4/05/2018

Purnima


In Yogic tradition, Bhaktis meditate on the grace of the Master at the full moon, Purnima. The Master gives the sacred "bija" mantra at initiation, the seed of divine light. But what is the bija really: it is a secret name of Mother Divine, for She IS the light. Meditation is powerful and effortless through the grace of the Master, but that grace is just a stream of the ocean of the Mother's love.

I keep returning to diamond silence through the dissolution of your name.

You are the ever-virgin bija who disrobes your veils of song to bathe in the throb of the void.

You are the unplucked harp string reverberating in the roofless temple of emptiness.

Curves of the vina, the shape of your vanishing body: but who plucks the music from you?

Your undulation woven into every dust-mote and star: but who is the weaver?

Is it Shiva, your first lover? Or is it I, the whisperer? Whoever understands this question is a newborn child.

One sultry Guru-Purnima, I watched the Master whirl in summer mist at the edge of the meadow, his white gown dissolving in fey ambiguous rays of the full moon.

Drums, gazes, heat lightning inside us - we wept. By means of dancing, he was teaching us not to cling.

O Mother, he is your servant. So am I. Whoever understands this is a newborn child.

Without your breath, I am a lump of dust. And without the Guru's glance, these asanas, pranayams, Vedic chants and holy scriptures are all ash-bags lifted by tired bones.

No mind can liberate itself through its own work. Whoever understands this has entered the garden of wonder.

From the moment of conception, I’ve been thirsting. When I take your name to my lips, with only the faintest press of effort, your milk begins to flow with unbearable sweetness.

I would return to any world for this, the stuff all worlds are made of!

Am I inside you, or are you inside me? The form of this body is your exhalation.

I exist to return, on the wings of So'ham, to the mouth that breathes me. Whoever understands this is a lover.

The feeble spark of reason is snuffed out when I fall asleep, but the silence between the stars is everlasting. I am That.

Here’s the secret, friend: Don't grasp for light. Let light pour out of darkness.


* Listen to a reading of this prose poem HERE

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