Sacred Circle

Darshani breathed in the mountains and licked the skies of puffy white clouds. She had had a full breakfast of siddhas and was ready for the long journey—a journey without compass, map or destination. Her car was fine-tuned. She wondered if she would meet the buddha on the way. I wonder if he ever got bored with teaching the middle path and enjoyed an esprit espresso? Another incarnation, another guy left behind. Oh, daddy dear, how your little girl has grown.

Delicious, would sum it up, she thought. Her tongue licked the air off her lips and moistened them for the benefit of a spontaneous smile or two. More meanings and longer definitions are not what we need. I'll stick to the taste test. Delicious: this air, this tree, this bird, this flower. I'll swallow it all and breathe life into it. Time—the moment of intention—the next story will spontaneously arrive . . . this is the journey without destination, after all.

I'm such a poor sport. I can pick up the ball, I can run with it, but the flight, the chase, is over when you reach the line, when you reach the goal. Goals give life meaning and I haven't a one. I just liking playing ball. It might be fun to go to a ball . . . I could meet a guy, we could play ball . . . oh—the last few hundred guys said I was too independent, that there was nothing they could hold their penis into. The truth is that I haven't been invited to a ball since the turn of some century or other. And I haven't received the latest listings of complete signs and symbols—my indispensable tool for datings in the 90's. You haven't a hold on me. I am a natural terrestrial in an earth terrarium of dreams.

What ever happened to Kali? Did she hitchhike to another terrarium? Where have all the Goddesses gone, long-time passing? Have they all set up housekeeping, retirement in a shrine somewhere, enduring boring rituals—endless incarnations of give me a child, give me a job . . . give me . . . give me . . . give me some loving. Are the Goddesses moaning, "Help me break out of this temple of desires, of endless waiting on the pleasure of your suffering"?

Well, Darshani thought, I was the first to break out. Maybe others will follow. Her plan not to plan was taking form. Time to get the sisters together. Move 'em on out. First step Dakshineswar.

Weary, traveling a yellow line for three thousand miles, Darshani stopped perception at a local stop sign. An inn, a bed . . . a Ramada to lie on. What could be better support for the back, the spine, for a nervous system cleansing than the gravity of those two guys? Her two XYZ husbands were always arguing with her these days. All she could say to their firmative inquiries was, "That's what happens when you free one goddess from the confines of her children's temple of request. You guys have created a monster; she is the sum total of all your powers put together . . . which of course adds up to XYZ to infinity." Her only inclination was to roam, playing games of mischief on women who refuse to reveal to men the simple mystery of the pleasure of their orgasm. She was happy to openly declare all secrets of womanhood and quit the power game. A woman has no pleasure, no power game of fun, without a man; and even a goddess needs her devotee to admire her beauty and purity. Even the lord of all the worlds is only a benign lump without her movement—her passionate desire for him. Her impetuous play stirs his desire for her. He reveals her as pleasure in a world that believes in God as the angry father. Without her flagrant disregard for all spiritual sentimentality, He remains dead in samadhi, saddened by his own creation of human selves. He cannot stand in life without her. How can he save all beings from their misunderstanding without the joy she is, that she gives to him? Life is suffering, life is pleasure . . . which is it? What is it on any given day? Life tumbles from her throat as she laughs. We are all waiting for pleasure. It is I, Darshani who breathes in pleasure and exhales the waste products of kindness, forgiveness, fun, laughter, the arts of touch.

If you can remember one thing—remember where your pleasure lies. It lies in breathing me to full-chest capacity, brain and heart are pleasure receivers. Orgasm, like a lightning storm striking, grounding, volcano erupting . . . stormy days are her delight. The mountain erupts its thousand-petaled lotus. Hot lava: her blood pours down her animals' back.

Darshani listened to a bedtime story. It was a story told by many points of view, but they all lacked depth of understanding. She flicked off the television. She pleased herself with the impulse to attend the festival, a gathering of priests as musicians. Through their song and electronics they would lead their devotees to a state of heightened fantasy. Priests have always led the people to rituals of fantasy to forget their suffering, to evoke power in the ceremony . . . a power that they weren't really in relationship to. That was not the way of her siddhi. I'll go and eat the crowds and free them in me. They'll think it was their belief in the fantasy, the double combo of the musicans' conceit and their own need to give these priests the power to gather their ambitions to have a moment where they can feel their human life— their animal—unashamedly. Yes, an American holy ground—the temple of Dakshineswar transplanted for a moment.

Darshani arrived a moment too early, a moment too late. She circled the field. The garbage that was left behind told a story of its own. She sat amidst old beer cans, chip bags, clothes that could have been new just a few days ago but were only recognizable now as earth-caked strips of rags. A crew was tearing down the stage. A song, a celebration . . . the words echoed in the minds of the tired men. She found a flyer untouched by any of the elements and read the lineup of musicans. Did these priests lead anybody to a revelation, or was it just another ritual of social distraction?

"I was here last night when we were holding candles. I was here watching people rolling in the mud. I listened to their chanting of 'oh, baby,oh.' What is it that they are singing about?"

Darshani dropped the flyer. She looked at the man who had spoken most simply and directly. He was a man about her own age, with sad, soft brown eyes. A short stubble of a beard was growing out on his mocha-colored skin. His hair was unkempt and dirty. The grey hairs were more plentiful then the browns. He asked for no answer to his question and Darshani did not offer her opinion. She continued to circle the field. The man did the same, walking in the opposite direction.

It was inevitable that they would meet again if they both held to the pattern of their purpose. Darshani felt no resistance to this and continued to follow her mayen. His gait was firm and quick. His senses were wide open and Darshani observed that he used them wisely to learn, to discover, to be here. She knew he was curious about her . . . this is a moment of destiny. It has arrived.

Qualities, he thought, she has none. Qualities, she has them all. Who is she? Why have I called myself to her?

"Hello, again. Do you come here often or just every twenty-five years and a day?"

She smiled, "I just came here for this moment. Do you recognize it?"

What a relief. There would be no pretense. He knew her, she recognized him. What a lucky day for the world, he thought.

"Yes, I do feel that. You are what I have felt. What name do you go by? My name is Raj."

"Darshani," she smiled and held out her hand. Raj clasped it and pulled her to him and embraced her. They stood facing each other, heart to heart . . . no wind blew—no separate self-sense, no qualities presented an argument towards or against union in this simple perfect moment, this paradox of two bodies knowing themselves as Self.

"You called him a benign lump," Raj laughed. "I will show you otherwise."

Darshani laughed. "I almost called him an ultra-conservative, benign lump."

"Ooo, they said you were bad, but they sent me to you anyway," laughed Raj.

No one mentioned who "they" were.

Having seen the face of their friend, they both recalled blueprints, dreams and drawings of all their moments together. Now, it was obvious they could never forget the dream of each other. Destiny called and now it was in play.

On cue, Darshani set the stage, "Want to come to Dakshineswar with me? I am going to visit a lady friend of mine along the banks of the Ganges.

"Ah, the Ganges. I imagine it's no coincidence that I have relatives there. Maybe we are all related to your friend at Dakshineswar."

"Ah, it looks like the entire cast of the Ramayana is coming into play. We might as well meet the entire ensemble. I am pleased for the escort." Darshani linked arms with Raj.