[Because I have no words. Because I have too many.]
Pilgrimage: A seeker traveling to a known access point seeking interaction with the divine.
Water the garden, fold the blankets. Take care of the Mother. Share the teachings, the understandings of asana. Eat some peanut butter and jelly. Take care of the Mother. Fold the blankets, water the garden.
Read the words of the Bhagavad Gita. Twice, three times. Dharma. Is there really some spiritual purpose to this strange and winding road we call a life? . . Meditate on that.
Ride Baba’s breath in. Ride the breath out. Ride Baba’s breath and extend that into Vayu’s lift, a lift that infuses my entire asana practice with a quality of lightness, and yet, still my feet are on the ground, toes hooking into the earth. Chinnamasta . . . . space.
Visit Ma’s rooms and garden for the first time and feel the frisson, the purusha. That essence. Let go of just a little bit more fear. Then lie down in the Dattatreya (recovering) for an hour. Sing kirtan, practice violin and open my bhakti heart, sing kirtan. Listen to the silent sound of Om reverberate out into the night.
Walk the Mahavadiya maze and sit with Shiva. Circumambulation. Time at each of the shrines. Time well spent. Hanuman. Baba Siri Chand.
Neem Karoli Baba. Buddha. Hanuman. Jesus. Mary. Kali.
Step into the Ganga. First my big toe, then my whole foot, up to my knees, over the hips up to the chest. Chin, eyes, crown of the head. Swimming in the essence of the Mother. What could be better?
Ride the Shakti (with Shakti Priya) all . . the . . . . way . . . .back . . . . . . to . . . . . . Atlanta. . . .
Water the garden, fold the blankets. Take care of the Mother. Share the teachings, the understandings of asana. Eat some peanut butter and jelly. Take care of the mother. Fold the blankets, water the garden.