They tell me—as people age, they want to go back to their roots. I too feel this urge, when I listen to raindrops falling on my skylight; I hear the sound that rain once made when it hit our tin roof. When I watch the sun setting over Lake Michigan, I glimpse the splendor of sun going down over the Ganges. When I see a flock of birds flying over ComEd high voltage lines I see the lone shalik bird sheltering under that ashok tree, its wings wet, yet dry. Am I going back to my roots?
They tell me—as people age, they want to go back to their roots. Am I aging? If I am aging, why am I still so silly? Why do I still get angry with my loved ones with the drop of a hat? Why do I still feel all my imperfections in my bones? Was I not to get wise and inherit the divine essence? If I am aging why am I not getting closer to God every day? Do I hear, there is no God? Why did Mansur Al-Hallaj say then, Anal Haq (I'm God)?
The life that flows like a river takes me to new ports every day, every moment, the past dying, fear of future—the fear of the unknown dying in the process. Is that all there is to be?
Is that all there is?
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