Fields of Longing

The fields of longing 

Are endless 

As the stars are innumerable 

Reaching for each other 

My heart beats 

But does not know it's rhythm 

Only I know the beat

To a song played not for me

I chant the holy names

I laughed the holy laugh

Cried the tears of the mundane 

And drank the nectar of the sublime

But where is Govinda?

In between and all throughout 

In the knowing and the doubt

What He is is all about

A morning's cup of coffee or tea 

A drink I think He offered me

A blessing of a simple pleasure 

A gratitude that is life's treasure 

So again I seem to write

Pen to paper as a kite

Surrendered to the glorious sky

And read again with my own eye

In the grand theater of spiritual seeking, we often expect the divine to arrive with a flourish—a booming voice from the heavens, a blinding light, or at the very least, a celestial soundtrack. The delightful journey of this poem, however, suggests the universe has a much subtler, and arguably cozier, plan. It begins not with a bang, but with a vast, starlit sigh. The poet kicks things off in the "fields of longing," a space so endless it rivals the night sky, where a heart beats to a rhythm it can't quite place. It’s the universal feeling of being at a party where you can hear the music, but you’re pretty sure it’s not your DJ.

Our narrator is a seasoned seeker, having checked all the boxes on the spiritual to-do list: chanting, laughing, crying, and even sipping the "nectar of the sublime." Yet, after all this soulful effort, the central figure, Govinda, is playfully elusive. The quest culminates in a question that hangs in the air like a held breath: "But where is Govinda?"

And here, the poem winks. The answer isn't found in another galaxy or a profound mystical trance. It’s found in the pause between breaths, in the quiet hum of the everyday. The divine, it turns out, is the ultimate barista, offering a simple "cup of coffee or tea." This is the poem's charming revelation: the grand treasure of life isn't a hidden chest of cosmic jewels, but the gratitude felt while holding a warm mug on an ordinary morning. The sublime wasn't in some far-off nectar, but in the simple pleasure that was waiting on the kitchen counter all along.

With this newfound peace, the act of writing itself is transformed. The pen is no longer digging through fields of longing but is now a kite, surrendered to the breeze. It’s a beautiful, weightless image for creativity and acceptance. The poem doesn't just find its answer; it becomes a celebration of that answer, a joyful loop where the poet reads their own words and sees the simple, glorious truth reflected back. It reminds us that perhaps the most profound spiritual discovery is realizing that the universe has been sending us love notes all along, disguised as sunshine, quiet moments, and a perfectly good cup of coffee.