Rajanaka Jāratā

Door 7. “Stripes!” “Spots!” “Stripes!” “Spots!” “Dark ripples across the water—STRIPES!” “The stars, the constellations. The very heavens above. I must insist—SPOTS!” “ENOUGH!” She stood the ground between the Cheetah and the Tiger. “Haven’t we all had enough bickering in our lives? Are our hearts not big enough to encompass more?” For two cats, they began to look pretty darn sheepish. ChiChi, the newest of the travelling companions, was a cheetah of a rather churlish disposition, and justifiably proud of his lush freckled coat. This all-too-obvious self-satisfaction rubbed the Tiger the wrong way—in his irritation, striped fur stood on end. Their dispute had brought the night’s expedition to a standstill, and in the distance the red flames of dawn licked across the sky. “You are both exquisite, and you have every right to be proud,” the little Canadian girl assuaged ruffled feelings. “But why not be proud of each other, as well? You’ll double your enjoymen

Hope writes, Door 4. Formal, archaic in his speech, he greeted her with a thousand blessings. She found herself quite relieved to come across Ganapati again. The grounds of this temple are tangled, expansive, and its alleys ever so dark. To find Ganesha a second time—or had he found her?—seemed of formidably good fortune. The Tiger, while a distinguished travelling companion indeed, as all cats large and small, preferred his own company. Wandering off, dissolving into the shadows, he often would leave the little Canadian girl to her own devices. Ganapati’s steadfast alliance, then, was much appreciated. “Pursue your path,” the Great Being encouraged. “Even when it undulates like the cobra of my belt. Even when the trail seems broken. A path twists, bends. That is its way. To follow it, you must bend with it—even be willing to break.” Nodding, she listened intently as he continued, “Look to the wide sky, to the stars, to get your bearings. But keep this ever

FROM HOPE WEST It began with a Temple, and box of 24 doors. Every morning for 24 days, the next door would reveal a surprise gift—a tiny token. The challenge? To weave a story over those weeks, without knowing which character might appear the following day: an Advent-ure Calendar. Each day, one short chapter, illustrated with a photo of the day’s gift. The story would be of the search for the Lost Temple, a kind of children’s story for adults. What magic awaits? Door 1. Dreams still ghosting my consciousness early this dark morning, I spy it on the breakfast table. My husband’s handmade advent calendar awaits me, and I delight at this unexpected gift on December’s first morning. Really, I still had no idea… Pulling at Door One, sliding fingers into its small opening, I extract a rubbery flat ballon and a safety pin. (???!) On the balloon, enigmatic painted runes and a message: “Blow Me.” Giggling, I do its bidding. More symbols emerge—a further message—as it i

In Sanskrit the word "kavi," the “poet,” is derived from the verbal root /ku, “to speak." Abhinavagupta in Dhvanyaloka 1.1L, tells us that “poetry must be spoken” (cf., Ingalls Translation, p. 59). Elsewhere Ksiravamin (cf., AK 2.7.5) derives the word precisely as Abhinava does here: … “One is called a poet because he speaks, he describes” (3.43bL, footnote 10, p. 657). To be a poet is to be heard. Speak up, Poets. All of you. #rajanakajarata Though the sky is filled with drunken clouds and the woods with arjunas thrashing in the downpour, these black nights too when the moon has lost its pride carry off my heart (Ingalls, 2.1dL, p 211).

WE all remember how Gollum talked to himself, don't we?  We do. My "spiritual" self sits within and beside my worldly, political self. It's a volatile serenity that I seek. So which ever one is currently making life unbearable, the other might console and heal. I live for that strife, the kind that comes from the unfinished business of truth, turned inside and out. Occasionally peace is a fine thing too , albeit rarer and so found less in my own voice than in the conversation of friends. @rajanaka "The fever never breaks, it holds the key to the portal wherein the fire kindles and waits." When Kali and Shiva meet demons they are dispatched in short order. When they contend with themselves and with each other in love, the fever reaches its pitch and their fires blaze anew. @profdbrk We live in times reminiscent of the loathsome Richard, determined as he is to bring the rest of us to his level of discontent. "Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,

Today I discovered the novelist Peter Orner. Orner captures the very heart of the matter here. He writes, "I'm always interested in the way people edit the details of their lives, the way they compress all the years into sentences."