Can't Hide This

can post nothing for a day or two. Even three--longer, if necessary. I
don't need to explain anything; no excuses required. I am not answering
to anyone here. It's meant to be an exercise, designed to dust off the
old writer in me: my daily writer's yoga. That's okay so far.

some write fiction; some keep "themselves" out of their writing. Some
write what others want to hear. Some skirt around the truth. Some "keep
it nice." Some will avoid the painful, the reality, the
stare-you-in-the-face-til-you-run-from-the-room biting dog of life.
am none of those. I can't just pen a flippant, humorous, edgy, valid,
in-your-face, meaningless rant that will serve as a screen to what is
really going on, when a person who is dear to me, even dearer to my
husband and several of my closest friends in the world, is lying in a
hospital in Bombay, in a coma, struck down this morning by a brain
stroke, hemorrhaging in the stem of his brain, a great big painful
question hanging over him: will he or won't he?
He's not an ordinary
person. He's a lifelong renunciate, a monk, a spiritual lifer, a guru
to thousands, an inspiration to as many more, a blessing on this earth,
a serial giver--he's in the Guiness Book of Records for having the most
air mileage in the world, always traveling and always giving giving
giving; a kind, sweet, loving, selfless, beautiful, smart, funny,
larger than life person, and I and thousands more love him and don't
want to lose him, don't want to see the sun rise on a world without him
in it, can't abide the thought of him slipping away in the night,
leaving a hole the size of the universe in our lives--small or big
universe, short or long time, depending on how much love you let him
give you.
So I went to the temple this morning, where hundreds had
gathered to sit and chant, pray, and petition the Lord for a favor for
someone who had served Him for all of his adult life. I sat amongst
them and chanted with them; I closed my eyes and let it wash over me; I
prayed the same prayer, chanted the same chant, and cried the same hot
tears that are possible only at the point of sheer, utter helplessness,
of meeting the ultimate law of the universe, only one step away from a
But what I really wanted to write about was the
collective consciousness and outpouring of love of a worldwide
community, a multi-national bunch of neighbors whose back fence is an
internet line, whose chinwag on the corner is a string of SMS texts,
whose meeting room is a hundred, a thousand temples scattered across
the planet, whose chant is the same, whose goal is one, whose heart
beats in this place I live in and love and sends the rhythm of its life
flowing out to wherever its members sit in the world.
There are days
when I don't want to know about this group; when I don't want anything
to do with it; when I don't feel like being a part of it, of
conforming, of devising constantly clever ways to avoid the mass
mentality that it can sometimes produce in its lesser, more naive
But today is not one of those days. Today I want to curl up
in its lap, feel it's pulse, know that it's alive and well, reassure
myself that it's bigger than all of us, and fall asleep under its
loving gaze and tender stroke.
And it's worth every shitty day I've had with it to be able to do that, feel that, say that. Worth all of it.
Please pray for Jayapataka Swami.
Hare Krishna.


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