Ramana says, echoing the mystics of all time,
That the three states of waking, sleeping and dreaming
Are unreal, meaning that they are ephemeral, and come and go.
Oh, but last night I dreamed I was the Great God Shiva,
Draped in the furs of mighty beasts,
Cobras writhing around my blue throat,
Whipping a nine foot bully harassing
A lovely girl with shining face of gold—
And oh, how I wish that dream was real!
And then I awoke at dawn to the wondrous sight
Of a sacred hill whose crown was wreathed with
Layers of creamy evanescent clouds,
Even as peacocks shrieked and ravens cawed
For their morning feast of rice and milk—
And oh, how I wish that too was real!
And what to say about those long afternoon naps
Following a morning of writing and meditating,
When my mind vanishes into a nebulous netherworld
And my cares dissolve into blissful nothingness?
Please, can that not be real?
Amused, the Mountain whispers in my ear:
Only consider, my dear,
That if these states that are but a passing show
Are so pleasant in their aftertaste,
How nectar sweet is your true nature, which is nothing less
Than Mahaprana, Pure Life, Mahachit, Infinite Awareness,
And Ananda, a celestial fountain of bliss?