(in response to a friend on Facebook.)

From what little one knows, i find Gandhiji's consciousness one of the most difficult to 'understand' (meaning 'analyse') if such a thing were even possible. Many times he sounds deeply mystical & insightful and pulls off the most unbelievable of mastery's that lesser mortals can't even dream of. And some times he does things that seem banal and even shock the observers. Should we deify him or vilify him on the basis of any of these extremes? To me he is an enigma, that defies slotting into any one convenient category of saint or sinner. Am thankful that it is that way, for then he becomes a mirror. How i 'see' him, says more about me, than himself. And in that dialogue with him an enormous potential is unleashed. So i've stopped trying to 'understand' Gandhi. To me he is a living companion, a dear friend and teacher one is deeply blessed to have, but cannot completely accept. For all we know, this might have been his greatest achievement.

Also to live life as a constant 'experiment' with Truth, might be the ultimate mastery of all.

She sent me this last night, and i had a lump in my throat reading it. Her love endlessly humbles me and i do not know what i did to deserve it. She is an absolute Godess and brings in the most sublime beauty into our lives. Thank you Kannama :)

I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as one loves certain obscure things,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries
the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,
and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose
from the earth lives dimly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you directly without problems or pride:
I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,
except in this form in which I am not nor are you,
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
so close that your eyes close with my dreams.

- Pablo Neruda, One Hundred Love Sonnets, 17