Sunday, November 28, 2010

The Apple.

     During my dad’s last days, languishing in a hospital room in Toronto, he became even more cranky than usual.  In fact, he became so agitated that my brother scurried out into the hall to look for a doctor, a nurse, a drug-dealer, pretty much anyone who might offer some assistance. 
     At the height of the episode, there were two nurses, a doctor, a social worker, a chaplain, a shifty-eyed fellow with his baseball cap on backward, my brother and I all gathered around his bed.  Ok, I’m kidding about the dealer.  But, in the course of the discussion around my dad, the chaplain said; ‘What can we do, Mr. Vanek? What would you like? Tell us what you want right now and we’ll do our best to get it for you.’  My dad seemed to consider that generous offer for a moment or two and then responded; ‘I want an apple.’ 
     There it was.  It all came down to one apple.  He was ninety-four years old, had three kids, a sixty-three year, somewhat less than blissful marriage, (you get out sooner for murder,) had been a renowned Judge, served in a world war, had enough money to buy just about anything he might want, and his dying wish was for an apple. 
     About a half an hour later, by the way, one of the nurses came back in with a bowl of apple sauce.  Dad took one look at it and said; ‘What’s that?’  ‘This is apple sauce,’ answered the well-meaning nurse.  ‘I may be dying,’ the old guy barked, ‘but I’m not stupid! I asked for an apple!’  ‘But, but, you can’t eat an apple, Mr. Vanek,’ she pleaded.  ‘Did I say anything about eating it?,’ he continued, true to form, never one to lose an argument. ‘Maybe I just want to hold it, smell it or lick it. Did that ever occur to you?’ 
     Anyway, following along the same line of thought, here I sit tonight in my old mountain house, right back where I started, so to speak.  I first came here in 1975 and I left for twelve years in ‘98.  During those years, I worked as a gas jockey, a diamond merchant, a house painter, I bought and sold houses, vehicles, antiques, relationships came and went, (mostly went, actually.)  And here I sit tonight just wondering if I’ll have enough hot water for my bucket-bath in the morning, just like I used to.
     So, what was all that(?)  We’re born naked and we die naked, or so ‘they’ say.  I’m not entirely sure why ‘they’ say one must be naked in the end.  Presumably, if one is hit by a train or a bus, come down with a withering disease or one simply shoots oneself in the head on a particularly bad day, one would almost certainly still be fully clothed, unless one is really unlucky or decides to get kinky about it.  However, that’s another matter altogether and I’m probably taking the naked thing too literally.  You get the point, I’m sure.  We’re born naked and we die naked.  And we’re also assured that we can’t take anything with us.  So what was/is all that; the struggle to achieve something in this life, the hopes and aspirations, the acquisitions, the relationships, all of it(?) 
     That, my friends, is called Maya, in Sanskrit, a magical illusory show.  The ancient sages have likened this life to a dream, a magical illusory show.  It can’t be said to be true due to its very transitory nature.  And we are encouraged; in fact it behooves all intelligent human beings, to awaken from this dream to the true, essential ‘I’ which is pure, which is free and which is forever, the very life itself that animates these bodies. 
     Meanwhile, and in the end, having said all that, I really want to tell you what happened just the other day.  A lady I once knew arrived here.  And she looked really good, as lovely as ever.  She looked so lovely, in fact, that I had to clamp down on my sleeve to keep from swallowing my tongue.  And right after seeing her, what do you think I did?  I'll tell you.  I walked right on over… to the restaurant across from the ashram and I ate a really big piece of their apple pie, with ice cream. 

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Who is Watching the Watcher?

     Yesterday began as it usually does with a cup of hot chai tea, toast with butter, lots of butter, and peanut-butter, crunchy, real men use only crunchy.   I’m a little bit particular about my morning routine, whether in India or Canada or wherever.  The only compromise I have to make over here is the butter, which is not very good.  It actually doesn’t melt or go rancid, which is a bit scary.  Still, I use it every morning. 
     I remember sitting at the breakfast table with my dad, one specific morning several years ago, in Toronto.  He was reading the Globe and Mail as he did every morning religiously for a hundred and twenty years.  I asked him to pass the butter.  He looked at me above his glasses and said; ‘You know the amount of butter you slather on your toast, you’ll die of cholesterol.’  I thought about that for a moment or two before responding; ‘Dad,’ I said, ‘I don’t drink alcohol, I don’t smoke anything, I don’t eat meat of any sort, I’ve hardly had any sex in my entire life.  Pass the fucking butter.’  He gave me a wry smile and slid the dish over to my side of the table without saying another word. 
     I usually sit for a while after I finish my chai and toast, I check my emails, walk in the hillside a bit before heading down to the ashram. 
     The nights are cold at this time of year, but the sun is still hot during the days.  Sages of old have said that the human condition is one of being constantly too hot in the sun and too cold in the shade.  And that’s the way it actually is up here these days.  This is a land of extremes.  So every morning around ten o’clock, while waiting for satsang to begin, many devotees spend their time finding a place to bask in the sun for a while.  Because we know that, once Swamiji arrives, we’ll be under the corrugated tin roof and it’ll soon be cold and somewhat uncomfortable. 
     Hardly anyone complains.  Swami has been holding these meetings at least once a day for the past forty years, rain or shine, hot or cold.  He’s 86 and still cranks it out every day, a few hours that invariably includes a discourse, some chanting, Gita verses, questions and answers, speeches and, of course, meditation.  Hardly anyone complains about the weather here. 
     And so, yesterday, I went to Raju’s chai shop before satsang to sip another cup of chai in the sun.  I was standing at the counter waiting for my drink when a guy I had never seen before sashayed up from the street, handed me ten rupees and asked me to make him two cups of chai.  At first I really couldn’t comprehend what was happening.  I couldn’t quite bend my head around the idea that he thought I was the chai-wallah.  I stood there holding the fellow’s ten rupees, staring at him until he repeated his order.   At that precise moment, Raju came with my cup of chai.  I took it, handed Raju the ten rupee note, told him it was from the guy behind me and went up to the roof to sit in the sun.            
     As I climbed the stairs, I remembered an old story of the enlightened one, Lord Buddha, leaning up against the trunk of a large Banyan tree.  He was in Samadhi.  A drunkard came by and assumed the Buddha had passed out from drinking.  So the drunkard sat down beside him.  A wandering mendicant happened along, assumed the Buddha was a mendicant sleeping and sat down to rest along with him.  And a sage came by, knew the Buddha was in Samadhi, sat down beside him and began to meditate.
     I’ve been a gas jockey, a diamond merchant, an antique dealer and a teacher.  I’ve painted houses and written books.  I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor.  I’ve been loved and hated.  So who am I?  I can’t control completely how people perceive me, what they think I am when they look at me.  However, ever since I can remember there’s been a part of me just watching it all, uninvolved, unaffected, not growing or changing as my body has grown and changed.  I’ve spent most of my life aware of that and tuning into that aspect of who or what I am.  I’ve watched all the happenings in my life, the things I’ve done, the dreams I’ve had, the conscious and semi-conscious states.  I’ve always been the watcher. 
     I’m not going to try to convince anyone that I know exactly where that watcher is watching from, what is that One Source or Creative Intelligence.  I can say, however, that my experience in meditation and samadhi has afforded me the opportunity to firmly believe in what the ancient saints and sages have all said; that one can continue to identify with that watcher, uninvolved, unaffected, pure and free, even as the body begins to break down, even as one dies, and even after that.  Think about it.         

Monday, November 8, 2010

Diwali.


     The festival of Diwali, the festival of lights, symbolizes the conquest of knowledge over ignorance, freedom over bondage.  And to commemorate the occasion, Indians all over the country spend their hard-earned rupees buying up all the fireworks they can handle and subsequently turn their villages and towns into war-zones.
          The reality is, these days, that for some time before and after Diwali, crackers go off at all times of the day and night.  One can be sipping a coffee on ones porch, peacefully contemplating the meaning of life, when a cracker lands at ones feet.  The coffee lands in your lap, your lower extremities dissolve in a fine mixture of substances, your toast lands in the bushes and all you can think of is revenge.  Never mind the meaning of life.  Never mind peaceful introspection.  All you want is to get the bathdurd who threw it, even if he/she is only six or seven years old. 
     I had/have a friend, an ex-Vietnam war veteran, who lived near the ashram here.  We were having some food and a chat at a local outside cafĂ©, (dhaba,) one day several years ago, when a cherry bomb went off nearby.  The next I knew, my buddy was cowering under the table and it took me several minutes to convince him that the Viet Cong had gone back into the jungle. 
     A lot of the local guys find it tremendously entertaining to shoot the rockets down the street instead of up in the air.  The missiles careen along at high speeds, zig-zagging in a brilliant show of sparkling danger.  People of all shapes and sizes dive, jump or duck to save themselves.  One fine year, the inevitable happened.  A rocket barreled down the street, found its way right into the fireworks shop of the area and all hell broke loose.  Everyone literally had to run for the hills, the shop ended up a burnt-out bunker and it took quite some time for life to return to anything that could be considered normal.
     All of this goes on within the context of the true meaning of the festival of Diwali, when it was said that Lord Raam came out of exile to take up his rightful place on the throne of the kingdom.  And Raam, with the help of Hanuman, a rather simian-sort-of fellow who could apparently jump like a son-of-a-gun, was said to have rescued his beloved wife, Sita, from the clutches of the demon Ravana.  

     On the day of Diwali, the people get dressed in their finery.  Some folks still fast on tea and fruit for three days, praying to Laxmi, the Goddess of prosperity, for wealth, good health, a higher sperm count, a good harvest in the coming year.  People still put simple candles all up their steps alongside the paintings, charming drawings of lotuses and mandalas, done with henna and vegetable dye paints, on their doorsteps and in their courtyards. 
     And there are still pockets of people all over India and the world, like here at this blessed ashram in the Kullu Valley, who do take the festival as a time to celebrate the recapturing of our eternal, essential nature, to continue their prayers for and to meditate upon the direct realization of that nature, the eternal life that permeates all, pure, free and forever.    

Friday, November 5, 2010

Skunk Symbolism.

editor's note;  i received this message by email, thought to add it to my blogsite. 

Dear Hansraj Nathan;
Many years ago, I learned the animal symbolism of the skunk first-hand. I was walking through thick woods with my head down (no doubt looking for odd stuff - it's the crow in me). When I looked up to get my bearings I found myself staring directly into the eyes of a very intense looking skunk.
When I say I was siezed stiff in my tracks, you know exactly what I mean. Who among us doesn't know the capability of the skunk? Not many.
Of course a chunk of animal symbolism of the skunk deals with the pungent odor of its spray let off when it's threatened.
Just think what a remarkable defense mechanism: Nonviolent, passive, effective. The skunk sends a message to would-be predators: "Nothing personal, just back off and nobody gets hurt."
This unique method of self-protection and the way a skunk handles its predators is symbolic of:

  • Defense
  • Prudence
  • Protection
  • Confidence
  • Awareness
  • Pacification
  • Effectiveness
  • Good judgement
We would all do well to take this animal symbolism from the skunk: Do no harm. Indeed, as a totem animal, the skunk asks us to defend ourselves effectively, without causing further conflict.
Interestingly, the skunk would prefer to be even less assertive. You see, it takes over a week to reproduce its stinky juices after using them (their glands are only good for about 4 sprays). Ergo, the skunk is 100% sure it must spray before doing so as this defense tool is a commodity in the wild - not to be wasted on false alarms.
In recognizing this, we see the skunk is the ultimate pacifist, and by adopting its peace-loving ways we may obtain the carefree lifestyle this creature enjoys.
Carefree indeed, the skunk has very few predators because most of the animal kingdom recognize its tell-tale markings and know from wildlife scuttlebutt the skunk is not to be fooled with. As such, the skunk goes about its business with aplomb, and has an innocent quality that few wild creatures have the luxury of exhibiting.
Other animal symbolism of the skunk include:
  • Introspection
  • Innocence
  • Assurance
  • Patience
  • Silence
  • Peace


Oh, what happened when I met that skunk in the woods long ago? He didn't spray me, although he was certainly prepared. We just kept our eyes locked on each other (his were a soft yet intensely deep brown, my eyes are brown too - but I'm sure my gaze didn't appear nearly as righteous as his - I was, after all, intruding on his turf). I slowly and quietly took steps backwards until I was at a safe distance to retreat altogether. The whole time we kept staring into each other's eyes. It was odd, eerie, and exciting all at once.


That skunk was so majestic and regal in his stance - holding his ground - fearing nothing, leastly me. I certainly backed away (literally) from the meeting with a new found respect for this creature, and derived a deeper sense of the symbolic meaning of the skunk to boot!

Photo by Charles and Clint

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

I Am Wherever I Go.


     Before I left india, last august, I packed up most of my things and stuffed it all in a trunk with a few mothballs.  I was a kind of sub-tenant, the actual tenant was coming for a couple of weeks and, frankly, I didn’t want him dressing up in my clothing, especially not that little French maid’s outfit I’m so fond of.  The problem is, now that I’m back and unpacked, I smell mothballs continuously.  Everywhere I go, all I can smell are mothballs, which is great when walking past an open sewage drain, but rather terrible otherwise. 
     It reminded me of another time and place and another equally awful smell: skunk!
     It was late at night and I was walking through the woods from my shop to my house in our beloved Wakefield village.  My dog, Gaia, was somewhere ahead.  It was dark.  I couldn’t see, but I knew the path well.  However, all of a sudden, without any warning, I was being sprayed, directly into my eyes, into my mouth!  I couldn’t believe it.  And it was not a little piddle.  It was a strong, full-flowing stream that would make any guy my age envious under normal circumstances. 
     My eyes were stinging, burning.  I thrashed through the brush until I fell over a log, spitting, yelling out for help.  All I could think was; ‘what kind of fucking mutant skunk can spray with a trajectory of six feet and hit the fucking bullseye(!?)’   Eventually Sharman, my wife, came running out and led me to the house where I proceeded to wash out my eyes.  I was at the sink for ages when it occurred to me that sharman had gone away.  I couldn’t blame her, of course.  I called her name and she answered from the office room.  I asked what she was doing and she answered; ‘I’m googling.’ 
‘you’re googling,?’ I said somewhat incredulously.
‘yes, I’m googling.’
 ‘you’re googling.’
 ‘yes.’ 
‘what are you googling?’ 
‘I’m googling; what to do about skunk spray in the eyes.’
     Anyway, my eyes opened up, I bathed with baking soda, my clothes were thrown into the washing machine and life began to return to normal, whatever that means.  Gaia, by the way, was perfectly fine, lying on the sofa, smelling just as she always does which, while many might find distasteful, was not skunky, skunk-ish or skunk-like.  Clearly, she had seen what was happening and slithered away in what I can only assume was a cowardly move of self-preservation. 
     Walking through those same woods one morning, about ten days later, I could smell the skunk(s) again.  I was immediately on my guard.  Everywhere I went, I could smell him or her or them; in the woods, in my shop, in the park across the street, even in the bakery next door.  People in the street, the girl in the bakery, my clients all noticed the smell too. 
     Well, it took me most of the day, not being the sharpest tool in the shed, to figure out that the smell was in fact coming from my shirt.  Even though it had been washed, it still reeked of skunk.  I had been looking everywhere else for the problem when, really, I was the problem.  And that’s the point of this whole story.  The problem was wherever I was.
     You know where this is going.  If we’re unhappy, uptight or upset, if we’re dissatisfied, downcast or dispondent, we will surely carry that all with us wherever we go.  There’s no use in blaming anyone else.  There’s no use in trying to get away from it by buying fancy cars, boats, going on cruises or building big houses, (although I do think a fancy new camper van would make me very happy, but let’s not quibble.)  The problem is always within us and that’s where we need to deal with it. 
     And I like to think that, if we were to google; ‘what to do about dissatisfaction,’ somewhere within at least one of the sites that would bring up, the word; ‘meditation’ would appear.  Check it out.