My name is Uma Berlin and these are my musings of a yogi.
A point twelve inches above the head,
A golden crown bejeweled that sat atop a glorious divine head anointing that point,
An invisible to us subtle beautiful point.
What is in this point?
In my imagination there's a golden thread that runs from there straight down,
Down through the top of the head through all the neurons and nerve centers of the brain,
Down the spine,
The throat,
Heart region,
The navel,
And shoots down into the ground.
And from that 12 inches up,
That's where these many threads start to collect and gather.
For some the thread is a rope,
Each strand representing many lifetimes of deep sadhana,
The erasure of samskaras,
Soaking in knowledge,
Radiating light.
Others are fresh and new,
Like a bud just emerging from the raw earth,
Not delicate exactly because nothing could break the cord,
But tender somehow.
They are all loved,
We are all loved.
All these cords,
These threads start twisting and winding into one,
Into the one,
And it's a heartbeat,
A nerve center,
A pulsing,
An om,
The om,
The one sound somehow thrums from this thread.
Shabazz locks cascading,
Rolling down his shoulders,
The Ganga traveling from atop his man bun flowing down,
Down.
I am on a little boat flowing down that river that runs down his locks,
A little tiny rowboat,
My oars moving as fast as they can down the gushing waters of the Ganga.
It seems dangerous,
But it's not.
I look down at the waters and while there was a gush,
There's also smooth somehow,
Calm,
Fast,
But calm.
I don't know how this can be.
I see my own reflection in the waters,
A young man with a mustache that curls up and a turban.
My lips are quite red naturally,
My eyes are bright.
I am in ecstasy.
It's like my boat is dancing on the waters now,
Moving with,
Flowing with.
I am dancing with Ganga and she is smiling at me,
Her head leaning back slightly,
Laughing at some divine joke we just heard.
I twirl her,
She twirls me and we are having a ball,
A ball.
I am a soldier in uniform now at a waltz.
In my arms is a very fair-skinned,
Petite woman,
Fragile,
Delicate.
It's like the slightest wind would knock her over.
She is my wife.
Two steps forward to the side.
The orchestra is soothing,
Melodious,
The strings in perfect harmony.
I smile gently.
This is like a breeze after all the bloodshed and violence and gore that I,
That we have just been through.
I missed this feeling of delicate,
Subtle,
Tender beauty for all the contrast of it that I just went through.
I appreciate what once bored me so,
What I rolled my eyes at a spoiled rich kid.
We head out again tomorrow at the crack of dawn,
Back to the battlefield,
But tonight,
For this night,
I am here with her,
Dancing under the stars,
Under the moon.
It's okay if this is the last dance for me ever.
It is the last dance.
I die the next day,
But I was happy.
Happiness.
It bubbles,
It froths,
It eludes.
Gurgling waters of happiness,
Dancing happiness,
Rising up,
Up,
Then flowing down.
To catch it,
Catch it like a leaf that blows through the wind,
Like a paper bag,
Like candy.
Quick,
Don't drop it.
Yet,
Don't squeeze it so tight,
For then she will want to run away.
Entertain her.
Make her want to stay.
Let her be free,
Or she will escape you.
She cannot be a caged bird.
She will not sing.
Song.
A song that flows all on its own when you open your mouth.
A small bird in the cold atop a tree branch.
Its song forming puffy little clouds in the air,
Demarcating each note,
Each breath.
It is happy.
I am happy.
There's confusion and concern about making a mistake,
Of making a misstep,
But also,
Who cares?
It's all a giant game.
A rolling on the floor laughing joke of a game,
Where tears stream down your clamped shut eyes and you hold your belly,
Which hurts because you're laughing so hard at the hilarity of it all,
And you're afraid you may have just peed a little.
A child free,
Unabandoned,
Reckless,
Giggling big time as she twirls and twirls in circles just for the fun of it.
This life,
It's just for the fun of it.
It's no biggie.
