MEERA BAAWARI !

CHAT WITH MEERA
JANUARY 8, MORNING 2.00 AM

(EXTRACTS FROM A CONVERSATION WITH MEERA, THE GIRL WITH THE NIGHTINGALE'S HEART: LYRICAL THOUGH LACERATED

Never will a foot-hill stone experience the glory of lofty peaks


MEERA: I am amazed at how you accept pain! ... So easily.. so welcoming... as if you wait for it to make you go beyond yourself ..Pain, like you said, is the doorway ... and "Don't get stuck in the doorway, though, " you had said.
ME: Yes, pain purifies, but having purified, it must leave our spirit feeling lighter. Pain is a welcome guest who must always be loved with an open heart and be welcome with open arms. As a good guest, pain must inspire us to do up our home and then leave us without overstaying its welcome. I already find that you have discovered new depths in your pain and that is why your love has become an incense using up your blood to burn longer to lit up brighter the darkest corners of your soul, your life and your whole universe
MEERA: Yes, you are right. I talked to that man yesterday… that was after several months. He was exceptionally rude … .... For the first few minutes, after I put the phone down, I had a very strong urge to kill myself. .. Then, I don’t know from where I heard a voice telling me that this is not something I am hearing for the first time. All that he said I had already known… He has merely given it words .. I also heard myself telling me that my love had nothing to do with the behaviour of this person .. and that I am only being “threshed” like Rumi said we are threshed….. I have sent what I think are some good, positive messages …I do not care how he receives those. I think I am on the path which will make my love totally independent of him
ME: I am saddened but not at all surprised at what you tell me.. One shouldn’t have to reach happiness through so much pain. But that’s how it is and that’s how it must always remain. Your love is all yours; it has nothing to do with whom you love. Its object is a mere accident of time or history in your life. You have so much love in your heart you were never going to carry it back with you to another world . It had to lose itself on some lucky son of God or the other here. And you are no one to decide who that son was or is going to be. It happens to be this one and you think it is because of something about him ; it might as well have been someone else, someone just the opposite of him. And that would have made no difference to the intensity of your love. The clouds have to unburden their bosom; the landscape that receives the rain is a mere accidental beneficiary. Your love , I repeat, is all yours and its object a mere accident.. The object is always much smaller than the range and sweep of love that gives it relevance. That pitiable fool will never get you because he is merely a stone you have chosen to step on to reach sublime and dizzy heights within yourself. These are heights he is destined never to see, much less climb; and never will he regret his loss because never will the foot-hill stone experience the glory which belongs only to lofty peaks. We love the stones – you and I – and we should. But march on you will towards the peaks that playfully beckon you from afar. Do not tarry. Shed a tear for the stone because you could not take it with you to the peaks. You were never meant to take a stone , however beautiful , to the peaks, because it will only be a burden and will slow down your journey to your destined heights. Reach the peaks and then turn to cast a glance at the stone. From those heights, it will look so tiny and petty . And you will pity it for it knows not what it feels like to tire one's body to experience heights. You will pity the stone, but you will thank it for being a stepping stone in your pilgrimage. This gratitude is the fruit of the love that sprouted in your bosom. Now it has become a fruit. You can not reject the fruit just becasue you loved the flower. To bear fruit, a tree must sacrifice even the most charming flower it proudly brings forth . And a fruit is a mere shell for a seed. They all go so that the cycle of life is not halted. Said Shakespeare : 'Ripeness is all.'