It is a difficult thing to be still. We can only practice at it. How could we be still? From the moment we light upon this earth, we are spun into the orbit of time and perpetual motion.
The other morning, as I balanced on one leg in vŗkșāsana, I practiced stretching tall and firm and supple as the slender tree outside the bedroom window where Baba Ganesh lives. Suddenly across Baba’s brow a brilliant butterfly appeared. Her luminescent wings were deliciously splattered and rimmed with gold. They spread out luxuriously along the bark of Baba’s face.
The butterfly seemed to be neither floating nor flying. I squinted in disbelief, swaying slightly. Slowly, I lowered my left foot back down to the floor to stand in tādāsana, to play at being the mountain for a moment, before stepping closer to the window. From here I could see only an irregular dark, damp splotch on the rough surface of the tree. I positioned myself back in the centre of the space to resume practice and focused my eyes once more on Baba. The butterfly had returned to her perch atop his forehead.
The next day, I posed again in vŗkșāsana. As I fixed my gaze across the room and out the window, Baba was there as usual. He peered at me through heavy-lidded eyes. But the butterfly had flown.
chrysalis
In that instant when you do not recognise yourself,
When you have no memory or expectation,
That is when you will lose everything
And everything you had sought will be given to you.