Monday, 17 August 2015

samapātti or avatar

Partially motivated out of neglecting to graciously receive the Dalai Lama when he came to me and missing a yoga session in succession but mostly out of a curiosity for reverence, I took a detour north during the weekly commute to return to Limburg and attend a meditation session with Mutter Meera, an incarnation of the Hindu mother goddess, Shakti, in her home below Schloß Schaumburg in the village of Balduinstein.
Careful not to misrepresent a divinity (though there’s certainly much to be gained by that industry) and there was certainly no pressure to make a donation or elaborate self-promotion, despite a quick study, I was not sure what to expect or what was expected in terms of protocol. After I had arrived, finding the hall pretty full already—a bigger audience than I had thought, one of the ushers asked me if this was my first time and sat me nearly directly in front of the presentation place. I was not the first to approach Mutter Meera, so I watched and had some idea of how to deport myself. Unshod, row by row, we inched from the back of the hall when called up to the dais, and prostrate, the avatar placed her hands on our heads and recalibrated our chakras then looked us in the eyes for an instant. I sort of felt like when I had queued up at the Vatican to touch the feet of Saint Peter and kind of rushed myself through it, cognizant of those behind me, sort of fearful that I would start laughing hysterically or manage to spill the contents of my pockets as I arose and couldn’t really immerse myself in the experience—regrettably.
Something sank in, however—not an immediate bolt that made me feel that I suddenly had my head on right, but rather as I returned to my seat and held that gaze in my mind and got to watch the rest of the audience—mostly veterans, I thought, with all their anticipations and expectations to unburden go through the same ritual up close. Some had worn holey socks, like I worried about, some betrayed a little smirk afterwards, and others I believe were a little starry-eyed just afterwards from the head-rush of having crawled across the floor, but judgment was somehow absented in the quiet procession, which is no mean task. The darshan (blessing) of silence and at minimum the opportunity for reflection that admitted no trappings of showmanship was something I am glad that I sought out (despite and because of the nasty weather that precluded routine investigation of the nice surroundings) this shared experience and hopefully have some positive energy to impart.