Thursday, November 3, 2011

leaving kullu tomorrow for a couple of months or a few years, bitter sweet feeling. the arm is much improved, the head and heart are full. therefore there will be blog offerings to come soon. peace and love; hansraj.

Sunday, August 7, 2011

A Swan Song.


The surgeon took a long look, holding the MRI sheets one at a time up to the light.  He kept wagging his head from side to side, clucking and mmmm-ing. 
Eventually, i couldn't help but ask what the verdict was.  "Well," he began, "the technical medical term for this is 'seriously worn-out shoulder."  He asked me how it happened so I quipped that I've been playing basketball since I was two-and-a-half.  He looked quizzically at me.  Clearly he did not get the subtlety of my humor.  Many people don’t.  The idea that he actually understood and just didn't find it the least amusing occurred to me only later.  Then I began to feel a bit cheated, really, having previously laughed, or at least chuckled, at his somewhat questionable attempt at humor even while my arm lay inert on my lap like a loaf of Italian bread. 
Anyway, one whopping big shot of cortisone and a couple weeks of physio later, I am just beginning to be able to type, albeit on an ‘ipad’ with two fingers while lying on my bed.  Physiotherapy has really been helping, although the fellow does tend to talk to me like I’m either a child or mentally challenged.  It seems to be an occupational hazard, specific to young health-care workers tending to old-er patients.  "Oh you're so brave."  Sometimes he offers me free advice about positive thinking, the importance of having a good attitude.  Needless to say, advice on how to put my undershorts on with one arm would be more appreciated.  i can get the shorts on.  That just takes a bit of balance.  It's the garters that I have a real problem with. 
 The Physiotherapist’s somewhat patronizing attitude aside, he’s a good guy, a good therapist and he's helping me a lot.  I’m scheduled for two more shots after which I may sprout a tail.  It’s a heck of a lot of steroids and, let’s face it, this may be my first incarnation standing up on my hind legs.  Meanwhile, I spend my spare time these days doing exercises that, well, that neither a child nor a mentally-challenged person would find challenging.   
This has all been in way of explaining why i haven't posted anything on this blog lately.  And that it may be a while before I get back in the saddle.  That may be a poor choice of words, under the circumstances, but you all get my point.  I’m a little screwed up right now.  Still, I had no intention of ending this series of blog postings on anything other than a high note.  So I have added some photos (at the bottom of this page) of a good buddy, myself and especially my wife, a bright light and someone who makes me look good, or better.  I’m sure you won’t mind the personal note.  After all, this is my blog.  The question is; ‘Who am I?’  For that matter, who are you? 
You are that where the thought cannot reach.  You are that high.  You are that immortal existence where no death can reach.  You are that indivisible whole which cannot be divided into soul, man, woman or any kind of species.  You are that which is absolute, eternal, without any form and free from sin.  Human eyes cannot see you.  You are that.    Verse 263,  Light of Knowledge.  Swami Shyam. 
ps; I do reserve the right to put on a new posting at any time and without any notification. 

Saturday, June 18, 2011

Little-Known Facts.

                                                             
The recent posting in which I ridiculed an age-old Vedanta analogy of the human condition proved to be quite popular.  So, of course, I wanted to build upon that popularity by mercilessly attacking another.  Unfortunately, I really couldn’t think of one that easily lent itself to base ridicule.  I began to consider making fun of certain religious groups.  However, I received death threats, like Salman Rushdie, or at least I thought I might.  You may think I’m flattering myself and that would be mean-spirited of you.  Be that as it may, I moved on to the possibility of at least including a few ethnic slurs but, being myself a member of several minority groups, it seemed disingenuous of me and possibly dangerous as well.   

I couldn’t come up with a really good iconic point to denigrate, decided against putting down a religious group or minority out of fear so I chose, while clearly jeopardizing reader approval, to let you in on a few little-known facts about ‘yours truly’ instead.  The reason these facts are little-known may become self-evident, but perhaps it’s a slow day for you.           
Firstly, I’ve been cutting my own hair for the past several months.  I use a beard trimmer.  It does a pretty drastic job, but I do enjoy the whole process.  I can barely wait for the stuff to grow in so that I can shear it all off again.  In fact, I haven’t actually been waiting long enough between cuts so my hair’s getting shorter and shorter while my ears seem to be getting larger and larger.  I let the hair tumble over my body as I buzz-cut it and then I usually sit in the garden grinning into my hand-mirror.  After a while I go inside, floss and take a shower. 
Secondly, people come to me with their problems.  Folks tend to feel comfortable letting me in on their strangest secrets.  That’s because of the great wisdom I have gained over the years or perhaps folks just know intuitively that I have had every bit of foolishness known to human-kind pass through my head at one time or another.  If I haven’t done it, I’ve certainly considered it or at least thought about it.  People know that, they can smell it on me.  I only hope that's all they're smelling on me.  Also, my social calendar has rather large gaps in it.  They know I’m happy for the company. 
Lastly, and most importantly, I’m turning into my dad.  I remember standing on the steps of the ashram, many years ago, looking at a photo of my father that I had received in the mail.  I had not seen him for a few years and was taken aback by how he had aged.  He did not look good to me.  At that precise moment, Swami walked up the stairs and asked what I was looking at.  I told him it was my dad, as I handed him the photo.  Swami took one long look, then handed it back saying; ‘It’s good to see the father to know what the son will look like later on.’  Then, he pranced on up the last few steps and entered the hall, leaving me standing there incredulous.
As the years roll along, however, I have to admit that I am indeed just beginning to look like the old guy in that photo.  People used to bring their problems to him too.  They had no choice.  He was a Judge.  He did not appreciate long hair.  And he ended up very much just like his dad and his dad’s dad.  It turns out that we can’t entirely escape our upbringing and conditions.  However, get this: it also turns out that we can indeed change the die that was cast at the moment of our births.  It turns out that we can in fact be pure and free right up to the end, and forever, even after that.  Think about it.
‘It is not all death to die, nor yet all of life to live.’  Edgar Casey. 

Monday, June 6, 2011

the sea breeze sages


when will you know me
as only a breeze upon the sea
as only the spray from its waves
or as a cloud behaves
drifting across the blue expanse
lost to your sight in the distance
even if it no longer shows
still i'm real to one who knows
when will you know me for sure
so free and so pure
so thorough and complete
the generations repeat
when will you know only i existed
knowledge of wonder you resisted
and there i forever and a day
as always as the waves spray
as always as the sea breeze
coursing even through the forest trees
whispering where i may be seen
where i've always been
you may not know me by a sound
there none may be found
and don't assume you'll know my shape
nor look for me along the landscape
rather just look for me as i blow across the ocean
hear me sing the splendour of devotion
rejoicing in your heart
for know me there to start
just look for me as i spray the beaches
hear me where any sound reaches
not the soulless sound alone
but the power behind the drone
not the swaying of a towering tree
but the force at the back of what you see
i am the very animation
yet you have known me as creation
when will you know me
as only a breeze upon the sea
as only the spray from its waves
or as a cloud behaves
when will the glory of the time arrive
let illusion not survive
you and i throughout the ages
one forever the sea breeze sages. 

Saturday, May 28, 2011

Snakes and Ladders.

One of the oldest and most often used analogies for the human condition has to do with the much maligned snake.  The ancient sages pointed out how a person might come across a rope on the path, but think it’s a snake.  A Realized being, they continued, would see it for what it is; a harmless rope.  In other words, we tend to see this world as real and dangerous while, they insist, it is a magical, illusory show and quite benign.    

Well, I have heard and read that analogy so often over the years that when I saw what certainly looked like a snake in the grass, one recent morning, I was not to be fooled.  I assumed it was simply a harmless length of rope, I grabbed the thing up, it actually was a snake, it bit me and now I am dying.  I suppose I should've known it was in fact a snake since it was moving at the time.  Ok, maybe I’m not actually dying.  Perhaps I wasn’t even bitten, but I might’ve been, I could’ve been. 
Meanwhile that evening, following some basketball, I dropped down onto my bed and immediately went into a catatonic state that lasted a long, long time.  I tried to take a bath, after a while, but by the time I finally made it to the top of my stairs, a distance of approximately three feet, I realized my backside was still on the bed.  It didn’t seem worth taking a bath without my backside, it being such an integral part of the bathing process.  And, while good hygiene is clearly not a priority for many, it is important to me.  So I returned to my bed and waited for the whole carcass to agree upon a time for the event.  As it turned out, that was not until next morning.  So I had plenty of time to reflect on how I had mistaken a nefarious snake for a harmless rope. 
Now, unlike many weak-minded and complex-ridden individuals whom I know, I’m not scared of snakes.  Upon encountering one, I initially just feel uneasy, perhaps a little queasy.  Of course, if it looks at me sideways my skin crawls, I begin to scream silently as I thrash my way through the bushes up the hill.  But, that’s normal.  What bothered me was the fact that the age-old analogy of human-kind; seeing a rope and mistaking it for a snake, had proved incorrect.  I might have died a horrible death. Snakes are not actually poisonous around here, but that’s totally beside my point.  And I wish it would move.  I’m trying to say that the age-old analogy was incorrect, misleading and potentially dangerous.   
What occurred to me was that, if a rope might actually be a snake, perhaps this world might actually be real after all.  Perhaps all the Realized beings strutting around, cajoling all of us into thinking that this is one big dream, are deluded.  And two thoughts followed upon the heels of that one, almost tripping it.  I became haunted by the thought, firstly, that I may have wasted my whole adult life.  Rather than having lived a yogic lifestyle, I could’ve been out there enjoying what this world has to offer; drinking, smoking, doping, throwing up in tavern bathrooms, waking up beside strange women wearing feathers, eating dead animals, huge debts, line-dancing.  Secondly, I thought that I had better give the matter further consideration.  
I’ll let you know now what saved me from spiraling down into a serious depression, as I lay on the bed waiting for my backside to get off itself.  I’ll tell you what helped me rise up.  No, it was not drugs, although that’s a future consideration.  I have three words for you; direct experience.  There’s nothing quite like it.  And I’ve got it.  Had I just read or heard that we mistake ropes for snakes, and then been bitten by one or the other, I would’ve been in serious trouble.  Luckily, those same sages didn’t stop there.  They gave us Meditation.  They encouraged us to find it all out for ourselves, directly, so that the knowledge would remain unshakable, forever.      
What follows here is a short excerpt from an article I wrote a few years back for Wakefield’s famous newspaper; The Low Down To Hull And Back News.  It has been reproduced, with many others, in my book; The Bridge Between, which can be purchased on-line through the publishers; www.bluemoosebooks.com, on-line at; www.amazon.com/uk or through Susan Randall in Wakefield, Quebec, phone; 819 459 1160 or email; madhurta@magma.ca.  I am not aware of anyone actually ever buying a copy, but it is available. 
Snakes.  (pg; 60, The Bridge Between by Nathan Vanek.) 
There’s a charming, ancient saying in India that goes; ‘Oh how I hate snakes! Kill it! Kill it! Kill the slimy creature! There’s a boulder. Smash it!’  Generally speaking, Indians are not overly fond of the reptiles.  They worship them.  They’re fascinated by them.  But, they fear them…
Indian sages liken death to a harmless rope that’s mistaken for a dangerous, venomous snake in the dark of night.  When travelers realize their error, they’re quite relieved.  In the same way, those sages say, when spiritual travelers realize their essential, eternal nature, through maturing their practice of meditation, they’re obviously relieved, forever…
When he lifted the lid, the cobra raised its awful head; the porter let out a blood-curdling scream and threw the basket straight up.  As he ran through the lobby, he yelled; ‘Snake! Snake!  The other porter ran behind him as though they were in a qualifying match for the Asian games.  The hapless Danish couple, trapped in the corner of the elevator, shrieked, wept and bounced from wall to wall while I lay on the ground laughing so hard I must’ve appeared as though I had been bitten.  I wanted to tell them it wasn’t real, but I couldn’t.  People were leaping over counters, jumping onto chairs and out the front doors…
It also reminded me that it behooves all of us to keep in mind what’s real and what’s important, because the rest will eventually slither away.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Bridges.

That was not a form of sleep I ever remembered having before.  I had no memory of crossing over the bridge between worlds, between states of consciousness. 

I arrived at the 1977 Maha Kumbha Mela in Allahabad on the afternoon of February 19th, bedroll on my shoulders.  A strong and steady rain had washed the land a day earlier, turning the whole area into a colossal mudslide.  There was no place to even sit.  So I walked, for hours, taking it all in.  The Naga Babas crouched naked close to the river’s edge, sure to be first to bathe each morning.  A sadhu was buried straight down into the ground, up to his neck.  Another sadhu had a withered arm, raised up, stuck in place.  There was a sea of humanity stretched out in front of me, the earth's largest act of faith, as I’ve heard it called, a profound testimonial to the belief in one life permeating all, and the likes of which I knew I’d almost certainly never see again in this lifetime.  
I walked and walked, watched and watched; the pilgrims, fifteen million of them, sanyasis, yogis, the animals, the life, until I had to lie down.  I felt rather confused, a bit sick and totally disoriented in spite of having already been in India for several months.  Eventually, I just dropped down on my bedroll in the middle of a muddy path.  My last conscious thought, before passing out, was that just maybe I was dying.  It seemed appropriate somehow, alone among millions, on a bridge between civilizations, a bit sad, resigned, it was alright.     
The next thing I knew, I was lying next to a small fire with a circle of sadhus around me.  Someone had placed a bowl of jellabies and curd next to me.  Jellabies are basically deep-fried sugar and flour shaped like pretzels.  Curd is basically yogurt.  I had slept through the night.  A mange-ridden dog was sniffing at my feet, sidling up closer and closer to the bowl of sweets until one of the sadhus threw a stick at it.  I took a nibble at the jellabies, carefully.  The taste of them nearly made me snap my head back with delight.  I ate the whole thing and drank some chai while listening to chanting, not really questioning how I had come to be in the midst of that odd group.  Most of them had matted dread-locked hair, long beards and were dressed in loincloths or dhotis.  I meditated while their chanting continued to fill the atmosphere around me and, in sharp contrast to the day before, I actually felt fine. 
Later the same day, having resumed my wandering, a French couple came running up to me, asking where the bathrooms were.  I told them it was anywhere between the two parallel ropes that ran for miles along one side of the mela.  They looked horrified as they melted back into the crowd, and I felt a little less like a stranger there.  I had crossed a bridge between worlds. 
Gurus, masters, spiritual leaders of all sorts, of all shapes and sizes, seemed to take turns parading through the grounds with their entourage and with varying degrees of pomp and lavishness, each a celebration of India’s long respected Guru Tradition.  One such procession, however, struck me as rather too grand, too ostentatious.  The Guru rode on a massive elephant decorated from top to bottom; red and orange Rajasthan carpets, colored beads and bells, Peacock feathers on its forehead and huge garlands around its neck.  The man was himself an imposing figure, with thick black beard, orange robes and rudraaksh-seed malas.  Behind him, several slightly smaller, less decorated elephants followed, apparently carrying some of his disciples. 
Hundreds of people flocked around that front elephant, trying to touch its tail or feet or stomach, believing that one touch of the mount of the Guru, the enlightened one, would bless them.  The mahout was clearly frightened.  He was having trouble controlling the beast as it stepped sideways, swaying dangerously, and twisting almost out of control.  Meanwhile, the great Guru was laughing, wagging his finger down at the people, seemingly unconcerned. 
I found myself moving along with the procession, keeping pace with the skittish elephant, caught up in the moment.  But, I kept thinking it was wrong to sit up on that elephant, basking in the glory, endangering many lives.  Who was he to be held up so high and mighty when the life is one, when we are all from one source (?)  And then the great man turned right around in his howdah and looked straight at me.  We were frozen in time, for a moment, as he spoke with his eyes; ‘Yes, you’re right,’ he said, ‘but don’t tell me, tell them.’  I stopped dead in my tracks as he rode off into the mela. 
I’m not sure when I really began to understand on a very visceral level that there are in fact no bridges between worlds, civilizations or even states of consciousness, that all forms and phenomena are like so many waves upon one ocean.  I only know that my short time at the Mela went a long way in helping to shape the understanding.    
“Kindness is the bridge between souls, families and nations.”  Paramahansa Yogananda. 

Monday, May 2, 2011

The Face of God.

Do you know God?  Do you ever speak with her, him or it?  Do you believe in God?  Do you even know what God is?  Do you know where we’ve come from, where we’re going?  Do you know if there is any real order to the universe?  Do you know why I am attracted to large ladies who wear spandex?  These are all questions I can’t answer.  I have a friend who calls himself an atheist.  I also don’t understand that.  It’s like saying he doesn’t believe that he exists.  Not believing in God makes no sense to me.
I met a guy once who seemed pretty definite that he spoke to God, on a regular basis as a matter of fact.  He was very convincing.  He would have been even more convincing had he not insisted on total secrecy.  There was a rather large crowd of people surrounding him on a corner of Rideau street at the time.  In case you don’t know, that’s one of the busiest places in Ottawa.  He also had eyes painted on his eye-lids, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t converse with God.  It was, however, rather distracting.           
When I was a wee little willy wonderful, I would look up at the stars and wonder where it all ends.  Believe it or not, I would close my eyes and wonder where it all begins too.  The mysteries of the universe have always fascinated me.  And, although I have lived my whole adult life as a yogi and a mystic, I have not succeeded in answering those questions.  In fact, I frankly don’t expect that I’ll ever be able to answer those questions.  Meanwhile, I’ll tell you one humble, largely unknown fact that I have been able to uncover.
Somewhere along the path I discovered a very practical, down-to-earth way to get free of the problems that plague every person, in spite of caste, color, creed or cataract.  By acting opposite from what is normally considered natural, in other words by not acting at all for a while each day, I have seen the face of God, or at least the face of freedom.  And, by God, she’s wearing spandex.
Of course, everyone knows someone who believes that God is love.  With the New-Age catch phrase; ‘God is love,’ they try to impress upon us that God is, well, love.  How they reach that conclusion is beyond my comprehension.  They clearly ignore the reality staring them in their foolishly smiling faces.  Some still insist on walking around flashing the old peace sign, the v-shaped two-fingered salute of the innocent, hopeful, naive sixties.  Their jargon include phrases like; ‘All you need is love,’ the ever popular; ‘Give peace a chance,’ or even, ‘We are all one love,’ whatever that means.    
And yet, and yet, anyone who has ever experienced a simple love, someone who gave without asking anything in return, would agree there certainly seems to be something Godly in that.  It is beyond reason, of course.  As humans, up on our hind legs, rubbing sticks together for fire, looking up at the sun with a sense of wonder, something opens up within us when we are simply loved.  What could possibly be closer to any concept of God than the unconditional, fierce, primal, self-sacrificing love of a mother?  In love we find a release even from our own disbelief. 
Perhaps each day of our lives should be a prayer to that which we don’t know, don’t understand, for no greater reason than we also don’t know how better to enjoy the fleeting moments of our existence on this earth, and because it feels Godly.  

Saturday, April 30, 2011

Dawn.

Dawn blessed day your light to show, Ever bright we understand to be, Every moment of light we hope to know, Every hour of time we want thee.
Creator of magnificent clearest pure light, There’s no greater to compare, Only you dispel the night, Only you lead us whole through there.
To the day, blessed day, your light to know, ever bright we understand to be, Every moment of peace we hope to know, Every hour of time we want thee.
Creator of magnificent clearest pure light, Only you can show us, Take away this dim bleak night, Bring dawn the light you gave us. 

Thursday, April 21, 2011

This Too Will Change.

There are very few times in a person’s life that one can call perfect.  There are very few times in a person’s life when one cannot imagine changing a thing; that his or her life is as brilliant as one could ever hope for it to be.  Of course, this is not one of those times for me.  I just wanted to sound positive and upbeat.      
I’m not complaining, you understand.  These are pretty good days.  I would even go so far as to call these days well above average.  If, on a happiness scale in which ten is having won a lottery the day after getting engaged to your dream-partner and one is having recently bought your dream-home twenty kilometers from the Fukushima Nuclear power plant in Okuma, Japan, with your last Yen, I’d say I’m at least a seven or eight.
Trying to hang onto anything even nearing perfection, however, might just be a frustrating endeavor and ultimately prove to be a rather spectacular mistake.  In this material world, in which the only constant is the inevitability of change, and taxes, one would either end up in need of strong medication or locked away in a dark room far from sharp implements or any belt to keep ones pants up. 
I won a minor lottery of sorts when my dad, bless him, left me some money and a box of Bran Buds.  As a matter of fact, I had also married a lovely lady not long before.  Inheritances, of course, come along with the loss of a loved one, but life goes on.  The funds have since eroded somewhat, but I won’t end up walking the streets with a shopping cart.  There are no Bran Buds in India, but I’m digesting adequately, so far.  And my marriage was down-graded to ‘it’s complicated,’ but she remains a blessing in my life.  I cannot complain in spite of the changes.  The fact is that there are always changes. 
There’s an old story, which I heard from U. N. Goenka, my first Guru, about two very different brothers.  One was acquisitive and worldly.  The other had an innate tendency toward the ascetic life.  Upon the death of their father, the more materialistic brother received all the land, the buildings and most of the wealth while the other was given only a small cabin, a little money and a gold finger ring. 
Over the ensuing years, the wealthy brother had no end of worries and troubles while the other seemed to remain fairly content.  The wealthy brother eventually fell ill and, on his death-bed, asked his sibling how the heck he had remained content with so little.  The secret, the happy fellow disclosed, was their father’s gold finger ring.  It had the mantra; ‘THIS TOO WILL CHANGE’ inscribed on the inside.  And so, the fellow concluded, he always tried to keep that simple truth in mind.      
It behooves us all to not become overly attached to the good times.  They’re bound to change.  And it behooves us all to not get too upset by the bad times.  They’re also not going to last forever. 
Having narrated the story and made my point, I feel impelled, (to be distinguished from feeling impaled,) to add that I saw no reason why the rich guy couldn’t have had the mantra too, but I didn’t feel to mention it at the time.  Goenka could get a little cranky.  I also wondered if the poor but allegedly happy brother wasn’t being just a bit mean-spirited.  It rather sounded to me as though he was getting back at his rich but soon to be dead relation for grabbing all the good stuff.  If he was really so happy and contented, why did he have to rub his brother’s nose in it?  He could’ve simply said a few good words of solace, put a warm towel on the guy’s tortured brow, changed the bed-pan and left it at that.  But, I kept my thoughts to myself.          
The main thing here is that I’ve made a darned good point and, in the end, it remains for us all to sleep well in whatever bed we’ve made up for ourselves.   

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Open Letter to Barak Obama.

Dear Mr. President;
     From reading my blog, you will have come to know how highly I value the ancient technique of Dhyaan, Meditation.  In almost every posting, I somehow slip in a few good words about the practice.  I don’t insist that anyone start a daily practice.  I prefer to simply nag until the people roll their eyes, throw their hands up in the air and agree to try it out, just to get me off their collective backs.  I merely wanted to write and tell you, Mr. President, that I still believe in you, to encourage you further and, yes, to lightly suggest a daily practice of silent introspection. 
You’re terribly busy, I know.  And you have to deal with all kinds of weird and wonderful people.  I get it.  It can’t be easy.  You’re presiding over, as the forty-fourth President of those United States, a very tricky time-period.  You have to deal with terrorism, natural disasters, poverty, a growing cynicism, an alarming increase in adult bed-wetting and a failing economy.  And on top of all that, you have to deal with people questioning whether you were actually even born in the United States. 
The Donald, comb-over king of real-estate, is the latest to call for you to show everyone your birth certificate.  Personally, I couldn’t care less.  Keep it under your mattress, Mr. President.  Duct tape it to the lid of your cistern.  Let Michelle hang onto it.  She looks stronger than you anyway.  You may have come from Hawaii, Kansas, Kenya or Indonesia for all I care.  You could’ve come out of a Petri dish for all I care.  I don’t care if you’re Christian or Muslim, black or white.  I don’t care if you like to mud-wrestle, for that matter.  
The fact is that, while so many peoples of the world are concerned with protecting their heritage, I am a firm believer in the mixing up of the races.  To my mind and way of thinking, interracial marriages should be encouraged and celebrated.  I say, let everyone get so mixed up that we totally lose track.  Of course, I’m an irreligious Jew, unilingual English-speaking Canadian, with a home in French Quebec, who has spent most of his adult life in India.  My opinion might not be considered particularly valid.     
Be that as it may, what matters to me is that you’re one good man wanting to treat everyone with dignity and equality, Mr. President.  Ok, so you smoked a little pot, snorted a little cocaine in days gone by.  Who didn’t?  I did, and look how well adjusted I am.  All that I want to say is that, before the first mother, the first father, the first Petri dish baby, I’m pretty sure we all came from the same place.  And that place does not require birth certificates or a Department of Homeland Security.  It cannot be burnt by fire, drowned by water or blown away by the wind.  It’s pure, free and forever, Mr. President.  Meditate on that, Mr. President.   And may God bless America. 

Thursday, March 31, 2011

The Bridge Between.

For a copy of my gripping book; The Bridge Between, please contact Susan Randall; madhurta@magma.ca. or call; 819 459 1160.  The cost is 14.00 cdn., which includes postage within North America . 

The Flowers.

Early morning in Kullu, when the sun streams in through my tall porch windows, I like to sip a coffee while watching pheasants flutter around the bushes and trees in my yard.  They wag their long, colorful tails up and down instead of from side to side.  They look in my windows, as curious about me as I am about them.  Eventually, I lie back down on the bed and a channel, a steady and intoxicating stream of consciousness inevitably opens up, flowing through me, carrying me along its current to a place I like even more. 
I’ve had a lot of time to hang out in that place lately.  I’ve been staying home, sick with something exotic such as malaria, or maybe it’s just a simple, garden-variety flu.  But, let’s not quibble.  I’ve been sticking close to home and that’s the main point, lying on my bed drifting, dreaming, standing by the sink gargling, drinking; walking in the yard coughing, wheezing, sitting in the garden, watching.
About ten days ago, I put in some nice flowering plants, a couple of ancient stone carvings, for effect, and cut back the shrubbery.  Of course, it takes a while for plants to proliferate and for flowers to flower.  And I’m not at all against instant gratification, in principal.  So I trundled off to the spring crafts fair in town and bought some silk flowers, put them in an urn and put the urn in the new garden for something bright to look at immediately.
As I sat there, I soon realized that I wasn’t the only one enjoying the new, silk flowers.  A big old bumblebee came along and alighted onto one of them, buzzing from one to another of them, doing what bumblebees do, I guess.  And, while I am a firm believer in keeping my nose out of other folks’ business, I couldn’t help wondering what that big old bumblebee might be thinking and feeling.  There she or he was sitting on what, to all appearances, was a terribly luscious, bright yellow flower in full bloom, trying to draw out the good stuff only to come up empty.  That’s gotta sting, excuse the expression. 
A second bumblebee sat down upon a neighboring fake flower.  I envisioned that the first bee had called out; ‘Hey, Freddie, come give us a hand will ya? Something’s all messed up here either with me or this friggin flower. I don’t get it. I mean, I really don’t get it.’  While I don’t pretend to know the bumblebee mechanism for extracting nectar from a flower, I do realize that ‘hand’ is probably not the word he or she used.  In any case, the second bee had no better luck, shot me a withering glance, and eventually they both buzzed off in a huff.  And I went back to my bed.   
Of course, whoever may be reading this blog posting would be well within their rights to assume that my description of the bumblebees’ ordeal has been the meanderings of a drug-addled flu sufferer, or maybe it’s malaria.  But, I assure you that nothing could be further from the truth.  I perceive that the bees’ frustrating, futile, failure for fulfillment is an apt metaphor for the human condition.  Let’s face it.  We do tend to seek fulfillment where it isn’t, or at least where it isn’t for long. 
According to all the ancient saints and sages, except for St. Leonard of Lascivious, this world is not real because it’s not permanent.  Leonard disagreed, but apparently his heart attacked him while he was fulfilling himself.  The others realized that true fulfillment can only come from directly knowing that one steady stream of consciousness, pure, free and forever, runs through all of God’s creatures, irrespective of color, caste, creed or any differences.        

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Facebook.

Nathan Vanek is also on Facebook.  Feel free to connect that way. 

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

He's Got Game.

One hears people say; ‘I’m dragging my backside around,’ from time to time.  It’s an almost endearing, enigmatic expression which can mean anything from; ‘I’m waiting for a triple-bypass operation,’ to; ‘I drank too much prune juice last night.’  In my case, it simply means that I played too much basketball again.  And at this time, I mean it quite literally.  I am actually dragging my backside around.  
I would prefer that my backside keep up with the rest of my torso, but it insists on lagging behind, as it were.  I find myself talking to it while trying not to look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame walking down the street.  I cajole it.  ‘For Christmas sake,’ I mutter, red-faced, clenched-teeth, exasperated, ‘could you possibly go any slower (!?) You’re embarrassing me.’  You see, I have always been a sports star in my own mind and I’ve been trying to prove it, to anyone at all, for the past fifty years.   
This unfortunate state of affairs began with hockey. 
My parents enrolled me in an intramural hockey league at a local rink.  I would’ve preferred to remain in my room playing with my pet budgie, named Mr. Cohen, but my parents insisted.  That meant that I could either play hockey or endure a debilitating character assassination, probably several.  So, off I went.   
The coach was duty-bound to play all the kids, only I was really a terrible skater.  He tried to teach me.  He even went out and bought me ankle supports.  It was futile.  He tried me at every position until, one fateful evening, he placed me in goal.  The coach put all the pads on me; he even gently inserted the metal cup over my gentals, a kindness that made me feel mildly uncomfortable.  He threw the mask over my sorry head, tied the skates and pushed me out onto the ice with stick in hand.  And I immediately recognized the first signs of a urinary discomfiture.  It was a little early in life to conclude that God was against me.  Still, I really couldn’t believe my rotten luck.  I was mortified. 
Meanwhile, the puck was dropped.  I was a prisoner within the game, the goal, my pads and my body while a growing panic brought with it a sense of urgency.  From that first moment, I knew I was in trouble.  Within no time, a huge brute of a kid was bearing down on me, stick handling around the defense like a pro until he had a clear path to the goal.  I had a fleeting thought that he looked like some sort of mutant.  Wouldn’t that be illegal, I reasoned (?)  The kid had a breakaway and I was the only obstacle between him and his future.  He made one last nifty move to my left; he shot, I peed, he scored and I never played hockey again. 
Later on, I shifted my attention to football, then baseball, soccer, volleyball, even lacrosse, until I tried basketball.  I was pretty good at most sports, but I instantly fell in love with basketball.  I decided it was my ticket to soaring heights of success.  I practiced day and night. 
Anyway, I returned home one evening to find Mr. Cohen hanging upside-down on his perch, stiff as a board.  In order to allow a respectable period of time for the grieving process, I was late for school that next morning.  So my home-room teacher, a lady whose name, not coincidentally, was also ‘Cohen,’ asked me why I was late.  I told her that I had to bury Mr. Cohen.  There followed a long and rather uncomfortable silence until I finally pointed out that Mr. Cohen had been my pet budgie, recently deceased.  There followed another long and rather uncomfortable silence until she asked, with some apparent difficulty, why I had chosen that particular name for the bird.  I responded that the name had occurred to me, obviously, because of his large beak and that’s when I was sent to the proverbial principal’s office.  I assumed that being from the same ethnic background would afford me a certain artistic license, but apparently not.  
I was suspended from junior high-school for only a few days, but kicked off the basketball team as further punishment.  Later on, I smoked myself off the high-school team, drank myself off the university team, which brings me back to my current inability to walk like a normal human-being.  Be that as it may, once my backside catches up with the rest of me, I imagine I’ll be right back on the court, playing with anyone, anyone at all.  That’s just the way it is.    
The Tidal Wave.
In the meantime, I watched a great movie last night that I found inspiring and uplifting.  That’s what great movies do for us.  It was all about how the leaders of the developed countries of the world banded together, during a G8 summit, to actually eradicate extreme poverty in Africa.  At the end, once I was sitting back in my chair reflecting upon what I had just viewed, I could not help but acknowledge that it was, after all, just a movie.  It wasn’t real.    
Fortunately, my reasoning did not stop there.  I thought about how bold the makers of the movie had been.  The film-makers had done what they could do.  And, I realized, that should not be minimized.  Film-makers can donate money and time, of course, to charities of their choice.  But, as makers of films, that was what they could do for Africa, for the world.
As meditators, we are doing what we can do.  And that should certainly not be minimized, although it so often is.  There may always be poverty.  There will almost certainly be natural disasters, such as earthquakes and tsunamis.  There will always be birth and death.  But, there is a lot of scientific data now to prove the positive power of meditation upon ones environment.  Of course, I know I’m preaching to the choir, so to speak, when I say that we should, we must be great, to do what we can do.  All over the world today, there are pockets of souls sitting together in meditation, praying for peace, creating vibrations of oneness and harmony.  We are creating a better world, a tidal wave of unity consciousness washing away our tears. 

To an enlightened mind, this world is a movie, not real.  After it’s over, when an enlightened being sits back and reflects upon what he has just viewed, she cannot help but acknowledge that it was, after all, just a movie.  It wasn’t real.  We know, however, that every character in it was animated by one life, one light, pure, free and forever.  And we continue to meditate on that one love.  That’s what we can do.

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

The Source of Joy.

Walking away from the Wakefield dental office without my two bottom front teeth was a pivotal moment for me.  At first I thought that perhaps I could tell people I lost them playing hockey, only I don’t play hockey.  I thought I could say I had been mugged, again.  Instead, I gave up all hope.  I’m not sure what I had been holding onto so hard, aside from those teeth, but I smiled to myself then.  I let it go.         

Jack Benny once said that advancing in age is a case of mind over matter.  If you don’t mind, he said, it doesn’t matter.  Of course, he was well into his eighties by then.  I was only in my fifties.  And, for the first few moments after my teeth went flying across the clinic floor, it mattered to me.  The world as I knew it had just changed forever.  But, I let it go.  I had to wait a week for the gap to be filled with what they call a ‘partial plate. I had to sit in my shop and smile a toothless smile at all the lovely people, but I let it all go.     
It’s really a process of giving up all hope, of a self-image which is impossible to live up to forever, of holding onto a permanency where it never has been, never will be.  It’s really a process of getting over ourselves.  And that happens automatically to everyone with age.  It has to happen.  Some people age gracefully.  Some don’t. 
My old granddad leaned up against a ledge to rest, as we ambled slowly along the hospital hallway, looked out the window, down at a graveyard far below us and said with a wan smile; ‘Well, that’s convenient isn’t it?’  Then he looked over at me.  ‘Howie, Nathan, Handswash or whatever your name is,’ he said fondly, ‘Sometimes you have to smile even when you’re not feeling it.        
What can help in this process and why we meditate is simply knowledge, an ability to see things as they are, knowledge of what is not permanent and, more to the point, what is permanent.  However, the sort of knowledge I’m referring to is direct.  It’s not theory.  Every thinking, inquisitive human has studied enough Philosophy, Science, and Theology or just thought deeply enough to realize intellectually that there must be a continuum of life beyond our transitory self. 
Meditation is a process of experiencing that continuum directly, first-hand, of experiencing the agency that animates our bodies, the pure essence of what we are.  Then that direct knowledge goes hand in hand with the intellectual knowledge and the aging process.  That’s the whole package.  That’s the holistic knowledge which becomes our rock, our unshakable strength of character.   
I remember just like it was yesterday how I felt upon leaving the Wakefield dental clinic that day as a cold, autumn wind whistled through the gaping hole in my mouth.  It was a strange kind of freedom.  I had embraced my toothless-ness.  It was, after all, likely to be the only thing I was going to embrace for a while.  But, little by little, I began to enjoy smiling a big old smile as people marched through my shop.  I smiled at the brave little girl with no hair.  I smiled at the aged man who was purchasing the carved walking-cane, the young couple in love, anyone, everyone. 
Thich Nath Hanh wrote; ‘Sometimes your joy is the source of your smile.  But, sometimes your smile can be the source of your joy.’           
    

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Observations of a Gas Jockey.

Bigotry is handed down from generation to generation.  It’s as old as the hills and completely insane. 
A lot of the racial strife in this country dates back thousands of years to when, due to climate change, the light-skinned Indo-Aryans filtered down into the Hindu Kush from the Caspian Sea area, allegedly around fifteen-hundred B.C.  It was the beginning of the caste system in India.  They pushed the darker, indigenous people, later known as Dravidians, south.  Aside from not really liking the look of them, and needing the land for themselves, the Aryans did not appreciate that the Dravidians kept pilfering their cows.  The Dravidians had never seen animals like that before and were strangely drawn to them.      
The Dravidians, on the other hand, didn’t appreciate being pushed around and have been firmly holding onto the grudge ever since.  They largely ended up in what is known as Tamil Nadu and Sri Lanka today, where the Tamil Tigers have been fighting for a separate homeland for many years.  In general, the darker-skinned peoples of the land became the lowest caste, the Untouchables, Shudras, even though they were here first.  And, of course, that has been a hot-ticket issue over the years, sometimes leading to horrid violence.  Foreigners, by the way, called Malecha, are even lower on the totem pole than Shudras, although not really in practice.     
I won’t bore you with details of why, historically, Sikhs tend to hate Muslims or why Muslims tend to hate Hindus or why the Hindus tend to, well, be wary of just about everyone.  Suffice it to say, Indians have suffered many foreign conquerors and have become just a wee bit cranky.  It is note-worthy that the Sikhs, for example, started with Guru Nanak preaching oneness and ended up vowing to never cut their hair until all Muslims are driven from the land, agitating for a homeland of their own, Kalistan, in what is the Punjab today. 
Now, one of the attractions for me to move back to Canada, in ’98, was to live in my own birth-culture once again.  I was certainly one of the most integrated into Indian society by then.  I loved and love India.  However, I just felt an overpowering desire to be with my own people, so to speak, at least for a while.  So I went to Canada and, with my customary sound logic, decided to settle down in Quebec.  What’s wrong with that picture, you may ask (?) 
As soon as I fell off the proverbial turnip truck and landed in beautiful, downtown Wakefield, I needed a job.  So I applied at a local Garage where I saw a help wanted sign in the window.  I was immediately rejected because I could not speak French.  The owner, a good old West-Quebec boy, larger than life, who could put the fear of God in anyone, visibly trembled at the thought of the so-called Quebec language police.  It seemed that I could not even get a job as a gas jockey in Quebec.
Everything worked out for me.  Eventually, I even had my own business in Quebec.  But, even then, as an Anglophone business owner in Quebec, there were times when I felt the next logical step was for the Quebec government to round me up and cart me off to a camp somewhere, and not to go paddle-boating.  It became clear that some Quebecois hate the English, some English hate the French.  It’s well known that some people hate the Jews and the blacks, the Irish, the British.  The Sunnis and the Shias have a nasty habit of massacring each other.  Catholics and Protestants have a difficult time of it.  The list goes on and on.  It’s truly enough to give a decent, thinking person a headache.   
Yet, this goes way beyond who is right or wrong, justified or not.  We all breathe the same air, our hearts all pulsate with the same desire for love, all our minds can indeed be turned to Oneness.  And it doesn’t take thousands of years.   

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Freedom's Star and Love's Rain.


Only along these hallowed hallways of forms imagined
In absence of candle light,
Can God recall with all relief the brilliance of His own.
And be ever after the benefactor of more bounty
Than the most daring of pirates could have ever known.
To roam with freedom’s star at Her back amidst
A celebration of fear’s flight.

Only within this structure, narrow and changing
Along illusion’s foyer of time and space,
Can She watch Himself loosen its confines to reflect
On being ever the recipient of more richness
Than the shrewdest entrepreneur could’ve hoped to collect.
To drift purposefully with love’s driving rain at His chest
Towards an awesome and humbling grace.

Only along these stairways of creativity,
Designed for joy and sorrow’s conclusion,
Can the very Lord of the estate enjoy the climbing,
To look out upon the garden and stream,
A panoramic vision to the corners of a kingdom,
More grand and expansive
Than the greatest conqueror’s unfulfilled dream.

To gaze forever undisturbed with freedom’s star
And love’s rain as Her comrades against delusion.
To walk forever undisturbed with freedom’s sparkling star
And love’s driving rain as company in His eternal seclusion.

Friday, February 4, 2011

Love is an Avalanche.

As a result of my last blog offering, I learned a valuable lesson.  I must never say; ‘don’t ask.’  I wrote; ‘…don’t even get me started on the subject of sex.’  And I immediately received several messages requesting me to do just that.  And, for the most part, they were strangely adamant that I clarify my position. 
Frankly, I have no position.  I haven’t had a position for ages.  Suffice it to say it has been a long season without rain.  Please don’t misunderstand.  I am in favor of sex, at least in principle.  After all, I would not be writing this blog if it weren’t for sex.  Luckily, my parents were in favor of it, at least for a while.     
In any event, I have no intention of discussing the issue further other than to suggest moderation in all things.  I would be happy, however, to write a little bit about love.  I understand that love and sex go together, unless of course one is referring to ones pet German Sheppard and then hopefully not.  I just want to steer this essay in a direction that I feel more comfortable with.       
A couple of weeks ago I read, on the internet, several very interesting and often amusing answers to the question; What is love like(?)  The question was put to a class of grade-school students.  The answer I liked the most was from a 9-year-old boy who likened love to an avalanche.  When he was asked to explain that, he allegedly said; ‘Love is like an avalanche because it’s very exciting, but then you have to run for your life.’  I thought that was an insightful answer, although I couldn’t help wondering how a 9-year-old boy could have become so cynical so early.  He had me beat by at least three or four years. 
Be that as it may, the quest for love is a driving force within each of us.  One of several misbegotten ideas I had, upon leaving Kullu in ’98, was to create a family of some sort.  I had not gone so far as to envision actually fathering a child.  Rather, I considered the possibility of becoming a surrogate father to an existing creature while squiring his or her mother around town.  I admit it was not a particularly well thought out plan, but to that end I embarked upon a futile series of coffee dates, mostly by meeting ladies through an on-line dating site.  While I was unsuccessful in developing a relationship, I did develop a troublesome caffeine twitch, which didn’t help my overall presentation. 
It soon dawned on me that, as an ageing yogi, the odds were pretty well stacked against me.  Meanwhile, I had many of the usual experiences of internet dating.  One lady had clearly gained about two-hundred pounds since posting her photo.  I met an undeniably beautiful lady whom I was instantly attracted to, until I witnessed the disgraceful way she treated the waitress.  Another, upon taking one look at me, immediately exclaimed; ‘Oh, you’re not what I’m looking for at all!’  Ouch.  One of the last women I met for coffee told me, as I began to twitch like someone with Dropsy, that she was actually psychic and perceived that I had a problem with my God, whatever that meant.  
I met ladies who obviously had lied about their age, their weight and/or their education.  I met many others whom I wished had lied.  Then, on the very day I turned fifty, that long-held desire left me.  I recall sitting outside, on a lovely summer Sunday reading the newspaper, very aware that something within me had just changed.  I felt free again, fortunate, quite content with my lot in life. 
At that precise moment, however, the phone rang.  It was a lady who had first contacted me a week earlier.  She had been attracted to the fact that I had lived in India for so many years.  That in itself was usually a red flag.  And, just as I feared, she had a bundle of spiritual concepts.  For example, she told me that she had cut off all her hair.  I asked if she had short hair or was actually bald.  She answered by saying that there was more hair on her legs or under her arms than on her head.  That was worth a few flags all at once.  Multiple red flags were fluttering in the wind by then. 
Still, for some odd reason, I allowed myself to accept a coffee date with her for that Sunday, not realizing how I would feel on the day, my 50th birthday.  Unfortunately, I had completely forgotten about the date by then.  When the lady called that morning, she asked what I was doing and, after I told her, she said that she never read the newspaper or ever listened to the news.  So, aside from having just mildly insulted me, yet another flag was heaped on top of the pile.  But, what could I do?  As well, she insisted on coming up to Wakefield, which horrified me.  Apparently, she loved the village.    
I didn’t want to take her to the restaurant where I normally hung out, so I suggested a place called Sandy’s Pizza.  She responded in the negative, saying that she would not go there because people smoked in the restaurant.  So then I suggested another place called Chez Eric.  She again responded in the negative.  I was a bit surprised because, as I insisted, there was no smoking allowed there.  However, the scrupulously spiritual woman pointed out that there was smoking allowed in the yard outside and she would not go anywhere near people who smoked.  I couldn’t help wondering where in Quebec she could ever go. 
You may have guessed what I did then.  I had a very rare stroke of genius.  I told her that I smoke.  The conversation went like this;
‘You smoke!?’
‘Like a chimney.  In fact, I’m smoking right now as I talk to you.’ 
‘But, but, your on-line profile clearly states that you are a non-smoker!’
 ‘Well,’ thinking quickly, ‘I had stopped, but then I started again and now I can’t stop.’ 
‘Son of a bitch!’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘In that case we can’t meet.’
‘It’s my loss.’
‘Let me know when you quit.’
‘You’ll be the first to know.’
And that turned into the best birthday of my entire life, although I did absolutely nothing.
Baba Hari Das once wrote; ‘I never met a householder without problems or a monk without problems.’  So, in the end, I would like to humbly offer a recipe to help remain free and content in whatever situation you find yourselves in.  I recommend taking time every day to sit somewhere comfortably, where you can remain undisturbed for a while.  Close your eyes and dwell upon some person, pet or even a thing that you have loved deeply in your life.  If he, she or it has died or left you, even if the memory is painful, trust me here, it’s still all coming from the same love, the same place. 
Next, I suggest letting go of the object in your mind and dwelling on the feeling itself.  Follow that feeling with your mind’s eye, so to speak, to its source within you.  That feeling, that space, was there before the object of attraction ever came in front of your vision.  It has always been there, will always be there.  Meditate on that space inside, let it pulsate slowly through your whole body, beyond, and then back again to its center.  Let it fill your being with all the goodness that love holds for us.
I know what many of you, who know me personally, must be thinking.  You are probably thinking; ‘Just one cotton pickin’ minute. Isn’t he a married guy?  Yes, it’s true.  I am a happily married man.  A couple of years later on, I met and married a beautiful, charming, good-natured lady whom I still adore.  And I enjoy every minute I spend in her lovely company, which is approximately twenty minutes per year.  Don’t ask.