The seasons of my life change
as with my age
like the seasons of an Indian year.
Before I was 10,
it was the age of innocence.
I knew nothing of the world
beyond my friends
and my family.
As I turned to teenage,
a special season for girls (and boys),
when feelings and emotions
and the glitz and glamor of romance
begins to peek out and peaks
I came to bhakti,
singing bhajans of sorrow and sadness,
(like a tree changing colors
with fallen leaves in the Fall)
to Bhagavans in a far off land
ones that lived long, long ago
chanting mantras on a mala
bestowed upon me
by my guru.
Perhaps this was my Puja season.
Completing college,
I found myself in a fresh new perspective,
somewhat like spring:
upside-down contorted postures
learning asanas and pranayamas
in the path of Raja Yoga,
the King of all yogas,
where I rely only on myself
and my meditations
to guide me to realize.
I blossomed like the spring
came into my own like the summer
and its strong sun that shines upon the sands
of the holy land I lived in.
I understood a great deal
of what yoga could do, could be,
and I wrapped it in a package
for communities in need.
Becoming a teacher, a speaker
with a voice; a leader
finding my glory through
service unwaveringly
as a Karma Yogi would
perform actions with expectation,
because this was duty, dharma
to rid myself and all others of karma.
Now in my 40s
the season has changed again:
it is a time of renewal and growth.
Back in school,
I’m trying to understanding
the world and its women
as much as I can
building my knowledge bank,
my jnana of the past, my past
so that I may spend
the rest of my life
rerunning the seasons
mixing them in a mystical manner
to make magic:
blustery cold winter snowflakes
falling as I dance on the soft white ground
serving with awareness
utter faith
assurance in atman, paramatman,
the divine feminine
that allows me to forget all
just flow and merge in
my Mother of all.