At the home of my teacher in Varanasi, dozens of people ate lunch and dinner each day. A large temple room did double duty as a dining hall. Just before each meal, thin woven mats were rolled out in long rows on the stone floor. The first shift of diners seated themselves as a cadre of disciples laid down the traditional plates made of dry leaves and the non-traditional plastic cups.

Someone began pouring fresh well water into the cups from a large urn. Other disciples lifted steaming cauldrons of rice, dal, vegetables, and condiments. As they ladled each dish onto a waiting plate, they made low bows from the waist. The food service consisted of this dance of pranams.

As the eating commenced, the servers stood by, closely watching for the slightest hint that more food might be needed. And the diners made no fuss about motioning for more rice or dal, or even about expressing displeasure if a dish were delayed. The bowing continued smoothly until the last plate was empty.

When the first round of diners finished, they quickly made room for the next round. Some would stay behind to take the places of those who had just served them. The servers became the served and visa versa.

No one needed to organize anything. No “thank yous” or “your welcomes” were exchanged. All of this proceeded smoothly without conversation or comment.

Now, lest you think I am projecting some Western-eyes interpretation onto this scene, let me tell you that the notion of mutual service described here is not my own. During my first such meal, a young man leaned over and whispered to me: “You see, God serves God. God pranams to God. It is yoga.”

It is yoga. Even now, this brings tears to my eyes.

One of the meanings of yoga is to unite. This play of server and served, this dance of pranams, this God serving God, perfectly enacts the idea of difference as the expressive play of that which is simultaneously united.

The giving and receiving of service unites all on a common field in which roles are fluid, not fixed. This is a field of devotion of Self to Self and of enjoyment of the play of duality.

It is yoga.

In contrast to this smooth energy of devotion and unhampered play was the tension expressed by those whose sense of separation and feeling of undernourishment was as yet too strong.

For instance, there was the young man who wondered sadly why he kept missing satsangs. Of course, many of the satsangs occurred spontaneously. They were not, by and large, planned out so that those who only wanted to receive formal teachings could show up at the right time. Being around, participating in the weave of yoga, was the only way to not “miss.”

Then there was the woman who emitted a continual state of anxiety about learning certain techniques and getting her questions answered. She would sit, alert and waiting for the opportunity to intercede with her needs. In the meantime, she was unable to receive what was being offered in the moment.

In both these instances, and many others, the feeling of separation and lack of nourishment perpetuated itself, even through attempts to receive nourishment.

The separative consciousness and its standard-bearers “me,” “myself,” and “I,” are perpetually hungry, needy, and greedy. This is the hunger of habit, of addiction, and it is stronger than any addiction to something such as heroin or tobacco.

The attitude of this “I” is “How can I perpetuate me?” Those under the full influence are anxious about getting teachings, spending time with the teacher, acquiring signs of spiritual progress, and the recognition of others. If “I” participates in service or seva, it is mainly with an eye toward being rewarded with more food for “I”.

The capacities to receive spiritual nourishment and give spiritual nourishment can never be separated. They are two sides of the same divine dance. When this dance is spontaneous, the play of divine desire and divine contentment are also non-different.

Our neediness and hunger are a reflection of divine desire. Cutting them loose, rather than cutting them off or stifling them, is the Tantrik way.

Recognizing our tension around giving and receiving is the first step. We have to recognize or be aware of the quality of energy that informs our moment-to-moment experience. If we are unaware of our compulsive hunger, then we cannot work with that energy or release it to express itself differently at a “higher” level.

Pausing is key. When we pause to taste the quality of our energy in the moment, we create opportunity for relaxation. Sadhana is such a pause, such an opportunity, but we can practice pausing and tasting at any time.

Simply creating a space for recognition helps the energy under tension to begin to take other forms, to express more of the cosmic values of devotion and service that are inherent even in our addictions.

No matter what self-confining View we seem to be stuck in, this world is unstinting abundance. That we can use even our hunger to pull us through to freedom is evidence of this and fuel for cultivating true gratitude.

OM Shanti,
Shambhavi

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