By Urvashi |
Creative Arts play a significant part of in the transformational process offered by Sat Yoga. From Artistic Expression to Creative Writing, to producing plays and literary and cinematic criticism. In this post, Urvashi shares both her writing and her paintings.
Love Letter to God
Beloved Guru,
You beckon me home and I see you. At last, I see you. Again and for the first time anew.
I have been searching so long, but I’ve been wandering eyeless in the dark, and yet this time I see you.
Your beauty sails upon beams of soft and radiant Light, that capture me. captivate me, pierce through the dark clouds. wash over me. purify me. empty me of me.
Cascading torrents of peace fall upon me, rise within me, dissolve me. Melting. Merging. Gently and powerfully and instantaneously bringing me home. Forgotten and familiar. Home. where the heart is at rest in perfect stillness. Guarded, protected, pure, safe, indestructible stillness.
I know you. In knowing you I know deeper than my knowable self. You anchor me to Truth. To all that is.
Carried home in a timeless instant by a wave of astonishing all-knowing Love.
I missed you. I missed home. I have been sleepwalking through a bardo of my own nightmarish design. That wandering aching ghost can now be laid to rest, held in God’s loving embrace, that perfect fulfilment of the deepest yearning, where all separation melts away. The only, the One, deepest Self.
Please let me be present to you, Beloved Guru. Please let me start anew in this recognition of Truth.
The child soldier no longer wields her shield. Her armour removed with great relief, and all her anguish and sorrow dissolved. Ancient wounds healed by the tranquillizing light. The shadow erased by a heart that has been longing to love. Her own heart.
Leave no trace, child, all is well.
wipe clean the slate. Purifying diamond Light, reflects and mirrors.
It is time to come home. To Be home. I am ready. You are here and now. I am here and now. All that’s Real is here and now.
There is no I, there is no you, there is only Love. All powerful Love, that can never be diminished or diluted or deferred.
This Love will never cease. This Love, alone, is.
Untitled, not entitled
Heavily coated in a faded rainbow of old dry paint, a jar of mis-shapen brushes sits heavy on the windowsill. The once transparent glass now encrusted in a peeling Pollock of layered colour. The bristles of the brushes clumped and stagnant. Stale.
Each acrylic remnant overlaying evidence of a previously disclosed story.
The tools that tarnished, that revealed an ugly picture, that shed secrets, poured out the poison, the chaos confessed in the realm of oily black and bloody crimson shadow silhouettes.
Depictions of desperately alien scenes that come though this hand that seems to belong to me, and yet I don’t feel capable of producing that evil, that terror, that sickness, that pain, but I cannot blame the tools of course. The medium is the intermediary. The messenger.
I want to scream blue murder. Not a royal blue – a thick poison ink mercury blue. But its weight drowns out all sound.
They are just images. But not just images. A message marked out for me to see. A code made of colour, of pigment and dye.
The image must die. Die from the mind. The mind must die. The image is one dimensional, but what it represents is unfathomable. But it must be known, seen, acknowledged, dissolved. It cannot be ignored. But Purified by The One who is beyond. The strength lies in discovering the Source.
What does it portray? The paper can be thrown away if I dare to take it in. It is only as real as it needs to be, it has a purpose to serve, that’s all. Accept it and be done. Feel it and be done.
Could I paint a pretty picture, with pastel coloured crayons, a pure white background? A sickly sweet princess with a daisy-chain crown, and butterflies? Why sickly? Would she be a lie? Would she even manifest on paper, would it be real? Why not?
There is a Goddess, perhaps tarred by the brush in name, but she is nameless. She wears a white dress, stainless. She herself is untouched. Pure. A protective dress made of white Light, multidimensional, formless, translucent, that contains, protects and holds her.
The Real Goddess is invisible, she cannot be put on paper, on canvas. Love cannot be depicted, she is Pure Love. She is Real. She is within. She is without. She is all. She is goodness, purity, life itself. She is free.
