Raining Love

there was a time
when I was
too scared
of rain,
every drop
piercing me
like a single shard
of sharp glass,
tearing open
many hardened skins;

water became blood
flowing from
a stinging heart,
that knew not
how to dance
in the rain,

today,
when it rains,
my skins melt
like happy clay,
puddles form
and disappear,
trickles
become rivers,
then roaring rapids,
happy feet
do a little dance
to the pitter-patter,
a heart that's young
writes little love notes
on paper boats,
blotted by drops
that gave them a life,
laughter and tears
wash away
the sleepy silence,
and a heart
quietly remembers
how to love.

Becoming Me

and when I'm not full,
like that mellow fruit
on a pregnant tree, 
I let you in -
to fill me,
to become
you in me,
dying to what I really am -
a soul that's not up for sale,
the harvest of a love
that cannot be demanded
or plundered,
but only given,
in quiet patience,
as the tree holds her fruit
and her wholesome shade,
for those who care enough
to stop by and relish her bounty,
and sit under her radiant boughs
that speak incessantly
to the sun, the earth
and the dark heavens,
singing songs of love
flowing from the fullness
of a heart that hears
the stirrings of the universe,
and what it takes
to let you be you,
and to 'become me'.

They are Yours, not Mine

and all along
I thought
these eyes,
these ears,
these hands,
these feet,
and these breasts
so full of love,
were mine, and
belonged to me;
until I found
they cannot see,
or hear, or touch,
or feel themselves,
nor give to me
what they cannot
give to you;
and in that moment
I saw how they belonged
not to me, but to you -
an offering
of a life well-lived,
and how I used them
to see and feel you.

Endless Love

all she wanted was a place
to unwrap her long-folded heart
now bursting at its seams,
a place where her smiles lengthened
like warm shadows
growing and glowing
over a seamless, full-bloomed day;

all she wanted was a place
where she could walk or dance
unburdened, unleashed;
a place where her soles could kiss the soul
of a giving, affirming earth,
where her breath moved freely
through countless hidden pores,
for she was born out of endless breath;

all she wanted was a place
to die and give birth to herself
over and over again;
not for once stopping to hold
and change her course
seeded by a fickle will,
but to fill every nook and crevice
of wounded hearts with little room
for themselves and others;

all she wanted was a place
where she could stretch and spread
her unused wings into the vastness
of a wind-swept sky; for
you cannot bring the ocean to a river,
but you can call upon the unhewn wind
to fill an empty bottle or hollow reed
with formless, endless love.

The Broken Pot

A broken pot sat by herself by the side of a path that led to a well.
She felt abandoned by a fellow traveler who did not need her anymore, for she had a hole and could not be of use.
She was filled with sadness and emptiness.
She thought the hole could never be fixed, and her emptiness could never be filled.
She sat all alone and dreamed. Everyday.
She watched the dark clouds pass by her.
She yearned for them to burst open and fill her with rain.
"Just fill me up with something! I don't want to be empty!", she cried to herself.
But there was no one to hear her cries.
The clouds went by without even looking at her.
She was sad that they went away, without even noticing her.
She was jealous when she saw them sharing their bounty with a distant hill.
"If only someone would pick me up, fill up my hole and carry me to the well......then I will be happy, I will be full of water. I can then see the world in me......I will feel connected....the blue sky, the trees dancing in the breeze, the little bird stopping by to drink from me.....ah! I will feel so full and happy then. I will be at peace," she thought to herself.
But there was  no one to pick her up.
There was no one to carry her to the well.
No one really needed her.
The water seemed so close, and yet so far. She was heart-broken.
And yet she felt she could give so much.....if only her hole was filled and fixed.
She was bitter and angry.
"It will never rain.....I must stop dreaming. This desire is just an illusion. I can never be filled up with water," she thought to herself.
And then she resigned herself to be filled up with mud or stone.
"I can at least just be a pot for a flower or some grass to grow in," she said to herself.
But again, there was no one to fill her up, even with mud.
And so she sat, still sad and empty.
Slowly she began to love her emptiness.
She could hear the wind as it blew through her. It whistled a quiet song that sounded like a lullaby.
A blade of grass peeped in through her hole smiling at her, to see what she was up to.
She could suddenly smell the earth through the blade of grass.
The rich, fresh smell woke her up from her drowsy state.
She suddenly felt alive. She felt grounded.
She felt in touch with herself and everything around her.
She forgot about her hole. She was consumed with joy!
Dark clouds slowly gathered over her. She looked at them and smiled.
They started moving away, but she didn't feel sad anymore. She waved to them.
Suddenly, there was a loud earth-shattering sound. She felt she was going to break to pieces.
And a flash of light hurtled down to the earth.
The sky broke open and there was rain....and how!
It poured and poured.
The little pot was now full of water, which was overflowing all over, in spite of her hole.
She had waited for this moment for so long. And now it was here.
She could see the sky and the clouds and the trees inside her.
She could smell her own fragrance now.
She could give of herself as much as she wanted to, not to quench another's thirst, but just because she had so much to give.
Birds stopped by for a quick dip and a drink of cool, refreshing water.
She was broken and yet complete; full and yet empty; giving and yet always receiving.
She finally found love.
She was the broken pot of love.

On Giving

Give like the old banyan,
which even in giving
of its whole self,
gives birth to roots
that hold sway, to give,
long after it has gone.

Give like the towering palm
which stands not in its own shadow,
breathing life into
its roots, leaves, fruits and wood,
only to give all of itself
to someone else in need.

Give like the young neem
which even in owning
its tart bitterness,
soothes and cleanses
weary, ailing wayfarers
of their unspoken misgivings.

Give of yourself
with love and joy -
the quiet, fragrant being-ness
that fulfills itself.
Give of yourself
with a deep knowing
that you are needed
only as yourself.
Give of yourself
so you keep
the wheel of life and love
moving and turning.
Give of yourself
freely and fully,
for in that sacred giving,
you learn how to live.

Shraddha

Mindfulness.
Aware.
Being.
Oneness.
Love.
Compassion.
Giving -
to just give.
Shradhha -
is all these for me.