Everywhere

Two years ago,
I was in California,
when Swamiji left his body in Italy.
I woke to the news
in the middle of the night.

This year,
I am in New Zealand,
watching a memorial service
in California
in the middle of the afternoon.

Every year,
Swamiji is everywhere,
watching over all of us,
still bringing us together.

Clear

for Swamiji

Like a window you showed us,
not yourself,
but truth.
With the frame no longer visible,
the view
is infinite.

Continuing Studies

If the soul’s evolution
ends in endlessness,
then I’m sure that even now
Swamiji is Master’s chela,
though both are one with God.

I imagine Master
showing him the ropes.
This is how to be a guru,
how to be an avatar.

And I thrust my hand in the air
crying “Please, Sir!
Practice on me!”

2:30 AM Memorial

Sneaking awake in the middle of the night,
softly brewing a cup of tea in the dark,
swaddling myself in blankets on the couch —
and the laptop opens like a mystic portal

onto a bright, sunny, Italian day.
Its light shines only on my face,
the music sings only in my headphones,
leaving the stillness of night unstirred.

Disregarding miles, time zones, and eyelids,
I find myself transported there with friends, family,
and the one, unmoving friend who no longer
needs even this technology to reach me.

Eventually the portal closes, folding
the waiting night back around me, but now
with an extra secret, sealed in my soul
before it can fade in the distractions of day.

Here We Are

Here we are
gathered around a small, old body

And here we are
engulfed in a flow of energy
that began with an ending

And here we are
with a spiritual mission
as small as an individual heart
and as wide as the world

And here we are
looking around, realizing,
yes, it’s us

So here we are
ready, willing, and hope-to-God able

Here we are, Master.

For Swamiji

I slept two hours last night,
one at the beginning and one at the end,
and in between, the surreal midnight
of bleary-eyed adrenalin
knocking on doors,
of pajamas and flashlights
making their way to the temple,
waiting to hear that it was a mistake,
another of the near-misses that
we almost take for granted.

But it wasn’t. This time,
of all the times, it was true.
No drama, no ambulances, no hospitals,
you just slipped off, almost casually,
between email and breakfast,
as if you didn’t want to trouble anybody.

And so we, nine hours and
many incarnations behind you,
gathered long before our own breakfasts,
to pray, and sing, and meditate, and love.
Just like your life, your death was a gift to us,
bringing us closer together,
closer to you, closer to God.