Wednesday, April 05, 2006


Sweetness of spirit. That was the recommendation made in the lecture that he attended last weekend. Feel that there is no need to assert ones will to be loved, be heard, be wanted. Know that there is every possible facility for loving kindness already existing in this world and you only need the stillness within to tap into it. Why then would you not want to wait and see if this process will continue for you? Why the impatience to make things happen where there is no doubt that they will only happen when it is their time? Why wait in restless agony for a moment in time when there is no thought, no yearning and no restlessness for tomorrow? Why not make it happen in this moment?

Because I cannot see it that clearly, he thought. Because clarity seems to be somewhere in the nebulousness of the future or the perfect vision for things of the past. It does not happen without warning, without willpower without causation. Or so it seems.

Hoping that somewhere in this world there is that someone waiting for him, someone that he will make a connection with that will complete this continuous need for fulfillment within him. Is such a thing possible? Do such relationships exist? Ones where there is perfect harmony, understanding, chemistry, love, respect and stimulation? Where words are not required, nor descriptions nor narration of this feeling to self, them or to others? How would we know if we did not communicate with each other about our desire for them? What would we do if we could not express in various ways the feelings that are invoked in us because of them? How would we know, without words?

Sometimes he wondered if this was relevant any longer for him. Crossing 35 had been a landmark that he had not imagined or foreseen. His vision, excitement or anxiety of the future had seldom passed 35. His goals and aspirations were confined to moments in time that did not bear chronological or temporal relevance. A stolen kiss, a shared meal, a deep afternoon slumber or writhing in sweat-stained sheets on a moonlit night. A stroll through Brooklyn brownstones or San Franciscan Victorians searching for the place that called out home. A drive down a crimson canopy of autumnal glory with two quick stops, one to the daycare for the 2.5 year old and another to the Montessori school for the four year old, with endless cooing and reassurances and problem resolutions and last minute tips for coping-with-the-heartless-world-of-4-year-olds. A long walk down a tree lined South Australian suburb with his mom, following a thread of conversation down its delightfully meandering passageways through Vedanta and the kids and India and America and his life alone or his life with a partner or her life alone and her life with her work and school and puja and sadhna. Then there were glimpses of a future not yet seen nor even existent in the realm of current plausibilities. Of trips to Barcelona and running with the bulls, Christmas in London with Penelope and her family, gliding into his executive office overlooking stunning views of Sydney Harbour or the Golden Gate or the river Thames softly reflecting the London Eye in the 9 o clock twilight. Perhaps the vision depicted states of confusion and misdirection when nothing made much sense anymore. A drunken state of discontent, or the total terror of being stuck in an examination hall with utter and complete unpreparation. Being stuck shooting pool with a bunch of jocks or careening out of control down a black diamond way over his depth. Imagined slights, perceived threats, fervent hopes, far fetched daydreams, faked delights, genuine pleasures, slow suffusion of the red glow of embarrassment, or the white hot flush of naked desire. All these and more, much much more, competed at every moment to command, nay consume, his attention from who he was, where he was and how he was at that moment. Everything in his psyche transpired to steal the moment away from him with a promise of a far more impressive glimpse of the future or a reminisce of the past.

He worked, then slept some, graded some papers and made quick notes, sipped some cheap french wine and gazed sidelong at his co-passengers work on his laptop. Sometimes he read his book, a few pages and then set it down, hoping to absorb it. It was intriguingly boring, he felt a mix of fascination and impatience with the style of such prose, wildly inspiring or dully prosaic but never…