"Your humanity comes from your inhumanity."
A guru is a so-called spiritual teacher who is cashing in on their charisma and talent without having done enough spiritual (ego-reduction) work themselves. They preach selflessness but neither possess it (and it is a possession which has to be earned, always the hard way) nor, let's be honest, demonstrate it. Their so-called teaching will always appeal to damaged souls in dire need of a father figure: incomplete egos who have the sense to suss that until their egos are at least whole they cannot be controlled. Nowadays gurus are out of fashion, and instead psychotherapy is in vogue. Personally I can't see that there is much difference, and at least students of a guru are willing and capable of dedicated hard work in the service of their soul, which is much more than can be said of those with enough surplus cash to indulge their therapist each week.
Live the life you must live in order to have the energy to do the work you are driven to do. This is freedom, a freedom most of us squander in the childish need to conform. Such work is always creative in the sense that it is uniquely yours: a work that no one else can do and that would leave the world poorer for not being done.
What the democratic West consistently refuses to admit, even to itself, is that democracy, from ancient Athens where it all started to the present day corruptions of America and Europe, relies upon slaves to do its dirty work. The fact that those slaves now abide in China or Bangladesh doesn't, in my book, make them any less slaves. So next time you enjoy your morning coffee spare a thought for the poor indigenous fucker who slaves ten hours a day in the seering equatorial sun, six or seven days a week, for a pittance, picking the beans.
There comes a point in every spiritual student's life when they begin to realise that there just isn't enough time, and that even with all the will in the world they're only going to make minor headway along the path they've chosen, or rather, has chosen them. It is at that point of understanding the basic irony at the heart of all nontrivial work: that failure is built in and absolutely unavoidable, that the work, if they chose to continue, becomes a joy: worry-free.
There are feelings, which are simple and of the body and generally over quickly, to be replaced by further feelings, and there are thoughts about feelings: fantasies, indulgences, which linger, more in the mind than the body, and are the food for further thoughts, hindering the full functioning of the body. The former are unavoidable and best at least acknowledged if not enjoyed. The latter, which collectively constitute a culture, are to be avoided.
If the third eye is a golden flower of consciousness then it is only so when the dantien is so concentrated that it behaves as a black hole: emanating a gravity so strong that it holds together the entire being – a life – which can then let go of local tensions and begin to resonate its beingness, its essence.
Corework is basically mind in the dantien, or rather, finding and cultivating the ruthlessly detached mood that enables the mind to settle naturally in the dantien. It's difficult work that requires immense maturity – by that I mean a cultural detachment – an independence of spirit that only comes from knowing that I'm nothing and that death is always at hand. Sounds melodramatic, I know, but it's the way I feel it.
Attack is an injection of energy into a system, intended to upset a balance. Yielding then brings about a new balance. These two should always work together: without attack there is no forward movement, no creativity, no delight; and without yielding there is no togetherness – no home. Together attack and yield are a motor for advancing intelligently and courageously into the unknown.
A strong mind is one that refuses to either get down or go backwards, but also resists the childish lure of positive thinking. In fact a strong mind has little recourse to thinking of any kind: it instead takes its cues from the omens in its vicinity: it makes sense of the world by borrowing its energy.
Guilt – that feeling that things ain't the way they should be because of me – stems from lack of faith. A loving god cannot remain transcendent: their first true act of compassion is to become immanent to that which they love. To love (live) and remain aloof is to theorise love (life). The true lover loves that the Other's demand for love snaps them out of a selfish space and into the messy space of practical relationship, and thereby out of hell and onto the path to heaven. I cannot love and hope to keep my hands clean. To wash my hands, even publicly, cannot absolve me of the responsibility to act creatively, that is selflessly, with breathtaking abandon, and thereby love. Guilt is my punishment for refusing the gift of faith, of forwards.