Mystical moments sometimes sprinkle about me like gently drizzling rain. For days now I’ve longed to paddle out onto Lake Newnan in the kayak, and today the lake was at its glassy best. The rowing was effortless, meditative, and I chanted:
Hare Krishna Hare Krishna
Hare Rama Hare Rama
Though not a “Krishna” per se, somehow this chant is as satisfying as the one I sing to Lord Shiva. And along the way I found one, two, three white feathers on the water, which I gathered to leave on my altar before Lord Shiva. The feathers brought to mind the white snake Durga had left for me, and they seemed auspicious, perhaps a sign of the end of the latest storm violently rocking my consciousness.
I followed the trail of feathers, another, another, another, though I only took three.
At last I floated in among the tall grasses, laid back, and napped as I floated.
Soon I heard the birds across the way take flight, splashing as they do, paddling, flapping, lifting up off the water. Then nothing.
I rested peacefully, me and my white feathers, when I felt my boat begin to gently rock, the ripples left in the wake of the birds after they took flight were now rocking me in my meditation and rest. And as the ripples kept me ever so gently rolling, rolling, and rolling I realized how long it had taken the flock to take off.
I’ve never been gently rocked by birds.
It was a miracle, resting while the wake of the flying birds reminded me to breathe easy and be OK.