Ten Doors on the House of Breath

©2009-2011 Mysti Easterwood writing as Eleusis D

“How many senses do we actually have?” I asked my far-flung friend.  Some people play doctor, we play guru and student.  

“Well, Aristotle said five, but Rudolph Steiner counted twelve,” he said, beginning to list them, “the usual five and then 7 more.  Touch alone had three sub-categories…”

“No, Eric,” I interrupted, “let’s just stick with the conventional senses.  How many?”

He thought for a minute, then replied: “Ten.”

Exactly.  The Buddhist monastic tradition counts six,  but the  Baul poets, wild yogins roaming the Bengali hills, declare there are ten.    Anyone who can write poetry and drink while seducing the barmaid gets my vote:

The vinter brews between two rooms,

Drawing juice from a delicate vine,

Hold me, Beloved; infuse the dark wine

that pours through our body, and frees us of time.

The sign on the Tenth Door says: Come ahead, 

The Sixty-four paths spin up to this thread.

So small is the pot, smaller the lip,

Pour steady, Virupa, don’t let the hand slip. 

(Carya III, Virupapada)