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 .
I’ve thanked the experience, continue my practice, OmHas and sat down for some meditate…”

Sojammmmm!!!

Wiz (Boabom East)
Dec-2011

©2012 The Boabom Journal. All Rights Reserved.

It was fall,
it was late.

The different tunes of
the colors made
the evening look dark.

Sweet smells
of plants on
the weat ground,
turning into soil.

Slow winds playing
among the trees,
touching the last
straw of grass,
the sleepy movements
of the lake.

The forest main road
was lightened by lamps
so that people could
walk in the dark.

But in this evening
she was alone.

Although she knew
the life of the forest,
she could not see
nor hear anything.

Only the feeling of the air.
The slow smell of the fall.
The softness of the darkness.
The stones under her feet.

The air was wet with
water drops,
still breathing the last rain.

And the sweat running
down her face
become a steam of
salt water.

Running down the hill
she suddenly stopped,

Standing in front of her,
on the side of the road,
was a tree.

Surrrounded by light,
from the lamp posts
behind.

Stripes through the light,
triangles and squares,
yellow and white,
dark blue and
green,
grey
and
black.

It was
the most
beautiful glory
she had ever seen.

After a while she
looked down on the ground.

There was the shadow of the tree.

She rested in the shadow.

Slowly breathing,

First then she saw her own,
as a black print
in the grey shadow of the tree.

She thought of running home,
but started to walk instead.
Suddenly wanting to
touch the tree.

As she lifted her hand,
she saw that it was not one tree.
It was three trees between her and the lamp.

They were all old, strong and
high
birch trees.
Standing beside each other.

Her hand felt the
wet moss
on the hard skin of
the trees.
She touched all three
of them,
one by one.

The breathing between them.

Thanking.

Inger (Boabom Norway)

(photographs by Yemado)

©2012 The Boabom Journal. All Rights Reserved.

this dawn’s breeze is breath. it wakens from that death of sleep the buds went gently into with the night—and we, now finding form as full-fledged flowers, raise hungry heads from garden beds into the early summer’s early light.

it’s hustle we hunt as a fi[r]stflash affront flows side[wise|wide|wound] for_warding. the heat we’ve been hoarding is let loose, unmissed, as flurrying fivestep’s made one in the hiss. [s]u[r]prising surfeits of s[p]ur_facing sp[l]in[ter], and from hinterlands hie the hints of hopscotch; asymptotic and notched, nocked (as an arrow), plexipenetrating pulses pop strobesped (like sparrows).

with prun[educat]ed edges grown acute from obtuse, new use is leeched from the oldest of lines. claws and spines in snakespeedstrikes crack aside attacks, knuckles rake and tear the backups back; cobracrashslashes follow fast on their heels. the ridged reels rewind in a knuckling led over, tightest yet and lightning-set and sett[l]ing up the screwdriven turn of open[sw]ing sweeps: parting the cut rain, parting the seize, divining the deeps of fractangle defenses; where flesh meets this flourish, contrition commences. revisited ricochet-renders get tangled by texture and mottled by mark; stony and stark, what’s up goes down and crosses to ground as down turns up where less and less expected—all connected, in[ter]jected, every petal counted and collected and protected.

fangs aren’t enough, nor claws, nor halted hooves; matter moves, so must this mind unwind, uncoil, feint and flout and foil. the humer[adi]us has reach enough, as heels turn harbor, to scissor like a barber gone barbarian. no more the quailing antiquarian than quiet queen, questers ken what restless jesters mean; keep motive in your skin and you’ll always earn your grin. so dipped low and loaded and ready for fire, inconspicuous dropdash defenses conspire as radial reconnaissance increases in range. these things change. lower and lightly off-center lands the start[l]ing stance, hands held out in_vitation to dance with an aura on the order of an aurochs’ ordination; the s[l]ide-to-side connects in coordination. spiderstepped southwest-by-east, the rattle’s released; swinging round to T-square pause, the flare of flickerfists finds flaws in plain protection. such conduct can’t contain convection. it descends and extends and bends beats to the flank, banking deep and direct with spearpoints to spare.

from there, doubles of doubles (like film stripped to stutter) connect concentrations and clear out the clutter. triptychs of kicks climb from base to core to pinnacle, inimical to inter-fears, integrally in[tra]spired. whirling in kind comes the tighteningyre; its cousin the wheel carries wind to the wire. new now, another begins with a spin—but this time it ends with drill-driving straight in. launching skywards, sling-shot out from under battened hatches, stinging stitching stabs into the armor’s chink it catches. at last rejoined, the hands and feet and body all combine to trace a route as intricate as vine.

from root to leaf the structure’s firmly planted, finely placed; confusion’s been clarified, doubt’s been faced, and now the loops are linked and interlaced. those who slide up and strike from behind? they will learn the back has no dearth of defense, as a turn and a twist and a triplock rewind and repress and repel. two who fell found that edges can double [as] tensors to tell who’ll first take his time with the toll of the bell—and time’s short. try to court the idea of a single-step path from one t[w]o three by three: angles, heights, points :: centers, sights, joints. it’s an oscillation in isolation: up, down, up, thrown. pistons pummel, trip up and pin down; flexduplexed control connects each to his own.

wickerworkweaving makes being believing, forging forms of faith in florid wreath more than wraith. an orig[am]inary pattern finds a new iteration, reflecting cross-relations in the folds of its stations. a squared figure['s w]eight states the stance of this dance, as unstuck—in a sense—comes its core [con]sequence.

but steps can’t be stumpily stolid or static; erratic and impromptu’s the way of the day—though balanced in [b]order and not merely fickle. each strike’s like a sickle curving in to cut down. cue the cobra’s crown, his hood and hiss, his slither’s sting and venom’s kiss; we imitate this archetype in shadowboxed display, twisting and insisting to insinuate our say into the flowe’re now forging from angular moment[um], all seven senses centered on this scene as_cent per centum.

that turbulence twines twice to turn back twin geists—but spectres don’t suffice. it’s muscle we move, and the rustle that proves our talents calls for a cohort. consorting and s[h]ifting through sibilant drifting, we split the scene and flit from left to right, front to back, spinning silken strands to stall attacks. whistling wild, the serpent so riled is ready to open the door to its forefronted ph[r]ase, neither blunted by use nor stiff-set—indeed, sharpened and loosened its heat burns the haze from the clearing where mettles are met. (and here i’ve said snake, but all through the tale you could take out the scale and fill in the knowledge that nettle can net.)

steeled by florescence of this [fl]introduction, we’ll enter now into a deeper instruction. cats in the forest, birds on the wing, snakes in the garden—we’ve been all these things in steps and stages, conceptual cages keeping styles separated. now elevated, re-visions arise; recombinant and radical, we’ll take on the guise of manticore, sphynx, chimera and gryphon. we’ll riff on these myths, pulling out from their pith what exalts our in[ward]tuition.

thus of multiple mind, we’ll take what we find and fortify forms by addition, as our growth towards grace of function and face brings what’s flowered here to its fruition.

- Udaboa, the Scribe
Boabom North

©2012 The Boabom Journal. All Rights Reserved.

But that is a collective acceptance we are far from learning it appears. Funny thing about lessons, life, energy and Karma. They have a way of doing through you, what you are unable or unwilling to do for you. The quote allowed me to ponder, and for a moment, much like the moments sometimes found in Logak, i was free. Free to find through a pure and simple Way of thinking and acting what IS possible. To stop thinking Like a collective individual and start BEING an individual.To allow myself to be a Human, to be truly Humane in my thinking and actions. The quote is as follows:

When you realize how perfect everything is, you will tilt your head back and laugh at the sky.

If i may offer a very humble interpretation as means of spurring some thought of your own. I was first drawn to everything is perfect. Perfection is there for us, but we choose otherwise. Then i moved to everything we do, all our choices and experiences are perfect, for how we are then at that moment. Even in choosing something less than perfect, less than correct it is still perfect. If it allows us to learn, to grow, to evolve into a better Way for Us, better still. For we are always perfect in who we are. The trick is to choose to be a better Us, then the perfection we create will be of a positive and lasting Nature! Why create a perfect negative to furthering suffering? When perfection and happiness are only a smile or a kindness away. Perhaps perfection is what we make of it Positive or negative, through our choice, our thoughts and our actions?

After pondering a bit more, a past journal entry came to mind. It was a Tibetan proverb coupled with the photo of a Majestic Mountain, a special place i think, perhaps you will feel it too. This connection allowed me to imagine climbing to the tippity top of the highest peak in the photo. After my Guyness declined a bit, and allowed a bit of Boabom accepted me, to return. i understood that upon reaching the summit i would have in true Guy fashion, been bettering myself in some manner of ego. i would have been actually separating myself from others while seeing only that i was better, bigger, higher. i would not have seen that in striving to be above all, i succeeded only in isolating myself from what i sought. In this, perfection is unattainable as i would always need a higher peak a bigger mountain to climb to sustain what was unsustainable. i considered that maybe perfection is to be found a bit lower, was Buddha’s lesson, as i looked at my lint filled navel.

Perhaps Buddha meant that perfection was momentary, if found, it is not a state but an experience. One to be shared over and again through every imperfect daily happening which we could choose to make perfect by finding only the good, while dong no harm. A true belly laugh was issued long and loud. A cleansing and healing laugh formed in the sweat earned through the practice of Boabom. As i leaned back in laughter my head turned up, my eyes opened to see a perfect sky. So in a friend living the good She had learned, through Her sharing the words of a very wise Being. i allowed myself a handhold in climbing a bit closer to a better Way. Sometimes i think Buddha must to have been in touch with both his Feminine and Male sides, in order to be so wise, generous and secure. Perhaps that which has evolved into true goodness, true Love for another Being is lasting and Eternal. Perhaps that is why Buddha is still remembered and Boabom is still practiced today. So find a quote, read a book , share with a friend or visit His Holiness the Dalai Lama, and reflect on what is simple, pure and healing, as means of building something lasting. “As one evolves so to do all.” (Taken from the words of Asanaro)

So get out there and do some of that evolving stuff!!!! It is a start my Friends it is a collectively healing start !!!!!!!!!!!!! Sojammmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Dark Horse (Boabom North)

©2012 The Boabom Journal. All Rights Reserved.

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

©2012 The Boabom Journal. All Rights Reserved.

Perhaps we should have listened more clearly to what they said?

The Boabom Journal once again holds in the most recent photos of Tibet, some glimpse and insight into life. Perhaps it is about looking through the eyes of a child to see clearly what we as adults have forgotten. Perhaps the clear simple perspective of a child sees through the many, many attachments that we as adults have made a part of ourselves. Perhaps the children are here to teach US! To simply and clearly teach us that accepting what “others” say, or teach as the “correct” way, is more correct for them and “their ” goals. By trying to be accepted through accepting their way, we only get further away from Ourselves, creating stress and misfortune.

The photo of the young man “Ganden Monastery” posted February 10, 2011 holds all the trampled hopes and dreams of Tibet. Likewise we can clearly see, hear and feel the pain and fear. The pain, fear and uncertainty of a People, a Nation, a Way of life which should be a Guiding Light to US ALL!

Hear and Feel for yourself, all the suffering a child known as Tibet now carries. See it in the eyes of the young man in the photo, for he is our hope, our future. Sit and look, truly Look into his eyes and listen, please, Listen.

Hear, truly hear what his heart speaks, as it speaks for ALL Tibet! And Tibet speaks for the planet! Do NOT accept that this is “correct”, Do NOT allow a child to be bullied! Life has chosen to allow US opportunity to See, to Hear, and to Change! Look at the photos and listen with your Heart, to the cries of Mother Earth as She asks our help for Her Children. Listen as a pure, healthy and honest Way of Life is extinguished. As Tibet goes, so to may we, so to may the planet.

In this country we are so very, very fortunate to have the freedom to choose any acceptances from any and all sources. Think of a Citizen of Tibet, a Nation never in the news for aggression of a military nor economic nature. Now they are in the News for having acceptances FORCED upon them. Their WAY is being forcibly trampled and buried under the oppressive way of others. In this the whole planet bears the negative energy and shame. All the nations which allow a peaceful non aggressive “child” to be beaten and abused by a “bully” bear the shame. But then Nations are people and We as people can bring about change.

We as a planet “ACCEPT” what is being done to Tibet, lest we too get what they are getting.

To help Tibet we would have to step outside the safety of the status quo. we would have to speak against the “machine”, we would have to stand and speak with the honest, direct, clear words of a child. But then actions speak too, often louder.

How i long for childhood, but in being unable to return to childhood i can “accept” some of its simple WISDOM. A donation of $50.00 dollars will be given to the TAA (Tibetan Altruism Association) in the name of The Boston School of Boabom. This with a solemn respect and friendship for the Teachers and Students who keep this Ancient and Healing Art alive and free. For it is they who have helped me to every so often see clearly and truthfully with the insight of a child. A child knows what we as adults have forgotten, that it is not about how much you give. For it is not about the gift, not about the size or amount. It is about the gesture and the MOST POSITIVE ENERGY it creates,. Who can say NO to feeling the goodness in the simple gesture of putting our collective arms around a child who is suffering the pains inflicted by a bully.

So my friends, do something positive in Your own style and Way! Create, donate or even write a letter! Spread the Word, keep the positives rolling. Fight bullies with generosity and kindness. It is not what you contribute, it is that You Do contribute! In doing there is movement, in movement there is change. Just getting started is a start my friends, a wonderful,” liberating” and hopefully never ending start! Sojammmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm !

ps i have for some unexplained reason from some unknown source an alpha/numeric association. Could not help but notice that the TAA Tibetan Altruism Association carries a certain in my perspective, timeliness to it. To me TAA speaks do it NOW!

T being the 20th letter of the alphabet followed by A the first letter of the alphabet, could be seen not as TAA but as 2011. i do not know if it speaks of looking at things differently or just looking clearly. But i do know or i am learning that there is so very much more to Life in what we have been taught to see as less. Perhaps a subliminal Life message communicating the urgency of Tibet’s fate and what it speaks for us all. Please friends even thinking positive thoughts and wishes for Tibet will help, help us ALL.

Dark Horse (Boabom North)

©2012 The Boabom Journal. All Rights Reserved.

“In the looking there is seeing. Through the seeing there is being.”

In this case the words i had submitted were from a chance encounter, which i chose to become a part of, while walking one night. The Boabom factor was in how i acted and reacted, to and within the experience. This being vastly different than i would have prior to Boabom. Possibly due to my becoming a bit different through Boabom.

The experience involved a young boy, a man, a woman and myself. Oh, and a beautiful, Spring is on the way, night at the beach. It was truly for me a remarkable experience, in that very few words were spoken, yet we all communicated clearly. The only vocalization the young boy offered was his crying. It held perfectly all he needed to communicate, it was pure, simple and honest in its content. Not a word was spoken between myself and the man. Which from past experience, was quite remarkable for me. Words could be used as weapons in my past. Likewise, words could provide for a negative outcome when desired. What few words i spoke that night were spoken to the boy. They held nothing but an opportunity for us all to change the direction in which things were then headed.

In the past i would have reacted perfectly through my imperfections. I would have seen the man as bad, the young boy as good. i would have instantly pushed my inner red button. ATTACK, ATTACK, ATTACK !!!!!!! In some dimension of my noggin i would have been fighting evil and defending good. i would have been making a bully feel the way he made others feel. A self appointed judge, jury and executioner, authorized by the Governments of the World to fight for Truth and Justice! Or maybe just to fight? Prior to Boabom, i would have used many words, most likely some the young boy would have benefited from NOT hearing. The atmosphere would have been more restrictive, less likely to allow for the flow to a positive outcome. The air would have been filled with emotional kerosene and i would have been a human match. The man would have played the part of the striker for this match. In the past i always needed someone to blame for the ignition. “Much like Martyrs, a match which desires to burn, will always find a way to do so.”

That night held some of the most clear and direct communication, i had ever experienced. We all performed a real life Logak as we moved towards a solution. We allowed each other the opportunity to act freely, while moving together towards that positive outcome. Hopefully allowing for some positive growth in the four beings involved. For me a part of the the lesson may be that i had at that point begun learning through the Teachers, Students and Art of Boabom to be calm, open and confident. A much more true and healthy form of confidence than i had previously known. In this night’s lessons as in the Logak shared in class i tried to react to what was there, free of past learned prejudice. In class when one participates in Logak, all do. The interaction is pure, honest, simple and true, everyone in the room is a part of it, all grow and benefit through it. Learning to take that perfect bubble of positive communication out into a sometimes less than positive world, is a gift it holds for us all. In Logak it is only about what is there. Nothing else intrudes as we interact to let go of past, self made limiting restrictions. While moving in a positive direction.

Now i can see that in the past my confidence and righteous indignation were founded in fear and not strength. They were limiting in that they held onto the past negative experiences which i held onto. They were a lie, a self made and self limiting fallacy! They are now seen clearly as my way of getting even. Through finding, judging and fighting in others what had in the past hurt me, all i did was prolong what i needed to release. i am learning through this Ancient and Healing Art known as Boabom that it is possible to undo past damage and experience, so as to begin communicating and living in a positive Way. In doing so the man, the young boy, myself and even the woman waiting in the car all chose a positive outcome. Whatever the man held in his past to justify him acting in such a manner, remained with him. i did not as in my past accept negative energy and recharge it with my own. My choice was to not make his problem, my problem. i reacted only to what was there, allowing opportunity for the man to do likewise. The young boy was given opportunity to allow the negative energy holding his hand to flow away from him. This by reaching a more positive conclusion than he probably imagined before intervention. Positive energy flowed to the young boy from a truly loving source, the woman waiting in the car. Imagine how she sat in the car as ordered, fearing as only a woman can, for another, for a child. Opening her heart, trying to lessen the child’s fear by filling her heart, with his pain. Freely giving her Love for a positive outcome.

Her selfless and truly feminine action is the simple shining star for me in this lesson. i watched her as she wrapped herself into a loving coat of armour around the child upon his safe return. She held my eyes for the brief moment it took for her to communicate everything she so freely shared of herself. Through this the strongest, wisest and most loving of the participants in this real life Logak, was clearly the Woman. Perhaps the final lesson for me is that the woman in being vulnerable was the true guiding strength in this life lesson. She accepted life and made the best decision for a positive outcome by opening her heart to allow for just that. Her accepting what life held, allowed for life to accept her selfless, emotional, Truly Loving and spiritual offering. Which found the path for a positive conclusion in four separate yet connected lives.

Life does not always hold positive outcomes. But it can! Perhaps that is why Boabom works, it is both physical and mental in its teachings and benefits. So move, sweat and meditate, accept the Pure Disarming Beauty in True strength. It’s a start my friends, it’s a much more positive start. Sojammmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!!!!

Dark Horse (Boabom North)

©2012 The Boabom Journal. All Rights Reserved.

the first shift of this station came with [in|ex]halation, those inhales shortened, sharpened, honed in relation to exhales now expressive of a core more compressive, consciously lending its strength tendril-wending from deeps within to silent shouts without. yet “silent” leads astray, for at this step on the way every motion crests an ocean coursing wavewound through the suresound of what each exhale assays: whole essays abound in what issues, each strident press assures. in twining through the tissues, the siren stress endures. thus incessant, so sustained, by this insistent hiss maintained and persistently enchained—so comes fluidity, free-flowing force unhalted in crossing each curve of its course, as multiplied motions don’t collide, but collude, collectives of vector constructively construed.

if breath was the baseme[a]nt this stageshifting shook, the walls it rebuilt hang on hands tu[r]ned to hooks. coming to feel this mudra as real and deal in its first motions with even-keeled zeal has been like an entry to secrets revealed: how this shape seeming weak demands hands of such strength, how its spiraling [s]pins shorten parrying lengths, how the wrists in rotation can switch soft to hard, how to make like a mantis when raising the guard.

such positions gain power in asserting the[ir] ground, stances snapping to shape as the footfalls resound. this impulse descending is echoed in sending the hands hammerfalling, a directive first galling in difference from preludes stretched upward and fore, then slowly made homelike as part of this lore ’til the rhythm snares a downbeat as smoothly as those rise, so lows and highs can both incise in sizing up this grander guise. and this not to mention those which take their [n]extensions to mean not working wi[l]der, filling more space, but send instead their swhirlwoundigits carpalooping to a pinpointed place. in oval orbit within the wings’ span this new nature’s now known like the back of the hands which, unmatched, pair to carry a bentalongshot through a cool crosswooparry when theiron is hot.

but hands aren’t alone in extensions regrown, as the feet find a fleet of adjustments to greet an oncoming assault. whatever it wields we turn aside by turned torso trained in tension, all sharpoints and shields, as oriented perpendicular we harpoon every hard particular. stepping out shows the way we’ll slip in, since back becomes forth with a half-halted spin, and a shortfall can quicken the shift into stance; its landing patter[n] lends a drumbeat rhythm to the dance.

one cycles a cyclone constrained to its place, another spins out to match patience with pace—a trial that in truth is asked of all moves, as a slowdown is foremost for finding their grooves. some become trebled or doubled atime, paired with new handlings protecting the prime, and such multiplication demands dedication to keep its contours crisp. as i stretch to the rear with a two-pointed spear, does my form in its force show the will, or the wisp? our leaves are yet small, still stretching into shape—yet to ourselves we’re tall, caught up in the currentrance with no wish to escape when all these changes rise from our immersion: the hiss, the hook, the ovoidiversion.

with a single leaf grown we can draw on the sun, pull energy out of the sky. lacking its luster, in the past we could muster far less than today, and we’re anxious to try these reserves and see what we can serve when these [spr]outgoing tactics are tied. as [n]ever before come [re]acts for attacks, responses to wane an assailant who’d wax impoetically striking or grasp as at straws—he’ll find himself stricken, relieved of his claws. one step back turns to three fore, and floors; conv[e|i]ction’s currents converge, a whirling wind in the door. we duck out and cover with counter and kick, drop in undercover to make the point stick. we latch on and leverage from lockdown left to laid-outright. come too close for our comfort, we’ll compel your quick flight; with one hand tied behind the back we’ready to slip loose and take up the slack.

soon past this comes the mast of those elements cast from a mold known to hold to the pattern of old—those dances pre-ordered, those matrices meant to give structure to mind and show body’s ascent. a flurry of hooks at all sides, one’s enacted—hesitation forbidden, flow’s tribute exacted. another joins patterns past times have supplied, now threaded together: a whole cloth’s implied in the weaving of wisdom and will—the one come from past, from legend and trad, the other new in every now, its mo[ve]ments and its currents clad in presence protective, strenuously self-selective . . . the last, a verse of spatial-spoken thought which tersely toned and tempered, taught: strike here, step so, let force be supplement to flow, face all corners and all comers, bring your spring into its summer.

tender and tentative, the tiny tendrils of the barely-brought-to-brightness must be tended if they hope to take the[ir] strong_holds of the soil. if they’ll be led into landlockingrowth, their g[u]ardener must be meticulous, methodical and loyal to the nuances these newborns now are needing, honing, heeding: the word to name this watcher’s work is weeding. so we’re guided through the geography of unchoreographed expression, clearing out the underbrush that clutters our impression. “keep the head clear, keep the line clean; come straight-backed, edge-onward. make your motives unseen, and—crosswise—watch your other’s eyes; they’ll show you where he’s going. use the space, give and take, know true feint from fake, and keep your hands up! keep that breath’s rhythm flowing.” we adjust and advance, moving further and faster as we try to master the descending and double that define now our dance into trust, out of trouble.

our time in this field has gone swiftly; we’ve reeled at the influx of changes and shifts, each day being humbled by grace of its gifts. through trials and triumphs we’ve come to this pass, a journey continued anew in each class, and now at each bend in our training, this trail, we see how in our group the per[s]one-all prevails. what has sprouted here is special, and its species, though long-lived, is delicate in seedling stages; so few so far survived. going forward with those who can share what we’ll know and act as a kind[ling] of kin, with a broaderbowed greeting to bookend the meetings, the focus is doubled, both out-ward and in-: out to the edges each leaflet extends; in deep as roots’ reach, on which stemstrength depends.

we twist our twigs through spiral spaces, trim our thorns to tighter times; the further down we dig, we find, the higher we can climb. a strongrip on the ground into which the seed settled will enable an aerialife many-petaled; as we expand our crowded crown of small sun-hungry leaves, we’ll add complementing colors to their greenly hanging [sh]eaves.

we feel it in our breath, our branches, feel it in our blood: what sprouts in spring is bound to bring the summer when it buds.

- Udaboa, the Scribe
Boabom North

©2012 The Boabom Journal. All Rights Reserved.

Theo (Boabom North)

©2012 The Boabom Journal. All Rights Reserved.

Our Lady of Guadalupe is recognized as a symbol of all Catholic Mexicans. Her feast is celebrated on December 12 and is the most important national holiday in Mexico. Some historians believe that the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe is a representation of religious syncretism, combining the cult of the Virgin Mary with the Aztec goddess Tonatzin. My intention is to provide a brief narrative of the story from the Indian perspective.

The Indian goddess Tonatzin, also known as ‘Mother Earth’ or ‘Our Revered Mother’, was worshipped since prehispanic times at the hill of Tepeyac, considered a sacred and magical site by the Aztecs, near what is now Mexico City

Like many other Aztec temples, the sanctuary dedicated to Tonatzin was destroyed during the Spanish conquest of the Aztec Empire, led by Hernan Cortes, in 1521.

In 1531, ten years after the fall of the Aztecs, Tonatzin returned to reclaim her place at the Tepeyac. She talks to Lord Singing Eagle, an Aztec prince and former army commander to communicate her desire to have her temple rebuilt. The goddess comes to her people during the eve of the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year, the birth of the sun, when darkness turns to light.

Tonatzin asks Lord Singing Eagle to cut flowers and bring her message to Juan de Zumarraga, Bishop of Mexico. When presented, the flowers magically transform into her image which is printed in the cloth that was used to carry them.

Guadalupe, “she that steps on the serpent”, talks to her people through the flowers that transform in the cloth that Lord Singing Eagle carries. The image of the Virgin of Guadalupe shows the stars positioned as they would appear in the sky on December 12, 1531 in Mexico at dawn. The moon under her feet represents the people of Mexico; this name can be translated as “navel of the moon”.

Tonatzin reaffirms her place and connection to her people. The cult of Tonatzin lives on and represents our connection to the sun, the rain and mother earth as a manifestation of life.

To learn more about the miracle of Tonatzin:

• http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Our_Lady_of_Guadalupe
• http://laprensa-sandiego.org/archieve/december03-04/virgen.htm

Raul (Boabom North)

©2012 The Boabom Journal. All Rights Reserved.