Amma's Prasad (for me and for one of you!)

Until today only one woman has ever called me her daughter, and those words were hushed by cancer 8 months ago. One of the last times I heard them my mom and I were sitting together on my brother's couch. Wrapped in her soft pink bathrobe in the middle of the afternoon with her swollen, blistered legs propped up in front of her, she had just said the words "nursing home" and upon seeing my expression, added, "I know it will come to that." I'd burst into tears, something I'd been trying, with great difficulty, not to do, and she'd grabbed me to her chest. "My daughter" she'd sighed sadly, "my beautiful daughter."

I knew from reading about other people's darshan experiences with Amma that she will often use these words, "my daughter" but was terrified to admit that I wanted to hear them. As I approached her on my knees today, trembling hands offering a vase full of pale roses and hydrangeas my own mom would have loved, tears splashed down my cheeks. Within seconds I found myself sobbing into her chest while she put her arms around me.

Though I'd vowed to focus on every physical sensation the moment had to offer, I instead felt, for those brief moments in Amma's embrace, absolutely no physical sensations at all. The crowded, brightly lit hall; the chanting; the heat; the many attendants pressing close; the smell of incense and oils — even Amma's touch disappeared into sudden darkness, with the exception of a small bright light glowing behind my eyes. It was the sound of Amma crying "my daughter! my daughter! my daughter! my daughter!" with sincere conviction that pulled me back, where she was suddenly pressing a perfect red apple into my hand and looking at my face. The attendants pulled me up and pointed my reluctant feet in the direction they were requited to go.

Amma's presence is indescribably beautiful to behold, and impossible to grasp, like a ray of sunlight. I feel incredibly grateful to have had the experience of her darshan. I even feel grateful for all the skeptical, confused, painful, angry, lonely moments that led me to shove my boat off the shore and embark on this quest.

The line to receive one of Amma's hugs is kept moving in an incredibly efficient and controlled manner, and afterwards you're invited to sit on the floor in a small group to her right for a few moments, recovering your composure until more attendants keep even that small crowd circulating. J and I were lucky enough to end up sitting along the path that Amma used to exit the hall when the afternoon session came to an end. An attendant prepares the way, picking up any small bits of lint, paper, threads, etc. on the carpet where she'll walk. The hall grows quiet. Though I expected a solemn, slow procession — perhaps with incense waving and bells ringing — her departure was more of a giant wave of energy passing by. Flanking the narrow pathway we jumped to our feet and, surrounded by sheltering devotees, Amma smiled and outstretched her arms as she passed, briefly touching all the eager hands that reached out to her along the way.

There were lots of wonderful things for sale in the merchandise area of the hall, and I picked up this little prasad bag so I could give it away here. Inside there are some flower petals, a tiny photo of Amma, and a Hershey's Kiss or two. Leave a comment on this post and I will gladly share this little memento with one of you, chosen at random.