Sadhana: Night & Day
Swamiji has asked me to transfer the lavender plants
from a broken wood barrel – now toppled
to one side near Krsna temple – into two ceramic blue
containers where they will not die.
This task, as with the many asked, I agree to gladly,
though in this instance see that perhaps
a Karma yogi not-me might take care of this joyful little job
opportunity whilst I serve elsewhere: likely in the kitchen or the orchard.
There are trees that need water there.
We all know: water added to earth & air guarantees
trees will bear fruit eventually; in addition,
I offer prana, singing Lakshmi mantras
into the many tiny ears of these tender-hearted trees,
whom I hope or imagine discretely listen,
with subtle green sonic organs hidden in their leaves.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
The moment night became too cool, feel the body bolstered
by a breeze of evening heat, rustled loose from that blue-black abyss.
On that too-hot tejas day, I dove
into the man-made pool so I could get the cool back: diving into a ‘Bliss Divine’.
On the dock of this pond called Vrindavan, I smile a salute to the sun
with the intention of tanning my gums (which is an old Swami Vishnu trick, I’m told).
Though this trunk & limbs flow through twelve full poses, my focus rests
over my nose, where fiery areolas form fluxional suns who arise & set & rise & set.
Sweating after effort, I shed a layer of t-shirt & shorts & use my skin to swim three
cooling loops around the fountain. From the far side, facing east, I am given vision
of the secret rainbow resting therein: that Self-same sun being split into its constituents
by the perfect scatter of water gone airborne, as if practicing ecstatic Asana.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
Back on the dock, my chilled skin is sizzling in the oven of said sun. I turn & spit;
a sunfish investigates, then tastes. That nobly bold or dumb one bites my saliva and flees
to the deep. The spit stretches like trite cheese on impossible TV pizza. Seeing this,
the orange sunnies all hustle up, swarming to the surface, hungry for any potential-ojas left over.
Here I pause to take a picture; pause to capture the day’s last light. Here
I pause to wonder what happened to that pure, white Puja milk from last night:
when the deity is clean, do we just dispose of those holy leftovers of devotion?
Or can I try a bite?
The central fountain sends concentric ripples dancing over this underwater Vrindavan.
Refracted shadow & light climb the well-worn rungs of the wet wood ladder,
climbing through the heavy-set tendrils of an eternal willow.
How a trunk draws water from the earth,
shadow & light arise in ripples: rising how
kundalini is drawn to the crown of a ripened spine;
the way a fruit always falls, in time.