In Celebration of Celebrations

Between Bartok and Blondie: "Music From Within (2003)." Sri Chinmoy’s gentle printed smile rests behind the esraj on my curled schedule of in-flight audio. One moment in tearing plastic to reveal the foam earphones is all that hinders my aural connection with the New York haven I am leaving behind. Strings are singing, dancing keys, and a whirl of sound propels me through a two-week memory trove: August Celebrations. It follows no chronology; a tumble of images and energies, softness, strength, sweetness; silence in multitude; multitudinous sounds, smiles, fragrances...

A green profusion makes an enclave of the soft floor of Aspiration Ground, and Sri Chinmoy sings out under dusky skies. Two hundred songs fly unaccompanied, unhindered, uninhibited in the poised and listening air, and still that rich voice goes on, growing richer with offering; a melting balm for the tension of my wheeling worldly thoughts. Twice again I am transported to some new Elysium as he plays 74 pianos consecutively before my incredulous eyes and ears. On another day, 74 flutes.

A fairground carousel turns with stately grace, its passengers perched on exquisite painted animal seats surrounded by all the associated braid and bunting. Tiger, deer, boar, bull, lion, camel, elephant… each rider seems ageless, wearing the smile of a mesmerised child in the soft glow of shaded sunlight. Dream-like organ music fills the air. Sri Chinmoy reclines, powering the entire apparatus with his feet on two simple pedals.

I’m standing by a stretch of lake under shields of trees, with two drinks hastily replaced by two more. They thank me, those I serve, or smile, though they must feel quite ragged at times on their approach to mile 26. It is I who would thank them for this chance to stand as if at strength’s epicentre, and gaze at valiance, hour after fleeting hour… but that may seem absurd. So I strive to remember names as quickly as their owners pass, stir and drain containers, gather cups discarded. My thanks for this Self-Transcendence Marathon day will have to come through heart, and eyes, and smile.

I would no longer dare to tempt the thought that all has been seen and done - a new acrylic rhapsody would quickly call my bluff for one. Can this really be just paper and paint tethered to a table? Is it tethered to outwit the breezes? It seems it may fly away of its own accord; such is the life in it all! I catch myself wondering if these brilliant colours have even existed before; they dance with such unearthly splendour. I mean dance, truly. I have looked on many paintings, but I have never seen such movement as in the flight of Sri Chinmoy’s birds. Each one of these works could absorb me for an hour or more, but they stretch and jostle here in their fascinating hundreds. Hundreds of viewers tread softly behind me in the queue though, awaiting their own glimpses, so my feet carry me on when I long to tarry infinitely longer.

It is not just the momentous, but the simple, or even momentary, which paint this inner view. It’s sweeping the restaurant floor; it’s the song of cicadas as bright leaves drop before a glossy moon; it’s a thoughtful gift for no special reason; it’s the thrill of witnessing the talent, or goodness, or achievements of another, and the resultant inner cheer; it’s the sense of change – day on day, year on year – as my true self is revealed to me more and more through all of it.

There are treasures in this two-week inner trove too arresting in strength, too sacred in beauty, too wide and deep and delicate to mention. I chose seven pure and perfect flowers to offer Sri Chinmoy for these startling jewels. It is not enough on my part, but my own wonder and delight now whisper from the softness of each petal, smile from each starry face, and glow through their brilliant colour and light. The jewels will not wither though, as flowers do.

Sumangali Morhall
August 2005