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.