Songs for the
Flowering Human

The old singers did not sing to perform, nor to convince. Rumi wept his poems to the Divine. Milarepa, in his mountain cave, sang a hundred thousand songs to the snow. Ikkyū sang his verses to the Buddha in the brothel. They sang to call upon an ancient remembering that longs to be shared.

Much of what reaches us now is shaped for the opposite work. A hundred voices chanting "you are small". That love is a market, the body is a product, and the world is devoid of the magic and mystery that once birthed it.

I prefer the older kind. Song that awakens. Verse that remembers. Words that won't sell you a vision of yourself you will have to eventually let die, but appeal to the part of you that is eternal. These songs are for the flowering humans, the still unfolding. The visionaries, the wanderers, the seekers, the mystics, the magicians, the lovers of the divine. If this finds you, it was meant to. If this is a language you remember, stay close.