A group of us participants in the Meditation Retreat, all from other cities, often gathered at a nice local restaurant for dinner and for breakfast, if one woke early enough before the morning sessions began. As we chatted over our meals, there was an natural sense of support for each others' goals and practices, though we seldom went into details of our inner experiences. Mostly dedicated, interesting folks.
A few of us made it to breakfast that morning of the eighth day. There was a pleasant anticipation we shared about the coming day's practices and teachings, sharpened by the Retreat's ending in just two days. I guess I had that in back of my mind; going back to my real life.
It had felt right to be celibate during the Retreat. Actually, that whole real existence was far from my thoughts. But then, as we warmly chatted like budding buddhas over breakfast, I suddenly lustfully noticed the high school aged waitress as she served us our order. I looked at her and wondered what I was reacting to. Ordinary, girlish, pubescent. I didn't get it.
Then, as I looked down at the two over-easy fried eggs (with a side of ham and potatoes) as she set them before me, I almost laughed aloud as I watched my groping lust transfer from her slight cleavage above the uniform vest onto the yellow mounds of those eggs. Because the objective reality was so totally different, I was fascinated that the same aspect of my psyche, once evoked, had a existence of its own.
After those days of profound, peaceful meditation, my focus stayed pretty much centered in that state. So that part of me dispassionately watched and observed what it was in that girl -who I knew nothing about but the uninteresting tone of her voice and manner -that called forth this blind lust. And what, in spite of my conscious filters of acceptability, with a kind of autonomy, could be unconsciously projected on to those eggs. There was some profound humor touched in this too, a glimmer of recognition on how big a role episodes like this played in my real life.
That curiosity stayed with me and during the meditation sessions later that day I held that lifelong questioning before my deep intelligence, my "buddha essence:" What is the nature of "woman" that is so bewilderingly provoking to me?"
The presence of nearly 30 other meditators around me, many like minded seekers, created a enjoyably cushioning, nurturing field. Part of this was having some access to each other's psyches through this level of consciousness that we shared and I was aware of women's knowing presence in the visioning I was given.
I set up my meditation cushion, took my place, and settled in with a releasing flex and stretch. A few moments of gentle breath work and I easily returned to an open, witnessing awareness, a state of perception free of personality's endless chatter of doubts and explanations. Gradually I grew aware of unusual sounds; the sound of waves, long stroking waves that touched on fond memories of the ocean. And there was also a deliciously soothing and enticing floating tone, like a deep throated bassoon, as if from an exotic wind instrument used in sacred ceremony. In narcotic chant, the two interweaving sounds, the ocean's rhythmic splashing and the wafting flute-like arpeggios, unexpectedly took me into the most deliciously erotic state. It was a state that recalled the eroticism of lovemaking with someone I adored.
Then the sounds and mood metamorphosed and also took on visual expression. I saw an enormous vagina take form before me, completely encompassing my field of vision. It was the style of vagina I like best -tightlipped and with a moderately furry mound- that got me further entranced. That, of course, expanded the experience into many other parts of me. One part burst into flame, a primal libidinal moan. The tingling in my groin matched the sense that another, more tangible level of this reality was being revealed. The meditative consciousness continued to watch, "other" and apart from all that happening. Since I'm a sensual man, I would have been satisfied with that as the fullness of my meditation. But it continued.
The lips of the vagina slowly opened, as if voluntarily, and created an enticing, fleshy window-like opening. Through it, I saw a scene of an ocean side. The frothy crashing of the low, broad undulations, eternally rolling in, of course, was what I was hearing. A bright sliver of Moon hung just over the horizon, the Shadow Moon in its embrace showing against the faint night sky. The New Moon or the leave-taking of the Old.
On the lucent, sandy beach, mid-distance to the water's edge, stood an hourglass shaped pedestal. I recognized it was an altar surging up from the sands, a gesture of nature's exalting the seashell that rested on top of it. The conch's rippled sheath was cast of a splendid gold that shined as if in sunlight. And, with the rolling chorus of ocean billowing as background, I witnessed the swirling channel of rainbowed breeze that flowed through the shell, gracing it with that chanting intonation. The heavenly breeze was given voice.
Suddenly it was an issue of my heart, too, as its voice evoked that quality that I always craved in women, that ability to transmute the goddess' etheric caring into something tangible, a tender gesture or feeling. The seashell's voice evoked and sated my want, opened me fully to receive the complete vision. The seashell's enchanting song, the vast ocean's fluxing rush, the Moon's maiden slice of silver splendor, the luscious vagina open enough for me reenter (as I've always longed to), all of it now merged into a many dimensioned, completely gratifying answer to my soul quest into the enigma of woman.
Piercingly enthralled through my grasping senses, inflamed longings, and mythopoetic illumination, I experienced that delectable Mystery in its fullness with my own Mystery. My fascination for it was cleansed of much debris that I'd gathered over my life so that the two Mysteries could know each other unobstructed.
The last day of the Retreat, I was able to make it to breakfast. There was a festive, mellow mood our group's shared. I felt satisfied, grateful to the help and guidance I'd received and ready to go back home.
The vision of the Feminina Mystica was there for me as I watched how differently I understood the waitress. The outward plainness didn't totally define Nancy for me this time. (I'd bothered to ask her name). She obviously enjoyed our group's camaraderie, and chatted with us as she cleared the table. She knew, whatever it was that we were doing, that this was our last day. We all tended to tip her a bit higher and bid her good-bye as we left. I paused to shake her hand in a kindly way and smiled. "You can be sure, Nancy, you carry a treasure you can explore your whole life."
She smiled back at me and nodded as if in total agreement.
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Copyright Nathaniel Schwartz 2003 www.WisdomVisions.com