My name is Uma Berlin and these are my musings of a yogi.
The mind is more awake,
But still a bit groggy.
A cobweb stick in funny places.
An image from that show last night.
Oh,
My back hurts.
I'm thirsty.
A string of disconnected,
Stinky little thoughts that don't add up to much.
What a spider's web we weave.
All around us,
Every moment of every day oozes out a steady stream of endless milky thoughts,
Murky.
A thin string that stretches endlessly.
Thin,
But strong enough to hold up this illusion.
We weave and weave these stories out of it.
Weave patterns and images and yarns.
And then we look at all these complex,
Beautiful,
Messy patterns and tell ourselves,
This is the reality.
Oh,
What a farce.
What a joke.
The substance,
The stuff these webs are made up of are all the same thing.
Spiders spittle.
Nothing of real value.
Yet we cling to it desperately,
Our many legs and limbs scrambling,
If even a gentle breeze blows that causes us to sway.
Let go.
Let yourself fall.
Dangle.
And even if that string is cut,
In fact,
Let it be cut.
Let yourself fall completely.
Arms are open to the sky.
Free.
Free to fall.
Free falling.
And there is no thud.
There is no landing.
Just falling.
Picking up speed.
Down,
Down,
Down we go.
Down the drain.
The itsy bitsy spider.
Oh,
What freedom there is.
There is no reason to even try to hold on to the drainpipe.
To hold on to the gushing waters that now flow.
That are carrying me like a cascade.
Like a white water rafting adventure down to someplace mysterious and dark and unknown.
With each bump,
A little bit more of that web is shaken off of me.
It's startling how much clearer I can now see.
How clogged my eyes were before.
It's like I have all new eyes as the waters start to settle down.
And I'm just floating.
Floating on my back,
Looking up at the star.
It's cold,
But I don't mind.
The waters are so warm,
The air is fresh on my skin.
And I'm floating on my back down a river of time towards someplace.
And I'm happy.
I start to whistle a little bit and then I hear a whistle back.
Is it a little bird calling back to me?
I hear a rustle and as I turn my head to one side,
So many eyes.
Lots and lots of eyes watching me.
It's not sinister.
It's sweet.
They are curious.
Who is this one who has made it this far?
Does she even know where she's heading?
The dawn starts to break now.
It's a paradise all around me,
I now see.
The trees are full,
Lush,
Ripe with fruits and nuts and flowers and leaves.
I reach out my arm and pluck a mango as I gently float,
Float,
Float down.
A lotus is floating alongside me and as I watch an incredulous belief,
It grows bigger and bigger with every passing moment until it's the size of a small raft.
I climb into it and the petals are so soft and accommodating as I sink back into them,
Forming a small cushion for my awakening body.
I'm sitting up now munching on my juicy,
Ripe mango.
The juice is dripping down my chin and neck,
Sticky.
I'm looking at the sky as it breaks into a hall manner of glorious colors,
Fading out the stars with its oranges and golds and blushing reds.
The sun inches up a little higher and then bursts the skies into flames.
I'm awestruck.
This happens every single day and yet I've been so consumed by those creepy little drawings I've been making with my spinny little spider web,
I've missed the entire spectacular,
Fantastic show that goes on every single morning.
I don't know that I'm ever going to stop floating,
But who cares?
This is all so marvelous,
So very entertaining to watch it all,
To know that it's all happening by me,
With me,
For me,
And it is me.
The sky is me.
This lovely lotus throne I'm riding on,
I have manifested it of my own self.
This mango I am now finishing up is my own flesh,
Sweet and glorious.
The floating river I lean my hand into,
Rinse my mouth and face with fresh and pure.
My own self,
Oh how lovely is the self.
Who knew?
