This poem, from October at the ashram, has been posted elsewhere, but I feel like it belongs here, with this image:
Photo: Vrindavan Pond, Sivananda Ashram Yoga Farm, Grass Valley, CA,
Sadhana: Night & Day
Swamiji has asked me to transfer the lavender plants
from a broken wood barrel – now toppled
to one side near Krsna temple – into two ceramic blue
containers where they will not die.
This task, as with the many asked, I agree to gladly,
though in this instance see that perhaps
a Karma yogi not-me might take care of this joyful little job
opportunity whilst I serve elsewhere: likely in the kitchen or the orchard.
There are apple trees that need water there. We all know: water added to earth & air guarantees trees will bear fruit eventually; and in addition I offer prana, singing Lakshmi mantras into the many tiny ears of these tender-hearted trees, whom I hope or imagine listen discretely, with subtle green sonic organs hidden in their leaves.
They say Thank You; I sing Srii!!
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
The moment night became too cool, I felt this body bolstered
by a warming wind, a breeze of evening heat rustled
out of the blue-black abyss. Earlier on that too-hot tejas day,
I dove into a ‘Bliss Divine’ on the dock of a man-made pond called Vrindavan.
Smiling my salute to the sun, I am intent on tanning my gums.
This, I am told, is an old Swami Vishnu hammock-practice. Though
this trunk & limbs flow through twelve-plus poses, my focus sits
over my nose, where fiery areolas form fluxional suns who arise & set & rise & set.
Sweating after effort, I shed a layer of t-shirt & shorts & use my skin to swim three cooling loops around the fountain. From the far side, facing east, I am given vision of the secret rainbow resting therein: that Self-same sun being split into its constituents by the perfect scatter of water gone airborne, floating up & folding down as in ecstatic Asana.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
Back on the dock, my chilled skin is sizzling in the oven of said sun. I turn & spit;
a sunfish investigates, then tastes. That nobly bold or dumb one bites my saliva and flees to the deep. The spit stretches like trite cheese on impossible TV pizza. Seeing this, the orange sunnies all hustle up, swarming to the surface, hungry for any potential-ojas left over.
Here I pause to take a picture; pause to capture the day’s last light. Here
I pause to wonder what happened to the Puja milk from last night:
when the deity is clean, do we just dispose of those holy leftovers of devotion?
Or, can I try a bite?
The central fountain sends concentric ripples dancing over this underwater Vrindavan. Refracted shadow & light climb the well-worn rungs of the wet wood ladder, climbing through the heavy-set tendrils of a living willow. How a trunk draws water from the earth, shadow & light arise in ripples: rising how kundalini is drawn to the crown of a ripened spine; the way a fruit always falls – in time.
Photo: Samadhi Estates, Grass Valley, CA
Stealing Back The Flute
from Hafiz (who else?)
"Something in your soul trusts Me
Otherwise it would not let you near these words.
God has spilled a Great One into each of us,
This warrior is always fearless But also always kind.
The only business I am concerned with these days,
Since I heard the Moon's drunk singing,
Is stealing back our flute from Krishna."
Just so much encoding.
om shanti aum