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Spirit meditation

Nicola Easthope


Sit quietly with your eyes closed.

Let your breath slow and fuuu–

you’ve spilt your sweet milk

tea in the lotus of your lap.

Remember your breaths.

Visualise the fawn heat

fertilising the lower half

of your body


burning, moist, vital soil.

In your mind’s eye

take up the vacuum

cleaner, clogged at the head –

your index finger and thumb

pulling out lengths of hair,

yarn and puppet fluff –

fluoro and rainbow and

dandruff you must suck

up again. Try to picture

a white lotus


blooming in the upper half

of your body. See the tannin

staining the petals. Say,

I am willing to embody my spirit.

Gaze deeply into the blossom that is

truth. What nature of truths

do you see? The first conversation

of the morning yesterday –

But bad manners don’t matter

on a building site, Miss. Listen


for words that will inspire a whole

generation of mates, calling out

the calling out. I am calling

to my spirit, Miss.

Back to the lotus striving,

notice the breath.

Have you marked it yet?

Haven’t you left yet?

Meanwhile, the flower’s dead.

Picture yourself planting the baby

cactus into the larger pot

out on the deck. I am willing

to embellish my spirit. Give away

your old Faludi and Spenders

to the young women about to leave,

yeah, rattle the seed out of stasis, man,

breathe in the Mammilaria,

blow out the candle.

What truths?

Your spine is a stem

marked with spines,

a porcelain mug hot

at the sacrum. Check

your computer screen

and the top tab of 17 you left

open last night. Open your eyes.

Watch as the Sophie Elliott PledgeMe breaks $10k.


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