May 23, 2009 Guru got me up at 3:00am this morning, my request, so that we can fit in Sat Kriya before the Bhog ceremony. Sadhana Gurdwara will be extended until 11:30am with kirtan by Amarjit Kaur, one of my first Gurbani Kirtan teachers from the seventies, playing Asa Di War in celebration of tomorrow’s marriage of the Cherdi Kala Jatha master tabla player—Harimanderjot Singh Khalsa and Vanessa Ann Basset, events I do not want to miss!
Timing was perfect. The Hukam from Amritsar was about to begin as I finished my morning routine. Grabbing my Nitnem chuni, I ran to listen to Guru’s Hukam being recited on television and read along it on the internet.
Wahe Guru! Guru loves God’s lovers sooo much, in contrast to negators and deniers, who get their due!
Shalok, Fourth Guru:
Within the Gurmukh is peace and tranquility; his mind and body are absorbed in the Naam, the Name of the Lord. He contemplates the Naam, he studies the Naam, and he remains lovingly absorbed in the Naam.
He obtains the treasure of the Naam, and his anxiety is dispelled.
Meeting with the Guru, the Naam wells up, and his thirst and hunger are completely relieved. O Nanak, imbued with the Naam, he gathers in the Naam. ||1||
Fourth Mehl:
One who is cursed by the True Guru, abandons his home, and wanders around aimlessly.
He is jeered at, and his face is blackened in the world hereafter. He babbles incoherently, and foaming at the mouth, he dies. What can anyone do? Such is his destiny, according to his past deeds. Wherever he goes, he is a liar, and by telling lies, he not liked by anyone. O Siblings of Destiny, behold this, the glorious greatness of our Lord and Master, O Saints; as one behaves, so does he receive. This shall be God's determination in His True Court; servant Nanak predicts and proclaims this. ||2||
Pauree:
The True Guru has established the village; the Guru has appointed its guards and protectors. My hopes are fulfilled, and my mind is imbued with the love of the Guru's Feet.
The Guru is infinitely merciful; He has erased all my sins.
The Guru has showered me with His Mercy, and He has made me His own. Nanak is forever a sacrifice to the Guru, who has countless virtues. ||27||
Our morning sadhana Asa di War was deeply enjoyable as Guru’s play of words
on my tongue and palate evoked memories of lifetimes of struggle with
worldly illusions, through which I have emerged victorious. Blissful
confirmation of this victory came when Cherdi Kala Jetha went up to
play Guru Gobind Singh shabads of Guru’s holy Shastras—weapons that are
worshipped as the essence of fearlessly divine female power. Wahe Guru!
My awareness, flowing with sweet devotion, was
spontaneously blessed and pervasively filled with brilliant, vast love
divine, Guru Gobind Singh’s shining presence. There was nothing to do but sing Guru’s words from my
heart and soul and to meditatively allow Guru to prevail on my breath
in silence during shabads I did not know, inhaling Guru’s essence into
all of us on “You are us,” and exhaling the sangat into the Guru on “We
are you,” so much so, it seemed as though the room was breathing! The
Gurdwara was already fully vibrating with Guru Gobind Singh’s powerful
brio.
That was some wonderful kirtan!
As during last night’s pre-wedding dinner outdoors at the ranch,
today’s pre-wedding breakfast after Gurdwara was showered with light rain, drizzling
exquisite blessings.
God, my psyche soaked up the morning's blessings like a sponge,
assuaging the memory of Tingo’s carnage, images which greeted me on
waking and sporatically throughout the day. After the glorious kirtan
darbar I left to visit the vet down the street and pay something
towards our killed Cinnamon bunny’s care and told folks there Tingo’s
story, reinforcing the sad memory. I also made a bank deposit, bought
daycare groceries and had the corrections on my depostion faxed to my
lawyer—my final act in that regard.
After I got home I packed up all
papers related to the car rental accident and put them in a file by
that name. Out of sight. Free of that pressure, I cleared my desk area
of unnecessary papers. As I tied up loose ends, the true pressure
became more and more apparent until it was shouted into my inner ear,
“Give finality to the Tingo drama!” once and for all.
Yes! There was an hour before Golden Temple kirtan came on, (which I am now absorbed in!) That would do it.
I changed into jeans, took my camera and a black trash bag and got down to the sacred task of transmuting trauma into grace.
The children had been promised that Tingo’s wool would
be buried in her pen, so I dug a pointed shovel into various spots
hoping the yard had been softened by a pounding rain moments before.
Nothing gave past an inch.
Guru had briefly shown me the location of Tingo’s wool
grave at my mind’s eye in the Amrit Vela. It was so sensible. Of
course—the deep, wide rabbit burrow that our other ewe, Kulwa had
crawled into to her death as a baby. Hoping to prevent another such
tragedy, I had stuffed two logs and a flowerpot blockade into the hole
and packed it with dirt. It was unuseable and forgotten, yet very easy
to dig up! Once the logs and pots were unearthed my shovel quickly sank
into a deep hole, creating a pit the reverse shape of Tingo’s mountain
of wool.
All the time reciting Rehiras, the evening prayer, I
went to the pile of wool and black feathers stored in Tingo’s shelter
and scooped it by hand and shovel into the black plastic bag. Once it
was filled I sat on the bag to squeeze air out, compacting it before
burial. It went nose first into the pit, was covered with dirt, packed
down by my work boots and raked clean so it looks like nothing was ever
there. Pure and simple, like our lamb.
