And the funnel of light poured gold through the fontanel, into the filigreed girdle, the center of being. As it filled her, all words emptied. She no longer knew her names and in the tremulous light, as shaky breath poured up or down, this namelessness puffed up the skin like a balloon. The heart loosened from its string and floated in a circular flight, sky underneath, earth above, silent turning, in this gold sea.
Skin, voice, light. Meaning, sex, memory, longing, cry. Into her ears and eyes. No longer anchored to the useless words, only bubbles in water, no voice to call out with. And anyway, One hears her. Tongue nestles in the receiving place, at rest. Stay there, embraced, with prow of canoe pointed at the river’s mouth.
A flute sound in her ear, she turns. What was that? Lost it. Begin again, sit and learn. Listen. Not speak. How to get back? The door is unlocked. She has never understood. Thinks there is work to do. Hopped a long time on one foot on the wrong side of the door.
This day she finds it - still where she left it. This time, heart is quieter, less frantic, willing to be faithful for a few minutes, days, or weeks. Will they ever turn into longer than moments? This waking dream she falls into, out of.
Ah, the heart is made of gold.
Whatever you practice, that you will become good at. Maharaji at Amaroo, September 2006