Physiological aspects of the myth of kundalini

 Dear esteemed readers, here isa link for my discussion about Kundalini. 

https://youtu.be/w7tlePtbEy0

 

A glimpse of the ultimate truth at dusk in my village:

On the infinite canvas in the sky, He, the ever-creative artist, paints one mural after the other. Gives a fleeting vision of the ultimate truth. Of transience. Of ever transforming shades. The creator doesn't hold onto the fleeting shades. He allows these to dissolve into newer and newer frescoes.

PS: Ravinder bhai has provided a higher dimension to my emotion through his translation. So cannot help sharing it on the main post with much thanks to him. He is rapidly evolving on the path of self realisation. May almighty allow him to stand face to face with the ultimate truth. Here goes the translation:

वह, एक रचनात्मक कलाकार के रूप में, आकाश के अनंत चित्र-फ़लक पर , एक के बाद एक चित्र बनाता है। एक अंतिम सच्चाई के रूप में क्षणभंगूर दृश्य देता है । क्षणिक भंगुरता का  । कभी रूपांतरित होते हुये रंगों का । विधाता इस लगातार बदलते क्षणिक रंगों को रोकता नहीं है । वह तो  इस घुलते हुये नए से नए बनते भीतिचित्रों की अनुमति प्रदान करता रहता है ----

आभार सहित प्रोफेसर रविन्द्र कुमार

Real Karma

 One of my favorite slokas in गीता. To be stable like a stone in the fluttering petals of life. To be stationary even while walking and running. To be silent even when speaking. To be the immovable chetna as the screen of mind plays the interesting film of life. To be the emptiness inside all that appears solid and filled up. To just 'be' among all the waves of 'becoming' surging around.  To be beyond creation and destruction, life and death even in a battlefield. To firmly hold the reins of the horses of sense perception as the chariot goes over the ground smattered with blood, gore and corpses of the mundane survival game. To be the spotless blue above and beyond the shifting shapes of clouds.To be alive and dead at the same time with each inhalation and exhalation.

Mother Kundalini

 The primal source of energy driving the primal matter...the ageless, infinite stream...the feminine half of the ultimate unity...the spark of cosmic agility...the force behind apparent creation and destruction...the Shakti holding the essence of Shiva...the spark of life inside a rock...the mover of galaxies...the exhaler through bursting stars...the inhaler through blackholes...and the divine cord that sustains the phenomenon which creates the sweet illusion of me being me.

A simple, little world of marigolds

 

My marigolds put up a brave face against harsh January to keep the banner of life and hope flying through their smiles. Now the beginning of February has better prospects for more smiles. They aren’t showy and fragrant like fresh jasmine or magically alluring like dew-laden rose, but still they have enough in them to bring some traces of halcyon days among this gloomy winter. With their virtues and valor, they lit up the corner in my garden with their subdued smiles. An almost sunless January couldn’t subdue their smiles. It’s a world where we have decimated smiles in the wilderness across the planet. Our civilizational pursuit of El-Dorado has seen us fluently frittering away the pulsating aesthetics that mother nature had decorated along our path.

A few flowers remain, that too in the little gardens of almost obsolete people who still love flowers, who still somehow try to hold onto the majestic sinews of mother nature. Somehow wading through the broiling, intriguing corridors laid across the monochromatic hues of the modern landscape, they carry a fistful of earth and a flower smiling on that. Their rarity means they have become a treasure in their own ways.

My neighbors peep over the walls pretty greedily. This little clump of yellow, maroon and orange marigolds is drawing them like nectar-hungry drones. Any day I prefer my marigolds for the honeybees only. It’s soul-pacifying sight to see the bees gathered over the table of frilled petals for a sumptuous sociality in lazy, hazy afternoons. The flowers open their hearts to the guests with an unerringly courteous smile. A month away from the spring, it seems like a thin ration line for the honeybees. But the human bumblebees want the nectar of God’s blessings by offering flowers at the feet of idols in the temple. It’s symbolic ritual by the way. I thing the Gods will be happier if you offer them your love and smiles and leave these few remaining flowers for the starved honeybees. Sadly, we have taken our materialistic pursuits to the extent that we won’t leave any corner for them at our house.

There seems to be an impulsive scheming going around. The consumer culture is galloping by leaps and bounds with intriguing ingenuity and flawed imagination. The consumer culture is compelling, thrilling and free-flowing in its hypnotizing sway over our senses. The Godly courts are under heavy bombardment of demands by the citizens. We are always seeking more of the consumer items that would give us an edge over our neighbors. And flowers come to our mind when we set out to appease the Gods to turn the tables in our favor.

Well, my simple request to people is please forget about flowers on the altar if you don’t have a place in your balcony, garden or whatever space available that can have a flowery smile. My little bed of marigolds is rapidly vanishing under the reaping tool of faith. I feel sad for the bees. Isn’t it better to have lively flowers at homes—that makes them temples in themselves—instead of dead flowers at altars?