Showing posts with label spirituality. Show all posts
Showing posts with label spirituality. Show all posts

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Zenyasi & I

06-09-2009

Dear Goondu, Independence is the best Gift of Love. Think.

Love Mitrananda.

I have been fortunate. Blessed perhaps. Zenyasi, as most know him, has been more than a teacher to me. A parent, a Guru, a friend, philosopher and guide. I have felt his presence in my life constantly and have grown up, holding his hand. With such love he has raised me, it is rare that one experiences such love in one’s lifetime.

The love of a Guru is purer than even that of a parent. Who could have imagined, and so I say not many experience such love, love in its completeness. With absolute selflessness he takes you under his care, helps you grow. Sometimes with the help of a stick he disciplines you, forces you to look within, to introspect, to transform, to reflect. At other times he looks at you with overwhelming affection and love, or holds your hand, or gives the warmest hug.

Like the Eagle that pushes its eaglets so that they may fly, fly high, the Guru, pushes the child so that he may truly soar the skies of freedom.

That which ties us down, can that be love at all?

My salutations to the one, who taught me to be dependent on no one.

My love to the one, who loves me the most.

My gratitude to the one, who makes me think.

To my Zenyasi.

Monday, December 29, 2008

The Purple Mist of winter sweet

Shining diamonds and shouting monkeys. How does one stop the craziness. How does one start to believe. When words lack sense and people lack sensitivity. How is one to believe.
When emotions run on a overdrive and people run astray. How is one to believe.
Does it every go away? When does one become complete? When does one start living? When do children find their way home?
In all this mayhem and madness, how is one to believe?
When life becomes a question and loneliness becomes the truth. How is one to believe.
The purple mist of winter is Dipped in chocolate, hanging on a flimsy screen of reality. Once blown over, what do you see? An empty house atop a lonely hill with windchimes singing a song so beautiful, you cannot hear. Stop and listen to the sound of nothingness.