DIVINE MOTHERS AND DECORATIVE LIGHTS

The temperatures drop and the inner lights of the shops there glow a soft yellow. It’s a yellow that feels golden, and such is not overwrought or too much. Rather, the watcher of the world can hear clinks of glasses or mugs and the easy conversations of the upper middle class and higher yet than the upper middle class. There is behind there the moon and certain clouds come past and try to obscure it. This is difficult because then anyhow, the moon well she is huge and confident. There could be people or beings inside of there.

In the daytime the man had stood on the summit of a large place and inhaled Source, Divinity, White Light and Energy, while exhaling the World,- its misfortunes and dark intricacies of greed, power, pride, so on- but more so and beyond, he exhaled the residue of these things, the atmosphere of these things. Then the wind comes and the sky cannot be watched forever so he walked on. He thought, 

Leave it to the fates, leave it to the gods, and leave it to the Whole. What shall be shall be. Some say that the destiny, the longevity and lack thereof and what happens INSIDE of that longevity or lack thereof is not decided by free will, by choice, or even by some outer causality,- but just is. So we shall call that the gods, the fates, the Whole. Besides, what can one really do? - Other than the regular things…

And unlike other people, full of ambition, the man was joyful in that, and walked along. In the night, when the temperatures dropped, - the leaves rustled and the world’s objects seemed to melt into one another, - out there. Save for the lights and the moon that is. Inside he made some lights, a string of lights, and they sat in the air and lit up the world just so. Osho said plant a rose garden and world will be yours. The man thought,

I have planted some lights, a string of ten, and they each make a little chapter or seem to,- in the night, in the air, in a room,- poetic and enduring,- and all together they make a story, the ten lights on a string.

 

And there were books and records and posters and the Virgin Mary watched it all, her heard aflame and sorrowful, but her demeanor calm, serene even. What a picture of nonduality, - encompassing both ways, - the sorrow and the stillness, - seamlessly. He could not see, but imagined, that as in statues, the snake was under her feet, - being crushed. And she had in her hand the white flowers, in her right hand. Her blue clothing seemed not bright blue, but a faded and matted one. And her eyes, - they also were blue. The true divine mother has blue eyes, - he thought. In that room anyhow, for he had looked into the eyes of Mother Meera and her eyes were not blue. The Mother comes in myriad forms. 

Then the windows, good and still new and solid windows, shuttered a bit nonetheless, for the wind was picking itself up, and the world was not always kind, nature included. Things out there were shaking and shaking, as if a small earthquake had arrived. But then the man just looked at the picture of the Holy Mother, and of the lights. 

The lights.

The Mother.

Both still.

Both lit from w/in.

Both enduring.

Both friends of his.

Friends in the deeply textured and mysterious dark hours.

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