the power.

the power that moves the hand to write.

i'm almost finished a memoire, the real story of my life, the whole package, all the incidents and adventures never told. what bothers me is that it's really not very long. how can that be, i ask myself (?) the real book, the complete story, the whole truth of my entire life, and it's hardly more than a friggin pamphlet! that is deeply troubling to me. i've always felt that my life is very important. i've always felt it is epic. frankly, i've always felt as though i was the centre of the universe. and yet, there it is: a pamphlet.

of course i'm exaggerating. but, were you ever so good at a sport that you were the go-to guy? were you ever that guy, (speaking as a guy,) who everyone passed the ball to until gradually, by virtue of injury and age, you ended up doing all the passing? have you ever had a girlfriend who hung on your every word and laughed at all your bad jokes? have you been that guy, (speaking as a guy,) so attractive until gradually you became someone she backed away from slowly in hopes that you would think it a naturally evolving nothingness?

i knew a guy once who was convinced that he was the reincarnation of jesus. he felt his life was that important. he did look a little like jesus, although i doubt that the son of god had a tattoo of a python on his neck, but maybe. i knew a guy once who was sure he could fly, but eventually discovered he was spectacularly mistaken. it can hurt when you find out how deluded you have been.

interestingly, many ancient sages have said that, if you sit alone long enough, you realize you are in fact the centre of the universe. you realize you are that important. only at that time, they said, you realize everyone else happens to be the centre of the universe as well. my life is epic, although apparently it has little to do with the incidents described on a page and everything to do with the power that moves the hand to write.

"what lies behind you and what lies in front of you pales in comparison to what lies inside you." ralph waldo emerson. (1802-1883)

Missy.

My dog, Missy, was a particularly large shaggy dog, for an Indian mutt. Many of the locals were scared of her simply because of her size, although she was really very gentle, except for when she'd bite people.

Missy was actually just a weee bit racist, didn't like Indians. That did present a problem since we were, of course, in India. The problem was that she had been abused as a puppy. Her original owners were my landlords, not the most sensitive or loving people I'd ever met. One day, when they were hitting Missy, I just grabbed the rope and announced that henceforth she was my dog. She would go everywhere with me. Sometimes I'd even carry her onto the roof of a bus and we'd sit up there together all the way through the mountains.

Missy had been spayed but, unfortunately, she could still go into heat. The vet botched the operation. It may not have been his fault, exactly, since the power went out right in the middle of the operation and I had to hold a flashlight while he continued. Ever afterward, about three times a year, Missy would create quite a ruckus in the neighborhood. The local dogs would go berserk with desire. She was safe in my courtyard, although we could hear the fighting going on continuously right outside. I could see paws reaching in under the door as if trying in desperation to grab her. When I took Missy for walks at that time, she was quite happy for me to put her on a leash, and I carried a big stick to wave off the other dogs. We would often jump in a scooter-rickshaw and speed to a different valley, to get away from the pack, until another pack would begin to form.

Missy was completely uninterested in having intimate relations with any of the dogs in the area... except for one. I came to know eventually that Missy was terribly in love with one and only one of those cadaverous-looking, carnivorous canine creatures. She had a fancy for the smallest, scrawniest of the lot. She liked the one that was kind of a mix between a chihuahua and a gerbil. For some reason Missy always played only with that dog, liked to hang out with that one and, when in heat, she would cry for only him.

Well, I loved Missy and Missy loved that little fellow. So I arranged for the two of them to spend some quality time together even while Missy was in her hotness. The three of us would jump in a scooter-rickshaw. Missy would keep her partner under some control by virtue of her more commanding size until we reached the next valley. It was not always a very comfortable drive for me, but once we got out of the vehicle they were free to work out the logistics themselves. They'd find themselves a small hill, Missy would back up to it while her partner went up onto it, and that was how they consumated their love. I admired the way Missy protected her undersized friend. She would not put up with him being bullied by the others.

One problem I had with her was the way she liked to sneak around the back of stalls in the market and steal a mouth-full of sweets. My biggest problem with her, however, was her nasty habit of taking the odd nip out of any old random Indian person who happened to be walking by. It wouldn't happen all the time, just some times. But, one time it was perfect. She bit our landlord's son, badly, the kid who had been most fond of hitting Missy when she was a puppy. He made a big point of instructing me to watch her for rabies during the next ten days.

About four or five days later, as I passed his door, I called out to him in Hindi. All I said was "the dog." He looked over at me as I made a motion to indicate the dog was frothing at the mouth. His eyes went wide, all color drained from his face as I continued on my way laughing happily.        

free-falling.

"my wife was afraid of the dark. then she saw me naked, and now she's afraid of the light." rodney dangerfield.

imagine getting to the place in your life when teeth just fall out, for no reason. that's where i'm at. one of my few remaining chiclets just fell right out into my hand. and it wasn't the first time. yes, it's happened before. that's ok. there was no pain at all. but, if you think about it, why was there no pain? why the heck was there no pain? the tooth was glued back in, no problem.

so that's where i'm at in my life. teeth just fall out into my hand and there's no pain at all. they're simply glued back into place, i put on a nice shirt and i look like a normal human. of course, most everyone can imagine getting to that place in ones life. those that can't imagine it are almost certainly not reading this blog. they're too busy being wonderful. but, they will get there, or here, all in good time. and when they do, they will sit down and ask themselves, as i have, one very important question: what must i do to remain happy as i become less and less wonderful?

my favourite scene from 'comedians in cars getting coffee' is when jerry seinfeld was driving ricky gervais around in a small british sports-car at high speed. ricky gervais was terrified, which seinfeld was finding incredibly funny. at one point, seinfeld asks: "do you think we look gay?." gervais responds: "it doesn't matter. it just doesn't matter. it's like when you're jumping tandem out of a plane. you and your instructor are holding onto each other tightly and you're praying that the parachute opens. it just doesn't matter that you look gay."

i've read, heard and/or sat with some of the greatest spiritual masters of our time. but, really, i cannot remember the human condition ever being summed up better than that. ancient sages of the far east devised an intregal system consisting of eight limbs. the buddha talked about four noble truths. patanjali wrote down 196 aphorisms. my uncle morris drank a twelve-pack every night. but, i suspect that what may help is simply understanding that it just doesn't matter.

well, that's something wonderful to chew on anyway.

Meditation Works.

By Sue McGreevey, MGH Communications

Participating in an eight-week mindfulness meditation program appears to make measurable changes in brain regions associated with memory, sense of self, empathy, and stress. In a study that will appear in the Jan. 30 issue of Psychiatry Research: Neuroimaging, a team led by Harvard-affiliated researchers at Massachusetts General Hospital (MGH) reported the results of their study, the first to document meditation-produced changes over time in the brain’s gray matter.

“Although the practice of meditation is associated with a sense of peacefulness and physical relaxation, practitioners have long claimed that meditation also provides cognitive and psychological benefits that persist throughout the day,” says study senior author Sara Lazar of the MGH Psychiatric Neuroimaging Research Program and a Harvard Medical School instructor in psychology. “This study demonstrates that changes in brain structure may underlie some of these reported improvements and that people are not just feeling better because they are spending time relaxing.”

Previous studies from Lazar’s group and others found structural differences between the brains of experienced meditation practitioners and individuals with no history of meditation, observing thickening of the cerebral cortex in areas associated with attention and emotional integration. But those investigations could not document that those differences were actually produced by meditation.

For the current study, magnetic resonance (MR) images were taken of the brain structure of 16 study participants two weeks before and after they took part in the eight-week Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) Program at the University of Massachusetts Center for Mindfulness. In addition to weekly meetings that included practice of mindfulness meditation — which focuses on nonjudgmental awareness of sensations, feelings, and state of mind — participants received audio recordings for guided meditation practice and were asked to keep track of how much time they practiced each day. A set of MR brain images was also taken of a control group of nonmeditators over a similar time interval.

Meditation group participants reported spending an average of 27 minutes each day practicing mindfulness exercises, and their responses to a mindfulness questionnaire indicated significant improvements compared with pre-participation responses. The analysis of MR images, which focused on areas where meditation-associated differences were seen in earlier studies, found increased gray-matter density in the hippocampus, known to be important for learning and memory, and in structures associated with self-awareness, compassion, and introspection.

Participant-reported reductions in stress also were correlated with decreased gray-matter density in the amygdala, which is known to play an important role in anxiety and stress. Although no change was seen in a self-awareness-associated structure called the insula, which had been identified in earlier studies, the authors suggest that longer-term meditation practice might be needed to produce changes in that area. None of these changes were seen in the control group, indicating that they had not resulted merely from the passage of time.

“It is fascinating to see the brain’s plasticity and that, by practicing meditation, we can play an active role in changing the brain and can increase our well-being and quality of life,” says Britta Hölzel, first author of the paper and a research fellow at MGH and Giessen University in Germany. “Other studies in different patient populations have shown that meditation can make significant improvements in a variety of symptoms, and we are now investigating the underlying mechanisms in the brain that facilitate this change.”

Amishi Jha, a University of Miami neuroscientist who investigates mindfulness-training’s effects on individuals in high-stress situations, says, “These results shed light on the mechanisms of action of mindfulness-based training. They demonstrate that the first-person experience of stress can not only be reduced with an eight-week mindfulness training program but that this experiential change corresponds with structural changes in the amygdala, a finding that opens doors to many possibilities for further research on MBSR’s potential to protect against stress-related disorders, such as post-traumatic stress disorder.” Jha was not one of the study investigators.

the meaning of life.

a few weeks ago, i admitted that i don't know the meaning of life. it was tough, but i have to sleep with myself. no, not like that. we're just friends. however, i also suggested one should be sceptical about anyone professing to have answers to those really big questions like 'what is the meaning of life? where do we go after death? why heavy snow in mid november during global warming?' these are questions i doubt anyone can honestly answer from direct personal experience. at the same time, i appreciate great people who answer in the affirmative. how is that not completely contradictory? well, in fact it is. only, the pivotol phrase is 'great people' and i didn't say i would necessarily believe or understand them.

the poet rumi allegedly wrote: 'death has nothing to do with going away. the sun sets. the moon sets. but they are not gone.' i love that. i don't necessarily understand it, but he was apparently a great man and i love it. arthur schopenhauer once said, with tremendous authority: "after your death you will be what you were before your birth." wonderful. who knew? to me, that comment is ludicrous, really. it's like saying: "after you take a bath you will be as clean as you were before you got dirty."

on april 1, 1991, the dalai lama visited santa fe, new mexico, to visit a small group of tibetan exiles. while there, he wanted to see a ski hill and went to a resort in the sangre de cristo mountain range.during a meal, a young waitress with tangled, dirty-blond hair and a beaded headband began clearing the table. she stopped her work to ask the dalai lama: “can i, um, ask a question?” “please,” he said. she spoke with complete seriousness: “what is the meaning of life?” apparently there was a brief silence at the table.

then the dalai lama answered: “the meaning of life is happiness.” he raised his finger, leaning forward, focusing on her as if she were the only person in the world. “hard question is not, ‘what is meaning of life?’ that is easy question to answer! no, hard question is what make happiness, money? big house? accomplishment? or …” he paused. “compassion and good heart? this is question all human beings must try to answer: what make true happiness?” he gave this last question a peculiar emphasis, as the story goes, and then fell silent, gazing at her with a smile.

“thank you,” the girl said, “thank you.” she got up and finished stacking the dirty dishes and cups, and took them away.

when we take off our bodies.

"clothes make the man. naked people have little or no influence on society." mark twain.

for a couple of years, i had been holding regular wednesday evening meditation sessions in ottawa. the number of participants dwindled over time and so i began to wonder if it was worth my driving in from wakefield every week.

when i mentioned that to the loyal attendees one wednesday evening, there was a gratifying expression of disappointment. i would be exaggerating if i said they were weeping, pounding their chests or gnashing their teeth. but, they were not pleased and one lady in particular was quite demonstrative. i liked that, until she began to blame me personally for the poor attendance. of course, it was a reasonable assumption, her main criticism being that i did not present myself properly. i did not act or even look like a guru. i could hardly argue the point, as i sat there wearing a 'wakefield general-store' cap, khaki pants, a checkered flannel shirt and a pair of 'tigre geant' checkered under-shorts. i don't think anyone ever saw my underwear, but you get my point.

i decided to dress up for the part, just as a joke really. for the next wednesday's session, i put on my long flowing white kurta, lungi and drove into town. as always, i stopped for dinner at the 'perfection-satisfaction-promise' vegetarian restaurant on laurier street before the class. i loved the place and still do. one feels that the food is always prepared with devotion, the music and ambience is peaceful. i had been going there virtually unnoticed for years. we know each other now, but the lovely, kind ladies there never paid me the slightest attention up until then. why should they? on that occasion, however, they saluted me reverentially with folded hands, bowed heads. i felt like pointing out that i was the same jerk who had been going there for like ever.

the fact is, the world works a lot like that. i guess my shirt got pretty dirty when i pumped gas at ryan's garage. i was expected to be nicely suited and booted when i was a high-end jewellery salesman on sparks street. i recall a client of mine saying, after handing over his rolex for servicing, that he felt naked every time he took his watch off. he asked if i knew how he felt and i responded by saying: "sure. i feel like that every time i take my clothes off." my employer, standing nearby, rolled his eyes and walked away.

lord krishna tended the cows. the great poet kabir was a weaver by profession. wasn't there a great sage who was a shepherd or a carpenter? what was his name? nelson mandela was a lawyer. johnny cash picked cotton and jay z was a drug dealer. i have no doubt they all dressed the part. viktoria beckham dressed up as a sperm on roller-skates in a bbc sex education show. there was a great sixteenth century sufi saint by the name of sarmad who refused to wear anything at all. contrary to mark twain's assertion, sarmad actually had a tremendous influence on indian society in his day. even while being threatened with a beheading, he steadfastly refused to swear allegiance to any one god. he insisted that god resides in every living being. he did, by the way, lose his head.

i am not the gas jockey in the dirty shirt. i'm not the jerk who wore the flowing white kurta and lungi. i am not the gentleman in the suit. i'm not even the guy in the flannel shirt. in fact, threatened with a beheading i'd dress up as a ballerina if that would save me. clothes, in fact, do not make the person any more than the color of ones skin. what makes the person, according to the great saints and sages throughout all time, is what's in ones head and heart.











   

some images stay with you.

as the years passed, sleeping in my parents' apartment on my visits became a tremendous challenge. my mom slept in the large master bedroom on one side while my dad was delegated to the den on the other. it wasn't because he snored. it was because she snored. i never heard anything quite like it before or since. i had to sleep on the sofa in the living room, between the two rooms. you might say i was stuck between a rock and a hard place. suffice it to say, the general atmosphere was oppressive.

i vividly recall one winter visit specifically, for two reasons. firstly, i had pulled a chest muscle trying to do too many push-ups earlier in the day on their cold balcony. so i was even more uncomfortable than usual that night. secondly, while i tried to get some sleep, my mom woke up and wandered out into the living room looking for her cigarettes, buck naked. i also remember that occassion because of what happened later.

i tried to sleep, but eventually i just sat up and began to meditate. my head was throbbing and my chest hurt. i kept envisioning my old mom naked. i kept thinking of home. nevertheless, a great meditator observes whatever's happening without trying to cling onto the pleasant or get away from the unpleasant. a great meditator practices equanimity, being the watcher, the uninvolved observer. after a few minutes of that, however, i basically said "xxxx this bs", got dressed and went for a walk.

i walked for quite a while along icy sidewalks until i found myself in front of the 'north toronto general hospital'. seeing the lights and activity, and thinking it might be nice to sit down somewhere warm for a few minutes, i decided to go in. i was immediately escorted to a counter where a tired-looking woman asked me a few questions. when i produced my quebec health card she frowned. however, when she asked me what the problem was, for lack of anything else to report i said i was having chest pains and that changed everything. i had no idea what effect that would have on her. within moments, while a large room full of patients patiently waited, i was whisked through to an inner area, slapped onto a gurney, electrodes attached to my chest, a needle stuck in my arm and i was wheeled into a curtained-off cubicle. i had just wanted to sit down.

a nurse came in and told me that i would need to stay there for at least a couple of hours. i totally wasn't expecting that scenario, but i could hardly explain how i was simply out walking the streets because i couldn't get the image of my naked mother out of my head. so i settled back and decided to make the best of it. soon, i drifted off into what would become a wonderful sleep/meditation. a nurse would come once in a while and we would smile at each other. i heard somebody crying nearby at one point and i felt tremendous empathy, but it wasn't a terrible feeling. in fact, i felt at home and spectacularly comfortable.

as the morning approached, a doctor came in, announced that i was fine and that i could go. i was almost sorry to leave. however, walking into daylight, i appreciated the feeling of the cold air on my face, glad to have good health. and when i arrived in front of my parents' apartment door, i took a deep breath, prayed that there would be enough oxygen to go around, and then i entered. just a little later on, sitting around the breakfast table, mom asked how my night had been and i told her it had been really very nice. that seemed to make her happy.

file this away.

when i returned to canada, in 1998, i first stayed with my parents in their small toronto apartment. it was not optimum, but i really had no choice. i had nowhere else to go and little money. i hadn't spent more than a few hours or a day with my folks in more than thirty years and it was not a situation in which i was comfortable. still, they were nice enough to let me use their den as a bedroom for a while.

upon carting my one suitcase into the room my dad, who followed me, insisted i never look in his filing cabinet. he was very definite about that. he told me exactly where to put my clothes and showed me where a blanket was which i could use when sleeping on the sofa. in the kitchen, i absently reached into a jar to take a cookie and my mom slapped my hand so hard i jumped off the ground. she barked: "NOT BEFORE DINNER!" when i reminded her that i was a forty-eight year old gentleman, she simply said: "doesn't matter to me, buster!" the den smelled badly of stale cigarette smoke, so i opened the balcony screen door. unfortunately, even tragically, a fly flew flagrantly in.

i didn't really take much notice but, by the time the fly made its way to the kitchen, all hell broke loose. my old mom began yelling and running around the place waving a large spoon. she was completely freaked out. my dad began hollering for me to "shut the damned door! shut the damned door!" i'm sure you understand that, in india, one fly flying flagrantly into a room would not raise an eyebrow. in that apartment it was as if we had been descended upon by an apocalyptic plague of locusts. mom kept trying to swat the thing and hitting appliances loudly instead. dad kept repeating that it was a huge problem, a huge problem. that was when i made my second mistake. i stupidly remarked: "dad, leprosy is a huge problem. bride-burning is a huge problem. one fly is really more of a nuisance." needless to say, my remark was not appreciated. the situation was finally resolved, however, at the expense of the life of the fly and with a heart-felt promise by me to never ever open the screen door again.

after dinner, which for me consisted of some totally over-cooked broccoli and mashed potatoes, all smothered in thick cheese, my parents shuffled down the hall to their friends' place to play 'bridge.' so i lay down in my bedroom, the den. as i lay there, i kept looking at my dad's filing cabinet. i kept looking at it and wondering why it was so important that i not ever go into it. of course, eventually i couldn't resist. i opened the top drawer. there was just a bunch of folders there, all sorts of my dad's business documents. so then i opened the next drawer. i was surprised what was in there. hesitantly, i opened the last drawer. then i stepped back.

both of those drawers were packed full of every letter i had ever written to my folks, filed neatly in folders, each labelled 'nathan' with the month and year.  

a small leap of faith.

a lovely, somewhat intimidating lady recently asked if i knew what was the meaning of life. i told her i didn't know, so she said: "then why should i come to you to teach me meditation?" of course, i told her she absolutely shouldn't. i suggested that she should find someone who knew what the meaning of life is.

the problem, in that case, would be having to take the person's word for it, wouldn't it? that's a bit tricky. personally, i would have a hard time with that. i would go so far as to get on an airplane without knowing how the whole thing works. i would have that much faith. i would eat in a decent restaurant without being certain of how the food was prepared. i would be that trusting. but, i still would probably be a wee bit skeptical of someone who claimed to know the meaning of life. i would not jump on that plane. i would not bite into that sandwich.

i have an acquaintance who refuses to get on an airplane at all, and i can't really blame the guy. i was once on a flight from bhuntar in the himalayas down to delhi, with an unscheduled stop along the way, during which i concluded my faith may have been misguided. my lower extremities since then, frankly, tremble at the very thought of flying, although i still do it from time to time. i was once about to dig into a plate of vegetable curry when i spotted, just in time, a lifeless cockroach staring up at me with a shocked expression, as if to say: 'oh crap. i zigged when i shoulda zagged.' obviously, i still eat in restaurants, although not that particular one.

during a nasty monsoon season, many years ago, i was summonsed to canada immediately because of a family emergency. the road washed out around pundoh, a trecherous stretch of gravel at the best of times. the routine, when rock-slides made the road impassable, was to walk over the landslide and take a taxi stuck on the other side. in effect, you would switch cars with people heading the other way.

unfortunately, the driver of the vehicle i ended up with had been driving for days and over-tired. he actually kept nodding off. but, even after almost sending us over the cliff, he would not let me drive and insisted he was fine. he kept wagging his head and repeating his mantra: "if it's god's will." i basically had to sit close beside the guy all night and swat him every time he began to lose consciousness. we reached my hotel in delhi around 3:00 a.m. i grabbed the keys so he would sleep for a few hours saying: "it's god's will."

faith and skepticism are not mutually exclusive qualities. but, in regard to meditation, the fact is it doen't matter. the days of blind faith are done. the days of learning from each other and thinking for ourselves: those days are very much upon us. as well, meditation is not a religion. thankfully, you don't need to know the meaning of life. one needs only enough faith to give it a try, a small leap of faith. the landing is worth the flight.

'skepticism, like chastity, should not be given up too readily.' george santayana (1863-1952).

these most recent himalayan photos are by my friend bramachari mayank, malcolm m reid. best wishes; nathan.

Silence and the Bomb.

One of my more lucrative side-businesses in the early days of my business in India was changing U.S. dollars on the black market. It was, of course, just a little bit illegal.

Many customers paid me in the foreign currency and I would get a premium for that when on my buying trips to Delhi and Jaipur. On one memorable occasion, during a busy day in Delhi, I suddenly realized I had lost my shoulder-bag. Having also been in the gold and silver jewellery market that day in Chandni-Chowk, the bag not only held thousands of dollars and about one-hundred thousand rupees in it, without bank receipts, it was full of gems and jewellery. A lot of the money, by the way, wasn't mine. And, oh yeah, my passport too. Basically, I was screwed, spectacularly screwed.

In my mind, there was no doubt I'd left the bag in the last scooter-rickshaw I had been in. But, trying to find it was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack, and I knew it. I tried, of course. Eventually, however, close to tears, I retreated to my room at the Gandhi Guest House, sat down on the bed and put my head in my hands. Perhaps as a last resort or out of desperation, I just decided to be still, to be silent. It wasn't meditation exactly. I was just sitting, and I kept on sitting for quite a while, until a thought occured to me. I recalled briefly being at the 'Western Union' office in the 'Imperial Hotel.'

My very next thought was that I had had my bag after that. Nevertheless, I slid off my bed, with next to no hope, and shuffled listlessly down the street to the hotel. As I walked into the 'Western Union' office, there was a large crowd around a bag, my bag, all staring down at it. I knew they thought it might have been a bomb, although in that case you gotta wonder why they were all crowding around it. I also knew the police would be there any minute. I wove my way through the crowd, grabbed the bag and quickly left the building.

I was totally elated, completely relieved, thanked the creative intelligence, my lucky stars and any deity I could think of for that thought, which came from out of silence. 

why meditation.

the water stopped working in my house on saturday evening. i figured i'd be left high and dry at least until monday. so i strategically positioned a bucket outside and hoped for rain. then i went to bed.

our local plumber, the erstwhile mr. peter hogan, however, was nice enough to come over even on a sunday morning. he figured out the problem within a minute and temporarily fixed it up for me. he suggested i turn the central tap off when i wasn't using water until he returned with the new equipment required. later that same day, having just turned the water off, i walked back upstairs, began to rinse a dish and was shocked, absolutely shocked that the goxxaxnxd water was again not working. yes, within a minute i had forgotten that i'd turned the central tap off.

after recounting that story to my buddy, the renowned quebec painter john f marok, he suggested that perhaps i'm living too much in the present moment. then i found myself wondering about the difference between living in the present moment and senility. maybe there isn't much of a difference. somebody asked me recently what the difference is between the states of deep meditation and deep sleep. it was a valid question and i had to admit that, as far as i can tell, not much. what's the difference between love and attachment? again, not much.

the question i get all the time is: 'why do you meditate?' actually, i hardly ever get asked that. mostly, i get asked: 'why don't you eat fish?' sometimes i get asked: 'how often do you get up to pee in the night?' nevertheless, once in a while i get asked the meditation question and i always say something glib like: 'it's better than booze.' but, really, why do i meditate? is it to experience the inter-connectedness of all life? is it to experience our source? is it to experience an unbroken and unshakable sense of well-being? or is it simply because it's better than booze?

in the vedantic texts of the hindu religion, it is written that there is a state of consciousness reached in meditation that is called 'samadhi,' 'moksh' or 'kaivalya'. at that point, apparently, the yogi is free from all desires, bondages and has attained absolute pure consciousness. in the 'pali canon' of the thervadan buddhists, it is suggested that meditation is a way to reach 'nirvana,' a state of imperturbable stillness of mind with the cessation of desires, aversions and delusions. all the great religions and philosophies have ideas we could argue about until the cows come home.

be that as it may, there is a subtle and not so subtle difference between being in the moment and dimentia, deep meditation and deep sleep, pure love and attachment. however, i meditate really because it is, in fact, better than booze. of course, i do appreciate the sense of well-being, the perception of oneness, all that and more. but, i'm not a vendor of meditation any more than i am a seller of booze. as far as i'm concerned, whatever path one walks along that leads to well-being and a sense of oneness, is 'meditation'. and when someone like peter gives up his sunday morning to help a neighbor, i am reminded of the fact.

Love and Death in the Kali Temple, by Shayla Wright.

Love and Death in the Kali Temple.

I was living in Calcutta, when I was twenty-one, working with Mother Teresa. I was doing spiritual practice and working in her children’s homes, which were beautiful, joyful places. Mother Teresa also had another home, in a huge Kali temple that had been given to her by the Kali priests of the city. This was her Home for the Dying. All the people in Calcutta that were usually left to die on the streets now had a place to depart with dignity, for the very first time. These were the lepers, the people dying of malaria, elephantiasis, and starvation. There were amazing stories about the Home for the Dying, and I really wanted to go and work there.
I spoke with one of the nurses who was part of the team at the Home for the Dying, and she told me to just show up, and they would put me to work. I was really happy to know that the way was open for me-this felt like such good news. And I couldn’t do it. I was young, and tender, and the thought of all that death in the Kali temple was pretty scary. Every morning I would get up with the intention of going to the temple. And every day would pass without me going anywhere near that realm of death and dying.
Sometimes I would go to the children’s homes and work. But as day after day and week after week passed, I grew more and more disheartened. Often I would just go out into the streets of the city and wander. Calcutta is a whole universe, so my wandering was like some kind of initiation, an intense and wild journey. I was in love with the city, and every single day it taught me something.
But I couldn’t appreciate this at the time. I felt that I had lost my way, that I had caved in to fear. I was full of shame and remorse. Finally one day, without even planning it, my feet carried me to the doors of the Kali Temple. I stepped inside and saw an enormous room with a domed ceiling, and rows and rows of beds circling the edges of the cavernous space. I approached a table where some nurses and assistants were sitting. I felt so nervous, my whole body was quivering.
“I’m here to help,” I said. “What can I do?”
One of the nurses gave me a brilliant smile. She picked up a white cloth and a pair of scissors.
“You can clip their toenails dear,” she said, “It’s time for that today.”
I took the scissors and lurched towards the first bed that I could see. I wanted her to give me a whole lecture on how to clip the toenails of people who were sick and dying. I didn’t know how to do any of this—how to approach them, how to be with them. I felt like a complete idiot.
I sat down at the end of the bed and looked up at the man who was lying there. He was pretty old, with long white hair, and covered right up with blankets, so I couldn’t really tell what he was dying from.
“I’m here to clip your toenails,” I said, tentatively pulling the blanket away from his feet. I was very relieved to see that he had all of his toes, and that they were clean—the assistants in the home bathed everyone who was there. I picked up his foot and started fumbling around with the scissors, praying that I would not hurt him as I cut his toenails. Then he started talking to me.
“What’s your name?” he asked me. As I told him, I looked up at his face. I suddenly realized that he not even slight self-preoccupied-he was completely aware of my state. He was talking to me so I could relax. Something flipped around inside me in that moment. I saw the truth of what was actually going on: I was not helping this man, he was helping me.
I took a deep breath and looked at him again. He has this radiance around his face. “How are you?” I asked, feeling it in my body now, that he was in a much more expanded state than I was. “I’m fine,” he said. “Isn’t it beautiful here?” I turned and slowly looked around the temple for the first time. I could feel my whole being settling down and my heart softening as I sat with this radiant old man. I was able to feel the energy in that room for the first time. It was filled with something luminous, a warmth, a loving presence. “It is beautiful here, yes.” I said, noticing that my words were like tiny little drops in the vastness of what we were sitting in. “What is this light?” He smiled at me. “It’s the light of love, my dear,” he said. “It’s simply the light of love.”
In that moment, without any warning, it became obvious to me that love is stronger than death. That love embraces death, just as it embraces birth. The radical clarity of this realization took over my body and mind. There wasn’t room for anything else. I said goodbye to that old man and went on to the next person. I spent many hours in that room, meeting person after person who was floating in the love that lived in that Home for the Dying.
Was it Mother Teresa who filled that room with light and love? Was it Jesus? Was it Kali? Was it the deep gratitude of all those people who had been picked up off the streets and brought there? I have no idea, and it doesn’t really matter. That moment of knowing that love is stronger than death has stayed with me. That bright clarity lives on; it doesn’t die.
In order to arrive at that moment, I had to wander. I had to get lost. That’s how it is for us humans. I couldn’t make that moment happen. All of my egoic intentions and willpower were just like dust in the wind. But there was something underneath, a deep longing in me that wouldn’t go away, that eventually carried me to the doors of that temple.
Following the deeper currents in our being, listening to our deepest longing, does not move us forward in a straight line. We have to meander, we have to wander, we have to visit the city of despair and darkness.  Evolution is very curvy; it’s not a bit linear. It’s like snakes and ladders. Just when you think you’ve totally lost your way, you find yourself in the perfect spot. There’s a river carrying us all, with its own intelligence and beauty. When we surrender to the flow of that river, our life finds its own way.

“I would love to live like a river flows, carried by the surprise of its own unfolding.”
~John O’Donohue

with love; shayla.

CONTACT
Shayla lives and teaches in Nelson, BC, Canada.
Check out her website: 'Wide Awake Heart.'
You can contact her by email:
shayla@wideawakeheart.net

The Art of Flying.

There was a flyer tacked up in 'Banyan Books' advertising a three-day Vippassana retreat on Vancouver Island with Ruth Dennison. I heard that Goenka excommunicated her from the U Ba Kin lineage due to some unorthodox teaching methods she had begun using in her retreats. The timing could not have been better for me to take a 'time-out'. As well, I hadn't seen the old girl in years.

It was somewhat deflating, therefore, when Madam Dennison showed no signs of remembering me at all. Nevertheless, the retreat began as they all did and, except for the unusual brevity of it, I really couldn't understand what was so different from the norm. That changed when we were instructed to pair off for a short mutual massage session in the early afternoon of the second day. That was weird enough, but what came soon after that blew my mind. Ms. Dennison told us to go out onto the front lawn of the place where we were and to fly around like butterflies. I really couldn't believe it. That was so not like any Vippassana retreat I had ever been to. Vippassana was all about silence, all about a strict routine of meditation, nothing else, at all, ever. I had accepted the little massage session, but this? I was consumed with a mixture of surprise, indignation and terror. I thought: 'I am a long-time Vippassana meditator. I've sat with Goenka for months. This is totally undignified and I will have to refuse.'

At the same time, everyone else began to circle the yard. So, after that moment of hesitation, I let go. I really had no choice. I let go, joined in and, as soon as I began to flap my arms like a butterfly, I began to laugh. I laughed harder than I had in many months. I glided around the yard flapping, laughing, feeling the soft moist grass under my feet and the warm afternoon air on my face. That was truly an amazing few minutes during what turned out to be an amazing meditation retreat.

Ruth Dennison may have been thrown out of that lineage of Vippassana masters, but she certainly managed to teach at least one very serious meditator how to fly.

Grasping.

'Grasping at things can only yield one of two results: Either the thing you are grasping at disappears, or you yourself disappear. It is only a matter of which occurs first.' S.N.Goenka. 

it's all in the spicing.

two cannibals are eating a clown. one turns to the other and asks, "does this taste funny to you?"

i was once a fruitarian. for about a year and a half i ate citrus fruit every morning, sweet fruits the rest of the day and nuts anytime i could get them. some of the time i'd eat raw veggies too, but never at the same time as fruit. as well, i fasted periodically. i fasted for up to a week, drinking only water and coconut juice. obviously, i became skinny as a rake, but i could shimmy up the coconu trees without any trouble at all.

in those days, i was devoted to the teachings of doctor arnold ehret (1866-1922) who had devised a diet he called 'arnold ehret's mucousless diet healing system.' it was a paradisical diet with the aim of purifying the human system for physical well-being and spiritual growth, whatever that means. the good doctor had actually cured himself of 'bright's disease,' previously considered incurable, and had gone on to become very well known in his time. his ideas on diet, family and religion made him quite a controversial character.

the doctor's views suited my tendency toward fanatacism in those days. i did nothing in half measures. however, one day while reading a newspaper and munching on a banana in barre de navidad, i saw an article that shocked the heck outta me. it put me right off my banana. dr. arnold ehret had died. he apparently slipped on a wet, slick bit of pavement, fell backward, hit his head on the curb and died. 'what the fark(?)!,' i exclaimed to no one in particular. 'what the fark is the use(?)' all the fasting, the ridiculously austere diet and that's the result(?)

soon after that revelation, i ate a big, rich chicken dinner at the ramada inn in tucson, arizona, and within minutes all hell broke loose. i ran to the bathroom and proceeded to obliterate the infrastructure there. in fact, i'm pretty sure they had to do a major renovation following my departure. suffice it to say, my body did not appreciate the huge swings in my diet.

it took a while, a good long while, but i did eventually find a middle path, my middle path. and, while i still respect much of dr. ehret's views on diet and other subjects, there is one thing i respect much more. that is euphemistically called: self realization. it's the knowledge that, while our bodies may be transitory, that agency which animates these bodies is, according to many ancient sages from many different backgrounds with many different ways of speaking, pure, free and forever.

the first mother.

who was that first mother?

one gets to the point where one sees oneself as simply 'being', a living organism, no personal history, devoid of hopes, dreams or unfulfilled desires. what was before that? where did that organism originate? who was the first mother? where or what is that source, really? these questions still remain after forty years of meditation. it's no good to accept what ancient sages have said or present religous leaders say.

i'm waiting for a specific medical test to be done, scheduled for the end of september. so there is every chance i'll be spending my birthday in a very strange and rather undignified position. i've never been much into my birthdays. i prefer to let the day go by each year quietly. but, while not wanting to celebrate, i also don't particularly like the idea of honoring the day of my first breath by having inanimate objects protruding from, well, you get the point.

we collect friends, acquaintances, relationships, family, through the life, all in a futile attempt to ignore the fact that we are actually alone. only we're not, not ever. the illusion is not that we're really alone no matter how many people we surround outselves with. the illusion is that we are really ever alone, no matter how few people we have around us. so there's no problem with surrounding oneself with family and friends. in fact, in my opinion and in spite of my personal example, the more the merrier. but, who was the first mother?

who was that first mother? i slithered away from my mother's home early, very early, worked hard, played hard. sometimes i felt i had to steal food. sometimes i slept in my broken-down old plymouth. one of the greatest turning points in my young life was when i ended up in a hospital bed unable to fend for myself. i couldn't eat, drink, wash or even go to the bathroom myself. i had no choice but to surrender, let go. for the first time i could remember, there was no struggle, no pain or pleasure.

that was during a birthday long, long ago and it was an eye-opener for me. i recapture the feeling daily and it's been increasingly interesting, enlightening, immeasurably freeing. it's been a great journey of discovery. while i still don't know who was that first mother, what i do know is that there is an incredibly peaceful space deep within each of us, free from problems, struggles, and it's waiting for everyone.

"when we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other."
"spread love everywhere you go, first of all in your own house. give love to your children, to your wife or husband, to a next door neighbor. let no one ever come to you without leaving better, happier. be the living example of god's kindness in your face, kindness in your eyes, kindness in your warm smile."
"reach high, for stars lie hidden in your soul. dream deep, for every dream precedes the goal."

mother theresa.




 

forever young.

may god bless and keep you always
may your wishes all come true
may you always do for others
and let others do for you
may you build a ladder to the stars
and climb on every rung
and may you stay forever young.
may you grow up to be righteous
may you grow up to be true
may you always know the truth
and always see the light surrounding you
may you always be courageous
stand upright and be strong
and may you stay forever young.
may your hands always be busy
may your feet always be swift
and may you have a firm foundation
when the wind changes and shifts
may your heart always be joyful
and may your songs always be strong
and may you stay forever young.  

bob dylan.

mushrooming out of control.

dear nathan;
     i've been experimenting with magic mushrooms a lot lately and find it enlightening. i've seen references in your writings to drugs, that you experimented as a young person. can you tell me what part lsd and other drugs played in your development?
      anonymous.

dear anonymous;
   nice name. catchy. it's true that i dabbled in some drugs in those early days. ok, i did a lot of the stuff. frankly, i was one of the lucky ones who escaped (relatively) unscathed. those were the proverbial flower-power late 60s/early 70s. those were heady days and those were enlightening and mind-opening experiences. of course, i had no philosophy or point of reference to help me understand what i was experiencing. i had no ability to articulate it.
    the first time i smoked marijuana i insisted that it was having no effect. then, at a 'mr. donut' shop a few minutes later, i jumped onto one of the stools and, in my best w.c. fields voice, yelled out to the waitress: "come over here my little donut, my little cup-cake, my little eclair!" the rest, as they say, is history.
     over those days, weeks and months, i tried some mushrooms, lsd and other drugs. in spite of not really understanding what was happening, in spite of the stuff actually having a detrimental effect on my nervous system, i can at least say it was life-changing. i became 'open' to new ways of viewing the world and myself. when i heard about a process called meditation, i was open, even fascinated. as i've said before, the idea that there is a possibility for a human to actually experience (or remember) where he or she comes from 'before' and goes to 'after', caught my attention completely. it still does.
     so, while i absolutely do not condone the use of substances at all, such as mushrooms and hyawaska, i will stop short of condemning their use. just please consider, that was then and this is now. these days, experimenting with mind-altering substances is even more dangerous than when i was young. people get caught virtually immediately. people get hooked with one pill, one injection, even one inhalation. these days, there's more out there which can readily shred the nervous system. as well, it's simply not necessary. the information of real ways to learn what the bleep is happening here, is available. be careful, my friend.
     by the way, do you know where magic mushrooms grow? here's a hint: it has something to do with cows and it aint pretty.
     nathan.

living in the moment.

i like to take things back. i mean, i like like taking things back.

sometimes i take back things i've bought, like tools, furniture, bedding. sometimes i take back things like shoes, pants, underwear. actually, you can't return underwear and that's a shame. i'm also mildly uncomfortable after paying for a meal in a fine restaurant. you can't return a meal and that's a shame. i'm aware that the big stores make it easy to return items in order to encourage buying and i do take full advantage of that. i'm not the sort to buy a dress, wear it to a party and then return it the next day. that'd be weird on many levels. but, i am the type to buy something, check it out in the comfort of my own home and then return it if it's not absolutely, exactly, precisely what i want, or even anyway.

sometimes i take back what i've said. sometimes you can't and that's a shame. i would have liked to take back something i said recently to my neighbor at the cottage. he invited me over for a beer. i don't drink, haven't had alcohol since before i became a monk, circa 1970. but i sipped a half a beer with the guy, ate some chips, chatted. the next day he asked how i felt from the beer and i told him it was great, slept like a baby, have decided to become an alcoholic. he didn't seem to find that amusing, which in itself is not unusual. only, then i happened to hear from another neighbor that he's a raging alcoholic.

i know i take returning things a bit far. it is perhaps my pathetic little way of protesting globalization. only, i also know it runs deeper than that. i have been concerned about the moves i make in life. the idea we hear so often, especially as 'new-agers,' is that we should let go of the past, not worry about the future, just live in the present moment. what does that even mean? i have a lovely friend, someone who was my wife for an hour or two, who calls from time to time to see how i am. we have a long-running joke about trying to live in the present moment. when i say that i'm fine, she'll say: "how about now?" when i say i'm still fine, she'll say: "how 'bout now?" that can go on a while.

there are so many things you can't take back and that's a shame. but, that's alright too. one lovely aspect of growing older, of having meditated, of having studied life, is how you become less concerned with the prospect of buyer's remorse. you become less confused by the notion of time. you do intuitively appreciate the moment. thich nath hanh has said: "walk as if you are kissing the earth with your feet. drink your tea slowly and reverently, without rushing toward the future. life is available only in the present moment."

does it really matter if we fully understand what it means to 'be here now'? i don't. i just like the sound of it. i'm still gonna take back the bathing suit i bought at the 'tigre giant' yesterday, if they'll let me. it has the netting inside so they may not accept it. but, i'll hand it over slowly, reverently, and see how it goes.

Where Freedom Lies.

Having lived in this western wonderland now for many years, I have noticed a few small quirks. Hardly any worth mentioning, perhaps, although here I go:

I’m sure you’ll agree, for example, that a schedule which does not allow you to spend a reasonable amount of time out in the light of day is in need of some reconsideration. To trundle off to one’s place of employment as the sun is just showing its glorious countenance over the horizon, only to return home zombie-like after dark, day after day, is just a bit unfortunate. That is even more obvious in winter, of course.

I recall listening to a report on the CBC a while ago about the pervasive problem of sleep deprivation. People are just too damned tired. They’re falling asleep all over the place: at work, in cafes, on busses, while driving, apparently even during sex! And when the program began to discuss the possibility of extra scheduled nap times in the middle of the workday as a solution, I guffawed and smugly turned the radio off. I felt that they were missing the point, and i needed a nap. I obviously liked the idea but, firstly, i felt that the sleepy-time rooms would no doubt be as airless as the offices that knock the people out to begin with. Secondly, the days are already too scheduled. Even sleep is scheduled. There’s a total disregard for the natural rhythms of the life. Our society is all about productivity and, that being the case, I doubted many employers would ever agree with such a proposal.

I always remember the day, during my time working on Sparks Street, when I lay down on a bench in the Clarica building during my lunch break. Even though I was dressed in shirt and tie, even though the bench was out of the main part of the building, a security officer came over and demanded I sit up. I had to sit up! I asked him why, but he only repeated that I was not acting appropriately and that I had to get up. I was not being allowed to lie down even for a few minutes. Indignantly, I pulled my pants back on and left the building.

We know that the most immediate way to change this system, or the world, is to change oneself. It’s a personal thing. Creating a natural, healthy life, replete with ample rest, fresh air and sunlight, is all well and good. It's certainly a laudable goal. And a nap or two during the work-day could be a tremendous help. Meanwhile, however, here's another quirk i've noticed: so many good people continue to sacrifice for their families and that is even more laudable. As well, many great people through the ages, from Sri Aurobindo and Ann Frank to Nelson Mandela, have shown by their examples that no system, confinement or even the innate limitations of our own bodies can really bind the spirit of a person.

'Wall street is where people go in limousines to get advice from people who take the subway.' Warren Buffet.

Here Come Da Judge.

There are certain precious moments in time one remembers forever, moments so dramatic, touching and meaningful that they shape one’s life. The moments I’m about to describe are not like that at all. Not even a bit. These moments were much too normal and banal to be of any consequence. Or were they? They're about my old dad, the judge.

A friend collected me at the airport upon my arrival back in Toronto, thereby saving dad the drive, not to mention any undue stress to other motorists who happened to be out just at that time on that stretch of road. As soon as I entered my parents’ apartment, after hugs, kisses and pinches, we sat down in the den; and they remarked on my nicely shortened hair and beard. My dad launched into his proverbial dissertation on the marvels of the modern electric shaver. In fact, he insisted I at least look at his. He went to bring it out from the bathroom as I peered over at mom. She couldn’t help me. No one could. Dad stood in the middle of the den shaving, telling me that I might not like it at first, but would soon wonder how I’d ever gotten along without it.

"David, he’s not interested," my mom tried to say over the sound of the thing.

"You see this part under the chin?," he called over to me. "This is the trickiest part. You have to pass over it a few extra times."
"David, if you get hairs on the rug I’ll kill you," barked mom.
"Whadya talkin’ bout? This shaver doesn’t drop hairs!"
‘Oh for heavens sake, David, put it away!"
When he came back into the den, dad sat in his chair with the Obus-form backrest and offered the shaver to me free of charge. I didn’t really respond so he started in on my future plans.

"Are you going to ask for a substantial raise from that newspaper of yours? What’s the circulation? Find out the circulation and let me know." Next day, I watched him scour the menu of a local restaurant. It was not a pretty sight. He’d been instructed by his doctor to stay right away from bread, but to eat rice-cakes instead. And that’s like suggesting that a junkie switch to Tylenol. The well-meaning waitress had no way of knowing she shouldn’t have put the bread basket right in front of him. In our haste to clear it from dad’s line of vision, mom and I both grabbed at the basket sending several fresh buns bouncing onto his lap as he just looked at us stoically.

It’s a sign of my father’s age that he’s being allowed less and less of the food and activities he loves. I can so far only imagine what it must feel like. But, during those rain-soaked days in Toronto it was clear to me that soon he’ll have to give up driving as well. I’ve known for some time that to go in the car with dad was to tax my nerves beyond their natural limits. I have no idea when he stopped looking behind for other cars before switching lanes. Many have been the times I’ve witnessed overwrought drivers, having swerved to narrowly miss us cutting in front of them, shaking fists. And he, with an expression of total incomprehension written all over his face, would exclaim, "What the hell’s the matter with them?" Many have been the times when I’ve coaxed him to go when he was wrongly stopped, stop when he was not supposed to go, pleaded with him to stay in his lane, begged him unsuccessfully to give me the wheel.

Returning from the restaurant, as lunch sat uneasily in my stomach after the drive, we pulled up in front of the underground garage to the apartment. Dad stopped on the slope leading down to the door to switch glasses. He pushed the button to activate the garage door and as it swung open he fished around for his clear glasses. "Now where the dickens are they?" he said, becoming more and more frustrated. "Oh for heaven’s sake!" Of course, by the time he finally located his glasses the door had closed again, just as we began rolling down towards it.

"Dad, stop," I yelled

"What?"
"Dad, stop."
"What are you saying?"
"Stop!"
"David, stop the car!!!," mom hollered. That did it, of course, as he somehow, miraculously, came to a sudden halt inches from the closed garage door.
"Oh for pete’s sake," he exclaimed at no one in particular. "You’d think with all the money we pay for the upkeep of this building they could fix this blasted door."
I’m reminded of how my folks had to disallow my old granddad from driving way back when I was barely old enough to sit atop my tricycle. And I know one day it’ll be my turn. 

The morning I left for Wakefield was teeming with rain, and mom didn’t want me to go. Dad took my side and even offered to drive me to where my car was sitting at my brother’s place, but I sure didn't want that. I took the bus. In a way, I’m always sorry to leave them. As well, I’ve never been

able to figure out why I always sleep so well there. In spite of our being worlds apart in so many ways, mom’s cigarettes, dad’s shaver, I feel at home wherever they are.

"Phone when you arrive," was the last thing I heard my dad say as I closed the apartment door. And I suppose that’s just about the way it’s supposed to be.

The New Age.

(first published in 2000.)
 

Having wrenched my knee playing basketball with boys half my age, bigger and just plain better than me, was bad enough. But, to have a Reiki treatment thrust upon me made matters a little worse. It made me cranky. 

I do believe Shelagh, a lovely twenty-year-old Australian lady, truly believed her healing vibrations would help. Unfortunately, suffice it to say I was just not open to it. She was staying with the same friends I was visiting in Chelsea, only I merely dropped in for an hour and was compelled to spend most of the time with her hand strategically placed on my knee. So there we were, my boyhood friend, his wife and I, chatting as normally as can be with a very young girl sitting next to me on the sofa with her hand on my knee. Discussing world politics just seemed strange under the circumstances. After at least twenty minutes she opened her eyes and said, "Whoosh. That was powerful. Did you feel it?" "Not really", I said, looking over at my friend, "but if you had moved your hand up a few inches I probably would have".

Where my cynicism concerning this New Age comes from is unknown to me. There’s a part of my mind, in spite of all that I’ve seen in my life, that remains more than skeptical in the face of Tibetan singing bowls, crystal healing, numerology, astrology, palmistry, tarot cards, sand-box therapy, levitation, astral travelling... I almost had a psychic girlfriend once, but she left me just before we met. I must add, however, that every now and again something happens that reminds me to never close down my subjective little mind entirely. I have often felt a vague feeling of a guiding hand in my life, never stronger than as I made my way by ‘chance’ to Wakefield.

Not long before I left India, for example, I waited in a long line to garland my teacher. It was part of a tradition in India for the occasion. I couldn’t help noticing that most people exchanged a few words with him during their turn. Some appeared to be having full-fledged talks: chatting, laughing, posing with him for the camera. I noticed how each person initiated their little interactions, so I began to wonder what I could say. It’s not usually a situation I find easy. I certainly didn’t want to be the only jerk to kneel speechless in salutation before just slithering sheepishly away.

Finally, I decided I’d simply say that he was looking especially nice and see where it would lead. As I inched towards the front of the queue I practiced my sentence over and over again inside my mind. "You’re looking especially nice today, Swamiji. You’re looking especially nice today, Swamiji. You’re looking ESPECIALLY nice today, Swamiji." It may seem slightly overdone, but I wanted the moment to go off without a hitch.

As I goose-stepped closer to the front, my sentence repeated itself in my mind almost involuntarily, more and more quickly until eventually there remained no one between us. I stepped forward with my garland: shiny purple, green and silver tinsel with its little tassel, and draped it over his head. I knelt down and was about to blurt out my icebreaker when Swamiji said, "How are your parents?" Taken quite by surprise I quickly said they were fine, a little too loudly perhaps. Then he said, "Have you heard from them lately?" I felt as though I shouted out that I’d spoken to them on the phone just recently and that they both wanted me to convey their regards. By then I was on my feet. I thought it was time to move on. Swamiji, however, asked how my cousins were since their visit to India and I turned back even more flustered and said, "They’re great. They write every day, every week, I mean every month or so". Then I began moving away when I heard Swamiji call out to me, "By the way, you’re looking especially nice today."

On the eve of the Psychic Exposition at the Ottawa Congress Centre, which I intend to check out and report back to our readers about, I offer these observations only in order to bring this great New Age into perspective. And you can believe me when I say that there’s a lot I don’t know. I don’t know how to drink a lot of booze without turning into a moron. I don’t know how to change a spark plug, or go dog -ledding, shoot a moose or build a house. But, in the field of mysticism, spirituality and especially meditation, I know a little bit.

What I want to say today is that, if at all one wants to be a great sage of this wonderful New Age, I believe the matter has everything to do with love.

The Greatest Power There Is.

(re-posted from last september.)

Gurus, spiritual teachers, do tend to roam in predatory packs, herds or gaggles along the flat lands of the Indian Deccan. Now, large numbers have migrated to the west and are stalking urban and rural centers even as I write this. This is, after all, the New Age. In 1976 I was meditating in silence with my teacher of that time, U.S.N. Goenka, and with about two hundred other people from around the world for six straight months in Igatpurri, India. We were not supposed to utter a word, have eye contact, read, write or exercise other than a little stretching. We were, however, encouraged to keep breathing.

Near the end of the six months an American fellow, who had joined more recently, for some reason or other got it into his head that Goenka was a Jim Jones-type-of-guy, the anti-Christ, a demon, a devil. I’d seen it all before. He was convinced we were all about to drink the poison cool-aid at teatime. I, on the other hand, had the advantage of actually knowing Goenka. He could be a trifle severe at times, but that was hardly reason enough to call in the FBI or the DEA. And I’d lived through innumerable tea times. There is strong evidence now, all these many years later, that the sugar was rotting our teeth. But otherwise the stuff was harmless. And if anyone had suggested leaving out the sugar I might’ve killed him or her myself. We’re talking serious sense deprivation here, don’t forget. Only four days into his time there, the hapless fellow decided that Goenka was bad, broke the sacred vow of silence, and walked about the grounds crying out to try and save us.

It must’ve been strange and discomforting, not to speak of eerie, pleading passionately to a bunch of silent, slow-moving people who wouldn’t pay attention or even acknowledge him. I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth that morning when our American would-be saviour scurried in. The other people there at the time shuffled out as he ranted on about Goenka having taken over our minds. I continued to brush my teeth slowly, with concentration. I wasn’t about to rush the one small pleasure I had before the day of sitting on my zafu began. Brushing one’s teeth is not usually thought of as something one really waits for or looks forward to. After several months at that place, however, brushing one’s teeth felt like an orgy of sensual delight. It was four-thirty a.m.

As disconcerting as it may have been to plead to a group of silent and slow-moving zombies who wouldn’t pay any attention, I’m sure it was much worse trying to plead his case to me alone that morning. As he ranted on, I watched him through the mirror with a big, silly grin on my face. I just couldn’t resist. I continued to brush my teeth in silence, nodding my head up and down in complete agreement, grinning, with Colgate dribbling down my chin. Eventually he stopped, looked hard at me, and ran out into the darkness.

Soon after, we were all meditating in the main hall. Goenka was sitting on his platform and, since I had been at the monastery longer than most, I was allowed to sit in the front row facing him. There were hardly three weeks left; and the vibration in the room, to say the least, was deeply peaceful. There was a ringing in the room, the sound of profound and utter stillness.

I hardly heard the American fellow running in yelling, "I have to save you! I have to save you! You don’t see what he’s doing to you!" I didn’t even open my eyes. It seemed to be happening far away. I was unaware of him running up towards Goenka with a club until he reached the front; but by then it was too late. I doubt I could’ve moved quickly enough anyway. I saw the boy yell and lift the club up high even while Goenka’s eyes were still closed. But, just as the club reached its crest and was about to plummet downward, Goenka looked up at the boy with a power that shot through him as surely as if it had been a bullet. The fellow stumbled backwards, tripped down the steps and landed in a heap on the ground sobbing, the club lying harmlessly beside him.

And what was that power, you may ask? It was love. I saw it clearly. It was love, understanding, concern and complete detachment. Mostly, it was love.
 

I'm Not A Teacher.

I’m not a Teacher,
You’re not a Student.

This last article is written for those special people who have become interested in or perhaps even fascinated by the idea of meditation. If you’re searching for instructions into a Reiki Level 1 course, Tarot cards, healing with crystals or how to contact your dead grandmother, this will not work for you. As wonderful as all those things may be, these last pages are exclusively concerned with explaining the pure, ancient and highly respected science of meditation, how and why to include it in your life. There is really no certification at the end of studying and practicing. There is, however, tremendous relaxation, a profound sense of well-being and a greater understanding of something I call ‘self-knowledge.’

At the start of one of my recent classes, a scary-looking lady, with the expression of an eagle, asked what my qualifications were for teaching. A lesser man would have broken down and wept. What I said, however, and what I always say, is that I have no certificate or accreditation from any institute. I directed her and everyone to feel free to read the back of one of my books and learn a bit of my personal history, specifically as it pertains to the study, experience and teaching of meditation. I added that, most importantly, one has to rely on one’s own intellect and power of discrimination in order to choose who is worth listening to on any subject, especially this one. And, ultimately, one has to take what is useful from any teacher or technique that guarantees its results. Even the historical Buddha allegedly said that any technique worth employing must help a person in his or her life, here and now, right away.

The main teacher of my life, my beloved and revered Swami Shyamji, once gave me a piece of advice that I continue to keep close to my heart. As I was leaving his Himalayan hermitage to join a six-month, silent Vipassana Buddhist meditation retreat in Maharashtra, India, I asked if he had any last minute words of advice. “Yes, I do,” he said smiling impishly. “My advice is: Don’t be a Buddhist. Be the Buddha.” And with those words ringing in my ears I slithered away. Along with countless other words from Swamiji over the years, I’ve never forgotten that advice. I’ve often repeated it to my so-called students and even expanded upon it. Don’t be a Buddhist. Be the Buddha. Don’t be a Christian. Be the Christ. Don’t be a Hindu. Be Krishna. Don’t be a Sikh. Be Guru Nanak. Don’t be a Jew. Be Moses. Don’t be a Muslim. Be Mohammad.

So, no matter who we choose to listen to, sit with or learn from, it’s up to each of us to dig our own freedom, to find our own way, to become the enlightened one with no certificate to show for our trouble. Just freedom! It is in the light of this realization that I humbly offer these suggestions. In reality, I am not a teacher and you are not a student. If what I write is true and if it strikes a responsive chord within you, then we are united in that understanding. We are united not as teacher and student, but as Truth itself.

Having said all that, I should add something about why it may be helpful to seek some form of guidance or a ‘teacher’ when beginning to examine the science of meditation. One needn’t stay for long. One needn’t cook or clean for him or her, do anything strange in bed or hand over one’s money. What one must do is take advantage of the experience of a fellow traveler who has gone before, who has been up the path and who just might know the tricky twists and turns to watch out for along the way. And there’s one more reason to sit with someone whose meditation practice has matured. Those rare people who have dedicated themselves to the process over many years actually emanate a spiritual essence, a vibration that is transmitted to those around them. That may sound terribly mystical, but it’s a fact and a quality not to be underestimated.

On one visit from India many years ago, my dad asked why meditation seemed to have helped me so much, but not my sister, who had also been meditating for some years. She was a devotee of a highly respected teacher, master and guru from India, Swami Vivekananda, who had been a pioneer in bringing the information about meditation to the western world. Unfortunately, he had passed away long before my sister ever heard of him. I replied to my dad that I didn’t have a definitive answer to that question, assuming that he was even correct. But I offered a possible explanation. I said that if one wanted to learn to play the piano, it wouldn’t really be of any use to sit in front of a photo of one’s teacher placed on the music stand above the keys. Why would meditation be any different? Why, for that matter, would religion be any different? It’s interesting that all truly enlightened people have said that we are one life, one energy, one love, irrespective of caste, race, creed, color or any other apparent difference. Why does the essential and original message of the enlightened beings through the ages become so perverted as to cause wars? Don’t be a Buddhist. Be the Buddha.

There’s really nothing hard to understand about meditation. And yet, it’s widely misunderstood here in the western world, and even in its home country, India. From the Sanskrit word, dhyaan, meditation has become synonymous with all things flaky and maladjusted. It’s been blamed for wasted talents and even wasted lives. Nothing could be further from the truth. I will admit that I put the Saran Wrap in the refrigerator and the milk in the cupboard once in a while. But I, along with so many other people who have spent years meditating, have found something so fine, so beautiful and freeing that nothing can compare with it. Rather than blame the proud process of meditation for our foibles, we praise it as the cause of our deep sense of well-being.

My teacher used to say, “Nathan, the same mind that has gotten you into trouble can get you out of it.” In those days I rather hoped drugs might be the answer. But he assured me that was wrong, that drugs would only ruin my nervous system. I still prefer a mild pain-killer for headaches. However, somehow I came to understand that meditation is a powerful tool. Once trained, I realized, the mind could be used against the enemies of true happiness, such as a myriad of physical ailments, mental complexes and even the innate fear of death. Apparently, the Buddha was known to say that desires are the root cause of all problems. My mother said that lack of money is the root cause of all problems. My friend Danny seemed to think that not having regular sex is the root cause of all problems. Since I tried my mom’s solution and Danny’s solution for a while, I decided to try the Buddha’s, even though I never actually met the fellow. I thought I saw him once at a party, but I couldn’t be sure. Be that as it may, I was pretty concerned about losing my desire for money and relationships if I began to meditate. My girlfriend at the time was even more concerned that I would lose those desires. Now I see that’s not how it works. You don’t have to give up anything. You only have to add one thing to your life: a few minutes of meditation daily. Then sit back and watch it enhance whatever else you’re into. Watch it help you let go of what you want or need to let go of. Watch it make you see the cup as half full. Watch it make you happy.

One of the most prevalent misconceptions about meditation is that you have to stop your thoughts, kill your mind. What one has to stop, cut or kill is only the concept. Go hunting for small furry animals if you must. But, for heaven’s sake leave your mind alone. To allow a wild horse to settle down, it probably isn’t a great idea to put it in a very small corral. It’s far more preferable to give the creature a large, wide-open field to roam around in. In the same way, it’s far better to let the thoughts come and go freely. Merely sitting or lying down for some time each day and applying the technique assure a positive result from meditation, in fact. Only your misconceptions concerning what you’re doing can get in the way. The very act of stopping for a while will have a positive influence on your day, your life. That’s because, actually, you do not meditate. You just need to get out of the way for meditation to happen. It’s so easy, yet very few people can do it.

Nevertheless, this is where the use of a technique comes in. Dhyaan actually means ‘attention’ or ‘contemplation.’ Whether a mantra (usually a Sanskrit phrase) or the breath becomes your chosen point of attention, the results of meditation, as I’ve said, are assured. Done with the right understanding, you will enjoy a quieting of the mind and a heightened sense of well-being. Done with continuity, you will be well on your way to becoming a more contented person, walking happily through life while, of course, sometimes spoiling the milk by putting it in the cupboard.

There are three states of consciousness that everyone is very familiar with: the waking state, the dreaming state and the deep sleep state. From the moment of conception, the ancient sages have said, a person begins to forget that he or she has a fourth state, which is called Turiya in Sanskrit. This state permeates all the other states, just as water is the essence of the iceberg. So the very act of stopping all your activities and tuning in to the essence of your existence, which is what you’re effectively doing in meditation, will take care of a lot. And the benefits are many.

In eastern philosophies and scriptures, you’ll often read that whatever is transitory cannot be said to be real. You’ll read that whatever is eternal is real and true. So this body, mind, ego mechanism is in that case not real or even existing. The ancient sages said that there is, in fact, no death because there was no birth. The space from whence ‘we’ come from, to where ‘we’ go, is considered real. The technique becomes, in the light of the previous paragraph, like an anchor. Utilizing it helps bring one’s attention back to one’s own self, to the reality of the essential life animating your body and mind. The technique helps us stop. As well, the technique trains the mind to focus like a laser beam, which will have far-reaching effects on your day, your life and, ultimately, your spiritual knowledge.

The Vedantic scriptures liken the mind to a monkey flitting from branch to branch, tree to tree. Our mind flits from object to object and from thought to thought. We become so extraverted over the course of the years, or even as each day progresses, that it behooves us to find a way to regroup, so to speak. So, when we’ve decided to let the thoughts come and go freely while we sit and watch, we merely add one new thought. The phrase, or mantra, becomes a very significant and enjoyable thought as time marches on. All true mantras mean virtually the same thing: ‘I am the pure life, the essential energy animating all the forms.’ There is a popular Buddhist mantra that goes ‘Om mani padme hum’: ‘Behold the jewel within the lotus flower.’ There is a popular Hindu mantr that goes ‘Amaram Hum Madhuram Hum’: ‘I am immortal, I am blissful and indivisible.’ All real mantras basically refer to the one life, the one light at the center of all beings, the energy that animates all the forms.

It is often noted that Sanskrit is used for mantras because the vibration of the phrases resonate within the human mind to open certain spiritual channels. For an in-depth dissertation on the vibrational qualities of Sanskrit, I recommend Chaytna’s book, ‘Let’s Learn Hindi,’ which can be found through her website; www.letslearnhindi.com. I’ve always used the Sanskrit word; ‘Shyam’, as my mantra. It’s the name of my teacher and of the power that sustains life. It really doesn’t matter what mantra you choose, although Sanskrit mantras are the most recommended. However, choosing a mantra and sticking to it is important. Meditation is a technique of being one-pointed, after all. Chogyam Trungpa once wrote that western people tend to try many different techniques, which is like a thirsty person digging many shallow wells but never hitting water. He wrote that we should dig one well deep enough to get to the desired result.

Having chosen a mantra, or been given one by a spiritual guide, master or guru, you’re ready to begin. My teacher used to say that you should be able to meditate anywhere unless somebody is physically shaking you. I once climbed all the way down to the bottom of a dormant volcano in Hawaii, called Haliakalu, in a quest to find the perfect spot for meditation. A hut had been constructed there for trekkers, fugitives and folks looking for a perfect spot to meditate. I felt so sure I’d finally found my place. Unfortunately, since there were no panes of glass nor screens in the windows, a couple of flies flew fairly frequently in there making a racket like they were at the El Macombo on a Saturday night. I left in a huff the next morning. Later, on my way to India for the first time, I was compelled to sleep on the rooftop of a hotel in Peshawar after a long and tiring day of travel. The noise level from the crowds up there and the hollering, smoke and smells from the streets below were off the charts. I was convinced meditation would be a wasted endeavor in such a place. But, I had little choice. It was my rule to sit every evening one hour. And after an hour, in spite of my misgivings, I felt rejuvenated, refreshed. As well, contrary to popular belief, it’s not necessary to sit ramrod straight with legs crossed. It’s not even necessary to sit at all. You can lie down, settle into a comfortable chair or sit on a cushion with legs out or crossed. Since meditation is first a process of relaxation, let the sense of ease be your guide. You should feel relaxed and comfortable.

It’s easy to find a spot where there is very little noise. It’s easy to find a spot where there are virtually no pungent odors, unless of course you don’t bathe. It’s easy to find a spot where you’re not touching anything other than the pillows. But how does one get away from one’s own mental projections? As I’ve said before, the first thing to not do is mind your own thoughts. Don’t mind your mind. Remember, the same mind that got us into trouble can get us out. The mind is a trickster, a monkey. It will first distract you from your mantra and then make you feel bad for being distracted. Allow your thoughts to come and go freely. Decide beforehand that you won’t feel bad about them. Because I promise that you will be distracted again and again. So each time you realize you’ve been thinking or listening to a noise or feeling pain, pleasure or a strong emotion of some sort, just go back to your mantra without any sense of self-recrimination. There’s no need to beat yourself up over this. You can even get right into thinking, about your day, your life. You can get into thinking about life itself, pure, free and forever. Just keep returning to your mantra, again and again.

It is important to understand that whatever one perceives and experiences in meditation, just as in ones day-to-day life, is transitory and changing. Whatever one thinks, hears, whatever pain, pleasure or strong emotion one experiences will have a beginning and an end. So, when you meditate it is useful to put your attention on the watcher rather than what is being watched. The same uninvolved observer who was watching as a young boy or girl is the same one who is watching now. As your body has grown and as you’ve gained more and more skills, qualifications and life experiences, that watcher has never changed. That one has been watching all the changes and is watching still, unchanged, uninvolved. That uninvolved observer has always and will always be fine throughout the life and even after. Think about that.

In spite of what I wrote earlier, I am going to suggest two more techniques. Because I feel sure that the people reading this dissertation, like the people I keep meeting, and especially now with the right understanding, are brilliant enough to decide which is best suited to them and how to use the information offered here.

The first of these two techniques is called Anapana, with a soft ‘a.’ It is a technique of concentrating on the breath. Anapana is referred to as the maha mantra, the ultimate mantra. The reason is that it’s the least tangible, the subtlest point one can attend. There’s virtually no form to watch, no form to hold on to with your mind. However, the ancient sages have said that it’s a bridge between the part of us that’s transitory and the part that’s eternal. I have often suggested it can also be combined with mantr.

The million-dollar question is this: Can you allow the inhalation and exhalation to happen on its own without asserting yourself? Can you stop doing anything and just observe your own breath? While sitting, slouching or lying down, or while waiting to be wheeled in for your gall-bladder operation, put your attention on the nose-nostrils-upper lip area and watch the breath. Don’t follow your breath in or out. Watch the inhalation, the exhalation and the spaces between. And, again, as often as your attention is deflected into your thoughts, the noises around you or the pain in your tummy, that many times you have to go back to your chosen point of attention. And don’t bother being bothered by being bothered by being distracted.

You may not think you’re having a very peaceful meditation. As I’ve already pointed out, you may think you’re wasting your time. Just keep in mind that rooftop in Peshawar and give peace a chance. There is no such thing as a bad meditation. You may doubt that you can do it. You may doubt that you should do it. I suggest that you be patient and give yourself time. In one of my recent sessions, a lady said that she really didn’t understand what she was doing while meditating. That was a valid point. It was a valid point because she was not doing anything. We’re not used to stopping. We’re not used to letting go. It’s much simpler to run around the block for a half hour than to stop all our activities for the same time period. It’s the most worthy and yet the most difficult of all activities. In fact, it’s too simple. And don’t get stuck on the technique. You can just watch the space, so to speak. You are the teacher. You are the path.

Which brings me to my third suggestion, my last technique. This simple technique is close to my heart. In fact, it's close to everyones heart. Here's how this one goes:

Just think about a person you have loved with all your heart. Dwell upon that person, or even that pet, you have been most enamored of, most attached to, the being whose presence you have most treasured. Even if he, she or it is physically no longer in your life, even if the memory causes you pain, don't turn your thoughts away. The pain is because there was that much love, that much oneness and I assure you the pain and pleasure are not two different realities.

After a few moments, let go of that person or being and put your attention on the feelings, follow those feelings to their source deep within you. Because those feelings existed long before the object of your love came in front of your eyes and other senses. Those feelings and that heart-space have always been there. Eventually, you can envision a pond that, when a pebble is tossed into it, causes ripples to spread out from the center. Let those waves, the vibrations, spread throughout your body and flood your system with all that goodness. Envision that life-sustaining healing power spread throughout your body and even beyond. But, mostly, dwell on that place, space, center, the force, the source of love.

One of the first things you’re likely to notice is that the quality of your thoughts will change. You probably won’t feel like hollering at your wife or husband so much anymore, tying a tin can to the tail of your neighbor’s cat, back-ending the guy who just cut you off. You may feel uncharacteristically charitable. When that happens, and it will, you may think something is wrong. Of course, if the new thought processes seem strangely soothing, continue. It won’t be long before you’ll get the feeling you’re looking for. When one is sitting, continuously placing ones attention on or identifying with the watcher, one is essentially developing equanimity. Each time one says ‘pain’ rather than ‘my pain,’ or ‘pleasure’ instead of ‘my pleasure,’ one is essentially stepping back from the ever-changing phenomenon just a tiny bit. In that way a person will observe again and again how all of ones sensory perceptions, whether pleasant or unpleasant, change. But a person will also observe again and again how the observer, the watcher, seems to remain ever the same. In that way, one is travelling in the right direction and eventually, aside from any deeper effect, an ability to pause before reacting to whatever is going on around you is necessarily developed. And that ability to take a moment, even a split moment, to act creatively rather than react blindly, is incredibly valuable.

When a person throws an insult in your direction, for example, and you catch it as though it’s a bouquet of roses, the insult loses all its power. It would be tempting to underestimate the technique I’ve suggested. But before discarding the practice out of hand to return to your Scrabble game, you may find it interesting to dwell on the fact that there are thousands of people around the world who have dedicated their whole lives to doing nothing else. Of course, then you’ll have to figure out if they’re all misguided idiots or folks who have actually discovered a way to answer first-hand those insidious questions that linger in our minds from early childhood. While everyone is striving for name, fame and fabulous wealth during this lifetime, people tend to lose sight of one very important fact. In a hundred years or so, nobody you know now will be alive. And nobody who is alive will really care who you were.

There are certain things that don’t go well with meditation. Smoking cigarettes, smoking dope and drinking copious amounts of alcohol tend to be counterproductive. Heroin, crack and meth are not recommended. It’s a matter of going from the grosser to the subtler. And in that regard I would also take the chance to suggest eating less meat, especially red meat, and consuming more fruits and vegetables. People who are completely into eating animals on a regular basis might not appreciate my writing that. But, I think it’s really very important that I do. I only hope you don’t come after me with a meat cleaver muttering something about it being all fine if you use the right spices. In fact, as i've said, nobody need necessarily 'cut' out any pleasures whatsoever. Just add one more thing to your life. Meditation will help everyone.

And while I’m offending people’s sensibilities I may as well mention my belief in the importance of continence. I’m not referring to the obvious advantages of curing oneself of adult bed-wetting. After all, there are effective plastic sheets on the market these days, or so I’ve been told. Certainly, I’d have to be insane to suggest cutting down on sexual activity, it being the way we tend to judge how wonderful we are. So I won’t go there at all. This sensitive area of the ancient science of the sages is esoteric and I therefore will not explain it. It’s secret. My lips are sealed. I’m only lightly, gingerly alluding to the possibility of a certain conservation of energy. I will write all about it openly in my upcoming book, ‘Not Hung Like My Dad.’

When I returned to Canada in 1998, I was quite amazed to find out how many people had attained miraculous powers rather, well, miraculously. It still seems to me that every second person has the ability to heal merely with a touch. Many don’t even need to touch you. They can do it over the phone. There are a plethora of channelers, people able to communicate with angels, crystal bowl healers, psychics, clairvoyants, palm readers, garden variety fortune tellers, intuitives, aura readers, tea leaf readers... It seems that in the new-age everybody’s sister, mother and brother are powerful healers and teachers. And that’s just great. I would only mention that one might be well advised to keep ones attention on the goal.

Many years ago Alan Abel, who was with the Globe and Mail in Toronto at the time, came to visit the Shyam Hermitage in Kullu, India. During his interview with Swami Shyam, Alan asked if Swami-ji had any extra-normal powers. “Yes, I do,” Swamiji said. “I have the power to love everyone unconditionally.” I’m quite convinced that greatest of all powers can be only attained by the direct experience of the oneness of all life, the one life permeating all the forms, pure, free and forever.

There’s nothing to compel one to meditate or even make enquiries about it. However, if you’ve gotten this far, if you are impelled, you may as well read the rest of what I want to say. When one looks up at the night sky and sees all those stars, one has to wonder where it ends. And, for that matter, one has to wonder where it all begins. Intelligent people through the ages have continuously wondered where they came from and where they end up after the body dissolves. I haven’t a final answer to those questions, not from firsthand experience or knowledge. But, I do know that asking oneself those questions is certainly the beginning of a great journey. And my direct personal experience has left me quite convinced that there is a lot of truth in what the wise ones have always said about our source and our destination.

There is more to life than what meets the eye. There’s more to me than this body and mind. This is a fact that I know through personal, direct experience. It has also become extremely obvious to me that, in spite of the many differences, we all breathe the same air, that our hearts all pulsate with the same love of life, and that we all desire freedom.

Namaste.