May 31st was a beautiful Sunday morning that promised a hot early summer day. I had planned to spend the morning writing when a mood, both honey-sweet and stringent, that had lingered since my encounter with the pigeons was suddenly supercharged by the news of a friend’s death.

There is sadness and joy mixed in this taste of raw reality, of how beauty prevails in the burning moment of life, as all things pass and the soul, finally free, soars into freedom and bliss. There is the joy, and yet—and yet—those of us left behind will stand as witness to the Holy. We will remember and we will grieve. We will love and praise and we will cry bright tears.

Again and again we will come up against the reality that, in order to quaff the beauty, freedom, mercy and delight of Creation, we must also taste the ugly, the enslaved, the merciless, the cruel. How to manage this dichotomy? The only way is to court a broken heart. This bittersweet bhava, or “divine mood,” of the broken heart is what the Bauls of Bengal call viraha—love in separation. In English, we would simply say “longing.” During the last year of his life, my guru wrote that if, at the end of our lives, we have only longing, it is enough. It is enough.

In the practice of inner yoga, we cultivate bhava to get to rasa, or the nectar of immortality. It’s called immortal nectar because, unlike everything else, rasa is that which nourishes the immortal soul and is not subject to impermanence. Rasa is a liquid, a taste, a nectarine juice because “Everything flows,” as Heraclitus said. What was, is no more, because all is in flow.

Fly away home, beloved friend.