There was a time when i jealously kept my Beloved to myself. I enjoyed feeling unusual, "special". In the Srimad Bhagavatam, there is a passage that warns against this kind of thinking: The gopis--cowherd girls--are dancing in the moonlight with Krishna, who has multiplied Himself so that each gopi has her own Krishna attending to her. So the gopis start to think, "How blessed I am, that my beloved Krishna is dancing with me," which quickly turns to, "How special I must be!"
In that instant, Krishna vanishes, leaving them alone in the night. (They later realise He has wandered off into the forest with one particular gopi, but we'll come back to that.)
The desire to keep my Beloved to myself began to wane when I realised my Beloved brings me such joy, such contentment, that I wished more people could experience it. I feel that in loving my Beloved I draw nearer to my best and truest self, and it is my desire that everyone who wants that same experience should have it. And if the best way for others to experience it is with my Beloved, then that is what I want.
When the gopis go searching for Krishna, they find telltale signs in flowers and footprints that there is one gopi who has disappeared into the forest with Him. Although in the Bhagavatam this gopi is never named, in some Vaishnava lineages it is taught that She is Sri Radha--the embodiment of Love, the Feminine Divine, Goddess Herself. Of all the gopis, Radha is special, for She is Love perfected.
While for a time there was an ego-level satisfaction in having my many-named and nameless Beloved all to myself, there came a point when what I wanted, more than satisfying and comforting a jealous (and ultimately insecure) ego, was to become a better lover. And for that, I needed to find a better lover than me, to learn from.
That was when the hunt for a "real name" for my Beloved began to take on a sense of urgency. For if I don't know Their name, how can I find Their other lovers?
In my quest to find other, better lovers of my Beloved, I combed through a number of devotional traditions (hence the dive into the Srimad Bhagavatam). And amongst many devotees, past and present, I heard echoes of my own longing. Meera and Andal and Jayadeva; Rumi and Hafiz and Rabia of Basra and Kabir; St John of the Cross and St Theresa of Avila and Julian of Norwich and St Lutgardis and St Gertrude the Great and St Mechtilde... So many great lovers of Divinity from history--and many not-yet-famous devotees in our own time--express their love and longing in ways that elicit a pang of familiarity in me, and over the years it's often made me question whether any of them--or even all of them--are lovers of the same Beloved as mine.
To this day, I don't know if I've ever encountered another lover of my Beloved, or if I ever will. But recently, I've found some peace in the certainty that, at least, the Love is the same. I don't know, dearest friend, whether your Beloved and mine are one or different; but if you are adrift in that same sea of Love, and doing your level best to drown in it, then we have more than enough in common, and the gift of your presence is a blessing from which I hope to learn.
