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:

Photo is cover of the Novella - Mystic and the blossoms, 


Anonymous said…
Love is the only music of the mystic..gedeprama|
Ashok said…
So true. Love, truth and Simplicity

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