Live From a Dojo: Reiki, Music, Healing, Laughter

Live from a Dojo after a Reiki treatment and guided meditation, with Ruben Zukowski, DJ, musician and Reiki Master, specializing in global fusion and sound healing. I speak of my experience this evening. 

This is a precious conversation that covers the basic tenements of Reiki, various healing modalities with a special focus on Ruben's musical talents.

We feature live bells, gongs and bowls that reverberated throughout the dojo.

Zuk is full of life and throughout this interview, we are laughing hysterically while speaking of deep spiritual truths, the power of thoughts, words, music, chakras, arts, and culture.

Listen to Zuk's music HERE 

This interview was conducted during the early stages of both of our spiritual journeys. I will treasure this always.

Image © Ruben Zukowski - Grayn [grain] music

You can also listen HERE 

Please visit Unify Cosmos on Sound Healing HERE

[Holosync, Lifeflow, OmHarmonics – 3 Binaural Programs Reviewed.]

 

Inside the Most Sacred Parts of Your Being.

On Mogul

Writing is breath to me, blood pumping to sustain life. It is the air I breathe, the food that provides my body with strength, the desire and passion that keeps my soul alive. Writing is letting go and rebirth. It is release. 

Writing is healing.

Writing is a positive force and I am grateful I am able to write without fear of ridicule of what anyone perceives about the subject matter of my writing. In order to truly write, you must bare your soul to the world, allowing the public inside your heart, soul, mind and the most sacred parts of your being.

This is an immensely brave act.

Every writer knows that their secrets, desires, dreams, loves and letting go, can be found in their own writing.

Get it all down first, free form flowing thought, anger, sadness, happiness, love, every emotion you feel, every thought you think. 

Editing is for later. 

If you cease to document those very first moments the need to write strikes, you will lose what is instinctual and natural as a writer. 

So leave your pages bloody.

Leave them ripe with sweat, hard work, love, pain, grief, loss, light, warmth, enlightenment, rebirth, rain, fire, ice, ashes, matches, gasoline and lastly, most integral, life. Leave the pages of your mind drenched with the ink of the breath of every solitary subconscious thought.
 

Make sure your words set fire to cities and nations, to hearts and minds, to the very core of every human spirit who is paying attention. Make sure your words seep into the skin of the reader, leaving trace minerals that sustain the ailing human shell.

 The main purpose of writing is to make a point.

Your words must imprint the reader so deeply that they begin to create and form different thoughts; quite possibly, they may start to see, if they already do not, this crazy, beautiful, lovely mess of a planet we exist on with new sight. Anything less is selling your own precious soul. 

You experienced all of that love, loss, pain, grief and bliss for a greater purpose:   

To leave your pages bloody.

Look around you. What do you see? What are you ignoring? What are you grateful for? Use all six senses, and ones you do not know exist, and tell me, what do you hear?  

Try it. Then write about it.

To take the meat out of writing, the lymphatic fluid, the millions of veins, arteries and capillaries selflessly pumping oxygen and blood that berths within the lungs, to the heart of the artist, is quite simply, utter and irreversible, literary death.

Make them pay attention.

Set fire to the soul.

Anything less is an abomination to creation.

buzz-saw

Published On Mogul 

Photo © L.R. Heartsong

The buzz-saw
grits and grinds,
metal teeth rip skin,
chewing and spitting
parts of bones and marrow.

Fumes spew smoke-trails
for miles,
so all can see my death,
my demise.

And no one seems to mind
that each tear into flesh
is pain,
and that the dust
is my blood,
falling onto the grass,
laying there,
as if
it is nothing.

My cries are not heard by humans,
my voice is muted,
but the sound of the buzzing of the saw,
the heat of the blade
boiling in the sun,
the sweat of the hands
of the man,
driving that blade deep
into
my
very
soul -

The core of this Earth.

Someone stop this -
please, they are killing me,
someone hear me cry.

With each buzz of the blade,
my eyes grow more dim,
my breath is caught.

My God -
I am bleeding
right into the roots
of where I was born.

The grass holds me dearly,
- God bless the green -
the dandelions tilt their weary heads
and tears turn to puffs of cotton
flowing on Spring-times breeze.

And the hands that hold the blade
have mercy on them,
for they are but a vehicle.

And a lone tear escapes
from the eye of the hand of the man
cutting my limbs to pieces,
and it falls upon my shoulder
now bare, once covered in bark.

And my goodness,
the tears are hidden
beneath the cap of a hat,
shielding the human eye from sun
or perhaps,
from the stares of onlookers -

who may deem him mad
for having a heart.

***This was inspired by the first line in this article and experience written by L.R. Heartsong [River] called "Saving the Grandmother"

Photo © L.R. Heartsong
Words © Susan Marie
On Soundcloud HERE