Aloneness

Osho Rajneesh said that aloneness is where one finds one’s essential being.  He also said that it is the only pure state — loneliness is always focused on others, while aloneness focuses on the joy one finds in oneself.

This morning, even though Hank is still technically in the United States for another hour or so, I find myself alternating between the two states.  I’ve always liked being alone:  I like great big blocks of free time to write, think, and create.  I’m not a big fan of loneliness, which does, in fact, focus on absence.  I think the next two weeks will be an alternation of these two states, kind of like alternating current, with the wavelengths gradually (I hope) getting longer.

All that is not really the point.  The point is that Osho Rajneesh is a kind of swami mashup — two swamis in one body.  One wonders how this works and if it ever gets crowded in there.  Plus, how can this man talk about aloneness when Rajneesh claims to have absorbed the astral body of Osho?  Doesn’t that mean they’re always in there together? 

Followers of Osho claim that he was neither born nor died, but was just passing through the planet from 1931-90.  Before he left, he handed his soul off to Swami Rajneesh, who went off for 18 years to be alone with it.  When he re-emerged in 2008, Osho Rajneesh was claiming equality with Buddha, and wrote a book about it, called Tears of the Mystic Rose.  Since bad metaphors break me out in a rash, I have not had the nerve to read the book, but that won’t stop me from making a crucial observation:  By saying that Osho “visited” earth, the implication is that he was really from somewhere else, and I think that’s pretty plausible.

For one thing, he has Rasputin eyes.  You can always tell alien life forms by the intensity of their gazes.  Normal humans look slightly concussed most of the time, but people who have two souls in one body always look like they’re going to go for your throat. 

Second, aliens always get the facial hair wrong.  That perpetual eyebrow-lift set Spock apart from the other humanoids, giving him a wise look, even when he was saying things like ” Logic is the little tweeting bird chirping in the meadow.”  (Which he actually said in “I, Mudd.”) 

The beard is odd, too, but beards are almost always odd, ranging from gorse-bush to furze to Spanish moss, or, in the case of one of Chip’s friends, to the inorganic Lucky Charms.  I would like to wonder, for the record, if one can be holy without a beard.  Name one clean-shaven male saint.  I’ll wait.  Nope, I can’t think of one, either.  A beard must be a requisite for enlightenment.

So that does it, then.  Whatever else happens to me these next few weeks, I probably won’t be acquiring any extra souls or equality with Buddha — I do not have the ability to grow a beard, and while I do have a look that would fry an egg, it’s only effective on people I gave birth to.  I will have to settle for finding God in the deep water, or, more accurately, being found by God in the deep water.  That’s the closest to enlightenment I’m likely to get.

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