A Runaway Chariot
A few nights ago, I felt like a runaway chariot. May I explain?
It’s impossible to be immersed in Ramakrishna for any amount of time—much less for the months I’ve been soaking him up—and not be convinced of the beauty, power, and potential of devotion, or, as he called it, bhakti.
Ramakrishna was devoted to Kali, whom I’ve written about before. To paraphrase a bit (but not much), he would beg her to take everything from him, but leave him the ability to worship at her lotus feet.
There was something about that image that came alive for me the other evening. As I felt into that image, I felt myself bowing down to an empty stone throne. As I prostrated myself, I felt devotion welling up as an unstoppable force. I wanted to offer everything to this throne (or rather to its unseen inhabitant), and that everything was inexhaustible. It had no beginning and no end. And it had no substance. There were no things I was offering; all I was offering was devotion…a river, a torrent of devotion.
The next day, as I was sharing the experience in writing with another person, a perfect analogy arose. That experience of devotion was like a runaway chariot: my heart was a galloping horse, running with abandon to no particular destination; my head was like the chariot itself, being unremittingly pulled along by this ungovernable power; the chariot driver, who could do nothing except surrender any hope of control as the horse blasted through every barrier and obstacle, was my body.
And what was the result of all this? This is a secret that I’m telling only you: the result was bliss, bliss that melted every thought, that drew all sensation into its sparkling embrace. It’s just between you and me, this secret, because this is not something to entrust to just anyone. These experiences unfold only when there is receptivity, and I sense you are receptive. Perhaps you even have an experience like this that you have kept close, as a secret. I honor that, as I know you will honor hearing mine.