little things.

"people don't love each other at our age, martha. they please each other, that's all. later on, when they're old and impotent, then they can love someone, really. at our age they just think they do. that's all it is." albert camus, 'a happy death.'

while sitting with a much younger friend in a local coffee shop, a woman wandered wistfully in and soon somehow struck up a conversation. from a small town in british columbia, house-sitting in chelsea, she admitted to a certain feeling of alone-ness. she engaged my friend, so to speak, in a discussion of their respective hopes and aspirations while i surreptitiously sipped some strong coffee. eventually she did turn to me, and said: "you must be retired." i agreed, and so ended my part of the conversation. clearly there was nothing more to say. i am retired... says it all.

my most gratifying connection with women these days is during unpleasant medical procedures. like the female doctor at a clinic in ottawa who insisted on giving me a digital rectal examination. hey, it was a shock, and i did suggest we have dinner first, but i soon gave in. like the nurse during the long-anticipated ankle appointment who instructed me to take my pants off. who was i to argue, even though a simple pull up of the pant-leg would've sufficed (?) i had a biopsy performed on a tiny imperfection on my formerly fascinating face during which the nurse held my hand. i felt there was something deep happening between us, although i've been wrong before.

many people might consider getting to the 'retired' stage in life kind of sad, but not me. my romantic life has been such that this is actually a step up. i'm a happily aging guy. i find myself looking forward to the next problem. the reality is that love and affection abounds, all arounds, and one must appreciate life continuing to offer up opportunities for us to connect. it's a pleasure in the purest sense of the word. if one could actually realize, recognize, cognize that thread linking all the beads together, the sap coursing through all the leaves, the water permeating the waves, how could one ever feel alone (?)

"in the sweetness of friendsip let there be laughter and the sharing of little things. for in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed." khalil gibran. 

i'm not sayin there's no santa.

"I want the United Church to accept that the Bible is not the authoritative word of God and that God is not where moral authority resides, and to recognize the innumerable divisions religion has created across millennia. If they had the fortitude to say that, I think it could change the conversation of religion around the world. And that’s what I’m betting on." Gretta Vosper, a United Minister in Toronto.

there's been an awful lot of chatter about god over the past couple of thousand years or so. have you noticed? well, i have a weeee problem with all of the great saints and sages, teachers and masters, past and present. i don't know what they're talking about and, frankly, i doubt they know what they're talking about.

why should i believe any of them really knew or know god? if these great people wanna talk about where we come from, where we go, i can handle that. if these great leaders confine their beliefs to a universally shared underlying oneness of all life, i'm in. but, god? why should i believe any of them really knew or know what is god? i'm referring to everyone from jesus to muhammad, from krishna and ramana maharshi to deepak chopra and eckhart tolle. i may as well offend everyone equally.

sai baba of siri said: "there is only one religion, the religion of love. there is only one language, the language of the heart. there is only one class, the class of humanity." up to that point i was right with him, cheering him on. but, then he ends by adding: "there is only one god, he is omnipresent." wtf? and, btw, what's with the 'he' always?

i'm a 'dhyaan yogi', a life-long meditator. that means i don't accept a philosophy, religion or any concept outside of my own direct perception. and through that process of meditation, 'samadhi,' one does experience a cessation of all experience. in other words, one comes to know directly oneself as the very life permeating all, pure, free. i get that. but what is that? for example, what is the state of deep sleep?

mooji, a great teacher who is popular these days, says very few people in the world achieve the goal of self-enquiry, come to know the so-called true self. that of course typically implies he's one of those who has succeeded. well, i get that as well. through meditation the individual dissolves, like a drop of water merges with the whole ocean of life. that's great. what i have a problem with is the assumption that that is somehow akin to the concept of god. where the heck does that ocean come from, a bigger ocean? i may be all wet, but i still don't see where creation ends, or where it began. and i don't believe anyone else has either.

a greek philosophy student asks his teacher: "sir, i understand the world is being held up by atlas. but what is supporting atlas?" his teacher answers: "a huge turtle." "ok, but what is supporting the turtle." the teacher answers, slightly irritated: "another huge turtle." "ah, ok," says the student. then: "but, but, what is holding up that turtle." the teacher, out of patience, barks at his student: "listen, it's just turtles all the way down!"

the buddhist concept of no-self, 'shunya,' just opens the door of our minds to the reality that there's more going on here than what meets the eyes. the buddhist concept of no-self is the same, in my semi-humble opinion, as the hindu all-permeating self. but, what is buddha-consciousness or nirvana? what is brahma-vidya or moksha? what is christ-consciousness or heaven? what is god? the enquiry must necessarily continue.

it must be of great solace to believe that somebody has all the answers: whether it be jesus, krishna, ramana maharshi, mohammad, swami nityanand, sri yukteswar or mooji, aadi shanti, tom, dick or even harry. i aint one of them. what i know through meditation after these years is that it's profoundly relaxing and freeing, that there's obviously more to 'me' than what meets the eyes and there seems to be essentially one life permeating all. i don't know god.

"if we dive deep enough into ourselves, we will find the one thread of universal love that ties all beings together." amma.




   

cruising with dad.

at the ripe old age of ninety-one years, my dad decided he wanted to go on a cruise. he practically begged me to take him on a nice caribbean cruise and my older brother strongly encouraged me to acquiesce to his request. it was only much later that the same brother admitted he would never ever have gone on any such trip with the old guy.

for the life of me, i could not imagine the two of us surviving the voyage without some form of a tragedy happening. there were so many ways for it to go terribly wrong. he could have a stroke on the airplane. he could tumble down the ship's stairs or even fall overboard. he could have a heart-attack. he already had major heart surgery and wore a pacemaker. he could fall in the shower when the boat lurched. he could easily ruin three-thousand peoples' lovely family vacation. i kept wondering: how can the cruise-line allow a ninety-one-year-old guy, who is hard-of-hearing, almost blind and often spectacularly cranky, to go (?) i tried to talk dad out of it. i suggested he try something normal, like sky-diving or bungee-jumping. unfortunately, he remained adamant.

when the big day arrived, i was of course in charge of making sure we both were awake and ready for our pre-arranged taxi at 2:30 in the morning. i was so afraid of over-sleeping that i didn't sleep a wink. i just meditated, sort of, on my side of the apartment, peeking at the clock again and again until it was time. dad was already up, and the taxi was right on time but, as we drove out of the parking-lot, he freaked out. he had left his walking cane behind. i put my hand on dad's arm, told him not to worry. on my way back up to the apartment, however, i was horrified to realize that i had actually forgotten our passports and all our various tickets. if dad had not forgotten his cane... i placed my head against the elevator wall and muttered: 'this is not going to go well.'

although my stress-level was through the roof all the way along, we arrived in ft. lauderdale without incident. in fact, i learned a valuable lesson: getting through the security check is way easier when you're pushing someone in a wheel-chair. once on board the ship, i immediately settled in to literally watching every step dad took. out of all the possible ways the trip could be terrible, however, the one factor i overlooked was dad's propensity for becoming wildly belligerent. he had a problem with everything: registration took too long, his luggage came late to our cabin, his bed was too soft, the towels were too hard.

of course i opted for us to be seated with others at dinner rather than alone. everyone was nice, happy, even joyous. dad remained silent. he was focussed on his salad. the rest of us were just getting to know one another. we were all just eating and talking, eating and talking. especially one lady, a rather loud obnoxious american woman with hair in a bun and aunt phyllis-style glasses. she went on and on until my dear dad, looking up from his soup at me, positively hollered: "you think that lady's ever gonna shut up!?"

after that first night, i opted for us to dine alone. my dad much preferred that as, i'm sure, did many others. one morning while waiting with a bunch of people at the elevator, dad realized he forgot his beloved 'bran buds cereal' in our room. he was addicted to the stuff and startled everyone when he began wailing. "oh for god's sake! oh for god's sake! oh what the hell am i gonna do (?)!" you gotta understand that we were not more than about ten paces away from our door. i put my arm around his shoulders and said: 'dad, it's not these peoples' fault that we forgot your 'bran buds.' you wait here and i will get it." by the end of the week, honestly, i was exhausted.

the one thing dad seemed to really like, perhaps the only thing, was the classical piano music each night in the lobby before dinner. he would sit in a chair near the guy playing and pretend to conduct an orchestra, waving his hand to the music. one evening, he even stood up and waved his cane around demonstrably like it was the baton, swaying with the music while everyone watched, smiled and took pictures.

in the middle of absolutely every night i'd wake up to the sounds of dad sobbing in the bathroom. i was so tired, over-tired in fact. but i'd have to go in, talk a bit, carry him back and tuck him in. he was scared, terrified that he might pee in his bed. i assured him i'd take care of any and every eventuality. it really didn't help. he was too petrified to sleep much. neither of us slept much. even on that very last night i woke up to the same whimpering noises coming from the bathroom. like a zombee, i went in, talked to him, tried to sooth him and put him back to bed. then, about an hour or so later i woke up, shocked. i had peed in my bed! i could not believe it. i was horrified. that next morning of our departure, i handed the cabin boy a rather generous tip, leaned in close and whispered: "i am so sorry, but the old guy peed in his bed."

three years later, as my dad lay dying, he looked up at me and said: "that cruise we went on, that was a good time wasn't it?" i agreed, of course, and then i thought to myself: 'you know, actually, it really was.'

tim.

on a dark, foggy, rainy, unwelcoming day staying home was the obvious choice, get some writing done. so that was that. i was happy with the decision, happy to stay in my pyjama-type stuff, happy to remain dry and cozy. a half-hour later, however, i was in my trusty old truck trundling off to town.

i headed for chelsea. that was far enough, i reasoned, on a day like that. anyway, chelsea is cool. chelsea is where beautiful people go. but, for some reason i didn't stop there. i did steer the truck off the highway onto scott road. i even geared down, slowed as i approached the parking lot. but then i slid right on by 'biscotti'. i asked myself why(?) why(?) i turned onto old chelsea and bumped along the yet unpaved gravel road, but bounced right on past 'le saisons.' i asked myself why(?) why(?) my right foot seemed to have taken over. i was no longer driving. i was driven. i found myself crossing over the alonso-wright bridge, circling 'round and shooting straight into the 'tim hortons' lot. maybe i'm just not cool. i know i'm not beautiful. but, sometimes i just gotta go to tim's.

there are times when nothing will do but that i go for a tim hortons coffee. i'm not proud of it and, honestly, i don't even particularly like the coffee. it has no punch, no soul, and the donuts will kill ya softly. still, there's something terribly soothing about those places, like macaroni and cheese. it's ok to not be ok. it's ok to look like you've seen better days. you can be missing a few teeth, to dress like you've just come off an oil rig. while people elsewhere may be smack in the middle of being wonderful, at tim's people look over when you enter with smiles that say: 'yeah, bud, it's ok.'

before the tim hortons was built in wakefield my buddy and i staged a mock sit-in in front of the huge 'tim hortons opening in spring' sign. we held up molos coffee cups and took photos. those were the days when molos cared. we thought it was hilarious because of all the hubbub swirling 'round the franchise threatening to open here. nobody paid much attention to our shenanigans, the inevitable happened and life went on.

soon after, it dawned on me that tim's is at least one place open later than 6:00 that isn't boozy. it's open all the time, in wakefield. who knew? i'm there right now and it's 4:57 a.m., now 4:59... the drive-through is already busy. the people coming in have a look about them as if to say: "hey, i work friggin hard with seriously messed-up hours while barely making ends meet. i have no friggin dental plan, my kid needs skates and my wife needs some company. if i wanna extra large double friggin double and a honey friggin crawler i damn well gonna have one." 

The Note.

During the fall of 1978 I seriously wanted to leave India. I simply wasn’t having a good time. I was miserable. Of course, the fact that I had Malaria may have contributed to my state of mind.

I was stuck up in my cabin on the hillside far from the hermitage. Once or twice each day someone would look in on me and bring some food I wouldn’t eat. Otherwise, I’d be alone with a fever that made me sweat profusely, chills that made me shake uncontrollably, medicine that made me retch, and thoughts that made me want to be anywhere else. I cursed my decision to go to Mumbai. That's where I contracted the disease. I could've kicked myself for living so far up the mountainside. It was too isolated. I couldn’t understand why my teacher hadn’t sent even one lousy little message in the whole two weeks I'd been ill. I really wanted to leave.

Malaria is a rather unpleasant experience. I do not recommend it as part of ones life experience. And the anti-malarial drug, Quinine, might've been worse in those days than the disease itself. It became increasingly difficult to face that bitter crystalline monster of a pill each day. My mood grew darker than the monsoon skies until, on the tenth and last day of my medicine, I’d had enough. Rain poured down onto the slate roof as I reached for the last pill. Nobody else was there. It was just that pill and me staring at each other. My teacher clearly didn't care and no one would ever know whether I ate the thing or not. I tossed it into a glass by my bed and rolled over.

It was a wild night outside and I was perfectly resolute, quite satisfied to avoid the horrible effects of the Quinine no matter what. I couldn’t sleep. I felt pretty bad but, at just about eleven thirty, a lady walked in the front door soaked to the bone. I remarked that she must’ve been mad to trudge all the way up to see me in that storm. She agreed, was clearly not happy. She thrust a note into my sweaty hand and said: "Guru insisted I bring this to you immediately." I was a little surprised. That was the very first acknowledgement that he even knew of my illness. I was positively shocked, however, once I read the note: "Dear Nathan; Take the last pill and you’ll be better by the morning. Love, Guruji."

I reached for the pill, swallowed it with some difficulty and some water, and in the morning I felt much much better.

hoping to feel the love.

a heck of a lot of people are overjoyed with the results of our recent federal election, an election for the ages. now, the question obviously is not whether justin trudeau is ready to be prime minister. the question now is, is he ready to be a hero?

there was a very obvious collective consciousness at work by the end of the campaign, a unity, one mind. now there's a very obvious collective hopefulness. we've seen times like this before. this is no differnt from the peace movement of the 60s, 'flower power', martin luther king jr., robert kennedy jr., the election of barak obama. but we know that heady times, unfortunately, have often been followed by disappointment.

martin luther king jr. once said: "we must accept finite disappointments, but never lose infinite hope." the desire for peace and not war, the power of a flower placed on a tank, the marches of martin luther king jr., the so-called peoples' president and the selection of a man of color as president: these were actually all tremendous successes in spite of any subsequent disappointment. the expulsion of a prime minister propagating fear, duality and bigotry was a tremendous success, a collective declaration that what we want is to feel the love.

we want indigenous people to be treated properly, their women to be protected. we want well-deserved help for the inuit, for veterans. we want the poor to be pulled up and hatred against gays and lesbians to be pulled down. we want real progress for the environment. we want young mr. justin trudeau to stand up against corporate greed, power politics and cynicism, to be a hero.

the people collectively have put him in a unique position to do some real good for this country and the world. we've gifted him this opportunity and we're kinda hoping he's ready.

the judge.

"i haven't spoken to my wife in a month. i didn't want to interrupt her." rodney dangerfield.

one day a judge visited the ashram and guruji announced that there was to be an important general meeting in the meditation hall. we all crowded in, sat down on cushions knee-over-knee as the 'important' people entered. guruji sat on a slightly raised platform, in his sofa-chair, while the jusge, his wife and several others took their places in chairs arranged along each side.

there were a few speeches, guruji spoke for a while and the judge gave a rather long-winded, boring talk about the spiritual traditions of india. afterward, guruji asked the judge a few questions, the last being: what do you do if you can't make up your mind about a case? the judge launched into an excruciatingly long, dry dissertation explaining the processes he goes through in making a judgment. mercifully, however, eventually guruji interrupted him, then called out my name: "hansraj."

shocked, i jumped up off my cushion near the back of the hall. i was wearing white cotton corte and lungi with rudraksh mala-beads around my neck, my dark curly uncombed hair down to the middle of my back. turning to the judge, guruji said: "this boy looks like a simple himalayan mountain man, but he is the son of one of canada's most influential judges. his father has presided over many dramatic cases, such as when a nurse was accused of killing many babies in a hospital." then turning back to me, he asked: "hansraj, what would your father do when he couldn't make up his mind about a case?"

for some reason that i cannot explain, i knew exactly how to answer. with no hesitation i said: "that's very easy, guruji. he would just bring the matter up during dinner and mom would tell him what to do."

"first of all, you've got to have talent. then you gotta marry her like i did." george burns.

the truck crap.

so i sold the prowler. that's it that's all, as they say in masham, wherever that is. i decided i'd buy a tremendously less expensive and infinitely more maneuverable high-top truck cap instead. i decided i'd simply put my camping mattress, stove, and especially my invaluable porta-potti all in there and i'd be good to go, so to speak.

the only small problem was finding an old high-top truck crap that'd fit my old half-ton truck, but i did. it's ugly, only it fit like the proverbial glove, and not like o.j. simpson's glove. it was the right fit. at around eleven that first night, i decided to check out how difficult it'll be to get the flap and tail-gate closed from inside. i put a light shirt and pyjama pants on and sashayed out to the truck in the dark. i unlocked the flap, lowered the tail-gate, rolled in and managed to slam both shut behind me. it was really not difficult at all. i was quite pleased. however, then another little thought began to niggle at me, as i sat there in the darkness: how was i going to get out?

immediately upon realizing i had successfully locked myself tightly into the box of my truck, i had to acknowledge yet again that, in sharp contrast to my wonderful public persona, i am actually dumb as a post. i jiggled and fiddled with the mechanism for what must've been three-quarters of an hour. i'd stop and try other things, then go back to fiddling and jiggling. i got my fingers stuck several times trying to manipulate the workings of it. it felt like i was a neanderthal learning to use wooden implements for the first time or a chimp learning sign language. it did not go well. eventually i accepted the very real possibility that i might have to actually spend the night in there.

meanwhile, holding on to some semblance of intelligence, i recalled how stephen hawking allegedly once (somehow) said that 'real intelligence is the ability to adapt to changing circumstances.' i didn't really think that at the time, but it sounds good. anyway, i clawed open one of the little side windows, stared at the opening for a long time. it looked way way too small, but i somehow managed to contort my body and, one limb at a time, slither out. it was not easy. climbing out was painful. i hurt a very sensitive private part, but i don't really need my ego anymore anyway.

"i don't really get offended by all the dumb blond jokes. i know i'm not dumb. i also know i'm not blond." dolly parton. 

as good as it gets.

since purchasing the prowler, my cute new/old 18.5 foot fifth-wheel camping trailer, i've been wondering where to go. obviously, i should go somewhere. otherwise, why did i buy the thing (?) that would be crazy. i've become an expert in setting the camper up, packing it up, hooking it up. so yesterday, finally, i set out.

first, i needed a stop at the pharmacy, which included one jumped curb and a near miss of one of those fancy lamp-posts along the way, to procure a perscription refill. while waiting, i talked with a lady about the upcoming election. she was rocking a baby in a cradle with one foot while holding a toddler in her ample loving arms. afterward, i trundled off to the general store, always like a social outing for me, to get some supplies. of course then i needed a coffee. so i parked the rig at the community centre and waved to a couple of drivers as i walked along 'ch. valley' (or whatever its name is) to the coffee shop for a double-shot americano. i sat on the porch and looked out over the river.

finally, i was all tanked up and raring to go. but, i realized it really doesn't get better than that. so i drove home. the people are super friendly around here, the views are world-class. it was a perfect trip, only next time i must bring a camera.

the thief who stole our hearts.

driving all the way to fort colonge to get my new/old camping trailer safety-checked may have seemed odd to many. to me, it made perfect sense. it was a chance to get the rig out on the road, view a few places i'd never seen while avoiding the big city.

waiting for the camper to be checked out, i found a great lunch spot. i absolutely recommend the restaurant to any other hard-core vegetarians who happen to be passing through fort colonge. it's called 'the steak house.' it's a steak house called 'the steak house.' that's like calling a whore house 'the whore house.' you can be pretty sure what's being offered there. that being said, you may be wondering why i would recommend 'the steak house' to vegetarians. well, i learned by escorting my dad to his favourite restaurants that steak houses really know how to make baked potatoes. besides, it's the only restaurant in town. i had a wonderful baked potato experience, with butter and sour cream, along with a perfectly adequate chef's salad.

the safety inspection went well, but as i drove out of the yard i realized i'd been robbed. my ipad was gone. it was not in my truck and there was no doubt about it. i've been robbed many times in my life so i am very familiar with the feeling. i know when i've been robbed.

in india, thieves were a problem at the ashram. as westerners, we were considered wealthy, which was largely true by comparison, of course, but not always. i was, for example, one of those who arrived poor as a church-mouse. i assume church-mice really are poor. nevertheless, one of my jobs there over time became a kind of night-watchman.

there was one thief, i recall well, who presented quite a challenge. he was plaguing the ashram, very elusive, and i spent several nights patrolling. it almost felt like he was taunting me. nothing of tremendous value was taken: a shawl, a pair of pants, a book or two. a simple candle-holder was stolen even though it had been sitting right beside a nice western camera. it was a mystery.

in the middle of the third night i went home for a cup of tea, lay down for a minute and nearly fell asleep. i realized i'd lose the whole rest of the night if i didn't get up immediately to continue my search. so i patrolled until early morning. but, as soon as i returned home i saw that my place had been broken into. i had been robbed while out looking for the thief. the only thing missing was my basketball shoes, which actually i treasured.

during the very next night a man was spotted climbing out of somebody's window and i ran down to the road. everyone was yelling: "he went this way!" "no, he went that way!" one of the indian guys kept insisting that the thief had just run down to the river. i was about to head off down the hill when i happened to notice the guy was wearing my shoes. i grabbed him, but he was quick, ran like the dickens in my 'nikes'. he was driving me nuts.

we caught him two nights later, cowering under a table in guruji's kitchen. i threw the table over and grabbed the man. i was marching him to the door when one of guruji's daughters asked me to wait. pointing out that the fellow looked petrified, cold and hungry, she insisted he eat first. i tried to point out that it was inappropriate, only i was outnumbered. her two sisters and one brother all agreed that the thief needed food. it was surreal to watch the thief being served vegetable-curry and rice with chai and then sweet gulab-jamans for desert. he seemed to grow more comfortable with each mouth-full, smiling over at me and thanking everyone again and again. afterward, we just let him go.

he turned up the very next night, carrying a large sack. in front of the meditation hall, he emptied it, producing shawls, shirts, books, some cutlery, my shoes, even a couple of pots. those of us who were there at the time were spell-bound as he presented each item as though it was a gift. we laughed at the theatrical way he saluted as he walked down the steps in the end. and we never saw him again.

in fort colonge, at the precise moment that i realized i'd been robbed, a mountain of a man came running out of the office of the garage. he was hollering 'arret! arret!' while waving my ipad above his head. apparently, i'd left it in the waiting room.

out of the cabin and into the camper.

near the end of last week's meditation session i launched into a dissertation about desire. there is a tendency, i explained somewhat patronizingly, to latch onto material possessions in a futile attempt to fill a void, a hole, a lack of fulfillment within oneself. there is an on-going attempt, i pontificated, to distract oneself with toys, gadgets, booze, drugs, even relations, from a sense of emptiness, a sense of need. that's when my new camping trailer arrived. awkward.

what the heck has happened to me? i used to be as poor as any of the local indian folks i lived with and just as happy. 'simple living and higher thinking' was my motto. i walked the hills and swam in the rivers. i meditated on the essential life-force permeating all, that makes no distinction between rich or poor. it's just life, pure and free. i eventually built a house with the help of my friend, the land-owner, out of stone and mud with dirt floor and slate roof. the first night i slept in it was also the first night of that summer monsoon and one wall caved in. i lay in bed in the early morning with a wide-open view of the mountains, water cascading down around me. i got up, made a cup of tea and, together with my friend, worked all that day in the pouring rain to fix it up.

a terribly aristocratic british lord showed up at the ashram in india one day, so many years ago now, and we met by chance at a chai-shop during his visit. sir richard and i entered into a discussion about whether money could would should make one happy. predictably, he was arguing that wealth did not make one happy. i recall how hypocritical i found it that that smug bathdurd, who knew absolutely nothing of poverty, was so sure. i also recall how good it felt to get in the last word. sir richard asserted in his imperious manner: "i'm surprised that you don't know that rich people also have problems." to which i cleverly replied: "well, i'm surprised you don't know that rich people can dwell on their terrible problems while sipping cold coffees in air-conditioned five-star hotels."

on the other hand, there's the example of the leppers i used to pass regularly on my way to akaara bazaar. their hands and feet were swathed in cloth and they carried begging bowls, but they were always smiling. i never really talked to them, but the one thing i often noticed was their smiles.

one time, after giving a few rupees to a beggar with withered legs in a make-shift wheel-chair, he had the audacity to ask for my shirt. "you want to take the shirt off my back?," i asked incredulously. "even if i gave it to you, you'd still have bent and useless legs." i immediately realized it was a harsh thing to say. without missing a beat, however, he responded with a huge grin and with no rancour whatsoever: "i'm not asking for your pants, sir. i'm asking for your shirt." he was tremendously pleased, as he wheeled himself away, proudly wearing his new western shirt.

there was a group of kids i used to watch, who lived in tattered tent-like dwellings behind the bazaar in a massive slum area. they were dressed in the meanest of rags. but they played all day, laughing, shouting, running, jumping. they didn't know they were poor.

ok, so it turns out sir richard may have had a valid point. epictetus, a stoic philosopher born a slave, once wrote: "wealth consists not in having great possessions but in having few wants." and that's certainly what i said during last week's session, as my new camper was being backed into the laneway. of course, i was quick to point out that, ultimately, desireless-ness is a state of mind.

travelling ticks me off.

i'm not actually fond of travelling. i've done that, been there. i like my home. at this point, i would go so far as to say i like like my home.

the last time i flew to india i decided to at least take a stab at travelling in style. i wanted to fly business class. first, i looked into how much such a ticket would cost. a normal ticket was apx. $1500.00, round-trip. by 'normal' i mean smudged into a small, uncomfortable seat for many hours so tightly one is fortunate to survive without a 'deep vein thrombosis'. however, business class would cost about $165,000.00 and my first-born child. any child of mine would almost certainly have severe learning disabilities but, since i was already over sixty and not quite the thing of beauty i once thought myself to be, producing one at that point seemed unlikely. the difference in the fares was the deal-breaker.

anyway, as the time approached i phoned the airline company. someone had told me they might offer to bump me up just before the flight date, perhaps with just a little extra cost. i was informed that they'd be glad, more than happy, to bump me up... for $164,500.00, only i could keep the kid. it just seemed outrageous.

lastly, once i was at the airport and checking in, i simply asked the attendant to bump me up on compassionate grounds. he asked me what was wrong and i sadly informed him that my grandmother had died. he was very sympathetic, offered his condolences and asked when it happened. i told him she died about 45 years ago, but that i still really felt it.

so i didn't get bumped up, only the fellow promised to find me a nice seat, and at first it seemed as though he really had. i found myself beside the cutest little indian girl i'd ever seen. i usually found myself beside a smelly, obese creature who slumped onto my shoulder and snored all the way. i was so relieved. we smiled at each other. almost immediately after take-off, however, an extremely obese sikh gentleman approached from beyond the curtains accompanied by a lady just slightly less obese. the lady commanded the little girl to go with her and, next thing i knew, i was sitting beside a smelly, obese creature who slumped over onto my shoulder and began snoring.

the last time i travelled with my teacher he blessed me. guruji hadn't gone anywhere for ages, even years, before deciding we should travel to the khaylong pass. we rented three busses and i was the leader of one. guruji drove in the ashram car.

eventually, we stopped and guruji gave a discourse on the side of the mountain beside a chai shop. monkeys flitted through the trees off the side of the road. cars and trucks motored on as we listened. afterward, we piled back into our respective busses. i sorta had to pee but, being the leader, i thought i could just ask the driver to stop if it got too bad. but, at the last moment, guruji jumped in and sat down next to me. everyone in the bus clapped and laughed and began singing as we rattled back down the highway. meanwhile, nobody could actually hear a word guruji was saying except me. the old rickety bus was way too noisy. so we chatted and i knew the others were terribly jealous. after all, i was having a private talk with our beloved teacher. i felt great, and terrible. i had to pee.

guruji began going on about how fantastic it was to be travelling again after so long. but i had to pee. it was getting bad. trying to act normal i asked why he didn't really travel any more and guruji immediately launched into a long diatribe against travel of all sorts. he ranted on about how one gets bound the moment one leaves ones own home. he talked about being unable to get into a bathroom during flights, not being allowed to stop while in someone's car or bus. by then i was in pain. i really really had to 'go.' meanwhile guruji went on and on, telling me stories of times he was travelling and not allowed to relieve himself when he needed to. everyone on the bus saw how animated he had become and it looked like i was the luckiest guy in the world while really i was freaking out.

the situation had become critical. i heard guruji say something about not being allowed to do your business and i blurted out: "guruji, i'm in that exact situation now! can you ask the driver to pull over please?" to which he replied... wait for it... wait for it: he said 'no.' "NO?!" i was shocked, horrified. he said we'd be at a beautiful waterfall in just a few minutes where we would stop to make a video. then guruji happily began describing the waterfall. he talked about how big and fast-flowing it was, as i squeezed my legs together.

actually, we almost immediately pulled up beside what was indeed a beautiful large waterfall. we piled out of the busses and i scuttled as fast as i could up the highway to some bushes. when i rejoined the group guruji was in the throws of a discourse. he interrupted himself, pointed over at me with a big smile: "oh see how blessed nathan looks. we had a really good drive together."

the last time i drove through new hampshire i stopped at a friend's place, whom i had known in india, to meet his new wife and his parents. i stayed the night at their beautiful country home. the mother was adamant that, when i passed through massachusetts, i meet her brother whom she said i reminded her of so much, so much. it was, apparently, uncanny. in fact, she phoned the guy to tell him to expect me in a few days.

he was a tall, thin, even gaunt, rather intense-looking fellow, a little unkempt, with long grey hair tied at the back. he was carrying a bag of muffins he had just bought. i soon realized why we met in the town. i followed him along country roads i never would've found. we drove over land that would've confused the kalahari bushmen, through marshes, logging roads and fields. his home was a pretty mean shack surrounded by tires, trailers, barrels, an old rusted-out truck. the windows didn't close. there was no plumbing, no electricity, and what furniture there was made the bed in the back of my truck look like a fine hotel suite.

i sank down into a faded over-stuffed sofa chair that had a long rip on one arm with stained yellowish cotton spilling out and a block of wood under a leg to prop it up. my eyes fell on a rifle leaning up beside a rough heavy wooden platform that served as a kitchen counter. at the same time, as my host cooked something on a camping stove, he told me about his constant battle against local wildlife. then he told me how he'd been struggling with lyme disease for the past couple of years. i had never heard of lyme disease back then, but his description of what he'd been going through sounded truly horrific.

looking around at the rough, messy furnishings, the dirty kitchen area, the open windows, the loaded rifle, i felt a creeping sense of fear or dread course through me. i asked how one gets the disease and he told me about deer ticks. i asked how one gets deer ticks and he told me about the deer all 'round his cabin. the ticks could be anywhere, he said matter-of-factly, on the ground, the grass, the bushes, "even in that old chair."
----------

"travel no longer holds any charm for me. i have seen all the foreign countries i want to except heaven and hell. and i have only a vague curiosity about one of those." mark twain (1891).

when is a loss really a win?

having been the first to view the auction, i had two hours to look everything over pretty carefully. of course, i know nothing about folk art, not really. I just like what i like. what i wanted was a couple of decoys for my cottage, maybe one other item, something that grabbed me. hardly reason enough to drive to napanee, but i did.

i'd never actually gone right into the town while driving by countless times over the years. it's really quite charming, although of course the big box department stores has decimated its core. the downtown had store-fronts boarded up. there was a tavern with emaciated creatures smoking outside, a dollar store, real-estate, insurance and lawyers' offices. i wandered down to the napanee river. in sharp contrast to the main street, there were beautiful large yachts tied up, people eating dinners on-board, waiting to continue on in the morning.

i eventually bedded down in the back seat of my truck in a walmart parking lot near a diesel pusher, a toy hauler and not far from an old vanagon. mosquitoes buzzed me awake periodically and large sixteen-wheelers ran their engines. it was too hot to close my windows and too buggy to leave them open. around two-thirty i went to a tim hortons, pretended to drink coffee while checking emails on my iphone. the usual bored teenagers gathered around an old rusted blue silverado with a red tail-gate. i returned to the walmart for a while, but found myself waiting for the doors of the auction house to open at seven in the morning.

there were plenty of decoys, lots of needlepoint wall-hangings, strange-looking carvings, collages, paper-mâché masks, even a couple of old grave markers. i saw a fish carving that was kinda cute, a silly carving of a farmer being head-butted by a goat. i saw a wall-hanging of flying geese that'd be perfect for one of the bedrooms at my cottage.

the auctioneer had a huge tummy that hung down so far his wide suspenders could barely keep his jeans up. he was slow to begin, but once the bidding started he was quick. he had over three-hundred items to get through. i bought a pair of decoys for less than a hundred bucks and a small carving of madonna for twenty-five. i was ready to leave and the auction had hardly started.

as i packed up my purchases in the box i had just retrieved from a back room, the head-butting goat was up for bids. i heard: "forty-five, forty-five, anyone? i got forty-four, who'll give forty-five?" i put my hand up. i had no hesitation in offering forty-five bucks for that whimsical little piece. it had to be worth forty-five bucks. then i heard: "forty-six hundred, forty-six hundred anyone? i got forty-five, forty-five, who'll give forty-six?" my lower extremities dissolved. i was very close to making a mess in my pants. having spent a sleepless night at a walmart to save a little money, i just offered to pay four-thousand five-hundred dollars for a head-butting goat. i waited. i held my breath. the silence in the room was deafening, and interminable. finally, a tall fellow dressed in black with beads around his neck, a long grey poney-tail and holding a phone to his ear, raised his hand and i was saved.

that carving, in fact, went for six-thousand, seven-hundred smackers. it was the first of the high-end folk art items. the wall-hanging of flying geese went for over twelve-thousand. some items went for twenty-five dollars while others went for as much as twenty-thousand. i had no idea what was the difference. i sat on my hands and observed with humble interest for the rest of the auction.



  

I'm Not A Teacher, You're Not A Student.

(You’re Not a Teacher, I'm Not A Student.)

This 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, this article is 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 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. The 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 Yogananda, who had been a pioneer in bringing the information about meditation to the western world. Unfortunately, really, he 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, early on, once said, “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 many relationships 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. 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. 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. It'll settle down on its own. 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 assures one of a positive result. 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 naturally. I'll explain. It’s easy, yet very few people will do it.

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, your mind will settle down, you will enjoy 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 true 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 achieve 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 or foolish 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 just watch it all. Don't try to get away from anything or hang onto anything. Just practice being the watcher of it all. 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, the source of our energy. 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. This is not a breathing exercise. 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. It's easy and hard. In fact, it’s too simple. And don’t get stuck on the technique. You can just watch the space, so to speak. You can decide. 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, dwell on those 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, ripple 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 your 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, remains 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 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, ‘Bad Monk.’

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 or by skype. 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 Hermitage in Kullu, India, where I lived for twenty-five years. During his interview with My teachet, Alan asked if Swamiji 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 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.

how do you like me now?

a couple of weeks ago, i received an email roundly complaining about a blog posting and i felt terrible. i felt discouraged, deflated. it put me right off my morning coffee and toast. a day or two later, however, i got a lovely email highly praising that very same posting and i felt wonderful, even elated. a couple of days ago, i received an email complaining bitterly about my latest blog posting and i felt sorry. i had to add extra sugar to my coffee and slather extra butter on my toast. then, hardly a half-hour later, i received an email praising that posting and i felt marvellous, absolutely marvellous.

it all reminded me of a time in india when i gave a speech in front of about two-hundred-and-fifty people that blew everyone outta the proverbial water. i was especially incredible that day. i was on fire. everyone wanted to shake my hand afterward and i felt so so good. a couple of weeks later, however, i was asked to give another speech and i bombed. i put my foot so far into my mouth i began to choke. people would not look at me afterward. some of my best friends crossed the street to avoid me and i felt so so bad.

somewhere along the line one has to realize that's no way to live. you're not just as good as your last speech or your last blog posting, your last project or even your last interaction. at some point one really has to get off that wheel, but how? here's one simple, down-to-earth, powerful and fool-proof exit strategy:

when you sit down alone, you may not like what you're thinking, feeling, hearing etc, but you know it's gonna change. sometimes when you sit for a while, you'll like what you're thinking, feeling, hearing etc, but you know that's gonna change too. i suggest you simply watch it all. just be the uninvolved observer. don't try to get away from anything you don't like even, within reason, physical pain. don't try to hold on to anything you like. for five, ten or more minutes a day, just be the uninvolved watcher. over time, you will gain an ability to act creatively rather than react blindly to events in your life. there is a huge amount of personal power that comes with just a little freedom.

now you may be thinking: 'wait one cotton-pickin minute. the guy started by telling us how he's up and down like a friggin yoyo, according to whether he's being praised or pilloried. why should i accept this ridiculous, flaky new-age suggestion?' you may be thinking: 'this guy is basically suggesting i do absolutely nothing. he's telling me to just watch? what a total jerk.' if indeed that is your thinking, please keep it to yourself. i do not take criticism well.

the slippery slope.

editor's note: i myself am having second thoughts about my reference to eskimo tradition. although my information comes from a reliable source, i may not have put the ancient, repsected culture in the proper light and for that i apologize. i may take further action, make further changes, but wanted to add this asap. regards; nathan. ps; actually, no. it's all good...

i've been thinking about death a lot lately. i know. i know. i write about death often. that's because i think about life often. but, it's not just me. there's been a lot of talk lately about end-of-life assisted suicide. i never used to think about death. of course, i was younger then. i had a great jump-shot, a full head of hair and i could maintain a, a, a conversation without forgetting the topic.

everyone has heard that eskimos used to put their old folks out on the ice to die when they could no longer contribute. of course, if not contributing were the main consideration, i would've been floating down-stream a long time ago. and one has to wonder how compliant those old folks were as they got shunted on to the ice without a sweater. the question begs asking: were they waving happily goodby or hollering about how much better they've been feeling lately? the fact is, it was apparently not the usual practice, more often just when times were pretty desperate.

a basic pillar of ancient buddhism, of course, is non-violence. therefore, euthanasia was not really considered a right action under any circumstances. they also believe that the suffering of the unfortunate person would only be transferred to his or her or its next life. there's not a lot in judaism about an after-life. i read somewhere that was a reaction against ancient egypt's preoccupation with an after-life. in either case, i have found no indication of assisted end-of-life suicides, but those groups have always been open and even eager to help each other in that regard. in ancient greece and rome, physicians apparently often prescribed poisonous medicines to end their patients' suffering. in the 1800s the use of morphine began to attract alot of attention for the purpose of an easier exit.

it's interesting that euthanasia began to gain popularity in the 1930s during the great depression. 'popularity' may be an unfortunate choice of words, but certainly the eskimos seemed somewhat to be on the right track, or ice floe. it has been a slippery slope since then. dr. death, as jack kavorkian was euphemistically called, assisted in his first suicide in 1990. he even assisted in a suicide on television in 1998. he was convicted of murder a year later, which is curious considering the show had tremendous ratings.

personally, i don't like the idea of assisted suicides any more than i like the idea of abortion. but i cannot imagine judging anyone who may be actually facing the situation, no matter their decision. i've never been pregnant and the only time i ever considered 'checking out' was when, at the age of 48, i moved back in with my parents after 23 years in india. my mom kept angrily telling me to stop wagging my head and she positively barked at me: "shut up with the 'no problem no problem' already!" i did in fact check out soon after and that's how i ended up in wakefield, but that's another story.

'perhaps they are not stars but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy.' eskimo proverb.

blog post deleted upon request.

i have deleted the blog posting called: 'tatiana' upon request. i have left a comment in its place. feel free to check that out. one thing is for sure: a writer of any worth is going to offend someone's conditions at some point and hopefully many at many points... 

it's all god 'til somebody gets hurt.

now, i'd like to write down a few thoughts regarding racial discrimination. firstly, i'd like to categorically state that i am against it. if there was a referendum on the issue i would vote 'no.' i suppose the question would be something like: 'are you in favour of hating and therefore horribly abusing people who don't look like you?' the fact is, once again, i don't get it. what's the big deal? why would i want everyone to look like me? have you seen me?

i'm not saying that i'm ugly, exactly. i'm just saying i wouldn't want everyone looking like me. i appreciate a little variety. it's the spice of life after all. i suppose if, like donald trump, you believe mexicans are rapists by nature, you'd vote 'yes.' i suppose if, like donald sterling, you believe blacks are to be socially avoided, you'd vote 'yes.' i suppose if, like donald duck, you couldn't care less what race, creed or color a person is, you'd be enlightened. bingo. thanks for playing.

all great religions of the world began with one person, from jesus to buddha, from krishna to nanak, standing up and exclaiming: 'hey, wait one minute. holy smokes! it has just occurred to me that, in fact, we are all one life, all one love.'

love is cool.

the argument that rages still over same sex marriage is beyond me. i don't understand what all the fuss is about. i really don't. lgbt lovers presumably love their lovers. isn't that what counts? am i missing something?

on facebook, we are regularly treated to videos of cats loving birds, birds loving monkeys, monkeys loving tigers. we are treated to videos of dogs loving rabbits, fawns, horses, pigs and even elephants. i saw a video of a dog riding on a dolphin. we enjoy seeing those unusual shows of affection. we like all those even though their love is not 'traditional.' in fact, we like those specifically because their love is not 'traditional.' and lgbt folks are all human folks. love is love. love is cool. it's pretty simple.

i read about a case in india some years back of a girl wanting to marry her dog, and it was eventually allowed! i hope they've been happy together. otherwise, that would put a whole new meaning to ending up in the dog-house. in this case i must admit that marrying a dog seems a weeee bit weird, but it's all good, especially if you think about it from the dog's point of view. my point of view is that the question of gay marriage is a no-brainer.

i'll tell you what relationship really was weird: my mom and dad's relationship was weird. they argued every day for 63 years. nobody ever said that relationship was unnatural. no. that seemed to be perfectly acceptable. about a year after my mom's passing, i asked my 91-year-old dad if he missed her. he thought for just a moment before smiling at me: "no," he said. "i have a young malaysian girl taking care of me now."

"gay people got a right to be as miserable as everybody else." chris rock.

the dentist did it.

"there is no loss. the sun sets and the moon sets, but they're not gone. seeds go into the ground only to come up again with some unimagined beauty. your mouth closes here and then opens with a shout of joy over there." rumi.

well, i hope so. because i lost two teeth the other day and i'm not shouting for joy here or there. i'm pretty sure i know where i left them, but they're gone now. the problem is, i really don't have too many left and losing those two, well, it was a blow. it was one of those situations that happen every now and again, when you're too busy, distracted, on a fast train or a crowded street corner. i went into an office, got swept up in the moment. i only realized i'd lost the teeth once i was home, grabbed an apple, went to take a bite and nothing happened. my mouth just kinda slid along the thing as i drooled onto the table. it was too late to do anything about it. by then those tusks were almost certainly nicely carved and sold on the black market. i had to accept their loss, wipe the table and carry on with my life.

there's a meditation often suggested during which one contemplates what you are not. for example: you're not your arms because you can live without them. you're not your legs. you're not your hair, your eyes or your ears. the procedure continues and gets rather more intrusive once you include various organs that are non-essential or can be replaced. it gets downright weird as you consider your brain, your heart, your gentles. at that point, after being mentally sliced, diced and dissected, it is suggested you contemplate what is left: the power animating your body, the very all-permeating life-force, pure and free.

i get that, but i do miss my teeth. and i'm afraid of where i'm heading. i recall a time in india when i was given the job of escorting an elderly lady, the wife of a prominent indian general, to a dinner-party. she was an extremely obese woman and we had to make our way up a long set of stone steps. at one point she stopped. she leaned against the railing and let out a massive breath that sent her dentures flying from her mouth. with a tremendous trajectory, they landed in the dirt clear on the far side of the fence and, yes, you guessed it, i had to pick them up and wash them off for her. will that be me soon, minus about 200lbs?

there is no sense bemoaning my fate. i know that. rumi also wrote: "don't grieve. anything you lose comes around in another form." which is great, if that other form is gonna help me chew. because the loss of my two teeth has not just left a gaping hole in my heart and my mind but, more specifically, in my mouth.

"sunlight fell upon a wall. the wall received the borrowed splendour. why set your heart on a piece of earth, dear one? seek out the source which shines forever." rumi. 

the selfie.

on facebook, i decided i should update my profile picture. the one i had on there was really quite fine, all things considered. it was taken with perfect lighting, i was wearing a clean white shirt, my best glasses and i was nicely poodled. but, i'm a few years older now and, like anyone, i want people to accept me for who i am.

i began taking selfies for the new profile picture. unfortunately, once i looked at a few of those, i thought: jeez, maybe it's ok to be accepted for who i was. i mean, what the fark(?) i looked like a combination of uncle morris and aunt phyllis, with a hint of mom and a dash of dad. and they didn't even like each other. i tried adjusting the lighting, the angle, my shirt, my glasses. i combed my hair. i ruffled my hair. it did not go well. unfortunately, i couldn't find the previous picture. it was deleted, gone, like my youth, gone forever. i was left with the reality of the present moment and it felt kinda harsh. so i decided that, until i could get a reasonably presentable current photo, i would simply use a shot of my garden. the problem with using a photo of a shrub as your profile picture, however, is that it's kinda like saying you have the personality of a bush, or the intelligence of a leafy green thing. it just felt wrong.

it was a great relief, therefore, when i recalled the true story, repeated often in india, about a sage by the name of ashtavakra. ashtavakra was pretty ugly. he couldn't stand up straight, couldn't walk properly. he moved slowly and with great trouble. his neck, chest, knees and feet were all deformed. one hand was withered but, on the other hand, he was a highly enlightened being. he had realized something along the way very pure, very freeing.

a nobleman went riding with his entourage one day through the forest near where ashtavakra lived. the nobleman's name was janak, a wealthy, handsome, proud and widely feared man. his procession was stopped because ashtavakra happened to be slowly crossing the path at that precise time. irritated by the delay, janak rode up to the front and ordered ashtavakra to hurry up or be trampled. ashtavakra laughed at that and carried on as best he could. seeing ashtavakra laughing made janak fly into a rage. "you dare to laugh at me!?," he yelled. "of course, because it's laughable," ashtavakra said as he moved ever so slowly forward. janak hollered: "you insolent, ugly creature! i have killed men for less." at that, ashtavakra stopped, turned and smiled disarmingly up at janak. "you are undoubtedly very fearsome, sir, sitting majestically up on your magnificent horse" he said, "but your understanding is as horribly malformed as my body. you cannot destroy that which has no beginning nor any end. think about it."

remembering that old story, of course it occurred to me that if ashtavakra could smile in the face of certain death, i could at least smile into my iphone. and it made a world of difference. "let us always meet each other with a smile," mother teresa is reported to have said. "for a smile is the beginning of love." 

tatiana.

this posting has been deleted. i do have it saved in hard copy for future consideration. as a writer,
there is always always always the question: how much should i consider folks' sensibilities? i am not into writing merely for its general entertainment value. in this case, i used no correct names and i doubt any more than one or three people found it offensive or in poor taste. many people may have thought this one was unreadable drivel. whatever. a blog is not just a single posting. be that as it may, one has to pick ones battles and this was not even worthy of a skirmish. it was not important to me. big deal. no problem. i was asked to take it off my blog and i have. however, as i mentioned, i still have it in my file. (slightly too loud laughter...)

a non-mothers' day story.

"my mother's menu consisted of two choices: take it or leave it." buddy hackett.

mothers' day has come and gone with me purposefully neglecting to write anything in honour of my mom. there were as well no sappy facebook postings or hazy photos. because i have written about her ad nauseum and bored friends almost to tears narrating so many stories over the years. there was no sense in beating a dead horse, if you'll excuse the expression. there was no sense in dredging up the past yet again, especially on such a happy occasion. the memory of my old mom, after all, makes some big strong people shudder with fear even now, even though she's long gone.

i was with her when she died. i had driven down to be there as she lay dying in a north toronto hospital. day after day my dad, brother and i waited dutifully in her room. contrarian that she was, however, and life being tenacious as it is, mom did not die then. she rallied, improved, sat up, began barking out orders. eventually, we carted her back to my parents' home where she continued bossing us around and complained to dad about the state of the apartment. a few long hours later i gratefully slipped away and drove back to wakefield.

mom was rushed back to the hospital the very next day. i got a call from a nurse that evening who announced that i had better get there immediately if i wanted to see her alive again. so i went to bed. well, to be fair, it was late and i did not believe the nurse knew who she was dealing with. but, once i arrived in toronto the next afternoon and 'rushed' to her bedside, mom was in a coma. my brother remarked sombrely: "she's not coming out of this one." i looked over at him and said: "go get me a pack of 'benson and hedges' cigarettes. i'll put a couple under her nose and then we'll see if she's gonna come out or not." he simply responded by pointing out that my humour was inappropriate, which of course it was.  

nevertheless, i was the only one in her darkened room that same evening when mom opened her eyes. she muttered my name as i took her bony hand in mine. she looked up at me, half smiled and said: "you're a good boy. take care of your dad."

"my mom is a neverending song in my heart of comfort, happiness and being. i may sometimes forget the words, but i always remember the tune." gracie harmon. 

the problem with toast.

i have a problem. it has to do with the great and noble truth, as taught by the buddha, of impermanence. the problem is: i hate it. i don't like change. i especially don't like the thought of one day being toast.

i know there's no use fretting over it. there are only two scenarios possible at any given time: either i'm toast or i'm still bread. if i'm toast, after some teeth-gnashing and 'why me's', i will probably appreciate the loss of hope, that spectacularly sad sense of freedome. on the other hand, if i'm still bread, even slightly mouldy bread, well then i suppose i'll hate the inevitability of becoming toast. but, at least i will be flexible.

logically, i realize it's a win win for everyone involved, although nobody really is. it's just you and me and neither of us expects to drag the other into the toaster. of course, once in the toaster you're toast. it's no good trying to desperately put the setting on light rather than dark. toast is toast any way you slice it. and that's my problem. languishing in a doctor's waiting room recently, a song called 'if i die young' by 'the band perry' was playing. the irony was not lost on me as i smiled over at an older guy sitting opposite. but he was either not amused or not a fan of country music.

so what's my problem? according to a friend of mine, osho used to say that going toward the unknown, irregardless of the risks, will ensure you of continuous growth. but, i wonder if he meant growth of knowledge or growth of tumours. because it's damned stressful stepping out into that vast unknown. albert einstein said: "a boat is safe in harbour, but that's not what it's made for."

fear of change is, of course, the fear of becoming toast and, as mark twain wrote: "the fear of death follows from the fear of life. a person who lives fully is prepared to die at any time."

Love-Song Heaven.

There’s a rather famous painting in India created by a rather famous painter named Sobha Singh. It depicts a lovely girl wearing a simple sari and shawl and holding a water jug. A handsome boy has an arm around her waist while the two run against the wind. Their expressions are as if they’re either in love or in distress, which of course can sometimes be quite similar.

The story behind the painting is of the girl, who was from a wealthy Sikh family, and the boy, who was a poor Hindu. They lived on opposite sides of a large lake and, although they were deeply in love, their families were against the match. In fact, eventually they were forbidden to meet. They’d gaze over at each other from opposite shores and, in the end, couldn’t stand to stay apart. The boy began swimming toward the girl, but it was too far and he floundered. Seeing the boy in trouble, the girl swam out to him and they both drowned together in the middle of the lake. Their love transcended all differences. In fact, they were willing to die rather than stay apart.

The Lebanese poet Kahlil Gibran, of the early nineteen hundreds, wrote; ‘Love one another, but make not a bond of love; let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.’ The fifteenth-century poet, Kabir, also wrote about love. Born Hindu, raised as a Muslim, Kabir became a weaver and spun not only cloth but yarns that have endured through the ages. In one of his most famous love poems he wrote; ‘Why should we two ever want to part? This love between us goes back to the first humans. It cannot be annihilated. Here is Kabir’s idea: As the river gives itself to the ocean, I give myself to you.’

True love transcends race, creed and colour. 'Inside that water jug there are canyons and pine mountains,’ Kabir wrote long before Sobha Singh ever held a paint brush. ‘And the maker of canyons and mountains. All seven oceans are inside and hundreds of millions of stars. The acid that tests gold, the one who judges jewels and the music from the strings no one touches and the source of all water. If you want the truth, I will tell you, my friend. Listen. God and the one I love are inside.'

the ford guy.

there were four of us in my dad's car as we approached the underground garage of my parents' apartment building in toronto. having stopped on the steep downward slope, he hit the button of the remote garage door opener. then dad began looking for his non-sun-glasses. of course, by the time he switched glasses, the garage door had opened and closed, but he started the car rolling down the driveway anyway.

i was sitting in the passenger's seat and kept saying: "dad, stop. dad, stop," but he couldn't hear me. he also couldn't see that the door was closed or that we were about to smash into it. everyone in the car was asking, begging him to stop, louder and louder, until my mom hollered with a force that could make a pot of geraniums wilt: "DAVID STOP THE DAMN CAR!" that did it. he slammed on the brakes just as the nose of his ford was an inch from the door, and he barked petulantly: "oh for god's sake. you would think that with all the money we pay in condo fees that the management could at least fix the damn door!"

he really shouldn't have been driving. but, he was a smart, crafty man who figured out how to pass his test each year. had they actually tested his actual driving, he actually would not have passed, actually. no way. at the ripe old age of ninety-one, he decided he wanted a new car. there was nothing wrong with the one he had, and my brother was vehemently opposed to him wasting 'our' money in that fashion, but i encouraged him to go ahead. i told him to take his time, enjoy the process. in fact, i even went around to a few dealerships with him. eventually, the old guy drove home a brand spanking new, big black ford and he could not have been happier.

by my next visit, about three weeks later, the vehicle looked ten years old. it was like the car had a rare genetic disorder, the rapid aging disease. there were white streaks all up and down each dented side and the mirrors were hanging down like, well, like wilted geraniums. i wondered why those mammoth streaks along each side were white until it occurred to me that there were white concrete pillars all over the large underground parking lot with blackened chunks taken out of them. when we'd drive along people, who had very nearly been run off the road by dad, would shake their fists at him. he'd look over and remark: "what the hell's wrong with them(?)"

now, i've never been able to understand how people can be so sure of an afterlife. when i read comments, as i did recently after an article about an actor tragically losing his child, that he should take solace in the knowledge that they would be re-united one day, i roll my eyes. what does that even mean? and how do they know that? my dad once said he did not understand my belief in reincarnation. to my knowledge, i had never mentioned the concept to the old guy and i didn't know anything about it. he said: "you people all believe in reincarnation." when someone says 'you people,' of course you've been pigeon-holed, categorized, stereotyped, nailed down so to speak.

so, at that point i just said: "well, if there is such a phenomenon as reincarnation i hope i'm reborn as your son again." he simply waved at me and remarked in his usual way: "oh yeah, you think you're so clever." but, i'll tell you one thing. if i am ever re-united with my old dad, i sure as hell hope he isn't driving at the time. 

could be right might be wrong.

i lived way up on chemin rockhurst several years ago, in a big old house with a big old cat.

one late night after basketball, after a hot bath, i wanted to open a window. it was too hot and i just needed a little air. i didn't need a lot, just a little. however, the big old front window of that big old house was stuck. it really shouldn't have taken a moment to open, but it was stuck. eventually, frustrated, i jumped onto the sofa for better leverage. well, i was buck naked standing under a hanging lamp on that big old sofa pounding that big old front window to loosen it up when a neighbour just happened to be on a late-night jog. how could i have known? of course, he may have thought i was knocking on that big old window to get his attention. i will never forget the look on his face as he turned to see me and my big old, well, you get the picture. suffice it to say, things are not always how they seem.

dr. arnold toynbee, a respected british historian, (1889-1975), once said that the modern problems begun in the west will need an eastern solution. the ancient eastern sages knew our ideas were wrong. they realized long ago that a lasting peace would not come from wealth and power, sense gratification or even relations. they knew a lasting peace would never come from a mistaken 'us and them' mentality. rather, the ancient sages talked about simple living and higher thinking. they talked about oneness. and more and more westerners are looking east and considering that advice. those ancient sages went further. they determined a system whereby that idea and way of living becomes a practical reality, in a moment and for the life.

meditation is simply the practice of stopping for a while, of stopping our grasping, striving, hoping, desiring. but, that's not eastern or western. that's just life experienced in its pure formless being-ness. i would venture to say that the problem is a basic universal mis-understanding: we are so sure that we're separate and different from each other, but maybe we're not. there is one string needed to connect each bead of a necklace. one sap courses its way through thousands of leaves on a tree. all the individual ocean waves are nothing other than the water. ancient saints and sages, from east and west, have tried to tell us that there is essentially one life, irregardless of the much more apparent differences.

my neighbour may have mis-concluded, but who could blame the guy. it was not a pretty picture and perhaps a terrible example, but i kinda like it. still, it's a big old fatal flaw, whether by one of us or by all human-kind, to believe completely in ones conclusion. there is always a chance we got it wrong, so let's get it right. one life. one love. peace.