My name is Uma Berlin and these are my musings of a Yogi.
Pay attention without much effort.
Just the slightest holding of the grasp of it and you will see the kaleidoscope of color,
The web of illusions that the mind creates.
Relax and enjoy knowing it to be your own self,
A creation that is fancy,
Full and carefree no matter how sinister the music makes the mood of it,
No matter how long and dark and ominous appear the shadows.
The cackle crackling cacophony of harsh words and judgments,
The oozy,
Greasy,
Thick feeling associated with willful ignorance,
The dark stark red of pain caused by one to another,
All a dance,
A rhythm,
Nonsensical,
Beyond the senses,
Mesmerizing,
Merry-go-round,
The whirling dervish whirls faster and faster,
The circus creepy,
Then stop.
Stillness.
Stillness.
Breathtaking jolt to silent,
Motionless,
Timeless,
And the recognition that it's always been this way.
There has been no other way but the non-existent existence,
Imagined all of it.
The quiet,
Sleepy smile,
The feeling of a purr,
Contented,
Whole,
Full,
Complete,
As always.
Amused,
Bemused by how seriously this little self has been playing the game,
Vigorous,
Sweating,
So earnest,
Too earnest,
Beating herself up when simply the die was cast and chance stepped in.
Not seeing the ripple waves in the web of cause and effect,
Cause and effect,
Thinking this one singular seeming action was A,
Of her own volition rather than the tug of her arm in that direction,
And B,
Caused that thing over there to thud,
Fall,
Even though it happened yesterday,
Yesteryear,
It still hasn't happened yet,
And it has nothing at all to do one with the other.
And the story she tells,
The yarn she weaves,
A bursting flame of energy explained away,
This,
That,
The other,
All excuses that are rubbish because there is no because,
No reason,
No logic,
There just is,
Is,
Frozen,
Full,
Beating heart of nowness,
Flowing poetry,
Flowers,
Songs,
Epitaphs from time began and time will end,
Lyrical,
Whimsical,
Adulation of this glorious sunrise of a ceaseless moment,
Stop.
There it goes,
Running on,
The syncopation of the clock,
Tick tock,
Tick tock,
Can you not hear it?
How funny it sounds and seems,
Ebbing and flowing,
Dancing,
Scurrying,
Hurrying,
Pining,
Crying,
Longing,
All for this drumbeat of a clock that never truly was but a toy,
A tip tap of a yo-yo strung up and down by the hand of the gods,
The god Brahman,
Gone in an instant,
This whole thing.
Then he opens his eyes and it all begins again.
How wonderfully insignificant are we?
