Leela

Leela, Leela...

The word sounds like a beautiful girl, dancing, almost out of reach, almost embracing you.

But Leela is not a girl. Leela is a colourful though invisible spirit moving with the music. She makes you drunk, gently. She is medicine for broken hearts. She slips into the feelings and the pain becomes almost sweet. She dissolves it; it flows like water out of a broken vase and the roses are beautiful lying down on the carpet.

I vote myself the right to be as corny as my inner critic is shouting I am. Maybe I am not. Maybe I am. And then?

Leela is a Hindu name. It means "divine game". Hearts can't be broken but they can feel like they are.
A separation has happened and maybe it's an illusion, but as we live in this illusion, for us the separation is real, and it hurts.

There were, there could have been smiles and hugs, there could have been love making in so many ways, mixed voices resounding together, peals of laughter, presence, smells... 

There were, there could have been all these things which mean happiness when we recall the memories... For a time, there was closeness and it was good. It was fun, it was light, it was really worth living, it was, it could have been, and it's gone now. It's always like that. It always end up being gone and it's sad because it should have lasted forever, normally. 

Leela... the music, the nostalgia, the sadness have no limits, there is an ocean, we're fish in it, there is an immense sweetness as well and an illusion which may not be an illusion. 
We are flowing. The heart swells like the fucking romantic thing it is, and we should be careful how we talk about it because the first one who dares using the work "ridiculous" will be skinned alive.

Leela means that the Great Spirit is playing at being you, at being me, at being all the others...

Spirit is playing at forgetting, just for the bliss we feel when we get closer, for the wonder of finding out again and again how much the same we are in spite of our differences, and then, when the time has come to be alone again, there is grief and in the grief there is Leela, dancing behind the veil... 






Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The fish on the sink

Image
Dear unknown friend, Where were you? I was a little boy, maybe 8 years old. I had a great admiration for my uncle Raymond. He always arrived late for Sunday lunches when the family was gathering at my grandparents. Instead of wearing dull and stiff Sunday clothing, he turned up in sportswear, sweating and went for a shower. From the point of view of a little boy who would be sternly told off for being two minutes late this meant great freedom. Raymond was a fisherman. I was fascinated looking at the big fish he brought and left to die a slow and distressing death on the kitchen sink. They were barbels and so full of bones that my grandmother never prepared them. It takes hours for a fish to die. Paying close attention I could feel the exhaustion that squashed them and kept them quiet whilst the agony of being out of the water slowly built up enough strength for just another hopeless spasm… Flap! Flap flap! …. And they were quiet again, though I knew they weren’t dead and I somehow
Read more

In the psychiatric ward

Image
  When I was twenty-one, I found a job in a psychiatric hospital. I worked there for two years as an auxiliary nurse. Auxiliary was the lowest rank in the hierarchy. Lower than that you’re just ill! I am still thinking of the people I met there… Let me introduce them to you.    Mauricette was about thirty years old but she looked sixteen, the age she was trapped by schizophrenia. She wore that kind of dull clothing you wear when you’re an inmate in a psychiatric hospital, she wore socks but no shoes, she had shoulder length dark and untidy hair and she was perpetually possessed by acute anger. She spent her days walking to and fro in the doorways or turning round the tables- always anticlockwise. Her fists clenched, she was churning out an unceasing string of the angriest and crudest words… Her anger is my anger.   One day Mauricette stood in front of me in the middle of the path, hands joined over her head, on one leg as if practising a yoga stance called “the tree” Sh
Read more

Antivenom for the soul ()

Image
Dear  friend, Do you how antivenom is made? Venom is collected from snakes; horses are injected with it. The horses fight the venom. Then the human draw blood from the horses, the antivenom is in it. This is literally true, and this is also a metaphor. Dear friend, maybe you are a "horse" as well... It's our job to be poisoned and fight within our own souls. Whether we know it or not, we are useful. The suffering is more bearable when it makes sense though. We are making antivenom for ourselves and others... A famous verse of the Emerald Table goes like this: "That which is below is like that which is above & that which is above is like that which is below to do the miracles of one only thing" A way to understand what it means is to see anything that exists in the material world as a reflection of something that exists in the invisible planes, that is the psychological and spiritual planes... If some beings, in our case horses, do make antiveno
Read more