Swami - a graphic poem

Swami

One devotee asked another: „Could you, prabhu, tell me this:
Is your guru a pure Vaisnava, purely merged in Krishna’s bliss?”

“Does his voice choke when he’s chanting, does his hair stand on end?
Maybe if there’s no one around, does he cry, by prema rent?”

“In the night, when the world is sleeping, can he travel through space?
Like Narada Muni himself, can he fly to Krishna’s place?”

“There, on Vraja’s grazing lands, where the sakhya story strands,
Is he playing ball with Krishna? Is he laughing with his friends?”

“Or maybe even after dusk, she sneaks out through the open window,
And then in a grove by the riverside, she talks with gopi so and so?”

The queries ceased, the silence fell, they looked each other straight in the eye.
“So what you say? Please, don’t be shy. Is he a chrysalis or a butterfly?"

“I’m not silent, because I’m shy. Don’t take my wrong, I’m a stand-up guy.
I’ll answer straight – I just don’t know, but nevertheless, my best I’ll try.”

“Every time I meet my master, he speaks of Krishna, nothing else.
Is this a sign of siddha? Maybe. For me indeed, a lot it tells.”

“When I’m plunged into the darkness, which sometimes happens, I must say,
He’s there, to throw the life preserver, and  haul me back, to Krishna’s bay.”

“When I look at him and see, how much for Krishna does he live,
I see my prospects and like him I very much would like to be.”

“Then I look at sisters, brothers, the comrades on this superb path,
I see them shining, shining bright, with love and wisdom, what a sight!”

“So when you ask, how big is he, I cannot tell you, forgive me.
But I can give for sure this touch – if I only loved Krishna half that much...”

Look into my heart

   

     I’m having a pretty bad day. It might have something to do with the fact that Guru Maharaja’s visit in Poland has just started and I wasn’t able to be there with everyone else, which means that I wont see him for at least another year. Also still no luck with a job, and it’s been almost two months already.
     I’ve found this poem by Sacinandana Maharaja.


Don’t Trust Me
Sacinandana Swami

O my Lord
I think You know that I love only You,
although I pretend to love other people and things.
I think You know that when I am sad
it’s because I feel separated from You,
although if I am asked
I would give other reasons.
When I cry, it’s always because of missing You,
although my tears carry other names.

I think You also know
that I am only looking for You,
although I seem to be looking for other persons and things.

Yes, I am a divided soul,
searching for something in the east,
while going west.
I am a helpless soul,
forced by some other agent long ago
to play the double life of a devotee and a cheater.

But do You know why I am writing You this?
It’s because I want your special mercy.
Don’t believe my acts,
don’t trust my words,
but look deep into my heart
and You will see Your own beautiful image.

A boyish boy

A boyish boy you are – said he,
the ghost of Christmas past.
I though he laughs at tears, but no,
his smile was kindly cast.

That’s me:
“I cannot get it, sir, so please,
explain to my this life,
my head is grey, but deep inside,
I feel like I was five”

“Like everybody else I try,
like grownups try to be,
to find a job, make money, home,
with breakfast drink my tea”

“But even if I try my best,
I’m lost, I’m lying not,
and deep inside I really know,
this world is not my home”

“So what advice you have, what aid,
what wisdom can you give?
Can man like me, a troubled soul
find peace, his realm to live?”

That’s where I ended speech, and looked
at window dark, deep night,
The Christmas ghost went home I guess,
and so must I embark.

Imagine Love

Imagine Love

Imagine, you love Him

like loving a young girl –

all you think is how she feels

what she needs, where she is

in a sense you don’t exist,

in a sense at least.

Imagine you love Him

like a climber loves a mountain.

Standing at the top

all you feel is freedom,

all you see is space and beauty,

you don’t even know words any more.

In a sense you don’t exist.

Imagine you love Him

like a traveler loves the road,

the road dust smells like a lilac bush,

you don’t mind a stone for a pillow,

as long as you may roam,

as long as nothing stops you,

and in a sense you don’t exist,

you and your way are one.

Imagine you love Him

and He loves you back.

Hand in hand with your lover

on the mountain top,

dark, blue sky,

clear, icy air,

and in a sense you don’t exist,

you’re just for Him,

and everything else

is just a dream.

Self-forgetfulness

     Guru maharaja often talks about self-forgetfulness. I feel like it’s the one of the most important concepts in our tradition. He says: “Gaudiya Vaisnavism considers self-forgetfulness to be a further development of self-sacrifice. In Vrindavana, even Krsna forgets himself (his Godhood) in order to interact with the residents in intimate moods of love.” In other place he says: “Anyone who studies Krsna lila carefully will see that it speaks about absolute giving and self-forgetfulness as no other tradition does. One who truly embraces self-forgetfulness in love experiences Krsna lila, the poetic love life of the Absolute.”

     In order to experience love, we must forget ourselves, lose ourselves, give up our separate interest, “die to live”. Only then we may be allowed to enter “the land of love and dedication” as Srila BR Sridhar dev Goswami likes to call the spiritual realms.

     I was thinking about it couple of days ago. I woke up early morning. The sun (which I had not seen for a while, alas winter doesn’t want to go away) shone straight on my face. I don’t know, maybe it was the sun, maybe something else, a dream perhaps, but I thought very clearly: “How would it be to love Krishna? Not to think about ambitions, desires, problems, this and that, but forget all, and feel that the only sense of existence lays in loving and serving God?” I loved the idea. It was such a relief even just to think about it. That morning I had the best rounds ever.

     When for the last couple of years I was going trough a rough period in life, I read many psychological, transpersonal, spiritual (to some degree) books.  I found a good stuff there, lots of gems, ideas of self-realization, sacrifice, freedom from ego. But I have to admit, all those books and ideas were missing something. All of them to some degree focused on the “self”, they thought some form of self-centeredness. There is a value in it, value of being conscious, aware, focused. But I don’t think I stumbled on the idea of self-forgetfulness in there. I even think its authors would consider it some kind of blasphemy if you said “forget yourself, forget your problems, don’t live for yourself, live for something (someone) higher”. And yet I’m convinced that the real freedom, real happiness, real satisfaction of the heart hides in that secret, sacred twist of consciousness – change from the self-centeredness to self-forgetfulness. 

     Sometimes my friends ask for advice. They talk about their problems, mind issues, anxiety, worries, relationship stuff, etc. I’m sympathetic, I’m going trough this crap myself, and very often I’m completely covered, I can’t even see the light at the end of the tunnel. But in the moments of clarity I understand how pointless may be trying to solve all those issues separately. Mostly they are born of self-absorption. But it’s not easy to accept it when you are exactly in the middle of a ditch, so often I don’t know what to advice.

     What helps me to get over it? Difficult to say; most of the time I am self centered myself. But observing my small steps I see the value of sincere, heart-felt prayer, regularity and steadiness in spiritual practices (my new re-discovery), connecting with selfless sadhus trough the sastra and talks, and the basics – chanting of maha-mantra. So again – nothing new, we all know this stuff. 

Not trying too hard

     Not that much Gaudiya tonight. Rather more myself then usually. Not trying too hard, as I usually do, feeling further then closer, maybe bit embarrassed of my spiritual inadequacy but also little bit more relaxed. Sometimes I just wish I was a Buddhist. You know, “let it go”, “stop trying to be something else”, “it will happen itself, once you stop pushing it”, etc.

     Maybe that’s just me: always feeling that I’m not good enough, that I have to strive for perfection always, in any circumstances. And since most of the time I’m so far from perfection, I’m never happy. Never happy with myself, and as it goes, never happy with anything. Kind of stupid, isn’t it? But that’s the thing. How to balance it? Not to be complacent in the name of being in touch with the level I’m on, and on the other hand not to be a “spiritual Hitler” to myself, always trying to kick my own arse.

     My therapist noticed that yesterday. 

     “You know that whenever you speak about your life, you always talk about aspiring to perfection?”

    “Well… is it wrong?” I asked. “Shouldn’t we try to be better persons?”

    She just smiled. 

     I guess this is what they do – give you a riddle and leave you with it, offering you a mysterious smile for the road. But I think I know what she meant. Is my “striving for perfection” always spiritual, or maybe there are some other things to it? Like for example lack of self-acceptance, feeling that God doesn’t accept me as I am, so I have to become perfect to make him accept me? 

     (But isn’t it the truth?) 

     It definitely isn’t the way this post was suppose to go. I wanted something relaxed, maybe some short poem, a joke, or something. 

The truck driver was my age,

he just drove too fast,

and hit that house,

razing it to the ground,

thanks God, no one died.

That was the news of yesterday,

something to talk about

in our small village,

my mom gave it to me,

but I was indifferent,

though I made big eyes,

so she’d feel happy.

I don’t like jazz,

it’s so bloody mental,

like listening to an old ghost radio station, 

while having fever,

in grandma’s house,

laying under eiderdown, 

watching faded tapestry,

with a hunter and a bear on it.

Sometimes I feel like that

listening to bhajans

(I don’t know why)

and that’s not so good,

I know.

When I was a little boy,

with that boyish messed up life,

I dreamt about far away lands,

full of sweetness, friends

and love,

you know,

normal stuff.

PS. Oh, yes, we didn't get those visas. "We didn't prove sufficiently that our life base is in Poland". Oh, boy, if I only knew myself where is my life base! That's what I'm trying to figure out for over thirty years.

What if...

     I wrote it almost a year ago. It was a tough time. Lot's of doubts, despair, darkness. Still I like this one. I like this shy touch of hope in it. I didn't notice it then.

What, if…

I may work on myself,
I may strive for a progress,
but what if there is no one to watch,
no one looks from the sky,
no spirits, no angels, no gods?

I can try to be a man,
I can try to rise up high,
but what if we are a drop of the sea,
what if we are a tiny grain of dust?

Maybe that’s the way,
that’s the road to tread,
maybe we are lonely blades,
on green, rippling meadows,
maybe we are lonely stars
on dark, so dark sky.

For us we must shine and fly,
not for gods, nor crowds.
For us we must climb and strive,
not for in heaven rewards.

Maybe that’s the point –
the silent, empty road,
no answered prayers, no burning bush.
Maybe that’s our life –
a little bee trying to fly,
so she could die up high.

Learn how to shine and be fine,
even if there is no one to judge,
no one to say: “it’s a good way”,
or: “it’s wicked, do not.”

But maybe I’m wrong,
I’ve been wrong before,
maybe the truth is out there,
someone makes notes,
writes our lives in divine books,
watches our steps,
helps us when we go astray.

If that’s the case,
I’m still the same,
I still want to shine and fly,
still dream about dying high,
not for in heaven rewards,
not for gods, or crowds,
but for myself.

And my Friend,
if he really is there.

Are you a friend?

„Are you a friend?”
she wrote on the piece of  the newspaper
my sandwich was wrapped with.
“Of course I am”
I almost said.
But instead I handed her a slice of bread.
She tore off a piece and started to chew
in that cute, annoying way I like
or don’t like,
depending.

And then we went downtown.

As usually
we showed each other
the flowery balconies
in the old town.
“It would be so cool to live here”
“Yeah, cool, but it must be so expensive”
“Lucky bastards”
Little rituals,
yes, we have those.

Then we kissed
friendly kiss,
just with lips,
no tongues.
We’ve created a very closed circle of friends.
Just two of us
in this weird unfriendly town,
and we didn't need anyone.

If anyone asks,
we didn’t
go to
bed.