The day He surrendered to Nature

What do you mean by surrendering to Nature?

He was asked this, by some one, whom he loves and the usual glib tongue of his fell silent. He thought about this, but he could not find an answers as the process itself is something which he has not understood or has not understood long enough to explain. He searched his soul, he looked deep within to find the resonance of things to create for him the words his mind could not come up with.

What is Nature? For him, Nature, is the benevolent Mother, whom he equates with the Life force. For him, Nature, is the reason for the Sun to be bright and for the Moon to mellow. The way he sees Nature, is similar to the way he sees his mother. A mother she is to him, yet she is the mother universal. A mother, who always was there with him, in every form, in every sense of the world. She was there before he was even he, she will be there even after he ceases to be he, and She will be there forever.

Has She the powers to influence his destiny? He fought with her for long, he was antagonistic towards Her, he refused to listen to her. His mistakes touched the sky, this life of his, was unbearable, he could not even think of continuing life as he knew it. Chances were given to him, he blew them up. She was benign, She gave him chances twice, yet he did not know what they were. An ignorant child he was, kicked at the chances She had given, Cried fie on Her creation, and some how, did not know that the fight would be futile.

Ran, he from the way She wanted life to be led. Wanted to be something, which he always thought it was, but he knew not what. Kept screaming, kept shouting, yet he knew not, what he wanted. Those were the days of sadness and distress for him. A burning pyre his heart had become, the very life breath drew the fumes from Haydes. Life, as he knew it was a constant haunting from the mistakes, he had made and the excuses he wanted to crop up to justify his mistakes. The outer calm, deceived many, but his inner turmoil, made him cringe in pain. He asked questions, answers of which he knew, not, yet he wanted to be answered.

What was he looking for? May be he wanted something, which he knew not he had. His impatience, refused to show him the calm he had within, and yet he was too loud to hear the words of contentment that rose from the depth of his soul. The words were mild and gentle, he would have been soothed, but he heard them not. So he had the look of the hunted in his eyes and the poison had entered his heart.

Cornered he was, he knew not where to go. His enemy was within, he knew not how to handle. He scanned the skies, he scanned the ground, for his foes, knowing fully well that they are with in. He knew not, what it meant to be at peace as sleep the slient comforter had deserted his soul.

It was then, a gentle hand fell on his head and he at once opened his eye to the beauty of Her. It was the teary eyes of the mother, which looked down at his despair. The soothing touch, that came on him, was of Nature, who was the Mother tormented by the pains he had brought on to himself. Her tears, dowsed the fires that were there with in, and then he knew what peace was.

What was it that got Her into his life? Nothing, the suffering, the pain that he had gone through was not real for sure, yet it has the illusion to be more than real. It has eclipsed his soul, and then he had cried out in pain towards the Mother, who was always in shadows. Her presence was dramatic, as She always is. She came and destroyed the drama and gave him peace.

What about surrender then? He just gave up. Lifted his hand towards the sky and just said, let go. I have fought enough, God knows I have tried hard enough. All I can say, is that I am weak, I can’t fight against you. Spare me, give me strength, was the anguished cry from his soul. And She had stepped in. It was surrender for him, to give up his ego, of being the doer. He become the done, and he was at peace.

The day I spied on Beauty of the world

His days are spent in the search of things he understands and of things he understands not. Such was the day when he spied upon the scope of eternal beauty that moves the world. It was an ordinary day, and dusk has fallen on the horizon, with her handmaids. There was anything but peace around him, as the restless mind had created a sense of chaos around him. She sat beside him, as he preened away from her ugly glance. "I am superior," was his thought, as he moved away from her. Frail, with the poison of the world in her, she sat, there immersed in her gloom. It was a chance movement, which caught his stare. She moved the tendrils of her hair, and he spied upon the world of beauty around this world of gloom. Beauty is there for those, who can see, it is there for those who can understand it. It is like the silent glow that comes on your face, when you see the Beloved alone, or it is like the way you glow, when you stand before your Maker. Its there when you see the eyes of the anxious mother, whose heart beats for the son, who is in trouble. Beauty is there in the prayers of the mother, whose son, the world has condemned. Nature, he thought, thou art my mother. Pray for me, mother, as I pray for me. Help me, and protect me, give me an entrance to the world of beauty, which you have unveiled for me. Alas, he knew not, the world is for him to savour and for him to worship alone. Beauty, he understood, is for those, whose tears wet the cheek and it is for those, whose eyes have understood what beauty is all about.

The day he died

Suffering it is, of the kind that he does not know. He sits and watches the eyes, of the passengers on this planet called Earth. He wonders what makes the journey so important when it ends at the end of the day. He blinks a little to find out the Earth a place of sadness under the bushel. Pain he sees in the eyes of those, whom he knows not. His eyes reflect what is there with in . He does not blinks, he wants to see what is there in the eye. Can he see, with his eyes close? Can he smell with his nose blocked? Can he touch with his limbs lost? He wonders why the pain moves him so? He wonders what makes him cry, why is there a yearning in his heart? Will he not be heard? Will Nature be silent when he cries to see the pain that is there in him?

On the peculiarity of his mind

He sits straight observing the apparatus called his mind. He knocks it off, yet it comes back on its own. Wonders how he manages to go through, life with an apparatus as unreliable as his mind. It knows no logic, it knows no sense a bundle of contradiction, created out of his world that is not true for the first. Glorifies sorrows, when there are none, laments over joy, when there is none. What indeed was the thought, that created the mind? How was it when Man was born, with no one to guide to make the mind the cesspool of contradiction? Alas, if he knew the way the mind worked if he knew how it began

On his Dervish

Gone are the days when music made him realise the way of tune. It is now the food for his Dervish. His feet might not move, but the slow and ethereal strains, mesmerizes his soul. The Dervish he knows will come and transmit the joy eternal, yet he knows that he has to wait. The highs and the lows they go hand in hand, with the way his life goes, the way his breath goes. Yet, he knows the Dervish is beyond all those.

What calms his soul? Is his soul troubled? Is that the question that he asks? What makes his soul, swim in the pool of fire? Or is the pool the real nature of his soul? He yearns for the touch divine, yet he knows without the right he can't go to the shores? What prevents him from going to the shore? What prevents his music from reaching his soul?

Has he reached? Has he gone astray? Who knows? Who shall ever know? For his dervish is what he looks for

On his melancholy

Its the season when the Sun reaches its peak and brightens up the Earth. Sunny, with a note of melancholia, around, is what winter is for him. The tune of melancholia is strong yet, he knows not why it bothers him so.

Is it his creation? He knows the mind, creates the daughters of Mara, and he wants to touch the ground. But, he is not able to do so. What does his melancholia mean to him? Its like the warm sunny days, which fail to warm you up in the long run. It talks of the cold nights, that come and make you shiver. The chill that sets in is of the morning sun, which he understands not. He knows the cause, may be he does not want to know it.. but he is scared to comprehend it He knows not, the way the sun is to turn, yet he wishes the morning depression that he suffers from.

Is he addicted to his sadness? Has that become a habit with him? He knows that he can fight it and he will do so? But yes, he misses the warmth that he had experienced long back

On his loneliness

Days that end into nights of restless sleeps, that is what his loneliness is to him. He knows not, what strains of melancholy that plays in his mind, but yes his heart moves to hear and feel the music, which he knows not.

There were days, when the eyes, had the power to weave his own world, but now, he dreads the sights that creep up in front of his eyes. A contorted world it has created, with shadows and no lights, to show him his fears and his way of the world. Yes, the frights are scary, but he knows they are not real. The mind with its instruments are out, they resent the fact that they are recognised by him, yet he knows he has to grin and bear.

His eyes, are calm, he knows for sure, the storms are surreal. His zazen has taught him the way to be calm, but the treacherous mind is out to fight. It creates the ways that things are meant to be, but who cares?

Let the storms come, let them break him to pieces, yet he will stand tall, bcoz he has killed his heart has stopped the fountain of emotions that caused him trouble. Now this ode to him, is for his loneliness.