The darshan moment
Living for tomorrow
is a pilgrim in the
queue,
absently fingering a
garland,
inching his way toward
darshan.
Living in the past – a
pilgrim
walking back to the
retreat
empty-handed under the
stars,
the warmth fading in his
chest.
O pilgrim! Edge your way into the darshan moment!
Within the doors you’ve
burst through,
in the kneeling and
bowing moment,
on the floor of cold
stone tears.
He awaits you – expects
you – every moment,
a cleft of shoulder and
neck
in which to hide your crumbling
face
and empty your heart; a
pillar to lean on,
a gaze from eyes shining
with an unearthly love.
O child of God, live in
the darshan moment.
Before and after are the
nuances of a listless dream.
Confine yourself
O Meher, You confined
Yourself – in the Jopdhi,
in the table-cabin, in
the bamboo cage,
in sundry mountain caves,
in the blue bus,
in a hut atop Tembi Hill;
in the crypt before . . .
and after
it became Your Tomb.
You confined Yourself –
in Your great Silence; in
Your human body.
You confined Yourself,
perhaps
to show how we might be
free.
O pilgrim, retire now to
the narrow,
holy cell of remembrance;
of contemplation
and meditation; fetter
your mind and tongue
to the unyielding
repetition of His name.
Confine yourself to God.
If God is not enough,
what is?
O child of God, it’s
Illusion that’s restrictive,
repetitive and
tedious. The Truth of Meher is boundless.
Where my heart used to be
You left a ruby where my
heart used to be.
There’s a fire inside
that stone.
Now the world is a busy
dream
on the periphery of its
hard lucidity.
Now its heat and glow
is the gauge of my every
endeavor.
The myriad paths of my
calculations
peter out into sunlit
fields and green woods;
wires cross and sputter;
mechanisms derail.
Cause and effect? –
Hoisted on its own petard.
This balladeer is a
drunkard and a romantic, yes,
yet, when he stumbles and
injures himself,
he remains thoroughly
intoxicated,
his Dulcinea ever more
pure and wieldy.
Just so, the fire in the
stone
rules his prodigal heart
–
for what would deter it?
In joy, it burns. In suffering, it burns.
O child of God, nurture
the flame within.
This burning is the foot
path to liberation.
On parting
We wish each other the
best . . . but, really,
what might we hope for
one another?
Our itinerant Lord, from
the new life’s path,
spoke of hopelessness.
I begin to catch His
drift,
many hopes and partings
later.
To believe in Benevolence
Eternal
is to eschew hope, to
shake the dust
from our sandals every
step,
tendering the apples of
our eyes
what our Lord tenders . .
. hopeless love;
not a thought for
ourselves . . .
or others – hopeless love!
No prayers but praise for
the One
whose totality of Love
and Mercy
allows not hope’s grip
nor foothold.
O child of God, timid
hearts hope.
The brave-hearted love . . . regardless of outcome.
