Sunday, September 15, 2013

Seasons

The Self cannot be pierced by weapons or burned by fire; water cannot wet it, nor can the wind dry it. The Self cannot be pierced or burned, made wet or dry. It is everlasting and infinite, standing on the motionless foundations of eternity. The Self is unmanifested, beyond all thought, beyond all change. Knowing this, you should not grieve. (Bhagavad Gita Ch.2:23-25)



One summer day, while hiking through the woods, I stumbled upon a field. I kicked off my shoes to glide through the open space, the green grass slide in between the toes of my naked feet. The sun kissed my shoulders and the tops of my cheeks. I smiled gratefully in its direction, giving thanks for the pleasure of its warm glow.

Suddenly the wind swept in and with it a swarm of locusts. They ripped and tore my sun kissed flesh. Piece by piece they took my body until their was nothing left of the whole. The pieces scattered by the wind while animals buried my bones under the roots of nearby trees.

Yet I was not gone. I stayed above the field, hovering over for how much time I cannot say. I watched on as autumn appeared. The leaves dancing off the trees as the field turned to brown. Winter came with its beautiful silence and the field turned white. The sweet smell of spring came and the field turned purple. Wild flowers shooting up to reveal their dormant glory. Then back again to summer, the sun shining down on the same green field where my body was taken.

I watched a deer wander into the field. The wind swept in and the locusts were back. Just as my body had been scattered about the field so it was with the deer. I watched on again as the field turned, brown to white to purple to green.

Once again in summertime the locusts came and took a lion. And just as it happened with me and the deer, the lion was scattered about the field. And the field changed. Brown, white, purple, green.

I noticed of course, the cycle. The field was changing in every second but only to wrap back around itself, to return to the green of summer. My body was taken by the field. I was in the field and the field was in me. There was no part of us that was separate. We existed together. One for the other, as with the deer and the lion.

And while my body was gone, flesh and bones becoming soil, I was not gone. Life then it seems is not a line, but a circle, wrapping back around itself. Moving from one form to another, never ceasing.

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