Will It Come to Me?
from The Mother Poems by Shambhavi Sarasvati at Kindred 108. We're all kindred here.
Complaining to God and writing poetry about it is a time-honored tradition in India. Ramprasad Sen railed at Kali and Mirabai at Krishna. The time of complaint does pass. And then comes again. And goes again until it ends. This is my little contribution to the genre. Love, Shambhavi
Will it come to me? A friendly way to live in samsara? So far no dice. I wander around in dreams visiting cities, towns, seasides, and markets in unknown times. I talk to strangers and lend a helping hand. Then I'm gone, or sleep is. Dreamtime is wandering free, but daylight brings obstinate minds, guarded houses and other simulacra of the longing for eternal life. I chide myself: Stop complaining! Everything’s perfect! All phenomena are equal! Samsara and nirvana the same! Awake and dreaming both magical displays! Even having seen this for myself, I still want out. Last night, day invaded the dark. In my dream, a student piled shopping and schoolwork and shoes on the floor around the worship place. While cleaning up, I yelled: An altar is no place for this mess! All over the house, students had replaced my offerings with the resilient detritus of their lives. A team of rough men posing as inspectors barged in. They rifled through everything. When asked for ID, they puffed out their chests and glared. I woke with a strangled cry. My teachers say it’s good when everyday appearings become intolerable and one loses the taste for the mundane, even for waking up. I pray to receive the teaching about whatever comes after this.
from The Mother Poems by Shambhavi Sarasvati
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