Discernment. The ability to step back from the milieu of so many circumstances, emotions, and sensory inputs to see truly and clearly seems most of the time expedient. Most often it is best to allow inner strength and calm and deeper wisdom to guide action, rather than to act in the midst of the tangles of attachments or in the heat of the moment. And yet there are certainly those times to hold on and reach out with fierce determination, irrational devotion and absurd romanticism.
Bandha. IndriyasaGga. Moksa. Bonds/bondage versus freedom and liberation. Attachment and nonattachment. Paradoxically both true and good, at least circumstantially. Too much or the wrong application of the former and you might be dragged to whatever hell-realm by what you won't surrender. Too much of the later, and you might just float away or at least face the danger of losing those connections that make life the beautiful and worthwhile and fulfilling experience it was meant to be. A “razor’s edge,” this endeavor might be called, a term coined in the Himalayas that derives from the practice of following paths from place to place upon the steepest of ridges, where one misstep can be fatal (or at the least make for a nasty fall).
Treading the razor’s edge in my interactions with Leslie was a tenuous task, as she was in a rather fragile state, and I, desiring to offer devotion and friendship unbounded, had good reason to maintain some detachment from this seeming culmination of long held feelings. Had I poured more into this endeavor of devotion than circumstances allowed, I might not have recovered from the intensity of what this journey would bring. Struggling with a toothache I had no ready means to pay to cure, and simultaneously recovering from a trying journey in the midst of winter, I was physically drained from the start. Beyond these immediate factors, the emotional investment I had made over years—wittingly, wisely or by conscious intention or no—and would increasingly offer over the next three months, would later prove to bare a rather disheartening return, and a rather trying (semblance of a) denouement.
For the span of the next month I would often meet Leslie and walk with her to and from her classes and work. I was at her beck and call, and she did not behave unworthily of my devotion during this time (with one or two slight exceptions). She was almost always immediately and by all accounts genuinely grateful and courteous. I was quite happy to be friend and support to Leslie, even perhaps overeager to play the role of a smitten errant-knight, archetypal love-crazed god, and perhaps even, from an outside perspective, a fool rather pitifully desperate to display his mad devotion. As I had somehow presciently sensed her distress months before my arrival, I had at least hints that the role of helper or healer might be my lot in Leslie’s life, though again and in all honesty I had expected little more to actualize than a nice chat over coffee or tea.
One of few instances where I felt that Leslie was less than gracious and kind during our friendship in Montreal was an occasion when she was in the presence of a certain coworker at a cafe where she worked as a server. On this occasion, perhaps to try to impress her handsome fellow employee at Soupe Café else to make some sort of statement, Leslie rather callously greeted me as I entered the small restaurant, doing the favor of delivering some item or other of which she had need. She then very intentionally kissed her suave Quebecois coworker on both cheeks whilst I sat nearby, an intimacy she did not share with me—though I have more than slight inclination to believe there may have been other, subtler reasons.
This was perhaps reminiscent of instances of less than generous words I had thought were subversively directed towards me whilst she was employed at Coal Creek years before, words which through my perception at the time had seemed in fact some brand of wisdom disguised as sass rather than words truly meant as harsh or unkind or crass. I have considered that this kiss in this café in Montreal may have been to kindly if pointedly reinforce her expressed intentions to maintain a platonic relationship with me—again, if not to effect some subtler factors—as I likewise interpreted what I perceived as slights meant for my ears years before as hints to be overheard, intended as a compassionate means of telling me to shape-up.
Amongst my most pleasant memories of this short period were of sharing walks with Leslie upon Mont Royal when chance we encountered one of the few less frigid days of the Montreal winter. I was only slightly jealous when she would speak fondly of experiences hiking this large hill with her former lover, Dan, a man she said could call the birds to land upon his hand at the mere motion of his hand or mudra. I was glad to be her confidant, and in fact felt privileged to play this role even when it meant hearing of Leslie’s past lovers—a title that would not come to apply to me during these months shared as her companion.
At this time, my proclivities toward a nonjudgmental and generally neutral empathy had yet to be forced into the recesses of my inner-self, as would become a necessary defensive measure after a series of traumatic experiences, psychic assaults, and seemingly someone’s intentional use or abuse of AvaraNazakti (powers of illusion) that would increasingly vex this mystic adventurer after we had parted company. I had yet to become jaded, a state I have since been forced to fight and am continuing to be forced to resist, to whatever degree, to this day. Not jaded by excess, mind you, save excess of clues, signs and supposedly substantive symbols that often since have shown themselves mere smoke and mirrors.
Mont-Royal is the central geographic feature of this grand old city, perhaps aside from the St-Laurent River. It rises above le Plateau, and is a draw for cross-country skiers during the winter, and joggers, walkers, sunbathers and hippies gathering for the popular drum circles during the summer, a weekly event quaintly and colloquially called “Tam-Tam.” Leslie and I walked the spiraling trail to the top on a few occasions, and aside from her somewhat mournful reveries about lost love and other woes she seemed happy upon this high hill, elevated above the sadness of Montreal’s long winter hibernation.
I think I may have made a mistake smoking a cigarette after waiting for Leslie outside a public restroom on Mont-Royal, as smoking seemed somehow to bear some undisclosed significance to her. “I can't believe you just did that!” she said without explaining her protestation as she watched me smoke a bummed cigarette. I think I may have made a mistake by not slapping her once when she requested of me, “Hit me. Don’t knock my teeth out, just hit me hard,” she said, tensing her face as if she were expecting me to do as she asked. Instead I gently but firmly placed my hands on either side of her head and drew her to me for an embrace. Actually, I think I should have kissed Leslie on that occasion, and perhaps ought not to have smoked that cigarette upon that mountain above the streets of Montreal. What man can know the deepest intricacies of cause and effect, right action in the right moment to effect the desired results? And perhaps more to the point, what man can comprehend the intricacies and complexities of a woman?
In between our appointed meetings, I tried to be attentive to my kind hosts, though I was quite preoccupied with the unfolding of my role in Leslie’s life and with her wellbeing. Dan and I developed a fairly sound friendship, and he claimed to gain some sort of inspiration from tales of my wandering ways and explications of the largely Hindu-inspired spirituality I've developed over the years. I ought to offer in return that I was inspired by his kindness as a host to a stranger, as I have encountered only few who have shown the sort of beneficence that I myself endeavor to maintain. He was indeed very generous, sharing food and herb quite freely, as well as warm shelter and conversation. After my departure he traveled to India, and from his most recent communique told me he was spending his time caring for an ailing sadhu who lives on the banks of the Ganges.
Beth and I did not grow much closer than when we met, and considering the intimacy of that first evening’s proposition, we in fact moved further from said state. Since I departed from Canada, however, and thanks to the virtual miracle of email we have maintained something of a friendship. In fact, she is nigh the only person I met on the whole of this journey—nearly three years from initial departure to return—with whom I have maintained some degree of continued contact, at least at the time I write these words.
Beth and Dan were constantly receiving guests, most of them beautiful and interesting and bearing names and faces that seemed to show yet more subtle and oddly coincidental connections to others I had know in times past. Not so unlike my experiences at hippie-houses in the States in terms of comings and goings, save that these were a more overtly sophisticated brand of bohemians—though I should add, not at all presenting the pretentious air one might expect from beautiful cosmopolitan francophones. I was hardly outgoing during this time, however, and was quite preoccupied, as I have made clear. Perhaps this was to my loss, though I would not devalue the time and devotion I spent upon attending to Leslie, at least no more than I have in the few pages previous.
When Narev (the other and overtly expected house guest) arrived to claim the spare bedroom, I was offered lodging at Arthur and Jordan‘s place, east of the plateau towards Old Montreal and a short distance from McGill University. Canadians are pretty fuckin’ cool.
Dan also thoughtfully offered space on his bedroom floor, but I mostly declined, as his girlfriend who had herself recently returned from India was often his overnight guest. Her name was Adi (Addi?), which though bestowed on her by her Jewish parents has significance in Hindu lore. Adi is a name of Shakti, and means “Ancient-One,” but is also a name associated with a demon who attempts to munch Siva’s linga by that most terrifying of mythic means (to a man, at least), the vagina-al-dentis (I cringe merely typing the words). Of course the Hebrew meaning, whatever that might be, would likely be the more pertinent of the three options in terms of her parents’ choice of name.
On the eighth of March Leslie and I attended a Sivaratri celebration at a Murugan temple at the outskirts of the city. It was not nearly so lively as the version of said celebration I have experienced at the Hanuman temple in Taos, but was pleasant nonetheless. We drank chai and sat in front of murtis of Siva and Parvati whilst singing kirtan.
Again, this was rather a mellow celebration compared to the sorta rock-and-roll Taos version—think Ravi Shankar at the Monterey Pops Festival performing just before Jimi Hendrix: reportedly, Jimi humbly said something to the effect of admitting Ravi’s sitar licks would be “a hard act to follow.” At the Taos temple celebration, perhaps one in ten of the attendants are of Indian descent. At the Montreal temple most of the devotees were actually immigrants from India. In India, I should note, Sivaratri is a hash-smoke hazy holiday night, with celebrations till dawn, parades and parties and plenty of puffing black chunks of charas by the faithful as pujaris bathe the linga and yoni.
We also attended an Easter Celebration at a Cambodian (or was it Vietnamese?) Catholic church just down the street from our shared apartment, and a few other events of religious significance. Leslie was at the time most inclined towards a mix of yoga and Buddhist philosophy, and various forms of other healing arts. Though I’m certainly a bit less fond of Buddhism, we shared many similar perspectives and practices. One certain difference in our approach to the so called “spiritual” was that she was less inclined to deconstruct the subtle synchronicities and mythic meanings surrounding the everyday than I, and grew a bit annoyed if I went on too much with such esoteric musings (perhaps for having dealt with such issues more than she was want to in recent times).
I had received a promise of on-line employment previous to my departure cataloging a private library’s holdings which, seemingly as a matter of course, had fallen through. I was thus left with little alternative than to request minimal fiduciary assistance from my father. A search for other temporary employment in Montreal bore no fruit, and so when Leslie was asked to vacate her friend’s flat, I requested the means to rent a small studio apartment to share with her for a month or so and till she and I both might make other plans. Leslie had intentions to apply for employment as a staff member at the Omega Institute, an interfaith retreat center in the hills of upstate New York, but needed shelter until at least the beginning of May.
I searched the classifieds for an affordable place, and found that for a city of its caliber (and due to favorable exchange rates), Montreal offered a fair number of options within the areas surrounding Rue St-Laurent. We rented a not unpleasant little place on Rue Berri, located quite near the metro and a short walk to most of Leslie’s classes and to her job at Café Soupe. The building superintendent, a gaunt and hollow eyed Eastern European fellow whom Leslie nicknamed “Vlad” showed us to our chosen studio. She was not thrilled by the tiny apartment, though it did have new hardwood flooring and paint, and was thus at least a step above some of the alternate choices. She moved in a day or two after I, and upon doing a bit of decorating was more pleased with these temporary accommodations. For around one month Leslie was my roommate in this o’er cozy abode.
This was far more, and far different, than I had ever expected of this impetuous and foolishly romantic endeavor. It was all more like a dream than even the scarcely grounded reality I had known as a wandering hippie cruising the highways and dirt roads of the Rocky Mountains and western states over the previous several years. This might be read as ironic, as during those previous journeys psychedelics were a regular part of my routine, and on this journey I scarcely even smoked herb, or at least compared to my customary inclinations.
Perhaps the endorphins and serotonin released during intensive devotion are comparable in certain respects to the effects of mushrooms or LSD or dream. Perhaps my presumptions to pursue the possibility of true love, to endeavor a quixotic quest across the country under the influence of a wild and fanciful notion that a woman I’d scarcely known nearly a decade before might be more than an imagined beloved or a hopeless daydream possibility; perhaps these motives put in motion altered the very fabric of my realm of experiential reality in an age when romance takes second-place to finance, and chivalric, foolish and impetuous romanticism is more the stuff of film or fiction than of life lived. Or at least in that corner of reality I seemed to inhabit during those days of an at least partially realized dream come true, with certain unexpected hardships notwithstanding. And these things said, how can I be sure anything experienced is not in fact a dream, or at least as well described by this as any other metaphor?
Leslie and I shared her inflatable mattress for the first few nights until she found a futon mattress on a nearby curb. Being bedfellows was both a delight and a mild torment, as she had expressed the wish that we not become lovers.
On one of these long and rather dreary late winter Montreal nocturnes, snow and gray sky and bitter cold reigning outside our small yet warm abode, I dreamt a dream in which I was walking along a bleak city street and feeling a sense of despair the likes of which I had not known, save perhaps on the most mournful occasions or in similar nightmares. The street seemed quite like Montreal’s streets, though I believed that, via this dream persona, I was in something not unlike a hell realm. I awoke, quite relieved to find these feelings did not return with me to wakefulness. A few hours later, I awoke to Leslie talking in her sleep.
“There are ten models . . . no, they’re soldiers,” she uttered, mumbling indiscernibly in between, then quite clearly exclaimed, “Persephone!”
I later considered the obvious allusion: I had become much better acquainted with Chloe, Leslie’s friend from years before, just previous to this quest. Chloe is another name for Demeter. Demeter’s daughter, Persephone, is kidnapped by Hades and taken to the underworld in the well-known myth. I dream of a hell-realm, and then Leslie unconsciously(?) utters this captured maiden goddess’s name. Had Chloe sent me to retrieve Persephone? Was someone trying to figure me as Hermes, who according to Demeter’s wish travels to the underworld, to retrieve this lovely figure playing Persephone in some absurdly scripted play?
In spite of shrouds of mystery or uncertainty that would not quite be removed from between us, even in such close quarters, I relished my time spent with Leslie in this tiny home. Once or twice we wildly and playfully wrestled around the small room, releasing tensions held on both sides. To become physically entangled and entwined with this lithe and loveliest woman I have known was an intimacy I had only scarcely dared dream. I should note, however, that as we wrestled I was by no means seeking some subversive sort of personal gratification, but in each moment held in mind an intention to provide whatever catharsis I might to seeing to it Leslie might be restored to the glory I knew (or at least powerfully envisioned) as herself. I thought of myths of Siva and Parvati vying, archetypes I knew of that might naturally apply, and considered what flows of prana might be appropriate to make this playful vying horizontal dance most transformative for us both.
Regardless of attempts to make this a “healing experience,” I did thoroughly enjoy this delightful closeness, both of us straining to gain playful advantage as we rolled around on the floor and mattresses. Though her breasts often pressed against me, and her legs sometimes wrapped round mine as we wrestled, I was not exactly sexually aroused—contrary to what might be expected—though this was as close to making love (at least in any physical sense) as we would share in these times together. Yet, in simple playful wrestling, principles of tantra-yoga were manifest. To my surprise, her Buddhist-inclined counselor—who I had to some degree mistrusted—advised Leslie to wrestle with me often. She thought it would be cathartic, as I had indeed imagined was a good part of the purpose of our rolling round upon mattress and floor, as well as just plain having fun.
Tantra is a dance, movements of energy, as well as emanation or expression of the abiding romance of Mahadeva and Mahadevi. It is the manifestation of a “sexual” vibration,15 yes, yet as a tuning in to the pure and eternal love of the Divine Feminine and Masculine (in truth Advaita, “not two”), and not with base sexual gratification as the goal. Tantra might also be understood as manifest in story lines in life lived, lila, that reflects or transforms by these archetypal expressions of gender-perfectly-balanced, informed by the eternal dance of male and female, tandava, and expressed in variegated expressions in human relationships of many sorts, and in the very expansions and contractions of the Universe, Siva-Shakti, breath-out breath-in.
Tantra is prana flowing to heal and to transform, vibrations created by whatever particular practice to properly order practitioners in relation to this basic binary (that is sometimes/somehow still advaita, “not-two”) in harmony with the ideal, with that most primal romance, Siva-Sakti. Tantra is imagining and manifesting transformation in certain subtle forms of relationship, with Deva-Devi in mind and practice. Tantra-yoga proposes that a balance and elevation might be met in sometimes conflicting vibrations and actions (karma) and mind, set in motion by means of properly channeling prana. Basically, tantra is practice utilizing (sometimes/the roots of) sexual energies to heal and grant transcendence and offer healthy “union” (yoga) to practitioners of this most ancient religious form, is tauted the swiftest path to moksha, and by the way does not necessarily entail coital activities.
Of other physical intimacies, Leslie showed me some pressure points and we thus practiced acupressure on each other, as well as employing various other methods of bodywork on occasion, and did sun salutations together sometimes. I was only once granted a glimpse of her uncovered body’s beauty, except for what was afforded by her more revealing belly-dancing costumes. One morning as I started towards the bathroom for a shower, she lifted her shirt to reveal her extraordinarily well formed breasts, then making pretense she had not intended this indiscretion, she swiftly lowered her shirt to cover her lovely chest, yet again veiling her beautiful bosoms’ form.
“Oops!” she said coyly.
I tirelessly devoted myself to Leslie’s service, always considering ways I might make her happy, sooth her mostly unnamed sorrows, and encourage her to be the empowered woman I knew lay underneath or somewhere in the cosmic stuff that is Leslie, divine belly-dancer, yogini, mystic beatific friend, focus of deserved devotions.
On one occasion, she left for some undisclosed destination rather late in the evening. I had a few dollars, and thought of how much she liked Montreal’s rather sweet version of the normally blasé sesame seed bagel. There are small storefront bagel bakeries throughout the city where one can procure these mouthwatering delights fresh from the oven. I decided to run (quite literally) to attain some for breakfast, imagining my swift errand as somehow an apt mostly personal symbolic expression of my still fiery devotion. I took a direct route that led me to leap and scramble over various barriers in the dark Montreal night to arrive at the bagel makers before closing time. In my absurd knight-errant’s errand I scaled an eight foot or better chain-link fence, slicing a nice gash in my leg which I hardly noticed as the adrenaline wrought of crazy devotion flowed through my heart and veins. I was so wanton to please, so desirous to satisfy this woman who had long been beloved and was now friend I made up austerities to express my madman's devotion, even if she would not see. Crazy bhakti.
I underwent mild tapasia (purifying-fire) sitting in practice in the cold on the slopes of Mont Royal, imagining my exposure to the elements and the intensity of certain meditative states might offer up the fire that would end whatever ills assailed her, and might remove whatever obstacles prevented the prana of the divine couple, Shiva-Shakti, from healing and granting elevated states of yoga in my relationship with Leslie as well as in a broader context. These heartfelt and sometimes silly symbolic and absurdly expressed devotions might prove over the top for even the archetypal romantic fool, Don Quixote.
Leslie soon received a much-anticipated call informing her that she had been accepted to work for the summer at the Omega Institute. Among other perks, she would be able to enroll in various classes, take peaceful walks along the shore of the picturesque lake and meditate in various places designed to be conducive to peace-of-mind, keep company with other like-minded practitioners and seekers, and enroll in one seminar of her choice. She had attended a belly-dancing seminar at the Institute a summer or more previous, and felt this environment would be conducive to whatever respite she might require. At her suggestion, I also applied and was accepted to work in the kitchen.
As the date of our departure approached and the cold and brutal Montreal winter began to dissipate, it seemed as if the whole city was lifted from some figurative underworld and back into the light of the sun. And indeed, there is some literal truth to this metaphor, for during the long and frigid winter much of the populace disappears to beneath the streets to spend much of their time in the vast underground city. Shops and restaurants and nearly any service you might imagine are located in the miles of tunnels, a subterranean labyrinth that allows many to never don a coat or even a sweater from apartment to work to shop and back home, though the surface air may reside well below zero, Celsius and Fahrenheit. Come the spring, Montreal’s troglodytes emerge as so many groundhogs.
Though I hadn’t been much below during my sojourn in this many layered metropolis, I felt as if I too had risen into a kinder realm as the snow melted and temperatures sometimes soared to well above freezing. Leslie likewise seemed to feel better as the buds began to thrust out their green to absorb the renewed life giving rays, and as the sun climbed higher and lingered longer each day.
The change of season signaled our approaching departure to the south, an inverse migration I’ve done often. We boarded the train, and I once again wore sunglasses to obtain passage for my “service animal,” but this time had a new passport to allow easier passage. Leslie grasped my arm as we made our way to a seat, and Zunaka curled at our feet.
We arrived in Rhinecliff, New York, and stepped off the train, once again in the United States of America. Leslie called for a cab, and we walked up the hill to wait beside a restaurant. I decided not to ride with Leslie, largely as I had to figure out some sort of lodging for Zunaka, who was not allowed on Omega’s grounds. There were two fellows in their late teens or early twenties hanging out by the restaurant, and they seemed quite eager to greet me. I said goodbye to Leslie, then watched her step into the cab. I believe I may have made a mistake by not accompanying her.
On the next few occasions we met, she did not seem the same woman I had spent the previous few months with. She was no longer so eager for my company, and in fact began to treat me with something not entirely unakin to disdain. I wondered if yet again something like a bait-and-switch or shell-game tactic had been employed by whatever presiding deities or other beings had sway. Else I might more optimistically imagine portions of a dance or acts of a play not always carried through to completion or finale in one particular set of figures or another, nor even necessarily played out in full upon one particular stage.
I suppose I understand this in relation to familiar patterns of devotion to Devi, as I envision her manifesting to whatever degree in women I chance to know and love in order to complete some particular phase or other of what I suppose might be termed kleem-karma-dharma (teaching in action in relationship). As one cycle of this divinely directed relationship ends, one act of the play closes or one stage of a dance finds completion, it seems to follow that another then begins, another lesson scripted and choreographed ensues, the next dharmic/didactic screenplay plays out in one's life lived. Thus, to remain too attached to one particular form or player at a given moment in the process may be a mistake, as She may have other plans for forthcoming lila and romance, love play and divine dance, nata.
I believe I smoked a bowl with the two Mainers after Leslie rode away in the taxi. There was something I found questionable of these two, perhaps mostly their prompt appearance upon first stepping back onto American soil—too staged, but I had not yet been pressed from within and without to become so skeptical of the everyday as later experiences would make me. Zunaka I walked to the next town, Rhinebeck, and spanged up some money for food (“spanging” is a hippie/gutterpunk neologism equivalent to “panhandling”). A day or so later, or perhaps that same day, I hiked towards the Omega Institute. I think I had Leslie’s sleeping bag or some such, though I don’t recall the precise details. I was not scheduled to begin at the institute for another week or so. I shortly found Leslie, and she showed me to her room.
Painted on the wall behind her bed, a large eye gazed into the room with an eerie glassy stare. I thought of other symbols analogous and related to “The Eye” I had seen in recent times. Leslie had either a pendant or ring or some such article of jewelry that bore a hamsa, or alternately termed, “hand of Fatima” or “hand of Miriam.” She said shared Muslim and Hebrew artifact is worn to ward off “the evil eye.” “Hamsa” is also Sanskrit for swan, and is associated with Brahma, and is purportedly a pet name Neem Karoli Baba gave to Bhagavan Das, the seventeen year old American-born sadhu who introduced Richard Alpert (later Ram Dass) to his guru. Rapidly repeating this word as a mantra is said to render it as “soaham,” meaning “that I am.”
I believed the ominous apparition of the eye on the wall rather an ill omen, and felt Leslie had changed rather drastically in a matter of however many hours. Maybe her hamsa wasn’t properly tuned or needed batteries or a recharge. From holding tight to my arm as we sat on the train, to expressing what seemed a scarcely veiled contempt, I wondered right away if the woman I had accompanied from Canada had been stolen away by the taxi, and now a doppelgänger stood-in (or perhaps even a doppel-doppelgänger). On the occasion of this or another visit, Leslie and I sat on her bed when another staff-member knocked on the door. He was a rather handsome if short man somewhere in our age range (early to mid-thirties). I cannot recall what he had to say whilst at the entrance to her abode, but I distinctly heard him say, “Just leave!” after he had shut the door. I immediately commented on this to Leslie, and she claimed I was imagining things.
Though as I mentioned, I could have interpreted at this very moment that the woman who now bore the face of the woman I had come to know in Canada was not the same person—perhaps even quite literally, I still had a wish to maintain the myth of a virtuous and intact beloved. I would not even deny the possibility that the friend I had known in Montreal was indeed not even present in or as this woman I now encountered at the Omega Institute in the hills above the Hudson Valley, regardless of appearance, in addition to the possibility the barista encountered years before was a different than the being or being(s) encountered as “Leslie” in Montreal and New York. Definitely a disorienting perspective and one I’d generally rather not consider, and yet one perhaps unavoidable after so many of the strange things I have seen and experienced, such as sex with a shape-shifter and so forth. Regardless of the details, my friendship with this woman oft imagined as a goddess had seemingly suddenly changed.
I later discovered that the name “Leslie” means “garden of hollies” or “garden by a lake” according to a catalog delineating the meanings and origins of alphabetized appellations. This definition definitely described the place she lived and worked, as a picturesque lake resides in the middle of the property, though I can’t say I saw any holly bushes. Holly, as mentioned, is my former wife’s name. Now indeed, what might a man suppose of such synchronicities and coincidences?
A number of possibilities seem to exist, various modes and means to interpret obvious signs to reckon relationships of souls in these obviously interwoven experiences, names, denotations, people, times and places. Perhaps definitions somehow reform to meet expectations or imaginings, manifest alterations of reality slipped in while I wasn’t looking—truly revisionist history. This could be a sort of if “a tree falls” type question: have my own associations created these so-called synchronicities retroactively? Is it that someone with some degree of powers of illusion (AvaraNazakti) has been paying o’er much attention to my thoughts manifest and life-happenings? thus perhaps attempting to prescribe or proscribe my path, to plant “clues” and obviously contrived obstacles and to arrange so called chance meetings and other such evidences of extraordinary measures made however transparent, and sometimes quite succinctly presented to my thoughts and manifest in my daily experiences as indubitable intrusions of factors outside mere coincidence? a hand divine? of some trickster or genie? or perhaps . . . of both? Or are these experiences to be fitted within the Jungian concept of synchronicity, i.e., that once you start looking for something you are likely to encounter said something more often than is statistically likely (and indeed without any word on why or how expectations held in mind made manifest might defy probability).
To offer another example of the sort of alterations of reality which give me more than cause to pause and wonder, just before I departed from Laramie to endeavor this mad adventure around four years previous to this penning, a rather inexplicable series of events began whilst I was employed at a bistro that bears the same name as my forename in an old building in downtown Laramie. One evening when I was working washing dirty dishes, a small fire began in a wall next to an outside door frame. The LFD showed up and tore open the antique door frame and extinguished said minor conflagration.
Shortly before I left Laramie to travel to Montreal, this side-door’s frame was already replaced with new pine boards. Upon returning to Laramie after this journey, I happened by this side-door that was the site of the flames and was quite startled as I noticed what appeared to be the original door frame in place, with neither damage from fire nor ax! I have yet to investigate fully the possible “logical explanations,” but the door frame that is currently in place is warped, splintering, and is covered in layers of paint that do not seem to have been altered anytime in the past ten to twenty years.
Is the Laramie I have returned to a different loka (Sanskrit root of the English word “location”) than the one I left? is there a more “logical” explanation? or would the explanation offered serve as but yet another veil or layer of intrigue? At this time I have not investigated this anomaly thoroughly—i.e., haven’t asked the business’s owner of the supposed sequence of events—though with a view of current facts, the change evidenced by what I know of this particular green door frame before and after this journey rather well exemplifies the sort of odd alterations of the assumed continuity of time-space I seem to experience with a rather excessive frequently these days. And though likely some of these discrepancies have a ‘rational’ explanation, that does not necessarily mean that some collusion of illusion or manipulation of maya is not involved.
In order to properly respond to such mischief or confusion I generally try to intend and manifest and even sometimes scream out, “Rta-dharma,” may it be that action reaps appropriate teachings and due consequence, as is good and true and just. Usually I try to remember to add a nice “bhutadaya” or “karuna” in the same breath (“compassion”), and maybe some other ancient intonations thrown in for flavor or further effect. If I am playing the plaything of some transcendent or pseudo-transcendent other(s) as some twisted dharma, may he, she or they receive their due dharma, too, with all due wrath and of course with all due compassion, too.
I spent several days in Rhinebeck, a couple of miles from the train stop in Rhinecliff on the Hudson and a few miles shy of the location of the Omega Institute. Picturesque and expensive, this town might be compared to a Hollywood set of the “hometown” America busy city dwellers less than an hour away dream when they long for that mythical place so enshrined in Americana (that rarely ever and for most never seems to match with reality’s version).
Numerous aged whitewashed churches are interspersed between large colonial homes with well-manicured lawns, and various picturesque creeks with well-shored banks flow in and around the quaint Colonial era village. The downtown streets are lined with all the appropriate shops and restaurants, an ice cream parlor and New York style pizza by the slice, a hardware store, a department store and a few rather gentrified bars—none the least bit seedy. I often ate at a diner called Pete’s Famous, where they had all-day breakfast affordable on my spangin’ budget.
I might explain here my philosophy regarding begging. Throughout recorded history (i.e., the past few thousand years), many if not most of the prophets and spiritual teachers who have impacted society for more than the span of popular whim acquired their sustenance by this means, not to mention so many millions of unknown extreme practitioners from the Himalayas to the Andes, renunciates sitting or standing in whatever pose with outstretched hands or an empty bowl. In much of this world there is an honored place afforded the seeker or renunciate who lives for those ideals the householder has generally accorded at best second place to material goals, and it is considered a blessing to bestow alms upon these who represent more overtly the spiritual longings of community and humanity generally.
For years in my travels I would not resort to outright begging and would always seek work or means of trade to sustain my humble needs, as is the case with most the hippies and other American-gypsy types. Generally the trade amongst these circles is in some special or magical plant or fungi, in addition to hemp jewelry, patchy pants and padded pipe bags and crystals and other pretty rocks picked up in the desert or mountains, didgeridoos and drums. Sage smudges and semiprecious stones fueled my ride a number of times round, circling through the Western states clockwise or counter, as well making means by trade in weed and other botanicals, and by many odd jobs here and there. At some point, however, as need and circumstance required, I learned to swallow my pride and accept more fully the assumed role as sadhu, and consented to sit on some curb somewhere with a sign or a solicitation and a smile. I still prefer to pay my own way by at least finding goods in the wilderness to trade in town, else by my recognized labors either above or below the table, as is the way with most wandering hippie types.
I believe that, as it turns out, everyone eventually always pays their own way, at whatever level, regardless of whether you receive a paycheck from a “legitimate business enterprise,” or by sitting with a human skullcap as a begging bowl. Even the guy who purportedly “paid for the sins” of all those groveling evangelicals and various other flocks of sheep said they gotta take up his burden, and gotta carry that rude soldier’s shit for an extra fucking mile if they want a part of his heaven. And said purported avatar, Jeshua ben Joseph (aka, “Jesus”), affirmed the very basic principle of karma-dharma in a statement he is reported to have uttered, “You shall reap what you sow.”
The renouncer makes his or her way by reminding the rest of higher goals and possibilities for humanity, and sometimes by willingly bearing the burdens of others, as well as by intense devotions to the divine. In the traditions of India, a yogi might even sometimes elect to absorb the physical or karmic ills of his or her devotees. Jeshua ben Joseph, as I already mentioned, is believed by his devotees to have taken on their sins. Shamanistic healers often heal their patrons by ritual modes involving vicariously receiving and endeavoring to transform a patient or devotee’s problem sickness or demon, and sin eaters might yet be encountered as they work their circuits in isolated parts of Appalachia or the Welsh countryside. These are services and legitimate occupations recognized in many, if not most traditional societies, from the Himalayas to the Andes, the shores of the Bosporus to the islands of the Pacific, the deserts of Mexico to the depths of the Dead Sea’s shores, and throughout the course of history and from the earliest of records and time immemorial. In the Rig Veda, the most ancient of books, mendicant forest dwelling renunciates are described as partaking of a psychedelic brew and dancing ‘round like a bunch of trippin’ hippies. Indeed, nigh certainly these first recorded sadhu or brahmachari made their way by begging. It might be posited there are in fact unbroken lineages of these sacred beggar types stretching from the most antique all the way through time and even to the post-postmodern reality of the streets of present day America.
In this land these days such figures are less overtly recognized, though I would say some of my many and varied benefactors seemed to recognize I was not taking the easy road by living off the largess of passersby. Indeed, in moments of agony as well as spiritual ecstasy I spoke an intention and willingness to serve what role I might in helping to heal this world’s ills, and indeed I feel I have at times had some of these heaped upon my shoulders or head or heart (or whatever chakra or bandha or other loka) to transform or destroy or otherwise deal with.
I have placed certain limits upon what burdens I will accept as appropriate need to endeavor to transform, however, i.e., that I can and shall prove able to handle the task at hand without irreparable damage to my own mind or life or path, and without causing unacceptable or unjust or uncompassionate peripheral damage to any other by such an effort. I do recognize my own certain and potential limitations within given temporal, spacial and situational contexts—as should any serious practitioner, and also that in some cases taking on another’s burden might not be doing any favors.
As a contrary or related corollary, for those of you calling yourselves disciples of “Jesus” who will likely contend it’s already all done, “paid in full” and all, I can perhaps best respond by handing you a newspaper with headlines telling of sufferings and wars and violences of whatever form that yet plague humans and animals and the rest of creation—and many atrocities in fact carried out by some claiming to “follow Jesus”—to state quite simply, “No it ain’t.” We all gotta pay our way and do our share, and there’s still much to be done. We shall reap what we sow, indeed. Karma-dharma.
This might all appear further quixotic insanity to the modern Western mind, at least by the standards of officially and scientifically informed (and formed) intellects and discourse, but most of the world’s peoples recognize the value of ascetics for a functional and integrative society and a healthy community, as well as to maintain good relations with whatever given understanding of spirit or divinity or other subtle realms of being that connect people and other life and the eternal and what is transcendently and otherwise good. I mention these things not only to help the reader better understand the character in this tale that is also narrator and author, but also to perhaps prod you to consider the random hobo, bum, hippie or even rude-ass gutterpunk begging for some change as likely more than meets the eye.
As a tradition best known to many of my likely readers has admonished, be careful with strangers, for you might be entertaining angels unaware. Or as I might phrase it, a holy man in the clothes of an alcoholic, God or Goddess or gaNa (Mahadeva’s minions and a term which may actually be the root of the word “angel”) in the guise of a madman or woman, or at least quite likely a pilgrim on a path towards something “higher,” better, healed and beautiful.
Leslie had a hard time recognizing this of my sometimes mendicant ways and means, at least in what she spoke to me in the contexts of our personal interactions, and specifically after we had left Montreal and first parted company. I don’t deny the likely possibility that she understands otherwise, or at least that the teacher and goddess that I believe I have seen in her or with higher sight envisioned of her—unfettered by illusion and perhaps necessary veils—and in truth has respect for these paths. She nonetheless admonished me in an email after our initial parting that she thought my life as a beggar was not good for my health, and that I ought to go home and get work, else I should consider going to “be with your people” in India—meaning some band of sadhu I suppose, adding that “they probably miss you.”
Now please don’t mistake, even in moments of seeming harshness Leslie never quite reached the point (to my conscious knowledge, opinion or observation) where she would deservedly be granted the appellation or expletive “bitch,” excepting perhaps the two aforementioned incidents, at Soupe Café and in her cabin at the Omega Institute. For the most part, and even in the few moments when she was being other than kind, I found her delightful or at least inadvertent teacher, whether or not she was even always the same being or expressing the same spirit or vibe from one encounter to the next, and indeed sometimes harshings or slights are the best thing for a friendship, especially between two friends of the opposite sex.
I do recognize that intense belief in someone or something can indeed alter one’s perception, and love can manifest rose colored glasses. Yet even if what you view with faith is only a murti, a metal or clay statue or two-dimensional representation, the truth of your higher vision can gain a glimpse of what is intended in said representation. Regardless of when or whether Leslie was fully an “Avatar” at any given moment, in at least some glimpses or instances of observing her beautiful form and actions and words and movements I know I viewed something at least very close to transcendent, and thus perhaps had eyes to perceive the Divine in and about her even when she was perhaps unaware or unwilling to acknowledge this of herself. She is one of very few I have known who I believe at the least might be or might have at one time been an Avatar in the fullest meaning of that term.
I suppose, regardless of emphasis, this is not unrelated to the substance of the greeting “Namaste,” which basically means, “the Divine in me bows to the Divine in you.” Likewise related is a decision I made several years ago regarding intimacies with women in general, which was that if I go so far as to make love, I resolved to act towards my lover as if she is an Avatar or at least emanation or expression of some version of the Feminine Divine. Even if this might be far from the “truth” about this or that lover (save as all are vessels of the Divine manifest as Atman and as Great Goddess Mama is in all the ladies, however much self-realized), by projecting such a vision you cannot help but elevate her, draw blessings and good teachings and so forth to her life, and also to yourself.
Indeed, the utterance of “Namaste” more than implies this transformative tendency of devotion to and reverence for an “other,” and of course I do apply this recognition of the ever-present divine elsewhere and to others other than those I’ve known as lovers, though the potency and intimate nature of sexual interaction requires the more that one maintain the highest degree of devotion and respect. These things said, lila (divine play) doth manifest strange scenarios, and courting one’s lover or beloved as a goddess may manifest scenarios as strange or intense as any I’ve mentioned.
One of numerous visitations or experiences of lila that I observed after parting company with Leslie was an encounter I had in Rhinebeck with a high school girl who told me her name was “Jasmine”—a flower which is quite succinctly associated with Siva and Consorts. I had been studying about various goddesses (mostly Hindu at this point), and had come to wonder about the relationship of the Hindu goddess “Lalitha” to “Lilith,” a figure variously portrayed in Jewish and Gypsy lore as well as in modern pagan and feminist mythologies, and these to Lolita of Nabokov’s famous work (which was actually penned here in Wyoming).
As I sat on a bench, a block or two from the Starr Bar, this girl and a couple of her peers approached the strange bearded man with backpack and wolf-dog, asking the sort of questions often posed to seeming eccentric transient figures who don’t quite fit the scene. She presented herself as an outcast, and attempted to cozy right up to me as I showed encouragement and understanding in the few words I spoke. Though she was certainly flirting, I have a very clear and concise line drawn at around twenty-something that would only drop a smidge below that limit for a fully revealed and proper and effulgent avatar of Devi Durga Herself. Despite this standard, I read a certain lila in this plot from the start, regardless of whoever it was actually lay behind this façade of a Lolita.
At one chance meeting as I sat upon the same park bench, she nigh forced me to receive a rather fierce-looking necklace with metallic or stone teeth and red and black cylindrical beads. I later read that Lalitha is said to have decided upon a husband between the three male Gods of the Trimurti, Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva, by flinging her wreath into the air, resolving She would marry the one over whose head and neck it fell. As the tales tell it, t’was Siva’s neck the ring of flowers fell around.
A bit wary of this gift, I nonetheless placed it around my neck. Later this seemingly symbolically loaded item of apparel became a focus in an exchange with a rather confrontational liquor-breathed bald man I later realized was very likely Dave Atell, the comedian whose show (at least at the time) was airing on Comedy Central. No, really!
This episode occurred outside The Starr, a historic restaurant and bar along the main drag in Rhinebeck. The fellow who looked very much like Dave Atell seemed to be with at least one companion (co-conspirator), and I am not certain whether or not they were filming (i.e., if indeed I am correct in my later reconstructed identification of the bald provocateur), though it seems by the presentation of the show the cameras aren't hidden. He was certainly playing well the proverbial devil’s advocate as he tried to intimidate me and press my already rather taxed mind with the brand of conflict and head-games that sell well as entertainment, but are otherwise likely received as rude and unnecessarily provocative.
I will admit, despite my general belief in ahimsa (nonviolence), I had my right hand clenched and ready to swing, if the need arose. I was not certain, as his face and cue-ball cranium began to turn bright red, his face only inches from . . . my chin, that he was not preparing to strike me—or for all I knew pull a knife or gun, and my body instinctively prepared to react. As things cooled down in the exchange, he asked for the necklace I wore, and I started to give it to him, not that attached to the necklace as I had not consciously considered the Lalitha connection, then thought the better of the exchange. I later left this necklace in the forest on the edge of town.
This is far from my only odd encounter with apparent media celebrities, but those stories for another time. Suffice it to say, if you choose to live your given span of years large, tread the path less traveled, a life less ordinary and so forth, you likely shall, and shall likely be noticed despite any intentions to maintain a low profile, and likely encounter others who are likewise living large by whatever given medium or guise.
I soon concluded I should leave New York, and decided not to work at the Omega Institute. Actually I don’t recall precisely whether this determination was made before or after the aforementioned seeming slight in Leslie’s cabin, and thus whether or not this incident was a factor in my reasoning at this juncture. Come to think of it, I am even somewhat uncertain whether it was at this point or upon the occasion of my next visit, on my (presumed) thirty-third birthday, that I decided the Omega Institute was not the proper place for me, or at least not at that time.
Things were a bit muddled at this point, perhaps as a result of having returned to the states after having somewhat acclimated to Canada, and certainly as hopes for further time shared and possibilities for romance had faltered. I was weary and discerned that I ought allow myself some time to recover health and hopefully clarity of mind by retreating to the home of my sister Lisa and her husband Marc in Maryland. Once again I donned sunglasses and boarded a passenger train with my “helper animal.”
Though I regained some physical strength during this respite enjoying my sibling’s hospitality, I had not escaped whatever was assailing my psychic and dream life, not to mention someone’s seeming abuse of powers of cidacit—mind and matter—that was increasingly effecting as well as affecting my reality and sanity (that was never, I should add, lost to the point I became any physical threat to anyone’s life or limb. I’d have to know with no margin of uncertainty that I was slaying a demon or other evil being deserving destruction before swinging my Trishul blades or bringing like deadly force to bear).
Lisa and Marc were hospitable hosts, as always, and tolerant of my uncharacteristic funk, though without going into detail neither of them seemed quite their respective selves, either. I never quite fully emerged from my protective cloak except when left alone in the house to veg-out to the television, eat myself back to proper health, and smoke whatever herb they might leave for me to enjoy.
In times past I’ve shared great fun with Lisa and Marc. Among other fond memories, we have on a number of occasions conspired with various others to wander around forest or field, amidst the granite canyons and promontories of Vedawoo or to the mountains west or south, consuming various quantities of psychedelic mushrooms and playing much more amicably than were many childhood interactions with said sister. For the duration of this occasion the pair were good hosts, but a weight (and perhaps not only the one(s) that arrived with me) made this visit not so intimate as past fun times with these friends who happen to be relatives.
In continued contact with Leslie, mostly via email, she consented to spend the day with me on my (purported) birthday, May 1. I rode the train to Rhinecliff once again, Zunaka again posing as my guide-dog. When I arrived at Omega, Leslie and I walked together by the small lake on the institute’s grounds, and I couldn’t help but be reminded of the picturesque bardo-realm lake featured in the movie What Dreams May Come, a film I watched with former girlfriend Meghan a year or so previous, and which she had noted was her favorite flick. Indeed, there have been more than moments I have wondered exactly where I am, between or outside of the purported parameters of those states dubbed “life” and “death.” Leslie expressed to me that she had no small discomfort with What Dreams May Come.
There is unquestionably a strong similarity between these two bodies of water. Come to think of it, I believe the lake at the Omega Institute may very well have been the inspiration for the painted-(sorta) come-to-life lake in the film. I seem to recall, in fact, that Robin Williams has visited or taught a seminar or two at this interfaith retreat center, and Leslie may have even mentioned that she understood this to be the case, else I noticed his name slated on the Omega schedule or came across some other corroborating evidence.
Leslie seemed again different upon this visit, certainly having benefited from living in a peaceful place to practice where others are also overtly seeking to heal and be healed, to explore higher truth and transform the earthly shell into some greater semblance of divine or transcendent perfection. She again behaved a bit more like the Leslie I had come to know in Montreal, save that she seemed more at peace.
I shall not contend that I perceived this former Jewish turned interfaith compound/yoga retreat center with a name evokes Christian symbolism as entirely without unseen subtleties and potential intrigues, nor devoid of any shadows, though any such sensed may have been merely my personal perceptions during tenuous times, else sorrows projected. Regardless of my experiences or impressions one way or another, this place has certainly been a haven and healing center for many.
I should make note again that I am not so detailed in descriptions of all my interactions with Leslie out of due respect for her. I have no want to exploit what she shared of herself and her time, nor breach any confidences she granted me, though would share of the glories of romance and bhakti. Certain such consideration accompanying candor ought be de rigueur for telling true tales involving identifiable others, unless someone deserves or needs to be exposed for some important and justifiable reason.
Though I would also grant the reader all due respect, and want whomever might have stayed with me to this point in the text, well into this story, to have the benefit of adequate description, fullness of factuality, accurate quotation, and appropriate insights into each character and the ‘what happened,’ I would rather maintain the good faith of friends (and even the remnants of this with former friends) over telling damning or embarrassing or too intimate of truths for my own gain or to make for a better story. And even in telling whatever scene in fine detail, I often omit the most subtle and perhaps esoteric features I recognize, similarly out of respect for certain secrets or persons, and sometimes to avoid exposing the reader unawares to knowledges that might be hazardous to his or her health—figuratively or otherwise.
In spite of the decreasing intimacy, I was still very pleased to share Leslie’s company on this day, anniversary of my purported birth, day of celebration and display of solidarity for world laborers, and pre-Christian European fertility festival (though a celebration not at all entirely faded in the wake of said religious conquests, and might be said a day again gaining popularity in a traditional guise). In many respects this day celebrated is aptly analogized as a European version of Sivaratri, though celebrated a bit later in the year due to differences in climate and latitude. Where the European holiday represents the phallus with a pine pole and feminine as ribbons woven ‘round the stick, Sivaratri recognizes stone linga and yoni (phallus and vulva) adorned as emblematic of the perfect union of male and female.
Leslie and I walked by the lake, and sat not far from the water’s edge. She told me she was still experiencing ups-and-downs, but that she was generally benefiting from her routine of work and meditation, dance and yoga. She went to the kitchen and brought me an apple. We talked a bit more. We embraced and I departed.
To this day, I cannot say I have let go of my longstanding devotion to Leslie, though certainly my perception of her has changed and some of the associations I once held are unquestionably transformed, as indeed I have been by our time together and by the peripheral circumstances and the continued sequence of events that followed. I have changed for better and worse, and as stated, my perceptions of her are inexorably altered, though not detrimentally to any significant degree. Be she Divine, she showed she is also human, and that is not a bad thing.
It is also not a bad thing to return to a less specifically manifest vision of Devi, to return to the romance wherein my lover is always present, at the verge of the moment, on the cusp between now and eternity, wherein She reminds me of her presence at least in the least reference to one or another of many names I’ve known her by, in a particular quality of sentiment observed in a woman’s eyes that reminds of a vision I’ve of Devi, else in the sway of a shapely woman’s hips as she walks past, or in whatever other random little reminders of the other in the cosmic love between male and female, Deva and Devi, a love that has something to do with me, and with you too, if how I’ve envisioned love is true.
This mode of romance would compare, archetypally or metaphorically at the least, to how Siva is consort to Maha Maya, and thus engaged with the Goddess of Illusion in a subtle dance of synchronistic romance, Shiva and Shakti manifest in day-to-day occurrences in maya (i.e., field of worldly illusion, and not precisely referring directly to Goddess Maha Maya Herself). Though according to some traditions Siva and Devi as Maha Maya have only had sex three times, their subtle love story permeates reality and is manifest in a more domestic mode in the romance of Siva and Parvati. Indeed I’m cool with that less tangible mode—I suppose. Yet I still anticipate the appropriate manifestation of a divine yogini as my lasting lover and more, whilst still delighting in the little reminders of love She leaves as the least serendipities and slight glimpses behind or beneath her shimmering veils, graciously granted in the meantime.
This love dance and unmanifest romance has sustained me between and to whatever degree upon the occasions of time spent with however many lovers. I suppose I can as need be thus still continue to abide or at least survive with Her more as possibility than present with me, as my partner in a dance broader in scale than just here and now, whilst I yet sit still seemingly alone.
I have found that place where I believe Shiva-Shakti balanced within and outside of my person and spheres of influence, in body and mind and in relationship, and have delighted in granted glimpses of the grandeur of our mutual devotions in the love notes writ or painted in the clouds, a breeze answering my thoughts, else in whatever other pleasing synchronicities manifest on this stage of maya. That stuff’s quite cool, yet also having an appropriately embodied lover as suitable expression and proper manifestation or emanation of Devi is even cooler—whilst desire and romance are still a thrill, and a yogini as partner is necessary in certain tantric rituals. Sounds rather ‘convenient’ as means to justify license, yet keep in mind that Mahadeva, Great God, is a Seducer and is sometimes seduced by the Great Mother, and by some accounts has a record as a sex offender, as it’s quite illegal most places to walk down the street with an erection fully displayed.
Moments in which I sit, now returning to revise and sight check these words typed over—over a year sitting in Laramie, again and again revisiting this text which grows and is refined each time I peruse its pages . . . whilst meditating upon and reconsidering words writ and attending to other random tasks, I sometimes and randomly see flashing before my internal sight visions of so many women divine who I’ve known in whatever capacity, as lovers or friends or someones I chanced to glance who somehow stayed within my memories as significant, and who all figure as at least likenesses of Her through my intentioned lens. With no little tension felt inside and even displayed outside my form by actors and actresses in what seem skits performed and choreographed to meet my thoughts and memories—perhaps unaware they are characters in an at least somewhat preordained or preconceived play that’s at least somewhat scripted and makes some coherent sense as such, a fractal tantric dance of these visions flows before my mind and other senses, and I sometimes must stand from my seat and dance frenzied to appropriately symbolically and empathically order these factors and figments and faces and myself and physical form and various other energies, subtle and sublime to the tunes that play on my laptop, in relation to Self to keep from going mad, though bystanders who happen to see me in the throes of wild nata in the parking lot by the patio likely think me already quite insane, if my moves generally meet a fine reception at festivals or music shows. My devotion to Her is indeed not ashamed of displays unusually manifest, as is generally the way with true bhakti.
Whilst compelled to consider where it was or might possibly have been that I already-already knew Her—if not as Leslie—yet absent-mindedly passed Her by . . . I utter random Sanskrit phrases and subtly and sometimes not so subtly make intuitive and learned mudras and movements to correct or respond to felt imbalanced flows of our relationship (and of others contingent) which come flying at my thoughts like arrows or bullets or thunderstorms, and chant praises to Her most sacred names to assure Her of my continued devotion and to ask Her help in healing loves and other vibrations of experience, and intone other ancient potent words to bring about purity in relationships and energies generally—locally, globally and beyond.
‘Twas perhaps easier to do this yoga when the envisioned highest and likeliest “Her” was known but unknown, corporeally certain yet inaccessible, named and encountered yet not bodily present—not unlike a murti. Though since I came to some semblance of awareness I’ve made a practice of envisioning every lover I’ve held as object of or conduit to my certain devotion to Devi (at least whilst we were romantically involved), with each relationship faltered I found comfort in the possibility of Leslie (or at least of some like emanation of Divine Feminine perfection—perhaps another Avatar of Her or the person of Goddess She showed me in Her transcendent movements and sublime subtleties) crossing paths with me somewhere in the future. And now with that question at least half-answered, seems what once were delightful reveries on lovers past and possible have now grown fiercer, storms of thought forms flowing and questions rushing past and through me as my passion for Devi reforms to altered conditions of devotion, and as I sense more resistance than before from contending forces or jealousies or perhaps from some reservations or other immediate intentions of Devi Herself as I approach the hem of her gown—or perhaps draw near somewhere a bit further towards the waistline.
Soon after this mostly quiet and rather reserved encounter by the lake, I resolved that it was time to return to the high mountains, return to some semblance of stable practice, and return to a more conventional mode of employment. Though I bounced around the Hudson Valley for a while before attaining escape velocity, including spending a very interesting stint in New Paltz, the home of a once very (and still rather) hippie-saturated SUNY school and a strong local Green Party, I did eventually get out of the Hudson River drainage and on to Syracuse, then to Buffalo to visit a friend I’d known from Laramie, and then a little further west . . .
Continued in next post...
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