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Milk Tea | Poem
I had gotten distracted,
perhaps on matcha,
perhaps in the early peace
that is December mornings,
perhaps the love of
Christ consciousness
is upon our inhabitance again:
the sense of stillness;
the sense of patience;
the sense of connectedness;
the sense that all will be well
as a feeling in the air,
not a logic limited by mind.
It is a slight tickle of joy.
The joyed anticipation
awaiting the coming tomorrow, and
the joyed enjoyment of the here and now.
I was meditating in the basement,
on the ground. I enjoy the groundedness
of ground, to be grounded. To be ground.
Hips high and tight. Knee protruding
like a wart on the face, a knot on a tree.
Soon enough the body relaxes. Despite
my own skepticism, the knee slowly lowers
to the ground, unwinding my hips. Letting go.
I look to the you beside me
who is not present, is not here.
In your place I make you.
I imaginate your form. I giggle,
“Don’t you need a pillow?
Some billow bolster? No?”
Somewhere past my comprehension
is you, a perfect tripod
of coccyx, thigh, and knee,
supplanted: supine, splat, planted,
spread, the human “loaf” like cat,
at peace, to live and let be,
unmoving, rooted, Buddha-like,
reposed in pose, at one,
Ātman.
The thought is rising, “Good golly!
You’re going to reach God in this life.”
My rock heart cracked a little,
the molten within frothing forth.
“I am happy in your true happiness.”
Needn’t an embrace or a kiss.
This like bliss, my profound Patronus,
my memory image of love for you, for miss.
I think back on my favorite and maybe only desired remembrance of Harry Potter: the Expecto Patronum spell, Latin for “I await my protector.” The spell produces a Patronus, which is the protector, yet the “fuel” and energy for the spell requires a deep memory of love. In Harry’s case, the Patronus is both the fuel for the Patronus, and the Patronus itself.
It comes to pass that Harry has no memory of love strong enough. The dementors feed on his soul, killing him once for all. Yet not. A Patronus does appear, a dear, a wizard sending forth its spell. A Patronus so powerful, the light dispels Azkaban’s full stock of dementors.
Harry finds himself in the infirmary, recovering, wondering, “Who was the wizard who casts such a light?” Through a side quest thereafter they time-travel, finding themselves on the observing side of Harry’s near-death. They have traveled back to that point in time where Harry was once saved. Now Harry is in the company of Hermoine, insisting, “Any minute now. The Patronus is coming. The Patronus is coming. This is about when I remember the Patronus saving me.”
“Harry, no one is coming.”
It struck him then, the Self-realization that he is the wizard who casts the spell, and knowing he has already done it, does it for the first time per the memory beyond time of his doing it. His Patronus is fueled by the knowing of his own Patronus. So the Patronus is both the deliverance and the deliverer. It is one. Expecto Patronum: I await my protector, which is me. I await my self, who is both saved by my self and surrending to my self to be saved.
So it is that I seek out Patronuses of all kinds. What is the knowing embodied of the love that overcomes my suicide? What is the knowing embodied of the essence of deep meditation that returns me to my inner stillness? What is the knowing embodied of my love for friends, my love for all, my love for my love. This knowing embodiment is the Patronus.
So it comes to pass
a new Patronus, a new memory:
the sense of my fellow souls
floating upon miraculously
buoyant bobas, rising balls of light,
our Selves, floating through
the embryonic fluids of
our own earthly rebirth,
the air like milk as we glide
from scene to scene,
Her spirit blowing zephyrs,
the soothing stream
like woven silk,
a stream of milk
from Heaven’s tit,
luring our rise,
that we be fit,
the feeling that
feels of milk and tea,
of sweet honey —
all of life,
the effervescent dream,
both bubbling forth
individuality
and undulating
the soothing waves of sea,
the stream connected,
stretching at once across
the distance of A to Z,
the plenoptic view of
all the sea, the magnetic poles,
pulling me, drawing, drawing me,
to sing, singing that I sing
towards being towards being
to be towards you, towards love,
towards Me: the ever-conscious,
ever-lasting, ever-loving Thee.
This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit substack.qntns.com
This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit substack.qntns.com
View all episodes
By Poems, Writings, Essays, and Lessons by QNTNI had gotten distracted,
perhaps on matcha,
perhaps in the early peace
that is December mornings,
perhaps the love of
Christ consciousness
is upon our inhabitance again:
the sense of stillness;
the sense of patience;
the sense of connectedness;
the sense that all will be well
as a feeling in the air,
not a logic limited by mind.
It is a slight tickle of joy.
The joyed anticipation
awaiting the coming tomorrow, and
the joyed enjoyment of the here and now.
I was meditating in the basement,
on the ground. I enjoy the groundedness
of ground, to be grounded. To be ground.
Hips high and tight. Knee protruding
like a wart on the face, a knot on a tree.
Soon enough the body relaxes. Despite
my own skepticism, the knee slowly lowers
to the ground, unwinding my hips. Letting go.
I look to the you beside me
who is not present, is not here.
In your place I make you.
I imaginate your form. I giggle,
“Don’t you need a pillow?
Some billow bolster? No?”
Somewhere past my comprehension
is you, a perfect tripod
of coccyx, thigh, and knee,
supplanted: supine, splat, planted,
spread, the human “loaf” like cat,
at peace, to live and let be,
unmoving, rooted, Buddha-like,
reposed in pose, at one,
Ātman.
The thought is rising, “Good golly!
You’re going to reach God in this life.”
My rock heart cracked a little,
the molten within frothing forth.
“I am happy in your true happiness.”
Needn’t an embrace or a kiss.
This like bliss, my profound Patronus,
my memory image of love for you, for miss.
I think back on my favorite and maybe only desired remembrance of Harry Potter: the Expecto Patronum spell, Latin for “I await my protector.” The spell produces a Patronus, which is the protector, yet the “fuel” and energy for the spell requires a deep memory of love. In Harry’s case, the Patronus is both the fuel for the Patronus, and the Patronus itself.
It comes to pass that Harry has no memory of love strong enough. The dementors feed on his soul, killing him once for all. Yet not. A Patronus does appear, a dear, a wizard sending forth its spell. A Patronus so powerful, the light dispels Azkaban’s full stock of dementors.
Harry finds himself in the infirmary, recovering, wondering, “Who was the wizard who casts such a light?” Through a side quest thereafter they time-travel, finding themselves on the observing side of Harry’s near-death. They have traveled back to that point in time where Harry was once saved. Now Harry is in the company of Hermoine, insisting, “Any minute now. The Patronus is coming. The Patronus is coming. This is about when I remember the Patronus saving me.”
“Harry, no one is coming.”
It struck him then, the Self-realization that he is the wizard who casts the spell, and knowing he has already done it, does it for the first time per the memory beyond time of his doing it. His Patronus is fueled by the knowing of his own Patronus. So the Patronus is both the deliverance and the deliverer. It is one. Expecto Patronum: I await my protector, which is me. I await my self, who is both saved by my self and surrending to my self to be saved.
So it is that I seek out Patronuses of all kinds. What is the knowing embodied of the love that overcomes my suicide? What is the knowing embodied of the essence of deep meditation that returns me to my inner stillness? What is the knowing embodied of my love for friends, my love for all, my love for my love. This knowing embodiment is the Patronus.
So it comes to pass
a new Patronus, a new memory:
the sense of my fellow souls
floating upon miraculously
buoyant bobas, rising balls of light,
our Selves, floating through
the embryonic fluids of
our own earthly rebirth,
the air like milk as we glide
from scene to scene,
Her spirit blowing zephyrs,
the soothing stream
like woven silk,
a stream of milk
from Heaven’s tit,
luring our rise,
that we be fit,
the feeling that
feels of milk and tea,
of sweet honey —
all of life,
the effervescent dream,
both bubbling forth
individuality
and undulating
the soothing waves of sea,
the stream connected,
stretching at once across
the distance of A to Z,
the plenoptic view of
all the sea, the magnetic poles,
pulling me, drawing, drawing me,
to sing, singing that I sing
towards being towards being
to be towards you, towards love,
towards Me: the ever-conscious,
ever-lasting, ever-loving Thee.
This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit substack.qntns.com
This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit substack.qntns.com