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  • Writer's pictureDurga Dasi

She Calls

What becomes of a writer if she doesn’t transcribe her thoughts to page?

Or an artist whose brush never carries the vibrancy of her creativity to canvas?

What happens to a musician who has no time to sing… do her fingers forget how to play?

Have the innocent parts of ourselves forgotten how to play?

Has the view of Sat Chit Anand become nothing more than a wishful thought, and much less a truly sought-after reality?

The only real reality.

The only really real REALity.

When did our souls corrode to such a degree of rusty scarcity and fear? When did our skeptical minds take over the helm and decide to comply with status quo and what “they” choose for us?

When did we lose sight of Who we are?

And why on Earth… or beyond Her… would we EVER subscribe to the idea that spirituality is a commodity for those who have the privilege to pay for it… that it’s just one more item on the shelf of capitalistic consumerism?

When did yoga become a marketing scheme for separation and segregation… even daring to block its own founding culture?

When did we become so broken that we accepted ill-fit pieces of ourSelves as being the Whole of who we are?

When did you swallow the pill?

When did I?

How to regurgitate it now?


This is it. The only moment we have.

These moments in isolation have shown me where I’m running from mySelf.

The Bible says the Lord shall grant the desires of our hearts… and now, beneath the dusty infrastructure of self-loathing and shame, I see the gleaming hope of desire.


And it’s so much purer than I could have imagined.

There, in the pristine lotus of my own heart… my own Being… is the jewel of intention… of desire.

There, protected from the shallow swamps of ego and “should” rests the quiet stillness of my own Voice.

She calls.

So lovely… so sweet. Barely audible.

She calls.

I turn to face mySelf, and She radiates back to me all the Love that I am as Her voice grows stronger…

She calls.

It is said that Maa gives us the desires of our hearts beyond compare to what we think we want. She does this by breaking us free from the limitations of thought and carrying us deeper into the hridaya, where our hearts and Hers were never separated to begin with. Then, and only then, can we begin to intuit what we reallyneed… the truest desire of our hearts.

She calls.

I feel my feet rooted to the earth of my heart… steady. Unshakable. Moving forward toward Her precious voice with inscrutable certainty.

She calls.

The rhythm of each step aligns with the beating of Her heart. My heart.

She calls.

The Light is brighter than a million suns, and yet so soft it caresses my skin.

She calls.

I can hear the inflection of Her voice now…

The warmth of this moment enfolds me with such grace… a chrysalis of Love… wrapped in the pure silk of surrender.

She calls.

I hear Her breath.

She calls.

I feel Her patient urgency waiting to merge who I thought I was with Who I really Am.

She calls.

I reach for Her, there in the Saraswati white transparency of my own heart; I’ve reached the still and mighty voice calling for me.

Looking into Her eyes, I find the Beloved of my soul. Her eyes are lightning blue in deep pools of brown, brimming with Love so eternal it’s ethereal. Compassion and understanding are clearly stated with no need for words, only an envelopment of forgiveness for falling short of my own Truth.

Tears fall, raining breaths of Ganga, reigning pure and clean.

I can hardly stand in this Presence. The form merges into the infinity of Love which holds us… consumes of… IS us… and I see there is no “us”.

There is only She.

The eyes of my Beloved are the eyes of mySelf.

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