’t take the smile and feeling for some time
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I’ve thanked the experience, continue my practice, OmHas and sat down for some meditate…”
Sojammmmm!!!
Wiz (Boabom East)
Dec-2011