Plunge Into the Truth

"Anyone who feeds on majesty becomes eloquent. The bee, from mystic inspiration, fills its rooms with honey." — Rumi

That's what it was like to learn about the transforming power of Ayurveda last week. Like the entire room was full of honey. Like I'd been waiting a very, very long time to sit in front of such an eloquent teacher.

How fortunate to have been able to participate — even on those nights my tent leaked and a tornado threatened. And now here I am back home with my camping gear still strewn about the dining room, a notebook full of notes, and enough new books from the ashram shop to keep me occupied all winter. Where will all of this lead?

"Sometimes you have to climb mountains whose peak you can't see" someone told me recently. At the moment at least half of this particular peak is in the clouds, but last week convinced me that I should keep ascending.

The tornado warning was very real, by the way, and I must admit to flirting with terror for at least an hour on Friday night, waiting for a twister to come and whip us all into space, piece by tiny piece. Oddly, everyone else seemed unaffected. I sprinted from the meditation hall to my tent, the sky turning an eerie color above me. It took only a few minutes to shove blankets, cot, pillow, lantern, and bags into the back of the car and batten down the hatches — though in my imagination the tent, car and everything in it were doomed to visit Oz. Then I ran barefoot back through the field like a crazy woman and was cross-legged on the floor again before the match was stuck for the puja fire, beads of sweat decorating my forehead. Maybe I'll die here I thought, and that's going to have to be ok.

I worked through a lot of fear last week, I was a gristmill of worry-grains. Going to the ashram in the first place was fear. Finding I'd need to drive over a bridge was fear (though admittedly it was a pretty small bridge and by the time my panic reached a crescendo I was back on dry land). The tornado warning was fear. Saturday night's thunder and lightening storm was fear. Driving back home in the dark was fear.

I dealt with all the fears the same way. In the meditation hall waiting for a tornado: Om Bhur Bhuvah Svah, Tat Savitur Varenyam, Bhargo Devasya Dhimahi, Dhiyo Yo Nah Pracodayat. Om. Cowering in the back of my car watching the saturated walls of the tent flutter and flap like wings in the wind while lightening momentarily turned the surrounding field black and white and thunder threatened to drown out my voice entirely: So'hum So'hum So'hum So'hum. Three hours of kirtan on the drive to upstate NY and 3 more hours on the drive back: Hello, Mass Pike! Om Namo Bhagavate Vasudevaya! Chant, chant, chant. Drown out the worry with it. Give your nervous system a break. I don't know about yours, but mine has put in a lot of overtime in the last few years.

"Plunge into the truth, find out who the Teacher is, Believe in the Great Sound!" writes Kabir. That's my itinerary, my map to the unseeable peak.