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Avimukta - The Never Forsaken
Avimukta
The Never
Forsaken
it is of the loss of the known"
What certainty is there left friend? Unsuspecting,
or in a quiet
place of refusal, have these dark clouds
covered our days? I live in one of the
many countries
that advertise ownership of "the way
this country,
more people of my age, between 35 and
44, have, rather than allow for death to
come at its
own appointed time and place of choosing, decided to
end their
lives themselves. How sad and sure an
indication that this "way" of ours is lost.Why has this
period of life,for so long, and for so many, a period
when
the discoveries of experience pave the way for
understanding, simplicity
and expression, become such
a dark passage?
Where is rest
to be found today? Where have
those spaces gone that, in a day, brought quiet, and a
place to evaluate the passing moments that pulled and
pushed? In a world of increasing noise, soliciting all
the senses, the mind included, where is one to find
quiet? Has silence become terrifying and rejected?
With the rejection of silence darkness assumes
form, when it is in fact no “thing”, simply an absence
of light.
entertain the limitations of, and the point beyond, pleasure ?
Where peace can be rid of the curse put upon it by those who
Indeed it is a
dark place and as far away as
tomorrow, and yet what better place from which
to
observe light and this day's moment? This
place is the unknown; where angels
walk,
where lie the answers to all matters about which
the heart
weeps.
It is a quiet place. Is is strange finding oneself
in a quiet place, if, as I do, you live there where
noise is constantly on offer. The eyes, ears
constantly solicited, to the sound of "Have
more". "More" is appealing but can
easily become just distraction, unless "enough"
has also its place in the day. In quiet there is
always enough. Freedom of speech constantly
justifies the attitude of more, and yet the
importance of punctuation has been forgotten,
leaving but a cacophony of opinions in which
deceit has become accepted and found a great
voice.
The spaces have disappeared - no colons, no
hyphenation; the short pause of a coma and the
longer rest of a full stop. A mark of exclamation
or a question?A capital. The end and
beginning of a paragraph. Pages and chapters.
Without these, what language is it that is
spoken? What is there to hear? Just words,
with which the wordmongers decide what is and
what should and the rest, unversed in babble,
follow.
Without a space in which to rest, or at least a
moment, how to know what is heard and what is
said? Does being right suffice? Giving a
poisoned edge to those rewarded at a young age
for continuing this tradition. If so there must
always linger the knowledge, heavier by the
day, that one day one may be proved wrong.
If the babble of familiarity is left awhile, in the
quiet of an unknown place, noise and activity
lessen and sights and sounds become clearer.
Then to wherever go, and with all senses you
might find stillness in a moment of choosing.
How will peace, if indeed it is peace that
one longs for, ever be found within
babble, and the constant dissent and division
within which it breeds? Can peace and division
live the same house and harmony reign?
Not the peace of which today's headlines are
made: through the eradication of difference; for
argument's sake. No meaningful, long-lasting
peace can be the product of design. The peace
about which others have spoken is one of
consequence. At such a time the very word
"peace" would lose meaning, or echo terrible
times past. Wishful thinking? Not thinking;
belief. There are no limits in a quiet place. It is
an eternal place, unconfined by the possible and
impossible, plausible, probable and unlikely.
There is a place where one can walk and
shelter and the freedom to move; with these
basics alone a sure footing comes into being.
Quiet and unnoticed at first but soon
recognised. It is as if the smile that follows has
been waiting an age.
From first cries to the procession of flames that
carry away last sighs, all stages of life invite
the alternative. All, it is said, that make their
way there, shall never be forsaken. Welcomed
and never abandoned. If device is
abandoned, and the inherent intelligence with
which one was born is felt again. If the eyes
and ears leave, but for a moment, the picture
and song of life's experience, indeed a new day
had dawned. Death and birth of a moment. The
known invited to die and with each rebirth to
die again. This is the city of Lord Shiva,
The Destroyer.
In my years of fear's dictating I had tea with an
angel. Into the dark cold corridors of the
unknown I ventured and in a quiet corner found
the will to sit. His clothes were white and yet
worn and soiled. Voice gentle and yet he
coughed. Clear eyes yet with spectacles
that slanted across them. And it was not into the
skies that he took, after the message he offered,
but heavily upon a cane that he walked back
into the day. Is not the message of more
importance than the messenger, about whom
only a tale can be told?
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