“I am looking for a poem that says Everything
so I don’t have to write
Don’t you know this feeling? Are we done yet? Is this the damn destination we’ve been waiting for? Like, WTF? More feelings? More being present with that thing called Reality? My guttural response to this discussion evokes that ancient Sanskrit chant:
I so totally identify with Tukuram, a 17th century Indian poet, who wrote this poem an extraordinarily long time ago. Can’t I just nail it, finish it, wrap it up—whatever the It might be—and move along? And where exactly would I be moving along to? I never can quite identify that. Is it an infinite relationship with Netflix Streaming, that cosmic phenomenon that so fully and perfectly woos and wins our hearts and minds?
It’s been a week. In this particular week, a Futuronsky medical mystery was solved; why do I occasionally get a few beyond-nasty spider bites while sleeping, as my wife lies next to me, un-molested-by-the-spider-anthropoids-from-hell? The answer emerged. No, I do not have a spider-infested pajama drawer. I have a mild case of shingles! Once diagnosed (bless those urgent care folks), I found myself flooded with hot shame. Driving toward the pharmacy, face aflame, I was committed to not telling my dearest friend, Aud. After all, I teach relaxation. After all, I teach meditation. How can my nervous system be on such uber-overload?
I told her.
I told others.
And I tell you.
Why? Because the heaviness of that shame weighs me down into separation and hollow aloneness.
Because denying what is keeps me occupied, locked in aggressive denial.
Because in the speaking, the freedom of connection to myself and to others emerges yet again.
And why? Because this conversation speaks to the question posed in this blog, “Are we there yet?”. Dear friends, we are there. We are already home (Ahhh, the title of my second book!). We are already there! Is this the great, universal cosmic joke? Is it really this simple to be free, to be enlightened, to be liberated?
Here are the words of Rishi Prabakar, a Vedic scholar whose life work has been the study of the ancient art of non-doing:
“Enlightenment is available in each moment in which we choose it.
It requires only saying yes completely to our experience of the moment.
We meet God in any moment in which we can fully affirm,
in the midst of whatever is showing up,
‘There is absolutely nothing wrong with this moment.’”
In the midst of the electrical vibration of shingles/un-spider bites, there is Grace.
In the midst of my shame and hiding, there is Grace.
In the midst of our humanity, our overeating, our fear, our sloth and procrastination, there is Grace.
Not just in the unicorns and the rainbows, not just the faith and the love, but especially in the fear, in the constriction, in the separation, there exists the doorway to ultimate unity.
Some types of yoga teach us to work hard, to purify the body, to transcend human limits and then, maybe then, there will be freedom. Tantric yoga, from which Kripalu Yoga has evolved, says nope. We are right here, right now. This is it. The human experience is the doorway to spiritual freedom. By accepting what is, by relaxing into the moment, by befriending the humanity of the moment, we are freed.
So dear friends, I am honoring the vibrating nerve endings tapdancing on my back. I am befriending my compromised nervous system and my frayed immune system. I am relaxing into what is. I am speaking my truth.
I am declaring my divinity by accepting the absurdities and the limitations of my flawed, aging and tired human body, and my flawed, aging and tired human self.
As Rumi says, “I’ll meet you there!”.
Thank you for being right here, right now. Please let me know—how does this post land for you? What do you push against, what do you deny the most intensely in your life? How might that be the most fluid and remarkable doorway home? What might non-doing look like for you?
Please keep me posted. All experiences welcomed—I am email@example.com.
All blessings, Aruni
*Poem by Tukuram, a 17th century Indian poet who, in a dream state, was instructed to write divine poetry