By Terry Reis Kennedy
Glorious, raucous, untamable sub-continent of Asia! According to my astrological cartographers, India is the worst place I could possibly live.
I laugh at this because coming to India was the best thing I ever did for myself. The self discoveries I have made, living here for over 20 years now, are priceless. India has made me rich, in the true sense of the word. Once, married to the beloved father of my children, Lee Matthew Kennedy, I had material wealth, but I was poor in spirit.
It was not my intention to stay in a place so far away from my origins. In 1990 I only came for what I thought was going to be a short visit. But the Universe had other plans for me. Here in the village of Puttaparthi, in the Anantapur District of Andhra Pradesh, where I live in the proximity of my Guru, the Avatar Sathya Sai Baba, I not only found my life’s purpose, I also experienced transient moments of satchitananda among the cobras and the scorpions.
Here I was able to let go identity that had been imposed on me and let the God of my understanding reconstruct me. Transformation is an exciting process. Through my spiritual practice of studying scriptures of various religions, living alongside people from all over the world from all castes, creeds, and walks of life, I was able to give up desperation and despair, to trade it in for happiness and peace of mind. As a result, I have learned how to live in the mad, materialistic world, to participate in it, and love it, without becoming part of it.
In many ways I have liberated myself. I now know that I am the Creator, the Savior, the Formless Imperishable One, that I was seeking from earliest childhood—not knowing then that the same ‘I ‘ dwells within all beings and all things known and unknown..
The view—from my small brick dwelling, which passersby often say looks like a fairy-tale house—is no longer the vast Atlantic, beyond the dunes of Duxbury, Massachusetts, no longer the Green Mountains, beyond the lawn of the Sacred Heart of Jesus Church, no longer the vast Mojave desert, beyond the alfalfa fields…. Instead, I look out large windows with fan-shaped tops onto a once-vacant lot that, by my own hand, I transformed into a garden—a garden that can be erased at any moment since I do not own the land. Builders, eager to capitalize on the influx of tourists to this nationally designated pilgrim center, want to grab this space and construct another 10-storey high-rise. However, the owners are not ready to sell. But the very temporary existence of the plants and trees that I have tended on this plot for 18 years now makes me all the more enraptured by their beauty.
No matter what else is going on during my busy days, I never fail to appreciate the garden, to pay reverence to each and every ridge and groove on the bark of the various trees; I bow as I regard each tendril of the blush-colored blossoms of the oleander; and my pulse quickens when I note a new tree seed unfurling a bright green sprout.
I listen intently to the abundant bird talk—able, at last, to distinguish the haunting moans of the mud-colored cuckoo from the manic chatter of the chartreuse parrot. I can tell the frantic screams of the chickadee, when crows come to rob her nest, from the guttural cries of the finch, when the same fate befalls her. The buzz of a honey-making bee has a different tone than the buzz of the industrious wasp. When a coconut branch falls in the night, it makes a slow swishing before it lands with a thud. On the other hand, when branches from the tamarind tree fall, they make a nearly imperceptible sound, like a match being lit. The very fact that in a split-second all this could be lost, like life itself, quickens my heart as I enter the beauty of the moment.
It is flood tide every day and every night and every second of my life here. I am fully immersed in the wonder of unfolding life, fully immersed in the energy of creation itself. I am swimming in a Sea of God where I cannot be separate anymore. The isolated, insular existence of my New England introspection has born fruit here. The past has exploded into cargoes of juicy mangos ripe and ready to be eaten, now.
Here, I am merged, not just with the few passing clouds of family, friends, lovers…; I am merged with the infinite plentitude of my own Being.
My days begin early—about 4:30 in the morning. At that time I can hear the singing of the song that “wakes up God,” coming from the ashram Mandir. I can hear the songs of praise to God, emanating from the mosque nearby. I can hear my own heart beating. At first light, I enter the garden and just sit in the silence. It is not so much meditation as it is entering the state of awareness. I become hyper vigilant of my surroundings—outer and inner.
In Duxbury, the flood tide came to make exotic the mundane. Once a year, love burst upon us and washed us clean of our longings. Here, in the vortex of the flood tide of the world, I am no longer the doer, the seeker, the one who wants. I am Love itself.
Yes, once I wore the labels of student, wife, mother, patient, poet, investigative journalist, lover, adjunct faculty, seeker… just as I once wore western-style clothes. Now I dress in regional wraps, saris, dupatas, salwar sets…. But I am naked, a witness. And I am married only to myself. I am nobody and everybody at once. I have entered the Flood Tide Night, Satchitananda India; may it last forever.
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