my teacher.

from about 1972 to 1977 i was a very dedicated vippassana buddhist bikkhu within the lineage of u ba kin from burma. i sat with the great vippassana teachers of our time: robert hover, ruth dennison, sri maninderji and, most notably, s.n. goenka. in those early days of goenka's centre, dhammagiri, in igatpurri, india, there were only a few small stone and mud huts in a circle, a dining hall that was also used as a dormitory, a bath area and the meditation hall. during my last retreat, i lived in one of those huts, in silence, for three months near the end of '77.

one morning during the end of the last month, goenka motioned for me to sit up close facing him at the front of the hall. we meditated for about twenty minutes together before i heard him say: "you feel the centre?" "yes i sure do," i responded. then he told me to open my eyes. i looked up at him, but all i could see was a brilliant shimmering light. there was no person there, just a brilliant shimmering light like a sun. eventually i heard him say: "now close your eyes." we sat for a while longer before he told me to go back to my previous place in the hall. suffice it to say, those were three especially transformational months in my life and, by their conclusion, it remained for me to just express my deep gratitude and leave.

in actual fact, i had been waiting to leave. i was excited to leave. because there was nothing i wanted more than to get back up to the mountains to rejoin my other teacher at the time, swami shyamji, whom i had met only earlier that year. it took an eight-hour sleepless overnight train ride and a fourteen-hour rickety old bus ride to get back to his himalayan hermitage. but, once there i somehow felt fairly fresh and fine. i immediately made my way to swamiji's room, knocked and heard him call for me to enter. he was lying down with a chess board on his stomach and a few people sitting around. upon seeing me, he called out: "nathan's come!" with a total disregard for the game he was in the middle of playing, sending chess pieces flying in all directions, he sat up and pulled me down to him. "i knew he would come back," he said to no-one in particular.

swamiji wrapped me in his arms and placed my head on his chest so i could feel his heart beat. it was pounding as though he was as excited as i was. at the same time, he spoke to the other people in the room. "now mr. nathan knows that we are all beings of light, brilliant shimmering light." he reached down and took my head in his hands, wiped my face soothingly and said: "just remember that the sun does not care if you're big or small, boy or girl, black or white, buddhist or hindu. the sun warms everyone the same."

the opera singer.

my old dad was totally lucid well into his nineties. he read 'the globe and mail' religiously every day even though it'd take him several hours. he could talk on any subject intelligently. dad was certainly not liberal in his thinking, but he was sharp as a whip. his problem was not his mind. it was his body.

at ninety-three, old dad still took care of his investment portfolio himself even though he could barely see. one day i heard him swearing like a drunken sailor at his computer. he had wanted to sell some stocks but had pushed the wrong button. he mistakenly bought more of the very stocks he had wanted to off-load. of course i found that incredibly funny so he hollered at me to leave him the hell alone. loosely translated that meant it was time to take him to tim hortons.

once we were seated at tims with our coffees, dad proceeded to rail against everyone at his retirement home. i eventually remarked: "you know what your problem is?" "no," he said suspiciously. "what's my problem?" "your problem is you're not senile." "what the heck does that mean?," he barked. "well," i continued. "if you could just get a little dimentia happening these things wouldn't bother you so much." he looked up from his double/double and said: "oh you just think you're so clever."

a day finally arrived when it was time to shift dad to a full-care facility. during the first week there he became quite depressed. he complained that there was nobody he could talk to. he said his spirits fell to his ankles every day and "my ankles were swollen enough already." meals were the worst times, he insisted, so i went along to see for myself. nobody at his table could talk except one lady who made no sense and a man who belted out opera terribly at the top of his lungs. my dad loved opera and hated that man. one other old man actually drooled. the nurses sat in chairs on wheels. they'd roll from one table to another and then another feeding each person a few bites in turn. needless to say, i certainly understood dad's feelings. all i could do was sympathize.

although i talked to him every day, it was a full three weeks before i could get back to toronto. i tried to prepare myself for what was sure to be a horrible visit. of course i immediately took dad out to tims and listened to all his complaints. that, at least, had not changed. later, i accompanied him to the dining hall. the drooler was already in his seat, leaning precariously to one side. dad shifted him a bit upright. "that's morris," he told me. "he's an aushcwitz survivor." dad pointed to the babbling lady and, with a wry smile, told me that "sometimes she makes sense." the opera singer shuffled in and, to my tremendous surprise, dad stood up to greet him. then with arms draped over each others shoulders, standing behind their chairs, they belted out an aria together at the top of their lungs.

food was not served until my dad and his friend had finished. people clapped, they sat down and then food began to come. apparently, it had become the routine. i patted old dad on his back and said: "i thought you hated the guy?" he shrugged and, without looking up from his plate, he said: "if you can't beat 'em join 'em." 

audience participation.

my morning began as though i had just won a contest. it wasn't like a million-dollar lottery, more like a caribbean cruise. it was like a first kiss with a special person or greeting a treasured old friend. i leaned against the headboard of my bed, my spirits rose up and filled me with wonder. there was no desire, no sense of anything missing from the life. an hour later, i drank a coffee, looked at my computer and so it all began.

"start every day off with a smile and get it over with." w. c. fields.

the first email i received today insisted my last blog posting, 'meditation works, really', was a made-up story, that i could not have really done that. i appreciated the lady's high opinion of me, only i never lie on my blog, ever, and that's the truth. i come from a long line of cranky people and that incident did in fact take place. it was many years ago, but i can still get ratty at times.

for example, i hate being told that i look tired. older folks tend to look tired. i don't consider myself old. i like to say that i'm aging, but let's not quibble. a lady of equal age recently asked: "are you ok? you look tired." did i say: "are you ok? you look haggard." no, i did not. i just immediately felt tired.

another thing: what's with audience participation? i went to a concert recently during which the master of ceremonies absolutely insisted the audience join in. i paid twenty bucks. why was i also commanded to jump around like a banshee warrior? i paid forty bucks, in fact, because i sprung for the lady who came with me. she, btw, was happily bobbing, grooving, singing and clapping, no problem. good for her. on the other hand, i have long ago pulled back on the bobbing, grooving, singing, and i clap at appropriate times.

one more thing: when you have a truck, people ask for help and that's great. what gets my goat is when one is surprised to find oneself maneuvering over-stuffed sofa-beds down three flights of stairs. i also hate purchasing a coffee that comes luke-warm, packages that require major tools to open, people who talk too quietly or, anyway, you get my point. it was a true story.

"all good things come to those who have patience, and hopefully you don't die in the meantime." mark twain.

when everything was said and the day done, i sat on my zafoo in front of the wood-stove. after a while a peace descended upon the room, my body and mind. it didn't come from anywhere else, had always been there. in spite of the ups and downs of the day, the caffeine, the activities, gains and losses, it descended upon me like a kiss, a friend. i leaned back against some pillows, put my legs out and just appreciated being alive to it all.