Sketches of a Mystic Yogi

6

“Theologians may disagree, but mystics of the world speak the same language.”
― Meister Eckhart

Leaving behind ambitions of world and attainments of the world, most of his wealth and property, keeping only the minimum necessary to sustain his remaining years, he became a recluse. He entered the forests on the mountains and set up his abode there. Now he had become a hermit, a mystic yogi. At first his sleep was disturbed as he tossed and turned through the night, as he resolved the dilemmas and anguish that fall on all of us as we face the world of gain, ambition and desire.

In time though, the tossing and turning subsided. Once again, his sleep became as sweet as it was when he was a child. He would wake up early with the same delight that a child wakes up when it is holiday from school, for every day is a holiday now, each day with its own new magic. He now enjoyed flowers of the forests as a child enjoys his colorful toys. A walk through the trees was as joyous as through a carnival parade. The song of birds, the gushing river was the symphony orchestra and the rock band. Mama and Papa were at hand again - Mother Earth and Father Universe.

On a forested hill side, at a point where there is a little level clearing, sits the mystic yogi now. He sits still on soft ground, under the shade of an ancient oak, by the side of a stream of clear water that runs down the hill. He is nearly oblivious to the dance of butterflies that dance about on wild flowers around him. He is almost oblivious to the sounds of the gurgling stream as it rushes over pebbles and rocks rounded through the ages, or of the song of birds that hop from branch to branch. He is free of fear for he knows now none can harm his soul though the temporary body may disintegrate, just as his temporary clothes do, free of any desire now since Mama and Papa take care of that, always providing the best, completely at peace. His eyes are closed as he breathes slowly, evenly.

A single mantra repeats endlessly in his mind, holy words that he encountered in different religions while still in the world – Rama  or at times Allah, broken into two syllables – Al with his inward breath and ‘lah’ with the outward one, at other times - Mother Mary, Naini Mata in four syllables or the longer mantra – Om Namah Shivaya. There are times when his chant breaks out into a song with the six syllabled Om Mani Padme Hum, especially when monks from further afield visit and join him.  He is neither a Muslim, nor a Hindu or a Christian, for he now thinks those classification are for others still in the world. He knows that he could meditate with help of nonsense words too in order to still the mind, but he also knows that when he has all but surrendered his self to the universe, it is the nonsense of the universe that shall come and reside in his being then. Therefore he chooses holy words - words of beauty, goodness and joy.  He believes in the mystic truth of all religions and that the Almighty, The One, has an infinite number of names. His mind is still. It observes nothing but its own breathing. It feels nothing besides the Infinite Consciousness that runs through every blade of grass, flower, butterfly or tree on the hillside and beyond.

Perhaps he will permit his mind to think, to make a wish, a wish that does not disturb his peace or raise a desire in his heart, for when desires are dashed the heart tends to sink, a wish that will not return his consciousness to his small finite body.  What will that wish be? Will it come true? Even Papa makes a wish from time to time as he did in the beginning.

"Let there be light."

"In the light you will find the way." Pinar Akal https://twitter.com/PinarAkal1/status/835192272698355713