…left his body on 25th November 2019.
Goodbye Anabhra Cadabra!
You would have laughed. Yes. That passionate laughter of yours, full of disbelief. To see how this thing works here… it explodes in your hand and… no, you’ve never understood, haven’t you? A few minutes after posting a message on Facebook saying that you had left the body… there was a cascade of love, an unprecedented connection to your certainly reserved person, to the one who was especially allergic to all those new social things!
You, instead, kept yourself to yourself, getting ready for the highest peak in the best possible way.
Quiet and vulnerable, a month ago you came back here, your home, to say goodbye to us: “No hugs please, the body is like a leaf; I know I’m going.” Goosebumps when we heard you say that, a deep, collected look – eye to eye – and great silence.
“My way,” you always said, whether it was about your eggplants or your spiritual quest. Surely you are one of the few who was able to read the entire tome of Beelzebub’s Tales by Gurdjieff…
You did not see your grandchildren very often, so you told everything to us; we had to put up with some of your half-hour ‘discourses’ until you were satisfied – or your throat was dry. And woe to anyone who interrupted you!
You left very quickly, without too many sentimental goodbyes, disappearing and then reappearing: “Hi, guys… always stay on the alert!” No, you weren’t afraid. We didn’t perceive that. Without fuss, just with a lot of gratitude.
You so much loved the singer-songwriter Battiato.
Well then… Open sesame!... Dear Anabhra Cadabra!
We honor your search, which is also ours, but you recount it so much better because you have Napoli Boscoreale in your veins; you can transform each breath of wind into a magical story – to be told in episodes.
A bear, sometimes a bit grumpy or just shy, determined with those things you cared about; lover of long walks among the oaks, baskets full of mushrooms and bundles of wood for the winter. An old-fashioned woodman.
Untiring painter, looking for your most precious artwork; every single brushstroke, this moment, now, here. Ruthless percussionist; when you took to the rhythm, in sync with pieces from the disco, you didn’t even stop if you got calluses on your fingers, or at least not until you had involved everyone in the bedlam.
You danced in jerks, as if you wanted to interpret with your body each pulse in the music, from time to time incorporating the STOP!
Enjoy this last STOP!
And fly high!
We love you,
Your friends from Osho Miasto
The mushrooms’ smile
I remember seeing you come back from the woods, oak leaves still stuck to your long hair and to your army surplus flannel shirt. Your bright eyes calling me from outside and the mushrooms’ smile widens on your face. Happy.
I remember you on your for-no-apparent-reason darker days; your hands busy between an eggplant dish and your need for silence – it stunned me. In my mind’s eye slowly slowly reappear sensations and images of our life together, ten years to be condensed in these few lines…
Friends, almost always, sometimes distant… never enemies. And today that I have to talk about you in the past tense, dear Anabhra, I don’t want to shed even a single tear.
“Don’t cry!” you said, “’cause the body is a leaf.”
“Celebrate and honor me,” you said.
So honour and celebration be it: honour to the wise and to the fool. To the bear you sometimes were and to a sincere friend. To your brahmacharya and our gazing at women. To your laziness and to your industriousness. To our smoky evenings and silences at the feet of the master. To the child with his shining eyes and to the man you enshrined in your heart.
Honour to the compromises and to your integrity. To the grey days, swept away by a brush stroke on a white canvas. To the heavy steps of a lumberjack who – in a flash – knows how to dance lightly. To Osho who took us by the hand. To our deepest conversations and our endless bullshit. To the beat of your drum that was beating in unison with my heart. To you, my friend, and to the moment when we will embrace again, who knows how, who knows where…
Swami Arup Sureela, Osho Miasto
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