29 Aug 2016

A singular weeping willow, alone with its carefully stencilled reflection in the still water, may learn the language of the wind or hail passing clouds with stars tucked inside their greying smocks, but it cannot be a grove, Marcus. Not one in which squirrels skips over the crossbeams of filtered sunlight while koels gather to sing a cappella and life throbs with a drumbeat that is magnificent in its imperfection.

And yet, which one is closer to knowing the truth.

That conquering my senses and unyoking my mind from the drag of desire, will put me on the path to spiritual ascendency, seems contrary, at best. But the suggestion that intellectual detachment can only be realised through physical isolation is absurd. Can’t you find what you seek on secluded hill tops on in forests and caves, in the urban chaos? In relationships?

Maybe the novice mind is better trained far away from the overload of distractions. A silent boot camp.

Maybe it is better to toss a stone in the water, toss the whole mountain, just to hear it splash, to be transported through the spiralling angst of the sobbing ripples.

the cold caress of the wind
it’s calluses
smelling of earth