A Full Belly

I believe I have found heaven... where gardenias grow wild, without a single word of coaxing.

Lately I have felt a deepening of my own love. Gratefully receiving it. And feeling my shell of western protectionism and busyness continuing to release. Just when I feel something release, and I think, “wow, this is how it feels to be free”, I then begin to see the corners of my next layer beginning to peel.

Last night was a very healing night. After a series of events, exchanges, dinner with a friend who is writing her life story, and emails from loved ones from the past, I must say, I haven’t cried like I did last night for so very long. It felt like a washing, a spiritual cleansing, that I have needed for lifetimes. I sat for at least forty-five minutes, beneath the moon and planets and wept. I told Larry, amidst this tearful breakthrough, that I sometimes I feel like I am part of a scene I saw in a movie once: Where two people sit at opposite ends of the table from one another… with a massive, indescribable bounty of food before them, and their arms are long handles with forks for hands. Their arms do not bend. They can pick up the food, but they cannot eat. And their arms are not long enough to reach one another at the opposite end of the table, so neither can they feed one another. And they are left hungry.

Living in the west, doing “the american way” seems to grow me these arms. And, as a result, loving sometimes feels that way to me. When I look back on my first marriage, or those I have left behind, or the way I scurry through my life and bustle from commitment to the next, from one phone call or visit to another. It’s not that I don’t “know” what love tastes like, in its true essence. We have all felt it in its purity; when a newborn wraps its tiny fingers around yours, when we feel a magnificent sunset inhale us, when we dance ecstatically, or when we make love to our partner, to find every cell merging with the cosmos. We’ve all felt it. The question is not, “What does it look like and feel like?”, but instead, “How can I taste of this love, keep my own belly full, and simultaneously nourish others with this limitless bounty?”

As I cried in the arms of my husband, we held each other and I shared my longing to be more compassionate, more present, more accepting, and more satiated by the heart and less by what is held in the hand. And, still, more often than I would like, I feel that I sit at opposite end of the table from those I love in my life, and find myself hungry. And maybe it is this hunger that calls us each to evolve to a higher state of loving. I think it is. And so, much too often, we create these “feeding frenzies” where the ego is gluttonously fed, where we work our asses off, climb the ladder, blow past “the Jones’es”, and then sit. At “the top”, exhausted and starving.

Last night my prayer, amidst my weeping calls to the moon, was, “Please, God... break my arms if you must. Break all of me, if you will. Do something, anything, to take me down so that I can grow again, strong and tall, in your love. And be nourished. And nourish.”

I love how this place opens me.

Aum. Shanti. Shanti. Shanti.