To Lahiri Mahasaya
The conversation continues, but what’s there to say? A subtle yet entrancing music emanates in profound splendor as we cruise the Crown Carousel of the three times, its sublime sensory perfume permeating everywhere, its grace a balm of forgetfulness while we glide on — how can any words compare?
It’s only when we step off that wheel that the timeless silence around things, their natural radiance, begins to reveal itself. Clarity, as our true voice emerges again from the stifled densities of advance and retreat, hope and fear. We begin to sing with the silent choir, with or without using words. A new song begins with one note, the same one playing now. It becomes whatever is. That’s just the way it wants to play, making it up as it goes.
If we listen quietly we may hear it broadcasting now from the Crown Carousel, a majestically revolving luminosity spinning in the chasm of an immense darkness. So divinely seductive, we’re drawn closer and closer still. Emptiness and form exchange glances in the mirror, wink, and get down with their euphoric dance.
We are the mirror, the dancer, the dance, and we are also none of it. Our words are praise and gratitude, or better to not speak at all, except perhaps to remember this deeper knowing we all share — the enormity of that silence where we appear and disappear, like a spark in the dark of an infinite expanse, like nothing any words could ever say.