Sunday, August 18, 2013
The Death Pangs of a Locust
Holy cow, I'm leaving my ectoshell behind. Like a spaceship, we've got separation. But instead of falling into the ocean -- there's no ocean for miles around -- I'm just hanging on that piece of concrete I was on.
What a meditation, to go like this. I trained the inner eye on my bottom and drifted away. I'm free, sort of -- but what now? Probably shouldn't worry. It's an escape, apparently; separation comes with the package. Meaning life is a package deal. I've always gone a la carte, myself, making decisions to this point. But now it's happening to me, not so much me doing it. What's a me?
Everything is melting, including the ability to make strict, accurate judgments about the present circumstances, this immediate sentence included. All I feel is I'm drifting, drifting, seeing what must've been my life flashing before me.
I see now that I was one of 40,000 siblings, proudly among the top 10,000 in aptitude. Maybe higher, since I'm able to remember, think, and formulate actual descriptive sentences. Even the best of them offers nothing but an ongoing drone. Although it's possible that the ongoing drone is better than my present chatter. Or if not better, at least closer to the ideal nature.
Anyway, I could also drone. One of the best soprano voices in our treeload. I was so into it, I briefly wanted to end it all, forgo mating, I mean, stop the urges and keep my voice. Very vain, I know, and ultimately an unsustainable bit of vanity. There's no provision for such desires. Even for someone who could name every tree in the forest.
Like everything, fate is set out for us. Not strict determinism, mind you, but close. For example, I could choose which tree to fly to. Of which, in hindsight, I say ... big deal. I was still a locust through and through, with all the rights and privileges pertaining thereunto. Among them being, to get lost in the drone. If "All life is the play of universal forces" (Aurobindo), who am I to complain? To complain is ridiculous, unless that too is just universal forces having fun.
As a locust -- fark! -- it's all good. My ectoshell was on me, what joy! My ectoshell is off me, what joy! It's all the same. To be a locust and also to be the All is all joy. Like a cherry on a huge sundae, I'd say. It's great to see, but the sundae's still good without it. To be right there, as I realize myself to be, in the heart of everything, in the thoughts of all power, near to the meat of the goody, adjacent to the inner nub, and a favorite of the center enchilada, it's a great thing. Like the apple of its eye.
Separation is complete. We repeat, separation is complete. The locust has left this locus. A bird swoops down and studies the spoils, before carrying it away for whatever value might remain. As for Mr. Locust, his consciousness drifts farther away. There's a kind of nebulous light just ahead, with deep contentment and joy.
Our locust's last earthly thought: Someday, bird, you'll get yours.