Thursday, January 24, 2013

Chinnamastika

When Shakti gets SO mad with Shiva
she not only cuts off her nose to spite her face,
she cuts the whole damn head off!
Now that is the anger of love.

The Mother is both Being and Becoming.
When the child is in the womb, she is about Being.
But from the moment of the child’s birth,
she pushes him outwards.

I speak of children, but of course,
I really speak for men.

The Mother is the mother of both Being and Becoming.
The Son begs to return to her womb again and again,
and sometimes, in most secret fashion, she responds to his prayer.
Only to push him out again, into the world.

The Mother loves the oneness with the child.
When he gestates, when he suckles her breast.
In his tantrums and testiness.
But with every growing day, the push outward is stronger,
like the particles of star matter that burst into infinity
at such tremendous speed it seems they are standing still.

The Mother becomes the lover.
She envelopes the loved one in her womb.
She protects and nurtures him there.
And then she pushes him out into the world.

She gives her Being,
but only to remind him that Becoming is just a play.
And when the labor pains within her force him out into the world,
she withdraws her Being.
And that is painful in every way for the Mother,
to cut the threads and say, “Be on your own.”
So painful to withdraw her Being, but it must be done.

And so she makes her sacrifice: Being is exchanged for Becoming.

Sunday, January 20, 2013

I got nothing

I got nothing.
I am feeling the doom of no prema.
Gloom.

Don't know what to do any more
I've lost the map, the rules of the game.
This is as close as I come to being insane.

There are no more stories or myths
that touch my heart
not Radha, not Krishna
not Tristan or Iseult
nor Laila and Majnun
they merely put the insanity of love of my plate
like a storm warning
a danger sign telling that this is the way to certain madness.

The dream, the ideal, the hallucination
banging its head against the real
inadequacy, the impossibility of being worthy of love
of being good enough
true enough
close enough
real enough to be close to you.

The agony of this separation
of not knowing how to bridge the gap
the sheer weight of mistakes and offenses
weighing my mind and heart down
like a bloated carcass floating
in the ocean, further and further from shore.

I got nothing
I thought there would be something called prema
at the end of this tunnel
now even liberation seems like a healthy option
and only a few days ago
I was calling it hell.

This foolishness,
this lack of pessimism
this false promise of hope
that love actually exists in me
in you, in God

My old foolish heart is cracking
with exhaustion
all my flaws and failures
adding up to a gigantic Yes it is my fault!
my failure.

But that makes it no less painful.

You are my only hope
I cannot leave you despite the pain
You are my only hope
I have to stay and suffer your
anger and the consequence of your suffering.
Which I have caused. My karma.

But I cannot go away.