|She is teaching, always teaching,|
here by her state, living inside
I said her name. She stopped and turned to me. Standing very close, her huge eyes were like dark, liquid pools, drawing me in.
"Talk to me," I said, yearning for her to stay close, to hear her voice. "Please talk to me."
Still she stood silent, answering with her eyes, her dark, liquid eyes.
|Garlands of blossoms for my beloved guru|
All of the times when I was in her physical presence and she walked by without looking at me, when inside my ego was terrified and saying "don't look, don't look," when I thought I would die if she looked at me...
I had never seen someone call to her when she was walking by. It was a matter of being respectful, of cherishing and protecting the guru, priceless beyond measure.
But these years later I wish I would have spoken, even if only in a whisper: "Gurumayi..." I wish she would have heard me, and turned to look at me. It would have been enough for her to just look into my eyes.
(Perhaps her gaze would have broken the egg called ego, an act of pure love...).
And so... in my dream, instead of letting her slip by, of feeling she was only just appearing to my ego as though she might turn towards me, burning that fear in me... I say her name. I say her name and she turns to me. But she doesn't talk to me, she doesn't answer that yearning. Instead she shows me the depth, the mystery, the everything there in her eyes, pulling me in.
|I am bursting forth into fullness... as in, I rock|
To simply notice the divine moving within me, accepting it without rajas, without doing.
It is a delicate flowering of recognition of the divine, of accepting it already full and pure in my self. It is the answer to a lifetime of the delusion of grasping, pushing, pulling inside, pushing myself about as my own bully, hurling myself about like a carnival ride, betraying parts of myself, bargaining them away for tiny drops of illusion and the worthless rustling of moments.
No more. My guru, my guru... how I love you.