A Drop in the Celestial Bucket

I wake up and make my way to the kitchen to prepare chai. I touch the feet of Papaji then Mummiji it’s a sign of respect but also a request for their blessings. From the roof I watch the rising sun; coming up quickly it showers the sky in a cornucopia of colour; maroons, pinks and gold’s. Like me its eager to see a new day. A family of monkeys jump across the rooftops. Temple bells begin ringing and my heart fills, I remember my breath and OM three times.

At one of my favorite temples, ladies string flower malas outside; inside the deities are revealed during the most intense portion of kirtan (spiritual music). I look into the eyes of Radha her message pours into my heart “Stop worrying, everything is happening exactly as it should, trust”. Krishna’s energy calls my attention “I’m with you, why do you still question anything?”  My faith grows “how can I be of service?” I ask. “Finish your book!” I’m once again prompted to remember the words that are waiting to be written.

On our way home the streets are filled with people. Stopped by the crowd there’s hardly room to maneuver the motorcycle. Somehow my partner finds space between the patrons, “hang on” he says, his words have more depth than just the present moment. Change is stirring in the air, I embrace it and him tightening my grip but I relax remembering to trust, not just his skills as a driver but the flow of life.

Sometimes instead of concentrating on the direction we are travelling while racing through the chaos that is Indian traffic I prefer to watch the scenery. We pass auto rickshaws decorated with images of God, saffron robes, a brown cow, a white cow, then a pink and blue cow (still has colour on it from Holi). A saddhu dances to music only he can hear. I remember the beat of my own drum.

At home a spider makes its way from a tree branch to the ground, halfway down a bird flies in snagging him as a tasty treat. A blue butterfly dances around the flower pot. As I enter my room my two year old niece is rolling on my bed by herself laughing for no apparent reason.  Mummiji offers me a small yellow fruit called rasbhri that resembles a very small plum, its tart but sweet, my new favorite. I remember life can often taste the same.

Before dinner we head to YamunaJi (Holy River) the stars are piercing the sky, incense is wafting in the air and waterbirds sing a lullaby. Watching her current flow; she’s quicker than before. Like life she too seems to be speeding up. Time is passing quickly and I have work that needs to be done. I pray for guidance and time.  My partner takes my hand “tomorrow you should take the day to write your book.” God has answered again this time I’ll remember to take action.