In becoming one with you, in merging with you, I am not annihilated—I discover my true nature. I am your beloved. In the Gita you say, "Mamevaisyasi satyam te pratijane priyoasi me"—you will surely be mine, I promise you truly, for you are dear to me. I see it now, manifest before my eyes. You awaken me to my own essence and show it to me clearly. And I too say to you: "You are dear to me." When your true nature reveals itself, your form as my mother, I cannot help but love it. Come stand before me clearly, openly, as my mother; stand and see for yourself whether I truly love you or not.
You are my mother. I see both clearly now—my eternal oneness with you and the intellectual distinction between us. This duality manifests in every pulse of my life. Yet I am not satisfied merely witnessing your deeds. I wish to see your heart directly. And you are showing it to me. This is your heart—the one I mistakenly called only my own. This heart is not mine alone; it is yours as well. Not only yours, but mine too. Without the union of mother and child, there is no heart. This is the heart of mother and child united.
Even when I fall asleep, this heart remains in you. My sleep is scarcely interrupted. Yet if I were not there, if your child did not rest in your lap, you would have no heart, no work at all. Your heart has always existed. Whether the child wakes or sleeps, you labor for that child. But as long as you keep the child awake—not merely awake in outward consciousness, but with the heart awakened, as long as the child knows your maternal love, acknowledges it—not merely in intellect, but by loving you with the heart and thus acknowledging you—only then is the true purpose of your creation fulfilled, only then is your infinite life blessed.
Your love flows into that, That love flows into you, Waves of joy rise again and again; River merges with ocean and becomes one.
Such moments come rarely in my life. So I think of it as failed, wasted. Without love's coming, unrest does not depart, sorrow does not depart, sin does not depart. What else is the failure of life? Why then did you intend to propagate your truth, your dharma through such a life? Your intention cannot be mistaken. Perhaps I will understand only when my life becomes meaningful? Will this very sense of failure lead me through to fulfillment? Yet this feeling of failure, this sense of wretchedness—it does not always remain. Often I am content with the momentary experience of love and explanations of love, forgetting my wretchedness. Will you make me rich by drawing me through this profound sense of destitution?
I am already rich. Your perfect love is the birthright of every child—why then should acquiring that inheritance demand a long and arduous road? One day you will open the door of your house and say, "All of this is yours, everything I have is yours." Will that day mark the beginning of unobstructed joy? I must have believed—and what suffering, what struggle has sprung from this delusion!—that I had to earn your love through effort and virtue. Is it not this very torment and striving that are necessary for my childhood and youth? When the day comes that my immaturity ends, will I not see in a single moment how, without any exertion on my part, without any seeking, through your causeless grace alone, I have become rich in your boundless and incomparable love? When will that day arrive? That hour? Free me from false contentment, I ask you—grant me the strength to wait for that day, that moment.