cyclone (total transformation)

the atmosphere is stacked layer over layer from sea level upwards into the regions of nothingness.

the cyclone is when all layers are involved in a total spiralling movement, from bottom upwards layer after layer past the vent into nothingness.

it is an unhindered sublimation of energy, a spiralling into the beyond.

once the monsoon currents have fallen into their pattern there will be no cyclones because a strong and steady current will be flowing from east to west at upper levels creating a lid that closes all approach for the winds spiralling at lower levels to the opening into the total freedom beyond.

under enforced limits there can only be limited manifestations of creative expression.

in meteorology these limited manifestations are called low pressure systems, depressions and deep depressions.

these drive the rains and serve ground level purposes but since the lid is on at a particular level the spiralling beyond into the stage of the cyclone is not a natural thing to happen in the monsoon season.

how analogous monsoon mateorology is to creative expression in life regimented within limits set at different levels from person to person, circumstances to cicumstances!

a cyclone is possible only when we break the lid and take all the individual levels of our being, physical and mental, spiralling into the supraphysical and supramental regions of the unknowable.

this is what Sri Aurobindo teaches in his Integral Yoga--total transformation.

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(image: abstract.desktopnexus.com)

monsoon night

a fruit bat circling
my cherry tree, the crickets
chirping rain happy...

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screensaver

her smiling face is my screensaver.
each time i switch on the computer she lights up the screen her smile.
she has a dimple on her left cheek,
a twinkle in her eyes
and a reflection playing on the softness of her lips.
her temple is the shrine holding the hidden knowledge
of all ages past, all ages yet to come.
my screensaver is the mirror of the truth of everything.

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cheers!

these days i find myself moving as though delicately balancing a large sheet of thin glass on the pinpoint of my head, without the prayerful support of my palms, as brittle and vulnerable as that, the slightest puff of the wind can be my undoing, and yet i carry it off some days, just imagine the bubbling exilleration of it, when at the end of the day, i pour soda water into a peg measure of brandy, and say, unto the world, cheers!

(my friends don't know what makes me so happy!)

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hero

like the fielder at deep long off,
moving in from the boundary line
as the bowler begins his runup,
and when the batsman hits, hard and low,
swooping in and diving full length
to pouch the ball,
just half-an-inch above the ground!

and then glowing in the glow of the gallery!

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zero

to put yourself at the zero position is a difficult thing to do.
when there, you glide like an eagle high in the clouds,
gliding,
not a feather moving,
moving into the mist of the clouds,
and then gliding into sunlit surprises,
blinking,
seeing all things moving and static on earth,
seeing with the eyes of the eagle,
and when the prey scurries, far down below,
acting,
acting with a tilt and flap-flap of the wings,
and swooping in to lift the thing
clean off the ground.

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immortality

what we feel as individual life is the flick of a flame in an immense conflagration. the flame is born in the conflagration and vanishes into the conflagration and in its passing lights up all the flames that are yet to come. only when we know the immensity of the conflagration we know the individual flame, its footing in eternity and its immortality. the flame now harmonises the light of that which had passed on behind and that which hence shall shine forth.

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"She desires the ancient mornings and fulfils their light; projecting forwards her illumination she enters into communion with the rest that are to come."

Kutsa Angisara--Rig Veda.

listening

in the silence of the morning

a cuckoo...then a cow from a long distance away,

playing their different tunes...

like when you sit at the veena, dearest,

probing the notes of a new composition,

me, on the floor, listening.

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the other end of the gradient?

too few words one uses,

for fear of the word distorting the real;

but it has the danger of putting the whole thing

at the other end of the gradient

where it will not roll.

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until the showers came

until the showers came, i knew not of the countless ripples on the stillness of the lake, each running in concentric circles against the outward pushing circles of those around.

and when the rain intensified, i saw the ripples dancing into a frenzy and pushing themselves harder against one another, harder against one another...

and you said: only the drop not with the ripples know the depth and spread of the lake.

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love in times of cold

long journey, bad cold--

the girl in the facing seat

smiles each time i sneeze!!!

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