Back to the Garden
I'm sure there was a time back in the Garden of Eden before the biting of fruit, naming of lizard, and placing of fig leaf, when Adam turned to Eve or Eve turned to Adam and, in the delightful absence of language, greeting cards, or text messaging, found a simple way to communicate something real about their experience of being alive.
Ever since those halcyon days, we've been trying to do the same -- to express something basic, primal, and pure. About what moves us. And why we often linger in the gaze of another who lets us in just long enough to experience the blessing of being received, no strings attached.
It is into this space I find myself being transported upon seeing Maharaji -- a space that continues expanding the moment he leaves the stage.
He's gone and so am I -- my body now a hologram, my heart a happy camper.
Stunned in my seat, I am completely still, infused, fulfilled, free, my blood a kind of overflowing champagne fizz.
I'm sure I could move if I wanted to, but I don't want to. The desire to go anywhere has vanished. All I want to do is sit here and soak up the feeling forever. My name, my plans, the details of my life all seem like odd relics.
I am driftwood here, washed ashore, something a curious tourist might find.
I breathe. I bask in the light of an interior sun now made brighter by the one I have no words for. I breathe. I follow my breath like a happy drunk follows the dotted white line home after an endless night of celebration.
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