Words have not been made to describe the state of meditation. Language allows us to bite around the edges, to nibble and taste, but never to report the essence. But still we try. Like a dream, never reported while it happens. Like an uncaged song, sweet and alive, but flying high. Like the moment of artistic creation, bright and new, unsullied. Meditation is an open window. We sit at the sill. A vista is revealed. There is no judgement, no anticipation, no memory or regret. In meditation we are without judgement. We sit alone, but there is no loneliness.

I am remembering something. At first it comes to me as a feeling. It is comforting. It is a place I want to be. It is home. Is it the memory of a dream? It is indistinct, but real. I am holding only a thread. And I do not want to let go.

I remembered Patel’s words, “Surrender is not giving up, it is worship.” “Show me how to step,” I said, “so that it pleases you. Make me one with you and also this land. Be with me.

It comes back all at once: a woman on a beach, a tree, a wind that calms, a rain that cleanses, but does not wet.

His youth carried his words and lit the room with an optimism. “India is like our home,” he said, “our spiritual home. Even before we get here there was that feeling.

Above us was a canopy, the stretching arms of cedar and spruce and Douglas fir. We knew to follow in silence, watching our steps, heads bowed. We were in a temple.