Co-Editor’s Introduction: Movement Dharma
An Ode to Vultures, Sky Burial, and Kali Ma My eyes adjust to darkness. More evolved creatures know this, do not fear dusk but come fiercely alive in its violet tunnel. Coyotes, bush cats, vultures— eternal mothers and daughters conceived by wind, winged pneuma. From what other scavengers can I learn? What tricksters and soldiers? I am dim, stunned. I recently rediscovered these words I scrawled in a journal entry five years ago, steeped in grief. The sense memory of that darkness feels appropriate to autumn’s approach here in the northern hemisphere. What insight could I offer in the yearly descent to darkness, in an age of darkness? Like I did five years ago, I must defer to the crepuscular and carrion-eating. Like the vultures that eat flesh from sky burials, I want to keep my eyes open to the life-sustaining potential in death: the death of our sociopolitical systems, of our expectations of civilization, of my ego. Easier said than done. What about the death of entire species and languages, of our most innocent, …













