Three
Visions in the Mental Ward
"all
truths are but half-truths; all paradoxes may be reconciled."
—The
Kybalion
Prologue
In the mental hospital
I spent the first day in bed.
Sleeping with fevered dreams
that my tortured mind repeated
as if they were coins
in the arcade of my mind.
Coins that jammed from time to time.
Coins that covered my eyes for payment
across the river and bought me
passage to the Underworld.
Yet, I was not permitted to leave.
I was trapped in my fleshy form,
a meat golem denied rest,
with hand outstretched
toward Hell.
Occasionally I got up to meditate.
Occasionally chanted mantras.
I was crazy and suicidal.
I cannot apologize for my madness.
Poetry saw me through.
I became a hungry ghost
in the Hell between worlds.
On the second night
I sat in my room,
cross legged on the
hard floor.
My legs hurt.
Om Mani Padme Hum
The cold hospital room
was overlaid; with
another image,
as if a filter were placed
over my eyes
and I was in
more than one
place at once.
I.
There was
a broken tusk;
a blue-skinned
God, an elephant
head with four arms.
He had a pot belly.
His arms
moved constantly;
up and down,
back and forth.
I could not tell
what they held.
He sat upon
a raised platform.
He looked down upon me.
In that moment
Ganesha spoke and
it was calm across
the chaos of the sea.
“In some of
your past lives,”
the blue-skinned god said,
“you are a Buddhist,
as you are now, and
in some lives you
are Hindu. You
have worshiped me
in the past.”
I did not know
He was the
Remover of Obstacles.
I did not know
He was the
Lord of Wisdom,
King of Knowledge,
Lord of Writing,
He who is
a new beginning.
I did not know,
so how could
my fevered brain
present him so?
Why would I turn
to a god, when I am
a godless man?
Is this vision
just my madness
come again
or is there
a kernel of truth
in Ganesha's words?
“You are safe,”
He said in a booming
beautiful voice.
"Your work is not yet done.
Your art is not complete.
You must not leave.”
“Are you my overactive
imagination?” I asked the
god.
“Of course I am
your imagination,”
He said.
“The imagination
is holy and given
to you freely.
It is your gift."
He continued:
“I say
nothing but what you
already know.
Your knowledge is
collected over many
lifetimes. My voice
is upon your lips, but
your soul is known
to me.”
He told me
that my mental
illness is karma.
That I committed
a crime,
an evil unkind action
in another lifetime,
but that I am on
the Middle Path
and moving forward
as Buddhists do.
Gaining a little
Dhamma every
once in a while.
chipping away at
the bad karma.
Adding more when
I get into a fight
over politics on
Facebook.
With that he
was gone,
but I was not.
Contemplation as
I sat on the floor
that was a mystical garden
in a hospital room.
I was trapped as visions
filled my mind.
(Original Artwork for the poem has been created by Harsh Kumar)
Ganesha!! To the Rescue! (ps those political discussions on FB are holy necessary!)
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