(Rasa is a Sanskrit word literally meaning juice, essence, or taste. It also refers to an ancient concept in Indian arts concerning the aesthetic of a composed piece of visual, literary, or musical work. More specifically, Rasas are the feelings evoked in the reader or audience by the artistic work.)
Your life, this life, not separate. Rather, linked to all others. Are you the creator or the creation? Are you the central character or the chief spectator?
You are the witness, the audience, ever in the throes of each Rasa rising up within you. Where is your Vismaya, your wonder – your Adbhuta, astonishment? Ruled by the strange, the sad, the sharp and cold, the soft and warm. Governed by your smile, tears, the metronome of your heart.
You prepare tea, walk dogs, read books, drink water from a clear glass, and none of these things are ordinary, though often mistaken as such.
The world is at once a utopia and wasteland. I have watched bodies become prisons – the bodies of those I have loved. I have watched minds become solitary confinement. I have watched myself twist and turn, bend over backwards, push on and on.
Sometimes I wonder, will we not truly see one another until after we have passed onward and inward? Such is the light of a star upon the brows of the earthbound.
Again, the whale descends, the tidal current pulls away. The microcosm of Us gravitates to center.
We touch silence with our collective identity, the Self that is linked to all things, the part that knows it’s not alone, that knows it is a splinter of consciousness, that knows it is born again each morning. It knows, even at its most alone, it is with all the world. It knows that while it lives it has the company of the living, and that when it dies, it will step straight into darkness with the lighted lamp of all who have gone before.
We touch silence, not because we are willing, but because we have opened. We touch it the way a fingertip makes contact with the surface of still water.
Then, the whale breaches. The tide rolls forth and breaks the silence, rushing over us. We are swallowed, again, by the macrocosm.
Over and over, we are digested in ways we cannot know.
The wood at the heart of a tree cannot grow without wind.
Once again, nature informs humanity.