Last evening before dinner, I sat in a common area and spoke with a man attending his first retreat with Rupert Spira. During an abrupt transition in this retreatant’s life, he found a YouTube clip of Rupert teaching. He said, “I didn’t understand all of what Rupert spoke about that first time I listened to him, but I did recognize it as my mother tongue.”
Yes! Tears filled my eyes.
If you, like I, explored countless pathways and discovered that none of them have fulfilled what your heart yearns for, when you are introduced to this understanding something may flutter in–or batter–your chest: an apprehending, a knowing, an avowal even, that you have come home. This is the beginning of a lifelong integration.
© Amrita Skye Blaine, 2017
image credit: By Mokkie – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0
The price of manifestation in this one-song-uni-verse is a wild, open, chaotic stew, where every thing and all things erupt.
The suffering my adult son is experiencing–all mothers carry this: “the mother gene,” with a scouring empathy for our offspring. If we allow, it burnishes us empty.
I bear suffering differently, now–as everymother, shouldering this particular flavor of stew.
It is not personal.
The only way, is through. All that is required is noticing, which by its very nature, is infinitely compassionate and eternally loving. No longer diving into the painful soup with him does not make me a bad mother. I’m a better mother for not doing so. I’m here, available, filled with love for my son-who-is my-very-own-self.
He knows my cell number.
© Amrita Skye Blaine, 2016
I took this snapshot about forty years ago.