Tobacco-scented Knowledge
june 3, 2012
12:25am
it’s impossible to understand how the dead think of the living and if they do at all
in this case, in the case of my dear friend and guide, maharaji, i feel fairly certain he’s not thinking of us at all
not outright thinking
showering us mortals with grey-haired glitter wisdom and tobacco scented knowledge
of what’s to come later
of what’s available now
this seems most likely…
maharaji is gone from this world
his body resting in dehli
as his soul does who knows what who knows where…
he’s the only person i want to talk about his passing with
so i do
as best i can
he and i have been having conversations in my head for years
so i know i can still muster up his voice as i always have
since the very first day i sat with him in the library that quickly became one of our nooks
where secret confusions and old stories were shared
since that first meeting
intimidated as i was by his long beard and thoughtful gaze
i could talk to him
he had one of the only sufi gazes i could handle. one of the only gazes i could willing meet
because it pierced right through me with a combined sincerity and absolutely fierceness that i’ve always needed from any teacher
but his was the best
surely with his passing many will describe him as a man of light
this, i know to be true
but that was almost the least of gifts
because the glow of his light was only as strong as it was because he was an angel
not the cherubian kind of angel we like to think of that is soft and fluttery
but the kind of angel who had hidden in his beard swords of truth
and fire so strong and so gentle that no bow drill, even from the most skilled hands could ever form
he was no bull-shit
and that’s what made him an angel in my young life
he always told me the truth
even when i didn’t want to hear
and especially when i couldn’t
one day, he took his index finger and poked me straight in the chest and looked me dead in the eye and said, “cut the shit arianne, then you’ll be fine”
no other person in my life has ever spoken to me like that and had me listen
but i trusted him
because he introduced me to the most profound parts of myself. the parts i ignore on a regular basis. the connected parts that scare me…
the tiny version of me that is nothing but a simple speck, but that part will take a lifetime to know and master
he laughed at me and with me often
and he let my tears of heartache, awe, global sadness and old, old tears fall into to confused piles in his tiny, neat home
he let me ramble on just long enough to get to my point and then remind me why i visited him in the first place
he shared endless stories of his heart, his past, and his travels with me
confirming delighted suspicions and community curiosities along the way
i never saw him more delighted then when i sent him a season of boston legal dvd’s in the mail and when he really liked something, or the idea of something he would say, “far out”
an old time hippie through and through who would call my generation of abode-dwellers real lightweights, not enough free love
and not enough freedom and love in general
he was a true devotee
and not just of one lineage or that
but of his path
the threads of which i always imagined living in his phenomenal ear hairs, like direct lines to voices no one else could hear
he would roll exactly seven cigarettes a day and only smoke those. he would keep them in an old altoids tin and his freezer always had ice cream. he’d often share one of his strong cigarettes with me and i loved smoking in his house as we talked to a backdrop of dozens of neatly stacked mystery novels
he was a no fuss man
he loved the people in his life with greatness, and again, no bull-shit
he somehow understood exactly my joy and strife as a young woman and guided me on the most hilarious and important retreat of my life
the notes of which i still return to often
he knew i would not do what he told me
and only now, as i’m just a little bit older and a lot calmer could i imagine to foster the discipline to actually listen to his sage advice and practice it.
but i did not get to india soon enough
this august i planned on going
but i was too late
so i wear the turquoise and silver necklace he bought me years ago there around my neck like a talisman
in fear i’ll loose it because the chain’s clasp is faulty
but i know too, that if he knew i was afraid of that he tell me to fuck off and get a better chain if i didn’t want to lose it
he wasn’t a precious man, but appreciated my preciousness of certain things: emotions, objects, memories…even if they made him roll his eyes
as i write this ramble on my midnight porch
i ache thinking i won’t get to sit with him again
lost and regretful that i didn’t get to smoke hash with him and the kalendar’s in india
tears falling from my face in quiet grief
mourning is for the living
and i know i can’t mourn for too long
his death is not a tragic one. he went when he wanted to and where he wanted to and i couldn’t have asked for more for my friend than exactly what he wanted
soon my tears will stop
and my chest will release some
and i’ll be able to let him go…so he can really….go
when my dear friend ilias died and i was torn about it, years after his passing even, even still sometimes today, he told me that holding on to those that have passed does nothing for them, it holds them back. in ilias’ case i knew this to be true, but ilias left a lot behind…
i feel fully confident that maharaji didn’t and that thought makes me smile
so, while i can’t know what the dead think of the living
i know i am overwhelmed with gratefulness thinking of how my living has been impacted with the friendship, love, guidance and crystal earthy wisdom of maharaji
so lucky i am to have known you. you gave me so much and i will miss you, more than i already do. travel safely and happily you wonder creature of ninja powers and wizard-like grace…