As we welcome Prema home, I am reminded of the feeling of soaring into the heights and depths and fullness of Self, an achingly beautiful "homecoming" in itself of oneness-no separation... only to return out of the Samadhi embrace to the discombobulated scurrying tempo of our lives. Lives with children. Lives with spouses. Lives with jobs and obligations. Schedules. Responsibilities.
The scurrying…the clatter…the disarray that surrounds us. This is not us; we are just visiting.
But as we sink back into our bodies, our lives, trying desperately to hold on to the remnants of our true Technicolor experience, we also feel the pull of gravity into the present.
It's no wonder she sits, no words flowing yet. Words are a different state. Let her sit as long as she will, basking in her fullness. May she remember the glory of who she is and let that infuse her and those around her with that knowing.
May we all remember and not forget. And may we carry it forward into the dance that spins right along around us.
Sometimes words aren't enough, don't do justice to the experience, so we find another way to express it.
Today I picked up a can of simple white cannelloni beans. They'd been sitting in the cupboard for weeks, silently, waiting in the dark for inspiration. None had come. But today seemed like the day as I opened them up, draining out their syrupy juices and rinsed away cloudiness with pure filtered water.
White beans. Plain. Simple. Rather boring. Live in a can. They love them in Tuscany, I ventured. Beans get a bad wrap here.
In my attempt to elevate them I think first, a beautiful bowl. Not white. I choose a vibrant cobalt blue, heavy with patterned relief along the outside, dramatic enough to show off the inherent beauty of the creamy blushed beans.
Next, some minced onion and half a red sun-kissed jalapeno that stayed too long on the vine. As I flow effortlessly from the fridge to the board to the bowl, a dish comes to life. Diced sweet red pepper, minced garlic, a good scatter of celtic sea salt, a few cracks of black pepper, a hearty drizzle of extra virgin olive oil, and the juice of half a lemon with a few dashes of red wine vinegar just because. I love how the tart complements the creaminess with the hint of heat and bit of crunch.
Tossing the beans gently so as not to bruise them, it's still not there. Something is missing, something fresh.
I step out the backdoor where sunlight floods me with kindness to the herb garden that encircles our home. Choosing a small bouquet of flat Italian parsley and a few plump sage leaves, I decide rosemary would be equally welcome. Next time.
Mincing and tossing I have it now. A beautiful, tasty offering that transcends its own nature.
Or, was its nature there all along, hidden?
Served on a few scattered leaves of romaine hearts with a chunk of crusty bread, I am fed.
But it's more.
It's good. It's real, and it nourishes me far beyond the can and the plate.
It brings me home.
Thinking of Prema. Blessings all.