Sonjan McCombs


I met Aaravindha Himadra in 2000. You’d think after 30 years of practice, I’d be ready. In a way, I was—I’d done what I could on my own—meditated, travelled to India, wrote 3 poetry books, and found my way to stillness.

Yet there I sat. Beautiful, yes!!  Peaceful, yes!! —But somehow mysteriously unfulfilling. From within my deepest meditations came an emerging a voice—the Divine Mother whispering in my ear—“Sonjan, the teaching does not end in silence. Now that you are woken to the truth, what is still possible?”

I looked for a teacher that might shed some light on this mystery. None of my Advaita community knew what I was talking about. But when I shared my experience with my friend and teacher Aaravindha, he smiled and pointed the way.  The door opened and I stepped forward to discover an overwhelming wisdom and love. Twelve years later, I too began offering forward the great mystery teachings. The techniques are profound and the alchemy remarkable.

Over these last 5 years, I’ve shared the teachings here in Bellingham, WA and as a result a community of beautiful souls has formed, drawn by the sacred knowledge and profound life-changing techniques. It’s remarkable to witness, and even more remarkable, to experience this living spiritual alchemy active in one’s life.

If interested in learning more, I suggest you read Aaravindha’s book, Immortal Self; A Journey to the Himalayan Valley of The Immortal Masters. If you’d like to study with us in Bellingham, drop me a line.


Here is a sense of how I work—a poem from my book—Apprenticeship of The Soul:


Not That Kind of Poet

10-1-07  ~  Sonjan


I am not the “remembering” kind of poet

I can’t quote Yeats or Shelley

Or the brilliance of Shakespeare

I can’t even remember my own material


But there is wildness afoot

A madness that comes visiting when you let go


Rumi’s heart fell to the ground when he lost Shams

Then the Divine came and danced

Until his mouth became a blessing

God wrote a thousand poems to Himself on his tongue           


The wildness that ripped Hafiz apart

Comes visiting

She rips me open — grabs a pen

And starts scribbling Divine madness


No, I am not the remembering kind of poet

I’m not really a poet at all

I’m just crazy about kissing God


Contact Sonjan

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