Pip: Classroom Mothership Earth — where climate prophecy, cosmic meditation, and the occasional UFO all share a zip code.
Mara: Today we’re looking at work from Ari Joshua Bouse — a meditative poem that moves from climate grief through the zodiac and out to the edges of the universe. Let’s start with the poem itself and what it’s reaching for.
Orbs Of Light: A Meditation on Expanding Awareness
Pip: This poem isn’t just a meditation exercise — it’s a cosmology. It opens with climate grief and the suffering of sentient beings, then pivots toward something like a spiritual antidote. The question it’s asking is: what do you do with that grief?
Mara: The poem sets up the movement from darkness toward light early, and then delivers the actual practice: “Picture a growing golden white orb of light illuminating your soul and then let it travel with your consciousness outward — first filling the room, making its way through your home, community, region, planet and then to the edge of the Universe and back to the home of your breath.”
Pip: So the meditation is literally a scale exercise — you start in your chest and end at the edge of everything. That’s not a metaphor for healing; it’s the mechanism.
Mara: Right, and the poem frames that expansion in physical terms too — “Feel expansion and then contraction of the Universe” maps the cosmos onto breath. The inhalation and exhalation become a model for how awareness moves.
Pip: There’s also an astrological scaffolding underneath all of this — Aries, Pisces, the Aquarian New Age — which positions the meditation inside a larger turning of ages, not just a Tuesday morning breathing exercise.
Mara: And then the poem directs that orb outward with real specificity. It names Ukrainian and Russian people, Black and Indigenous people, whales, dolphins, USOs and UFOs — and then reaches further: “Send it to mythical creatures of folklore. For on some level, they too exist and deserve an equitable passport in sovereignty.”
Pip: An equitable passport in sovereignty — for creatures of folklore. I respect the commitment to leaving no one out of the universal health plan.
Mara: The closing line pulls it together: “We are Starseed Children of the Creator. Humans are part of a universal tapestry. But we are not the only ones.” The poem ends not on human centrality but on plurality — a shared cosmos.
Pip: Climate grief in, cosmic solidarity out. That’s the arc.
Pip: From grief to orbs to folklore creatures holding valid passports — the range here is genuinely its own thing.
Mara: The throughline is expansion: personal breath, planetary care, universal belonging. Worth sitting with.
Classroom Mothership Earth 