A curious thought came to me last night, or perhaps two nights ago, while I was chatting with myself just before signing off: my mother could be my teacher, my spiritual guide, my own guru. She would have a lot to teach me, too. She loves people, all people. Her heart is big. It is pure. She suffers whenever she learns about suffering anyplace around the world. She helps people left and right, to the best of her ability and to the limit of her resources. Her hope is still whole. For her age, or any age, my mother is full of energy. Everything interests her. Nothing escapes her. She is serene. Life is sacred to her. There is not a trace of vanity in her. She has not fallen for any false idols. Nothing impresses her, with the exception of nature. All she possesses is her love of the world and her pain in the face of all suffering. Yes, my mother could teach me a thing or two. She could teach me the mysteries of the heart. But why has it taken me so long to recognize her? My own guru!

Addendum (February 19, 2007)

My mother died several months after this was jotted down in some haste, for she was ailing already, but I did not lose my guru. How could I, anyhow? Once recognized, gurus never die. As time goes by, they merge with their disciples. By and by, my mother has become one with me, too. And yet she is forever distinct from me. Forever her own self, she never tires of guiding me gently. Her voice is clear, as are her eyes. Her breath is warm, as is her touch. Her smile is sweet, as is her smell. She is very much alive. She is thriving in my heart. In fact, my own guru has never been better.