My friend, B, came to visit me recently. Her appearances in my life, sharp and brief like a needle, have a strange capacity to stitch together large portions of my secret inner world. And because of the kinds of insights we spark in each other, there's a continuous thread that runs through each of our separate odyessys of self, bridging two worlds that lie, at best, tangential to one another.
It's the strangest kind of love I've known so far, because it's unassuming to the point of vanishing. It reminds me a little of that story about two gurus in India, doing the typical cage-match of divine realization. One boasted that his meditation techniques were so great that his body was as hard as iron and could not be cut, punctured, or injured. The other, mildly scoffing, countered that he had dissolved all karma, so that his body was insubstantial in its purity. When a sword was swung at him, it passed through him, whoosh! as if there was nothing there. Score one for emptiness.
It might sound unhinged, but there's a very real sense that being with you and not being with you are irrelevant, so why should I fear? It is not a particular outcome I desire.
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