Recovering the Sacred by Dhyaanavati (books to read to be successful txt) 📕

A Flurry of Fury
in a Garden of Eve


So, she was expelled
from the Paradise
‘cause she listened to
the Serpent wise,
listened well

and tasted the fruit
of knowledge forbidden
by an inferior god who
forced himself as
the ruler supreme on
those who opted to remain
away from the Tree, ignorant
slaves of his whims blindly
following his command.

It turns out, however,
that she was the one
courageous enough to take
the challenge to experiment and
expand, paying the needed
price, and not deny her
responsibility for that
daring choice (unlike her
partner in hiding)—which marked
the break of self-awareness: turning
point in the evolution of consciousness
from dictatorship of the retarded god

All praises to Eve! She birthed herself,
thus giving birth to humankind. And Adam,
helped by the priests, made a dole
from his rib to masturbate with
and—ribless all along
worshiped his god


***
“Come, delight in
our inmost being
after you end your
senses’ play and get
tired of your worn out
thoughts, if you whish

Or come immediately,
don’t delay! The Self
is waiting for your
total abidance
to burst open
in no time and
create a new life

Come and plunge
into this experience
beyond all experiences,
allow the tides of pure Bliss
to wash away everything else.
Then you will see: never again
will you desire to escape into
the same old childish games

This is what I want to
share with you, Mother
of your blissful self—
for the Mother’s sake
to come out of My
aloneness in you
I am alluring
your fumbling
crumbling mind with
both sensuous pastime
and the supernal Light of
My consummate embrace,”

Thus the all-fulfilling Self-realized
Tree keeps calling its new spring to
move in tune with the lunar and
solar streams and the central
upward surge of
the omnidirectional
Consciousness process


*
“Aaa…
that’s the Mother
I encountered in
the Canyon at a time
of rising Venus: unfolding
exalted and free—the River-Tree
shaping Herself in me; swaying
gracefully—the rainbow sand
with the lover-wave unseen
in the cradle of Origin,”

it dawned upon the sprout
growing in receptivity to
ever-pouring Grace
that she found at last her
place of integration wherefrom
to leap with certainty of direction
into the flow unknowable, yet
so thoroughly known


At Thy Feet,
Eternally Beloved


I

Is this Thou
holding me or
I am grasping
for Thy Feet
hopeless
as I am falling
in the abyss of dejection—
utter defeat of what I know as me?

Who is this knower? And
what is the nature of this
relationship between
Thou and I? Does
I differ from me?
What is the key
means for this being
to bridge the fathomless
gap between the two realities?

Will Thou open Thy treasure
chest and pour the balm of
Thy Grace into this inner
space left obliterated,
so dreadfully empty
after the war of
mind against
the being?


II
I still breathe,
the throb pulses
from within
the body's
depths. How is it
that I am not dead yet
after the torturous pulling and
twisting the being’s dwelling mat
executed by an invisible hand? Or this is
just a corpse now passing the thoughts,
moving about on borrowed breath?

Is this Thou in me carrying
the remnants of life on
or I alone exist,
neither that
nor this?
Or the two are
one and the same?
And whose is the hand
and the power operating
in this subtle broadband
and what the purpose
behind all of that?


III
Will Thou come, o paragon of the Whole,
the panacea of Love supreme and
Wisdom of the Source? Will Thou
come at last to mend the old
wound yawning wide,
exposed to
every touch of
misery and deceit
after Thou open it?
Or Thou just began
Thy surgical work
of cutting through
malignant sheaths?

Am I to yield to
the void angst, fuse
with the desolate waste,
drawned under Thy scalpel
into the wound itself gaping in
the midst, swallowing my universe?


IV
Will Thou come at least to put
Thy seal on the grave of
miscarried seeds or
let the questioner
become an answer
the being needs more
than body fruit of deeds?

At Thy Feet, Lord of my Heart,
with the forehead resting on Thy petal-toes,
I lay my all—this bare life, body-mind-speech,
the soul’s cry: take me, o take
the pieces now I am
in Thy space of
sheer exuberance,
help me be whole again!
Infuse the coils of the primal Desire,
the creatrix, with Thy Will to Enlightenment:
let the feeder of appearances—frolicing mid flames
along Thy axis, enveloped in a fragrance of the Real—break the habit shackles of recycling life pattrns and aspire for fulfillment, or exhaustion, in
the pure land of suchness;
may the mind bathe in Thy Light all faces of gloom
and ignorance; let the fire leap ever higher to
reach Thy glowing bloom, merging
with Thee in eternity—

for re-membering the Mother-Soul and
retreiving a Beauty grin to Her earthly face,
the glee of contentment to every being;
for flying back home with Thee,
dispeller of darkness,
soaking in Thy
wisdom showers to
utter self-oblivion, o heaviest
among clouds, pregnant with Grace!

As the World Tree (no different from Thee)
dwells in the Cosmic Mount Thou art, let me thus
be with Thee, Beloved, growing in intimate knowing of Thy interiority, never separate from Thee again, the only One, without a second; let me thus always
be aloness of Thy own, absorbing the plenum of
Thy luminous Sky, rooted in the efferescing
serenity of Thy Heart:
morphing in Thy substance—Bliss,
dissolving in its essence,
Intensity!


Recognition


I

Tears of the sunken ages stream
down my dry, washed out face.
The ice of a long night waiting now
melting—a breath of the Guru’s Grace

His resplendent beauty and impeccable
poise of steady abidance in the center of Being,
the pure kindness and joy pristine oozing from every cell of
His deathless Body, permeate the Earth with a scent of Beyond

His slumber-shaking riddles swallow with ease the heads filled with prickles of
knowledge and vanity disease. What appears is not what is: His fooling plays
expose the games of cunning mind; His clashing words spin the thoughts in
zest for freedom; in His silence breathes the power of timeless wisdom


*

As a matter of truth, nobody is there
doing anything—everything just
happens according to its own
innate nature, Law Supreme:

The flowers bloom at the time of blooming,
butterflies mate when their season comes.
The birds and beasts are Nature’s ways
to sing odes to Her ineffable self;

The River shifts its epochs’ course
with a turn of Cosmic Wheel steered by
Enlightened Beings, whose Energy-Bliss
keeps positive balance of the earthly deeds


II

The Heart—Thy fenceless ground, my Lord,
Thou have patiently ploughed for all these
ages of forgetfulness to plant a sapling of
Thy sacred Tree—now is ready to receive
Thee with all the manure, thunderstorms, and
fireworks of Thy Gift, o glory of all the worlds!

What else is there, o Power Play of Delight!
All of this Thou art: the mirror and mirroring,
reflection and reflected of Thy own making;
I am but a flicker of Thy fancy, a play-toy
for the seek-and-hide game in an idle time
or a boredom case Thou enjoy to entertain


*
Lifting His arms to tie His black unruly hair
the Great Master yawns with a twinkle in His eyes
and claims once again: Verily, thou art That—whatever
thou have and have not said yet, nor thou can, and much,
much more, know at last—in the Heart of thy heart
thou art That. And this alone is to be
remembered: for the first time
thou art: falling in love
with thy very Self


Beloved’s Little Toe


Did you know, my fellow Truth-seeker, fed up
either with spoiled ghee of non-dual reality and
hardened chapatis of a snake-in-the-rope
or with the rotten fish of sacrifice and
sour wine of love for a neighbor,
did you know that even
a little toe of Beloved
can make just fine,
by all worldly standards
“normal” human mind
lethally intoxicated,
unspeakably crazy—
in lunatic ecstasy of
crying for Him
totally flooded by
unbearable
sweet pain
springing from
the ‘wound of love’?

Such intensity
mind simply
cannot stand.
It has to melt,
explode,
or expand—
only to see His face,
the body whole,
being now so
deadly sick,
poisoned with
a glimpse of His toe.


Dressing the Formless,
Undressing the Form


“Leave those shoes of
many colors at the door;
take off all the worthless
glitter and show-off
cloths you bought for
your priceless treasure
on the world market
so cheaply sold.
Naturalness is
what I call for,
your naked body
all I want:
the flute
to play on
and enjoy
the tunes of
your Being
from within of
their withins,”
says the Master to
a novice shaken from
the root, quivering
and trembling in
the vibrant field of
inconceivable Word,
uncontrollably blinking
in shock and disbelief
at the slightest hint of
the Master’s Truth—
a bamboo shoot
touched by the
flute Maker’s
finger


An Evolutionary Shift


A somewhat pensive
white haired monkey, scratching
his red spot, takes a jump to a huge
well-rounded rock, believing it crowns
the promised end of a Mount slope, and
falls a pray in the gorge of his greedy hope.

Recovered by the grace of playful god,
he keeps climbing up with a new stirring of
adventurous unrest, and eventually, finding
a way around the ancestral nest to the real
peak of the Mount, he suddenly
evolves into a human
moth and burns
in the fire that licks
the sky falling in
the mouth on the Mount top.

In the aftermath of that
successful evolutionary disaster,
ejected from the belly of the whale of time
and, following the first flashing
from the impenetrable night sky—
the lightening arrows of Bliss-Consciousness that
floods the mind, revealing the hosts of misconstrued
concepts, defaced believes—the wandering soul reaches
the end of its endless journey at the beginning
of a beginningless cycle and, undressing
the non-existent self, enters
through the no-gates
the lobby buzz of Golden Age,
joining a party of the sages.


Sitting on the Linga
An Experiment in Progress


The Self