Too long without meditation sends me into the hell of self-absorption, and thus separation, where resides the longing for death (not bodily, but the escape from acute soul misery).
And why wouldn’t it? My world without the conscious presence of the peace that is the essence of the universe, even just the tiny bit I’m capable of feeling so far, is like climbing Mt. Everest in a tuxedo. Unequipped is hardly the word.
The first gift of it is being whacked by the immense power of delusion. It awakens me to the rigor needed to use this insanity for its intended purpose: as a sacred tool for expansion, the purpose of every life event.
The next gift is the humbling reminder of how oblivious must I be to slip into such forgetfulness of that which is essential to my happiness. I am, after all, the recipient of amazing grace: the disciple of an avatar; a practitioner of enlightened practices; the husband of a saint; the pal of some pretty woke folk; even my dogs were probably bred by Mother Teresa. Talk about support.
Then there is the exquisite pain of realizing that with my forgetting goes my ability to serve, to love, to cherish, everyone else who can get as crazy I do.
How can I not look at my life and be awestruck at the privilege to experience the loving spirit of the universe within me since birth––and in my more awake moments, seeing that spirit in everyone I encounter, even Trump believe it or not?
I am so blessed that the pain of ignoring this reality, even for a moment, is excruciating, and triggers a depression so acute that I meet despair. And that despair prompts me to say, “What the fuck am I doing?”
Who could ask for more?
Vivekananda, a delightful and passionate lover of God, says something really beautiful about this:
When all thoughts,
all words and all deeds
are given up unto the Lord,
and the least forgetfulness of God
makes one intensely miserable,
then love has begun.
❦
Sharing my discoveries and welcoming yours is the purpose of this little playground. I hope you’ll add your voice when it feels right.
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