One year ago, a dear soul told me: "You will travel a lot from one pilgrimage to another one during your last days."
I was far beyond imagining that my different pilgrimages will bring me "virtually" to the feet of the Himalayas where I could meet my Masters.
My travels brought me then from the bedroom to the desk, where travelling in space and time were closely related to their writings.
No hassle, no fly ticket, no visa, no suitcase, the travel started here every morning, with the opening of a book in translation. The pilgrimage brought me to other shores, others spaces, other realities.
The sacred temple was here, next to my fingers turning the pages, next to my eyes searching greedily for comprehension into the real knowledge.
And, inexorably, I continued, content but never satiated, finishing one translation to jump onto another one. The pilgrimages fulfilled my life with a joyful lightness into the deepness of the writings.
From one book to another one, from one pilgrimage to another one, i felt the presence of the teachers, and, when i was blocked somewhere, i briefly interrupted the pilgrimage and found some daily routine duties waiting for me. Then, the fingers which a few minutes ago were turning the pages, rummaging in the water of the sink or a bucket or what else, but meanwhile my mind didn't leave the place of the pilgrimage. And soon brought me back where the journey had been interrupted.
This was then that i realized that i was an instrument, a very pleasing instrument.
it became more and more clear that i had nothing to do with the translations as these pilgrimages were inspired, guided.
Once, Swamiji, you wrote me: When a translation is going on, it is not you. Let the words flow freely.
And this is what i did. At times, when a part was so confused, i just told it: "Ok, I am going to the kitchen, or to the bathroom, or to the washing machine, and i am coming back!"
A few minutes later, the words disentangled by themselves, and my fingers, with ease, were continuing their work.
The salt of the Himalayas had mingled with my soul, and without it, life became test-less.
And so, day after day, month after month, the pilgrimage started every morning to be interrupted for rest at night, into the contentment of knowing that the next morning, the temple’s doors of knowledge will be opened as soon as i would wake up.
Thus, i went blithely on to the top of the Himalayas among the flowers, the clouds, the fragrances the Masters had been treading, exhaling.
and i breathed, impregnated from these fleeting fragrances, from their footprints which were carrying me.
Thus i started to journey with the masters. Sharing their lives, listening to their teachings, to their cosmic songs, laughing about their anecdotes. i have been journeying on their sides, invisible and discreet, in the silence of uncountable distances, from one valley to another one, from a reality to another one, always standing at their feet, bathing in their pure love and quenching my thirst from the fresh waters of the streams.
My feet where brought where the Masters wanted them to be, from one cave to another one, from one inner temple to another one, from one swami to another one.
And always with my sparkling eyes dedicated to the beauty of these Divine beings.
The pilgrimage is going on, the beauty filling up my heart and my eyes, and my soul bathing into the love of the masters.
