Spanda

The sign of life is pulsation. 'Spanda' in Sanskrit. From Spanda comes our word 'expand.' That which expands must also contract, must pulse. That which does not pulse cannot play, cannot live.

Pulse is the nectar of creation, and the wine of health. Atoms, hearts, moments of time, cycles of history, worlds and galaxies, all bubble up and dissolve as the pulse of the Infinite. Music is the pulse of silence, dance is the pulse of stillness, art is the pulse of the formless. Spirit pulses into Matter. Shiva pulses into Shakti.

If we are going to pulsate and live, we must not only know how to act, but how to rest; not only how to swell, but how to be empty; how to listen as well as speak; how to be dark as well as radiant.

We learn to rest between the pulses. Between our days. Between our moments. Between our heartbeats. And right in the midst of busy lives, to be so vulnerable that we can fall into the gaps and silences, coming Om even for an instant, which could be an instant of eternity, as we let go of Doing to sink into Being.

But we get stuck in the mind, do we not? In dry abstractions, brittle concepts. Whether religious or political, it is the same arid paralysis: lack of pulse. Weak pulse is dis-ease. The organic vibrancy of our body goes numb. Confined to the cage of the intellect, we have no juice, and cannot feel the kiss of God.

Ideology will never save our world. Our world will be saved by the call of a robin at dawn, the flavor of your grandmother's mashed potatoes, the gaze of a baby sucking a nipple, the sting of dew on your bare feet. Whatever the question is, the answer is not an idea. Nor will the answer ever come as the conclusion of an argument.

The answer is returning to pulsation. When you are stuck in the mind, drop those inflexible concepts and come home to what pulsates, the rhythm that softens and expands your heart. This life-giving pulse of Spanda need not be sensational or dramatic. It could be as gentle and intimate as your next breath.

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