This world is a cruel midwife to deliver us. Of what use is the illusion of birth? That celebrates our moment of separation, And has the audacity to call it a promising beginning. Of what use is a body with wings? This heart was not meant for flight, Not in the canopy of hollow clouds, Nor riding into the first break of sunlight. For a lifetime spent searching abroad Brings worn shoes and tired hearts, Well-travelled bones buried out there, alone.
This world is too callous a midwife to deliver our love. Find me in the unnamed places where we first met, Greet me in the untold spaces within the devoted heart, Love me in the loneliness of a human apart. Would that I could feel you in the stillness, But there is no silence for a mind calling out in absence. Let’s return to the wilderness, love, and begin this game again. Play carelessly in the clay from which we were made, And vow this time not to give our dance a name.
When and how does one turn down the noise of the world? Is there a volume knob, aside from that great one planted in the farthest reaches of man’s obscured soul? Where does the music cease and the sound of life begin?
I have heard melodies and harmonies such that I am full. All I crave for is to find the humor in my own song: the clamor of pant legs clumsily brushing against each other, dancing to the rhythm of cold city air. The uneven hustle of a self-styled gentleman rushing to be somewhere.
It could be anywhere for all my song cares.
In moments like this, how I long to laugh at my music and turn down its noise. To set aside the passing pleasures felt of ear and for a fleeting moment sense the essence of pleasure: a child in search of a new world to imagine, a dog discovering a long-buried bone, an expired body releasing its final thought.
The hustle is by nature transient, seductive only in its brevity, attractive only in its mortality. It is the quiet pulsing beneath all that noise that we forget as we chase the fleeting. It is here, in the sound of life itself, that the highest aspirations of mankind remain patiently waiting.
Waiting to be unfolded while we infinitely postpone and procrastinate because there is so much that is and will no longer be that requires our immediate attention.
Yet if it will no longer be, then soon will it no longer matter.
But that does not matter to me, for I am lost in the now, yet not lost enough. I am so entranced in the now that passes from moment to moment that I cannot immerse myself in the now that has always existed, the now that knows no other. The second that has no second: the one that lasts forever.
My breath. What happens in the spaces between the inhalations and exhalations, in the moments of quiet pause where the music no longer converses with itself? If the banter of the world and the chatter of the mind sustain this illusion, then let me disappear into my own loneliness.
Let me be nothing more than the space between my breaths, the air between my folded hands. Let me be contained by the permeating silence. In it, may there be bliss. Let me lose myself in love for the stillness, so patiently waiting to disclose its vast knowledge in the sounds of a quiet pulsing of blood through my veins, in the distant beating of my embryonic heart within the caverns of my own overgrown being.
My breath. What better sound could there possibly be than the very sound of life’s energy? Why did we need to corrupt this beauty with tools of raw goatskin and drumsticks made of fallen trees? What part of me loves this noise so much that it cannot let go and simply repeat to itself:
I am the endless, I am the endlessness. I am the endless, I am the endlessness. I am the endless, I am the endlessness.
Inhale and exhale. Be born and then die. This is the rhythm of my loneliness, were I able to find it. This is the salvation of my silence, the poetry of my stillness. If only I could enter into it and be taken wholly by this moment: the moment that lasted forever.
In the sweet sleep between breaths, a rebuke to painful wakefulness, might I hear the vibration of creation? In holy stillness, might I finally disappear from the world? In sacred emptiness breathing in and out and in and out and in and endless bliss.
Beloved One, For how long have you wandered in darkness? Searched in mountains and valleys For a love that knows no death?
For how many years have you heard the call? Piercing the noise of your city, Calling you back to the home of your eternal love?
How much longer, dear soul, can you resist A devotion that will never end? And the hymn that hums in the air you breathe?
Will you rise from your sleep, at all hours of night, Float from your bed, and be with me under moonlight? Or will you steal away from the world, at the start of day, and come to me with the rays of the morning sun?
Can the sound of our love, which echoes in the infinite Ever know a beginning or a final consummation? Or are we just dancing, circling each other for eternity?
There is a haziness of the air, and a slowness to the ear That delays the call of love, which resounds in eternal void. In this, there is grace, for time alone divides you and our love.
“It is by studying the microcosm that we can understand the macrocosm; it is through our own impermanent being that we can reach the Universal Being. It is in the cavern of our heart that we can realize the immensity of spaces, and by controlling our own vital rhythms that we can escape the power of time. It is by reaching the source of life that we can escape the power of death. It is by exploring the unknown spheres within ourselves that we can visit the celestial and infernal worlds.”—Alain Danielou on Yoga / click here for more.