September 26th, 2006 Early in the pre-dawn hours, waking, starting the morning blessing, dozing, dreaming and waking to do bed yoga, it became clear what was keeping me in bed, slow to rise—soothing self-intertwining motions that slipped me out of bright sweet consciousness and lulled me back to sleep. Much like when I was a child sucking my finger or a pacifier—there was nothing nurturing about it, how the toe pads of my right foot lapped over the toes of my left, subtly curling, rolling, the right then the left, over and over, until I became unaware and subdued. I caught myself and separated my feet, laughing as I popped out from behind this veil!
The same barefoot motion sometimes occurs when I pause from work at my desk. My big right toe may sneak over my left right toe in intimation of this retreat from life. It is not meditation. Nor is crossing my ankles, nor holding my head in my hands to dreamily retreat and forget. Such actions cycle energy in a loop. Guru’s Words wake me from twisted dreams and prompt me out of this sleep.
Today’s Hukam from the Golden Temple expressed a similar malaise.
SORATH, NINTH GURU, Siri Guru Granth Sahib, page 633:
In this world, I have not found any true friend. The whole world is
attached to its own pleasures, and when trouble comes, no one is with
you. || 1 || Pause ||
Wives, friends, children and relatives—all are attached to wealth. When
they see a poor man, they all forsake his company and run away. || 1 ||
So what should I say to this crazy mind, which is affectionately
attached to them? The Lord is the Master of the meek, the Destroyer of
all fears, and I have forgotten to praise Him. || 2 ||
Like a dog’s tail, which will never straighten out, the mind will not
change, no matter how many things are tried. Says Nanak, please, Lord,
uphold the honor of Your innate nature; I chant Your Name. || 3 || 9 ||
I decided to
use Sat Kriya to break out of this loop, clear my subconscious of
blurred, looping tendencies and sweep through all contorted layers with
the penetrating mantra, “Sat Nam,” in a bold rhythm, to carry away my
mind’s debris.
Sat Kriya was pierced with awareness. From the
outset, bowing to the heavenly Adi Shakti, my up-stretched arms and
hands pressed together were like a sword that cut through imaginings
and dreamy states to the essence of being. It was a Sat Kriya washing
machine—the wash tub was the Golden Temple; wash water contained the
elements and waves of Jaap Sahib playing from a CD in the background; the
laundry was my mind; my mind’s distractions the dirt. As I called on
the Gurus’ support, they added detergent of their blessings. “Sat Nam,”
the motor, churning all of me, churned the arm-sword washer blades; the
rinse cycle took place in the Amrit Sarovar where my shoulders rose up and
down with “Sat Nam,” bobbing in and out of the Nectar Waters. As Sat
Nam pierced the etheric realm, my consciousness was hung up to dry,
evaporating distilled Amrit into the atmosphere, where shimmering
clouds of Amrit rained Nectar upon the earth.
Some particles
tossed up by the churning of my mind, I did not want to let go of—the
precious, precious memories of Yogiji when he was alive, bringing
sweet, deep awareness by his beloved presence. These were the past.
Reliving sacred memories, which are gone, I grieved for the loss.
Wrenching tears washed this grief away. Only then did I feel Yogiji
within me, gently prompting my heart to see, to see, to see, to see, to
see he is always with me, enlightening my grace.
Later this same day, while preparing
lunch, I accidently spilled Vermicelli. It became a meditation—the way
it splayed and scattered from the bag at fantastic angles, a work of
art half held in my hand. With my other hand I picked up individual and
broken strands from the kitchen counter and placed them in a pile, then tried to press fanned
ones protruding from the bag into bundles, salvaging what I could,
leaving whatever fell to the floor.
The Vermicelli was the
community, sangat, secure in the temple of the bag, but the bag
unexpectedly had holes at both ends, whereby the natural force of
gravity made some beings fall. Broken strands were worth saving
and adding to the boiling water, but Vermicelli that dropped to the
floor was swept up with the dirt and dumped in the trash.
All
is God’s Will. Like the pull of gravity—who remains in higher
consciousness and who falls for earthly values, who is broken, who is
salvaged, who lives and who dies in the unpredictable challenges we
call life—as in the microcosm, so in the macrocosm, universes within
universes within universes.
