Two months in a cave, prostrating
to the deathless face we know so
well, but forget at almost every moment,
he was touched by the lanky hand of
the cotton clad super star, and was
somehow sanctified. We all need to
go to the caves of our own connection.
We all need to be touched by the glowing
fingertips of inseparability, if only for a
(if only for a few chunks of the three times)
He was somehow vitalized
in a way that’s
like a hermit crab’s joy on finding
a new landlord of hollowness. I
could intuit a healing like a miracle staged on a platform of direct experience:
a felt-sense rubbed off from cave to
cave throughout endless time
from one cotton clad super star
from one yogic antihero to another
through the space inside the outside of space
and lodged itself firmly in my
organic spheres of perception.
It happened like that.
I can apprehend that
this is a power of turning inwards
and a power of imprints energetic
from all those who turned inwards
so long ago and now.
The aprons of old Tibetan women
turn round the Stupa…
the most beautiful thing you can ***
Boudhanath, Kathmandu, Nepal