Wednesday, September 24, 2014

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.

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

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

Thursday, September 11, 2014

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.

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

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. 

Friday, September 5, 2014

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.