Pavi recently posted:
"It may be that when we no longer know what to do we have come to our real work, and that when we no longer know which way to go we have come to our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings." - Wendell Berry
I asked for this.
This, is what I keep reminding myself.
I've been on the road over a month now. I've slept a night consecutively in Santa Cruz, LA, Pheonix, Sedona, Flagstaff, Albuquerque, Santa Fe, Denver, Boulder, Wichita, Denton, Nashville, Boone (NC), Hagerstown (MD), Alexandria (VA), Charolette (NC), Atlanta, Gainsville (FL) and now Tampa. I've put 5000 miles on my car, lost 10 lbs, spent over $500 on gas, taught 7 classes, and met countless people.
Madness.
Yes, it's been magical. Yes, it's been inspirational. And (can I start a sentance with that?) and .. It's been challenging. Real challenging.
Somewhere between Boulder, Texas and North Carolina a big trigger was pushed. Someone says something, I get reminded of something else in which I'm emotionally involved, a ripple spreads across dimensions, and in slow motion I witness my mind grasping for a way out, an escape from these difficult feelings. Where's that joint? That bottle of sweet California wine? Where's that new movie playin? That old friend I can shoot the hay with?
This isn't new. Not at all. I just don't have those same escape grooves. I have to keep moving (forward), and there's nothing concrete to fall back on, especially established habits and fossilized routines. No no.
So I watch my mind as it reaches out it's octopus tentacles, as old voices cry out in anguish "Satisfy our demands!" as lines of insecurity bait me with false promises "bite, bite."
And I remind myself. I asked for this. I wanted this. Break it all down, leave no corner unexplored, no stone can remain unturned. Grind it through, pulverize these false negatives into ash, mix it with tears, sweat and a drop of blood and let it burn as incense to rise and fill the skies.
And when the time comes to share the sacred teachings, I prepare by entering a deepening meditation. My body feels like a rock as my mind settles and my spirit soars. Putting myself aside, I am flooded with an electric buzz, my cells saturated with the light nectar of Nath and the Masters. I speak words, but Their inspiration does the talking. Eyes connect as mirrors into infinity, and hearts open as lotus buds to a light unseen, unstruck and yet heard as the most silent of whispers.
"I" will wither away forgotten, but that life within me, within us all, it will live on, and whatever bit of it is True will always remain so, and whatever bit of it is Real will always be exactly as it is. So what to worry about? Drop the false masks. Own up & saddle up, for the storms are coming fast and no amount of false security is gonna keep us safe. Only Truth friends. Only what is Real. So tune in, tune in.
There is no better insurance policy than this.
"The poetry of being late is the opposite of the poetry of waiting.The poetry of breathlessness and apology. Ballad of the flat tire, missed boat, deaf taxi and unfaithful alarm clock. To be late is to be poetically implicated in the ache and tumult of almost and if only. It is a strictly mortal concession. In all this time I’ve never met a tree who was late for an appointment. Or a sunrise that regretted sleeping in." - Pavithra Krishnan Mehta
(and take your shoes off, for have you ever danced in the mud in the desert dawn?)
Thank you for writing!
Posted by: guri | May 30, 2009 at 12:02 AM