THOUGHT FOR TODAY: Love, the Elixir of Immortality

 

When Matter tries to multiply, seeking to ape the Spirit, to become eternal, it appears most attractive and appealing. Generation after generation it revives afresh but  suffers degradation, for Time will not leave it alone. It dies and is born again, while the Spirit looks on amused as it vainly tries to drink from the mortal cup, the elixir of immortality. This cute effort gives rise to mortal love, bringing two material poles together to regenerate, revive and reproduce, defying its stern master Time, putting on a new fresh face, even as the older ones atrophy.  That is why mortal love has an ethereal quality as it replicates the beauty of the Spirit’s immortality and that is also why the Spirit appears as if it is perpetually in love.

The intense attraction, the passionate kiss, the deep embrace are the material urges to become eternal and therefore when consummated,  the poles fall apart and become ordinary matter again, losing their gloss but having in that moment assured eternal continuity, while the Spirit looks on amused at this extraordinary effort to follow in its footsteps. Thus Matter’s efforts to copy the Spirit becomes the very reason for living, and the very meaning of life – Love.

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Mother’s Day: VISIT

                                              

                                   My poem for Mother’s Day:

 

                                                   V I S I T

 

                                      Shall I paint her portrait

                         Or keep it in pieces, dim and dark undone;

                              Shall I put together a jigsaw figure

                          Who has gone to pray in the Himalayas

                       And presently will return, as we were told?

 

                             She must feel cold on a blue glacier.

 

                                           But I remember,

                                      She was warm and frail

                            Beautifully familiar on a carry- chair

                         Lifted on dark strong porter’s shoulders

                                  To the fearful steaming train.

 

                           Up the quick flight of steps to visit her –

                    The apartment was the same, the curtains hung

                             The same fan spun; our heart beats

                       Filled the empty room with promise and fear.

 

                                Quietly a voice behind intoned:

                                ‘She has gone to the Himalayas’,

 

                                 And through the curtains shone

                                        A steady summer’s sun

                                        And on the counterpane

                                                 A blue glacier.