The absence of Lauren

  When I opened my eyes that morning I knew I should have sayed asleep. My head felt terrible and when I got up it felt worse.
  I don't care much for anything since she's not here, so I shuffled through the flat, weaving dirty glasses and unoppened letters addressed to " The Walkers", lying on the floor - there are no more "The Walkers", juat me. I could smell the cheap wine in my breath, so I thought that milk might help, but I was wrong. Awfully groomed, I left the house and staggered along the alley, trying to avoid the joggers who were happily scampering under the morning sun, and the old ladies walking their tiny dogs.
  At Pasadena Street some gleaming red hair caught my attention. I couldn´t believe my eyes. There she was, my dearest, ambling along the street and watching the arrogant strut of the doves. 'Lauren,' I mumbled, and started to run, but no matter how fast I tore towards her, she was always out of reach. The strangest thing was the fact that I couldn´t actually perceive how  she walked. It was as if she were floating in a cloud of mist, because her feet weren´t moving at all. But I couldn't let her go away again, so I persisted in following her, past the church, through the park...
  With wet eyes I found myself in our destination: the graveyard. I shuffled to her grave and fell down on my knees by the marble gravestone with a dry rose and the legend: "Lauren Walker - 1964-2003."

Krishna era muy travieso. Cuando los pastores se dormían, se trepaba y bajaba los tarros de manteca para comérsela; luego derramaba o escondía el resto...

Hay un lugar donde las palabras manan del silencio,

un lugar donde brotan los susurros del corazón.

Es un lugar donde muy alto se canta Tu belleza,

un lugar en el que cada aliento

esculpe en mi alma Tu figura.

(Rumi)

Buda meditando (detalle) en yeso pintado con acrílico y pátinas

Strange Meeting

I had been angry with my father for years. I blamed him for my mother's suffering. We hadn't talk to each other since her death, when I forbade him to carry her coffin. My sister mentioned him from time to time, but I pretended not to care about him. One day I discovered that my voice had gone away, that I could just moan. I looked at myself in the mirror only to find a pair of hollow eyes avoiding mine. That day I was informed that he was unwell and had been hospitalized.

Don't ask me why, but the next morning I sat on my chair and visualized myself, flying in a bubble, all the way to the hospital to visit him. I talked to him as if I were really in the room, explaining that I had understood he had done his best, and that I loved him. An hour later I received a text message - Dad's dead.

The years have put words to what happened to me at that moment. You can call it a coincidence, a dream, a release of karma, but i still feel in my heart the blessing of having been able to verbalize my emotions, and understand that my parents' isuues were not mine; I was only the child. I also know that you can only trust what your heart says.

Disciplina vs naturalidad?

Este es un tema que cada tanto vuelve a revolotear en mi mente. Si quiero vivir mejor, saber más, encontrarme en armonía, etc, etc, debo "dejarme ser" o debo tener una disciplina de trabajo? Si algo "no fluye", para qué forzarlo? La constancia, viene aparejada a la sensación de bienestar del momento o del mejoramiento eventual futuro?

Hasta ahora, cuando me he enfocado en alguna actividad, estudio o ejercicio, la constancia de la práctica sin duda dio sus frutos. Pero ahora, si la práctica no es TAN placentera (por ejemplo, en mi caso, definitivamente no es igualmente atractivo tocar música por 30 minutos que hacer transcripciones fonéticas por 5! ), es menester que me fuerce a sentarme y hacerlo?

Como ya mis años ameritan, dejaré la decisión para el momento preciso en que la duda vuelva a surgir, como ahora mismo, en que estoy compartiendo estos pensamientos en este espacio en lugar de enfrascarme en algo más tedioso ...