Posts Tagged ‘the diameter of dharma’

Ramana Plays Scrabble, Wor(l)ds Emerge

November 20, 2008

I have IBS: Irritable Blogging Syndrome.  It comes in waves, like light, like sound–

1. Blogipation: you need to blog, but you hold it in for weeks at a time.  To release the hardened, amassed blog, one must soften the jaw, puddle-ify the pelvic floor, and be willing to make a mess.

2. Bloggerhea: the resolution of condition #1.  Weeks of held-in writing come out in a deluge.  Nobody’s fault but mine. Good luck flushing.

It’s a gray day in Boulder and you don’t get to say that a lot, so I’ll say it again: it’s a gray day in Boulder.  That fact + apocalyptic dreams of last night leave me on tender-hooks to life.  I’m aware that neologisms are already overevidenced in this post.  I can live with that state: having something to say without the formidable means to say it.  We just keep on singing.

I had an Obama post that I wrote in a gush of emotion and then felt extremely private about.  As if a blog is not exactly that: both extremely private and extremely public– your shit smells no more like roses than mine–and therefore a good place to figure the multiple confusing surges of emotion that this election evoked.  Maybe I will post it on the day he takes office: the electrocardiogram of my heart riding out on the teareyes of the crowd gathered in Chicago’s park.  Even through the computer screen, the breathingloving of the crowd was palpable, like much of America had been asphyxiated for the last eight years, and Obama was the O in Oxygen.

My teacher Sree Devi gave a talk on the Bhagavad Gita last night, a so-called song of songs.  To illustrate the concept of dharma, she told us of her beloved family friend and mentor in India, Papaji; he had once sat at the feet of Ramana Maharshi, a sage who spent the majority of fifty years in silence, only speaking when necessity (in the deepest spiritual sense) demanded it.  Papaji was so blown away by the dissolution of boundary of Ramana’s body, the forcefulness of his succint teachings, the radiance of his nature (radiance in the literal sense of streaming outward)– and, to put it bluntly, the way Ramana called him out on his delusions– that he begged of him, Now that you have showed me such radiance, what am I to do?  HOW CAN I GO ON?  WHAT AM I TO DO? Like most exasperated, mind-blown aspirants, Papaji spoke in all caps.

Ramana, because he was a sage and because sages can get away with a lot, offered the most annoying answer of all possible answers: You will live your life.

And that was the only thing there was to do.  Is to do.

The question still remains of how.  This is a big question despite how being a very little word that would not gain you many points in scrabble or its bastard child, scrabulous.

It is a question one can only answer by living one’s life, not by blogging, not by thinking about blogging, not even by– gasp– talking.  What we do with our bodies– the actions we do or do not take– contains the answer. The dharmic dilemma of doing what one has to do is much simpler and therefore infinitely more complex than, say, the moments of superhuman drive to lift a truck off an injured person.   I have no idea, really, what it means, but I’m trying to train my body, if not my mind, to begin to understand.

For now it is something like this: at night before I go to sleep I see, with the same special care with which one examines a diaper rash, the long thin leaf of one of my confused plants– whose roots are severely impacted and patiently awaiting repotting– reach out towards my bed.  Instinctively, because I think I hear it asking me too in a language built only of gesture, I reach out and return the touch.  Meet it in the clear space of contact.  It is something like this, I think: reaching out to what is reaching out towards you.  Always.  Not because you will be a savior.  Not because you will have a good answer, but because it is there, you are here, life is your witness.

In Blog do We Trust.

The gastronomical gesticulations of this post are now, so to speak, complete.

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