Lonely and lost soul, I flew away to rock-hewn solitude, alone in desert land, so much did I loathe the company of better souls as I bore again my pain; to sit in remorse, no comfort found, dancing damned with demon band. Yet perchance I was moved to dream, to hope and dance; to plumb the depths divine, even entrance to my darkened soul. So was I coaxed by thoughts of love and gentle, strong hands, arms of might, bosom of safety, heart of serenity; on through the desert with promises grand, then, I journeyed to the ancient Temple of Parvati, patroness of love and devotion, power and beauty. There would I seek some word from Shakti, so gentle and nurturing, but alas the Temple lay in ruins; only remnants remained of the oracle of subtle fire-voice, and she said, “Travel on, dear child. Travel on. Here there is none for you. Travel on.”
With tattered cloak and rugged staff, I made my way to the desert House of Saraswati, the knowledgeable and wise and melodious. Here my knees buckled, I bowed, I cried. For sanity I pleaded, and guidance; some direction to the finding of my spirit, captured and wandering in another, my companion master. “Now upon this day here me, Wisdom Everlasting, as I stretch my hands to heaven, weeping and fasting; for I am imprisoned in the darkness of the deepest abyss, with no friendly soul, no sweet arkadaş to relieve my loneliness.” But the soothing voice was harsh to hear, as she said, “Travel on, dear child. Travel on. Here there is none for you, and I have nothing to teach for you to learn. Matara may come to guard; Matara may come to devour. Who can tell? Travel on, travel on.”
Bloodied and bruised, in hunger and thirst, my cloak threadbare, then I set off to the Shrine of Lakshmi for hope and fortune, for love and beauty so rare. Surely there would I find my peace, and rest, even if I were to breathe the air of this world no more – ah! would be such blessing – and then return to Ibu Pertiwi, the womb from whence we were born. And shall we not all return again? So I traveled on, lonely pilgrim, pining for my governing soul, my eternal kadın çoban, shepherdess through this treacherous trek of life. And what did I find upon the holy hill in wilderness so barren? Love untold, so bold, not cold; dream desire of my soul? Eyes aflame, no blame, no shame; deep longing of my heart? Veil opening, divine parting, inviting desperate hunger to be filled? No, not so.
Somewhere east of where I had been, an opaque form, darker than darkness, came to me and said to me, “Traveler, stop travelling; for what you seek, stop seeking. She for whom your empty heart longs is not, nor has ever been. Put knife to vein – tis not insane – and spill your blood, like free-flowing flood, in pain upon this desert plain. Here, then, will grow what you will never know, but will be a boon for other pilgrims soon.” Yama tempted, and did I falter? With knife in hand to throat I thought, “Naraka could not be worse than the wasteland of this world. And will not there be, even there, companionship I have not here?” Yet I cried, I pleaded, I reached again and screamed, “My God, my God, my gracious God, reveal yourself so clear; I am a lost and wandering pilgrim, weary and filled with fear. My Lord, my Lord, my Shepherding Lord, guide me in your way, for I have no home, so alone, no place to lay my head and stay. Spirit, O Spirit, Sweet Spirit of Light, illumine the path of Life through this dark and dying and decaying world of strife!”
Ah, does she weep in the rain as I weep and groan my groans in the thunder? Does she sigh a mournful sigh in the chilling breeze, aching as my heart aches? Do I sense her wrath in the lightening that rips the sky asunder, as she feels the pain that pains so deeply in this my soul that breaks? Like a sachet of myrrh between her breasts, my home is in her heart. And I shall be still; I shall be quiet, without murmur as in her I will have nothing to fear.