by Milarepa
Pune,
India, August, 1989
printed in the Osho Times International at Osho's request
Beloved
Osho,
A hat for you, and a small poem I wrote after last night's video. In
deepest gratitude . . .
This
evening!
Silence descends on Buddha Hall
Like soft monsoon mist;
And from here I listen to
Your voice
The words
The gaps . . .
A
crow calls,
And the bamboos creak.
"Who is giving these commentaries," I ask?
The silence deepens
And ecstasy overwhelms me.
Again I ask, "Who is giving these commentaries?"
Then,
Your voice
The words
The gaps
. . .
A
crow calls
The bamboos creak
And
no answer
Becomes my answer
I love you, Beloved Master . . . Swami Anand Milarepa
An enlightened master's love radiates like the sun, its healing rays equally available to everyone irrespective of who they are. There is no hierarchy in the eyes of existence: How warm you experience the sun is directly proportional to how much you are prepared to open and expose yourself to life.
This particular poem taught me a valuable lesson. I wrote it in the monsoon season in India, during a particular time when Osho had been getting weaker and weaker, coming out to the discourses less and less. Because he could not be with us so often, he suggested we start meeting each evening in Buddha Hall at 7 pm and watch videos of previous discourses. He said this would create an opportunity for us to meditate and celebrate as a Commune; and that listening to his words would inspire us in his absence. This was the beginning of a meditation known as the White Robe Brotherhood.
During the rainy season in India, June through August, the days are long. On this particular evening, it was still light when the video discourse ended. I had been lying down, listening to his words, the rain, the small sounds all around me. I was in one of those magical spaces I’ve often experienced with Osho: my mind far away, yet something inside me still present and alert; like being asleep, but not. A poem had been composing itself, deep-down in my being, as if my unconscious mind was trying to give voice to something I was experiencing in meditation. But when the discourse ended, the sound of people leaving the Hall suddenly startled me, breaking my trance. The spell broke - and the poem vanished without a trace from the canvas of my mind.
I ran to my room and tried to write it down. Panicking, I grasped for words no longer there. In that moment, I experienced the angst of all creators: Sometimes a window opens for a brief instant, giving a glimpse into another dimension, another world. Then, just as mysteriously, it closes again. I had heard Osho speak about it many times. His guidance was always: Don't grasp and try to hold on. Just accept: This is the nature of things.
And so, remembering this I let go. There was nothing more to do than move on and be grateful for the glimpse existence had just provided me with. The poem, like a perfect dewdrop sparkling in the sun, had disappeared forever. And I knew it. Then something in me relaxed, and closing my eyes, I began retracing my steps in the meditation. Only the metaphorical wetness of grass in my mind indicated it had just been raining in my inner world. I could sense the fragrance of the unknown, still lingering in the absence of the vanished poem. With only this faint fragrance to guide me, I started writing, knowing full-well the poem I was composing would, at the most, be a faraway echo of the original.
I finished the poem, and because my experience had been such a strong one, I felt compelled to send it in to Osho - along with a beautiful hat to express my gratitude. The next day, I was told Osho wanted the poem and my accompanying letter published in the Osho Times. I took this as a confirmation of my insight. I had lost a poem, but received a blessing: The master’s love. His poetry.