The Mystic Yogi
On a forested hill side, at a point where there is a little
level clearing, sits the mystic yogi. He sits still on soft ground, under the
shade of an ancient oak, by the side of a stream of clear water that runs down
the hill. He is oblivious to the dance of butterflies that dance about on wild
flowers around him. He is oblivious to the sounds of the gurgling stream as it
rushes over pebbles and rocks rounded through the ages, or of the chirping of birds that hop
from branch to branch. He is free of fear or any desire, completely at peace.
His eyes are closed and he breathes slowly, evenly.
A single word repeats endlessly in his mind – Allah, broken
into two syllables – Al with his inward breath and lah with the outward one. He is not a Muslim. He believes in the mystic truth of all religions and that the Almighty has an infinite number of names, Allah being one of the easiest to chant because it synchronizes with the cycles of breathing with such wonderful ease.
His mind is still. It observes nothing but its own breathing. It feels nothing
besides the Infinite Consciousness that runs through every blade of grass,
flower, butterfly or tree on the hillside and beyond. Perhaps he will permit
his mind to think, to make a wish, a wish that does not disturb his peace or
raise a desire in his heart, a wish that will not return his consciousness to
his small finite body. What will that wish be? Will it come true?
UPDATE 14 March 2014:
Why some humans become mystics is explained here:
http://someitemshave.blogspot.in/2015/03/falling-through-cracks-or-soaring-up-to.html
UPDATE 14 March 2014:
Why some humans become mystics is explained here:
http://someitemshave.blogspot.in/2015/03/falling-through-cracks-or-soaring-up-to.html
Photo is cover of the
Novella - Mystic and the blossoms,
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