the perfect pass.

in basketball everybody loves the shooter. if you can shoot that ball, if you can score, you will be adored. but there are few things finer than a perfect pass. a perfect pass is a splendid song, a beautiful ballet, a wondrous bit of writing. it should never be minimized.

without a perfect pass there can be no shot, no score. so what’s the point? and it really can be a thing of beauty. there’s something magical about sending that ball under over or through a crowd of defenders, hitting your guy in just the right spot. only then can he or she step into the shot to make the point.

everybody loves the shooter but there are few things finer than a perfect pass. to look one way and throw it the other, to bounce it between two to be caught by the one: that’s what it’s all about. when you can pass that thing behind your head as though you’ve got eyes back there, that’s what it’s all about.

everybody loves the shooter and that’s alright. that’s the way it’s supposed to be. the passer requires no adulation. he or she revels in the shooter’s success. the passer basks in the reflected glory of the shooter’s success. the passer rests within the knowledge that there’s no two realities. at the moment of a perfect pass there’s only one, pure free and forever.

is your plate half full or half empty?

as a long-time member of a facebook group called 'ottawa vegetarians and vegans' i did something the other day that i hadn’t ever done before. i made a comment.

a troubled young vegan lady was asking if other folks on the site ever experienced increased crankiness due to the diet. a long line of people emphatically negated that heretical idea. some in fact even seemed, well, cranky about it. they strongly disagreed with the notion that her problem could have anything to do with a vegan diet. they suggested more lentils, certain sumplements, yoga, meditation. i eventually wrote: "i've been strictly vegetarian for forty-five years, vegan for the last five of those years, and i've been extremely cranky the whole time."

i’m not actually vegan, but i have been strictly vegetarian for over four-and-a-half decades. so obviously i prefer veggie restaurants when out and about. in fact, i prefer vegetarian buffets. firstly, they're vegetarian, which eliminates ‘mistakes'. a few years ago i ate what was sold to me as a vegetarian burrito at a place in the rideau centre food court and all hell broke loose almost immediately. i made it to the salle de bain in time but i'm pretty sure that's when the mall decided to undergo massive renovations.

i like vegetarian buffets specifically because i'm not a big eater and not into the whole doggy-bag thing. i find that tacky. while the plate remains half full, or half empty, i simply leave with my tail between my legs. i often order take-out and eat in my car. then i feel free to take some home. obviously if one’s not alone that'd be wierd but it's fantastic if you just feel like eating half a meal, or if you have aspergers.

of course a buffet is not a fine-dining experience, probably a bit of a buzz-kill on a date. in that case one really has to sacrifice ones prefrrences at least until all the romance has gone outta the relationship. that usually takes a week or two. then you can both just eat in the car.

the main point is that you might upon occasion dress for somebody else, but you should always eat for yourself. 

Welcome Home.

Adapted from a talk by Thich Nhath Hanh.

Christmas and the New Year is always a good time to meditate on our true home. The Buddha did not have a home when he was young; he was unhappy even with all the material conditions. And Jesus Christ was born a refugee and was also trying to find a home. But both the Buddha and the Christ practiced and they found a True Home. Have you got a true home, a place of comfort and ease?

When you come here you are offered a practice to help you find a home. Because home is not located in space and time. Our first fruit of the practice is often the thought: “I have arrived. I am home.” Our true home is in the here and now, in every breath and every step.

The practice of mindful breathing brings our mind in touch with our body.  Our body may be our first home. Are you in conflict with your body? We are all flowers in the garden of humanity. Do we know how to take care of our flowers? Meditation, right diet, good work, getting in touch with how to really care for our bodies, that’s a big step.

The year is ending and it is a good time to ask what we want to do with our life. If you are a couple, you may wish to sit down and discuss your dream and see how to support each other. Can we look at our relationships and see how they might be improved? That can be with a friend, a family member and ultimately ones own self. Jesus had a dream. Buddha had a dream. Krishna, Moses, Meera, Guru Nanak, Mahavira, Martin Luther King, all great spiritual leaders have had a dream.

Wherever we go, our satsang or sangha is with us. Together or alone, satsang, sangha is our home. We can practice in such a way that our family is our satsang, our sangha. We should devote our time and energy to building our true home so that we can realize our dream.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

150 Stories of Peace.

reproduced from: ‘150 stories of peace.’ the book is available through amazon or by emailing evelyn_voigt@yahoo.ca.

The Khumbha Mela, by Nathan Vanek.

Fifteen and a half million people, mostly Hindu pilgrims, collected on the banks of the Ganges River at Ahallabad. The year was 1977, and it was the Maha Kumbh Mela, a festival that happens only every twelve years.

Once I made my way to the plateau overlooking the mela grounds, I could hardly believe my eyes. Eventually, I walked down and into the crowds, walked for miles taking it all in. The Naga Babas, naked with matted hair, crouched beside the holy river to make sure they’d be the first to take the ceremonial bath each day. I saw a fellow who’d been buried up to his neck for nine days. He said hello in English as I passed. I saw a Baba with a withered arm since he’d held it aloft for many years. There were elephants, horses, cows and of course dogs running all around. There was a spirit or a pervasive vibration, so to speak, of spirituality, of oneness. I watched the people, the animals, the life, and it occurred to me that I’d never see a spectacle to match the Kumbh Mela again in this life.

It had rained hard the night before. So there was no dry place to sit and ventually, exhausted, I sort of plopped myself down right in the middle of a muddy path, leaned against a tent pole to rest, to meditate. If I fell asleep it was not any form of slumber I’d ever had before. But, when I awoke I found myself in the centre of a circle of yogis chanting mantras near a fire that lit up the night.

The peace in the camp of those yogis was palpable and so incredibly welcome. It was truly remarkable. They meditated, chanted, played their dotars, softly drummed and by the dawn a mist created a surreal and otherworldly effect. One of the yogis placed a bowl of curd and sweets in front of me that tasted as rich and wonderful as if it had come from a five-star hotel.

I’ve carried the memory of that night, the deep sense of peace, wellness, oneness, through all these years. Having been embraced so fully by complete strangers was profound. It was as if they were saying: "There’s no such thing as strangers, not really.”

the motionless foundations of eternity.

i’m at a place in my life where i feel a tremendous need to be really honest with myself. of course ‘tremendous’ may be too strong a word. i’m still quite willing to be self-deluded in some areas. for example, i can’t shake the feeling that women find me fabulously attractive. i’m just sayin. but i do nevertheless feel it’s important to face facts as much as possible. so i must admit that i honestly don’t understand the whole ‘i am that eternal self’ rigamaroll.

through my many years of meditation or maybe simply as a rational semi-intelligent human person i’ve perceived there to be some sort of shared underlying something-or-other. snd it may be eternal. i won’t argue. but i wonder how to take that leap to ‘i am that’? i’m not much of a leaper. i could definitely sign on to: ‘i am that happy relaxed self except when in any medical, including dental, situation.’

in the bhagavadgita, book two, verse twenty-three, (yeah i googled it,) it is written: “The Self cannot be pierced by weapons or burned by fire; water cannot wet it, nor can the wind dry it. The Self cannot be pierced or burned, made wet or dry. It is everlasting and infinite, standing on the motionless foundations of eternity. The Self is unmanifested, beyond all thought, beyond all change. Knowing this, you should not grieve.”

again, i’m not really clear how i know that or why i shouldn’t grieve. my dog was hit by a car, apparently quite capable of being pierced, clearly not eternal and i felt pretty shitty ’bout it. nevertheless i appreciate the verse, it’s terribly inspiring even though i’m not prepared to worship that self as a god. we’ve got enough of those floating around causing trouble. but i’m prepared to love you as if we’re that same self in reality, standing on the motionless foundations of eternity. because maybe we are.

“old people shouldn’t eat health-foods. they need all the preservatives they can get.” robert orben.

how many nra members does it take to change a light-bulb.

as i listen to radio shows, i’ve heard three main reactions to the latest mass shootings in the united states: firstly, i’ve heard that pastors should all carry guns. i heard one pastor say he didn’t wanna comment on gun control, that if more people would simply turn to jesus there wouldn’t be a problem. thirdly, i heard trump say it was not a gun issue but a mental health issue.

trump actually added that there’s a mental health problem ‘at the very highest levels’. that comment totally stopped me in my tracks. did he just admit to having a mental health issue? am i the only one who noticed that? his ability to separate the gun issue from the mental health issue would certainly seem to confirm it.

one democrat interviewed after the shooting in texas, in favour of some sort of gun control, talked about a need to limit assault rifles and those gizmos that turn ‘normal’ rifles into rapid-fire machine-guns. he kept using the word ‘normal’ as he referred to what i guess he considers acceptable. and he’s one of the more reasonable ones.  

if at all you’re interested in my opinions on the issue of gun-control go to youtube, type in ‘take aim at the nra’ and i’ll let jim jeffries talk on my behalf. peace.

on my way.

last sunday morning it occurred to me i might prefer driving next day up to gracefield to register my new truck rather than hull. i’ve done that before. i googled ‘saaq gracefield’ to find out their hours and was surprised to see that they’re even open sundays. i had time to go that very day.

i was so happy, to think i could get it done almost immediately. wow. but i wasn’t born yesterday. before jumping in my car i decided to call just to make sure. it seemed so odd that they’d be open sundays. sure enough, however, the friendly lady on the other end of the phone assured me they’d be open until 5:00. i was excited. i brushed my beard, collected the papers, grabbed my keys and skipped out the door. but as i sat in the car with the engine running a niggling feeling came over me. i shut off the car, went back inside to look on my computer. the website i’d clicked on was not ‘saaq gracefield’. it was ‘saq gracefield’. i had not called the registry office. i had called a liquor store.

the conversation had gone saomething like this: “are you really open up there today?” “oh yes, of course. we’re open every sunday.” “that’s amazing. i had no idea. i live near wakefield but i can get there before you close.“ “ok.” ”i”m really excited.” “ok.” “thanks a lot i’ll see you soon.” “ok.”

“i would never die for my beliefs because i might be wrong.” bertrand russel.

maybe you can take it with you after all.

after gord downie passed on i really apprecisted the story a musician friend of his told about how gord would always take the fences down from around the ‘tragically hip’s’ trailer wherever they’d be. it was a great point about gord and the hip, but what i especially appreciated was how the guy made an even greater point about tearing down fences between people and cultures.

gord was younger than me. prince, leonard cohen, glenn campbell, david bowie, greg allmand etc, etc, some younger, some older, all gone. tom petty was my age, died on my birthday, which was weird. so anyway i decided to buy a new truck before my old one died. although the new one i chose is actually far from new it’s certainly a fancier one than i’ve ever had. it’ll take me a while to figure out the console. the electric lumbar support is ridiculous, can’t leave it alone. the heated seats are the closest thing to eroticism i’ve experienced in years. my only problem is that i know i’m gonna wanna take it with me.

someone recently asked if i’d pray and meditate for her sick husband who was in the hospital and of course i did. his condition remained unchanged although apparently the fellow in the next bed had a remarkable recovery. i suppose i’ve always been a little off. in the midst of the ups and downs, comings and goings, we do what we can do, for ourselves, our dear ones. in the end perhaps only the love remains.

before getting my new old truck registered i meditated in it, fell asleep i guess and afterward i noticed ‘8:45’ on the dashboard. i wondered why it was still dark out until i realized it wasn’t morning, it was evening. a few days earlier during a meditation i wondered for a moment if i was in india or canada. most everyone can relate to these phenomenon.

so i'll tell you what someone once told me and what sages through the ages have said: that underlying and animating these bodies is a stream of consciousness, a spark of life which is eternal, not bound by time and space. i know very little about that, only hints and whispers within my inner life. but if there’s one string connecting the many beads of a necklace, if there’s one sap permeating all the leaves of a tree, if water permeates each wave on the ocean, why would there not be one life one love permeating you and i, pure, free, forever (?)

Go With The Flow.

My urologist Dr. Adamson was always happy to see me. I suppose I was a little something different for the guy. He couldn't possibly have seen too many bramachari yogi/Buddhist monk types sitting in his bland grey-toned, window-less waiting room. He smilingly waved me into his office without even the customary announcement of my name. We chatted a minute or two before he launched into asking me the usual questions, only this time I was not willing to be dismissed as usual with the 'quality of life' speech: I wanted some action.

He admitted there was a new much less intrusive procedure and he‘d be able to arrange it at the Gatineau Hospital where he was Head of Urology. In fact the hospital had only just recently acquired the most current state-of-the-art technology for that. But an exploratory examination would have to be done first. In the meantime, the doctor insisted I try a new pill. "I know you don't like taking pills and that they haven't worked in the past," he acknowledged. "Only these new ones are really effective with no side-effects whatsoever." I found that pretty hard to swallow, so to speak, but he insisted. "No side-effects whatsoever." I pressed him a bit further on that point until he finally said: "Well, the only thing is you won't be able to... release." My eyebrows shot up, I laughed and blurted: "Don't you call that a friggin side-effect!? I call that a side-effect!" Probably out of a sense of self defence he quickly shot back: "What do you care? You told me you don't ever do that anyway." It was a valid point but, as I then said, I prefer to have a choice.

Before leaving his office the doctor grinned up at me and repeated something he'd said to me on more than one previous occasion. "Nathan, you need a little pleasure in your life."  As I walked out I responded: "Well it's always a pleasure to see you." Then as I made my way through the bland grey-toned, windowless waiting room I wondered if that had sounded just a little bit gay. I took the pills, for a while. As usual they didn't work and we will never know if I could... release or not.

I was nervous on the morning of the exploratory examination. The thought of having my ‘little brother’ frozen and a camera inserted just did not sound like a wonderful way to start my day. Sitting around the waiting room, however, in the proverbial flimsy cotton hospital gown was at least as traumatic and as painful in its way. The bad news was, which I coulda told the doctor years earlier, the flow was interrupted, and I prefer to go with the flow, so the procedure was scheduled and I was left with my thoughts.

On the day of the actual operation I wasn't nervous at all. My papers were all in order, my 'Last Will and Testosterone' was written, the plants were watered, the stove was off and I had showered. At the hospital I was admitted and placed in a room, told to undress. As I lay in the bed I watched through the large window as a bright sun rose up over the city of Gatineau.

Eventually a lovely nurse came and began putting electrodes all over my chest. "What's that for?," I asked. "It's to check your heart." I smiled up at her. "It's been broken," I said. "How did that happen?," she asked. "It was by a girl almost as pretty as you."

escape the ignorance.

meditation descends upon me/rises up from within, often, predictably, effortlessly. i don't do anything which is of course the point, the portal. it's spectacularly subtle but it builds and takes me over. i've no concern or doubts irregardless of life's big unanswered questions. meditation hasn't afforded me the answers. it just sort of leads my attention, as if with whispers and hints. what is god or our source, the origin of this world, the meaning of life? i'm profoundly appreciative. it’s like a mother's smothering love or a lover's mothering. i’m wandering on my own, a kind of western version of the himalayan cave yogi minus the hashish.

Hey Nathan; The entry to your blog ('your true place') struck a very resonant chord with me.  Yes, how significant we take ourselves to be, stars of our own movie, and how challenging to that notion is the solitary life… no faithful co-stars or supporting actors, just whoever arises to share the moment with. Sometimes the glimpses you offer of your life remind me so much of my own.  Good to share this moment with you. Sincerely; Rosie.
 .
Hansraj; How do we know meditation isn't just another form of escape from the harsh realities of life, like booze or drugs? Sarvanand.

dear sarvanand; meditation can be just another form of escape. absolutely. i was driving in downtown ottawa the other day when i spotted a guy on the side-walk sitting half up against a black iron fence. he was totally spaced-out and i thought: 'why do i conclude he's drunk or on drugs? maybe he's in samadhi, deep in meditation. after all, he doesn't look so different to how i must look at times. he has a big beard. i have a big beard. i don't generally meditate on a busy downtown sidewalk with folks stepping over me, but otherwise... sarvanand ji maharaj, you're a very intelligent guy. i know you will answer your own question. regards; hansraj.

phyllis;
    regards to you and your brothers, father and mom from way up here.
    i just listened to your video about expression, briefly, for the second time. and i decided to accept your suggestion to express 😋. you speak beautifully and your perceptions are very beautiful. you're intelligent and eloquent. and i agreed with what you said and offered in that video. i just didn't feel entirely comfortable with that one statement: 'i'm sure we can all agree that as humans we are imperfect and perfection is unattainable.' i may not have your wording exact, but that was the gist of it.
     the judeo-christian concept of being born sinners, the buddhist noble 'truth' of dukh or the inherent pain and suffering of human life: these are definitive, and rather dark, statements. i don't disagree. the vedant concept is in fact that we can attain perfection with the realization of Self, that it is our birthright. i don't disagree with that either. buddhists talk about shunya, no self, while hindus talk about atma, an all-permeating self. i understand both as essentially the same. in my semi-humble opinion, it's all a matter of semantics and all concepts, philosophies and world religions are wide open to interpretation.
    so where's my discomfort with your statement? my only issue with it is that it's a negative statement. i personally like the sound of an all permeating self rather than a non existence, perfection rather than imperfection. it's really just a personal preference. but you included me in your statement. 'we can all agree...' i would agree we're not perfect within the context of our being impermanent. but if in fact there's an eternal spark within me, then? i'm not saying there is or isn't. i'm not saying we're imperfect or perfect. i'm just expressing.
     best wishes always. affectionately; nathan.

you may believe.

you may believe meditation to be now quite mainstream, a respected member of society. you may believe it has taken its place among other great tools for well-being such as massage therapy, acupuncture or perhaps tai chi. the reality is that, if taught by one who's travelled far along that path honestly, you'll soon understand it can never be entirely mainstream.
the ancient technique of dhyaan yog, meditation, is a portal into the essence of mysticism, philosophy, science and yes religion. take it for the powerful tool of well-ness that it is. or take it for all that it can be.

meditation with nathan: a three-session course into meditation, once per week, begins wednesday october 11, 7:00-8:30 at 24 ch. gervais. to reserve a spot, email nathanvanek@yahoo.ca. there's no charge for the course and all are welcome.  

'if there is a god you must see him. if there is a soul you must perceive it. otherwise, it's better not to believe. it's better to be an outspoken atheist than a hypocrite.' swami vivekananda.

our true place.

to grasp ones true place in the universe is a daunting task considering there's so much we just don't understand. one feels like the centre of it, at least an integral part. one feels tremendously important. and yet surely nothing could be further from the truth. we're each on this earth for such a short time.

that must be why i enjoy tripping around alone. everywhere i go i see lovers holding hands, mothers caring for their sons and daughters, families laughing together while i remain unnoticed. not adored by a lover, attended to by a mother or part of any family, over and over again i grasp what must be my true place.

strangely, the more i viscerally grasp my total insignificance the more i appreciate the inherent significance of connecting, with the shop-keeper, a waiter, the obese guy in the next campsite, even his dog, an old lady walking by. the more i grasp what must be the truth, the entirety of life and every interaction in it feels all the more precious. perhaps in some obscure sense each of us is in fact actually significant. as microcosms of the macrocosm, perhaps it's some sort of bizarre, unexplainable, contradictory cosmic joke played on human-kind.

meanwhile, the big guy at the next camp-site snores and mumbles in his sleep all night, loudly. in the morning i watch him stumble out of his tent shirtless, an image i'd rather not start my day with. his long-suffering big old dog looks over at me as if to say: 'can you help me(?) i'm dyin over here.' there's nothing i can do, of course, but i smile over, say good morning to both as i drink a coffee.

The Jaipur Ice Cream Club.

(An excerpt from my book: 'Unprotected Sects.')

Sometime in the eighties, on one of my business trips, I became fascinated by a sign outside a shop with darkened windows. It was some sort of strip-joint with the odd name of ‘The Jaipur Ice Cream Club.’ I stood in front of that place for a long time looking at a picture of a fluffy lady called Mojoini. Finally I went in, paid a few rupees and passed through a faded red curtain into a brightly-lit, hazy room with a lot of men smoking and drinking and talking but no women. Not one woman.

Eventually, however, I noticed men going down and coming up some stairs near the back. It led down into a kind of dark, dank, dirty dungeon, thick with more smoke, music blaring but nobody talking. The men sat quietly at round tables watching intently. At the front was a stage with a broken disco ball over it and an over-weight lady dancing to a Bollywood film song.

Madam Mojoini was the worst dancer I’d ever seen, not an exotic dancer at all. She did take her shirt off but there was a shirt underneath. Her under-shirt was a kind of cut-off tank-top. She clearly had a bra under that. And anyway she kept putting her red and black over-shirt back on, taking it off, then putting it back on again. She had a long red skirt on replete with sequins. Her eyes were darkened by cadjul. Her hair was long, black and she would whip it around somewhat in pace with the music as she sashayed around the stage. I ordered a ‘Kingfisher’ beer, pretended to sip it, sat back and wondered why I'd come.

Mojoini’s dancing was a type of hybrid belly-free-form-jazz-affair. It wasn’t sensual. It wasn’t particularly anything. Nevertheless she held the attention of each and every man as she built up to some sort of climax, moving faster and faster. All eyes were on her as she took off her shirt and put it back on coquettishly again and again. All eyes were on the way she repeatedly thrust out her hips as though she either needed a hip replacement or would soon need a hip replacement.

The actual climax, I supposed, came when the lady stepped off the stage. She began wandering around the room shaking every man’s hand. As the music continued to blare Mojoini went from table to table, from chair to chair shaking every man’s hand. She made a point of ‘connecting’ with each man, but she missed me. She missed only me. Out of the whole room-full of captivated, wide-eyed, excited, men of all shapes and sizes, I was the only guy whose hand was left undefiled, a fact I found somehow strangely significant.

Silence is Holy.

In his book, 'The Notebook,' acclaimed novelist, screenwriter and producer Nicholas Sparks wrote: “We sit silently and watch the world around us. This has taken a lifetime to learn. It seems only the old are able to sit next to one another and not say anything and still feel content. The young, brash and impatient, must always break the silence. It is a waste, for silence is pure. Silence is holy. It draws people together because only those who are comfortable with each other can sit without speaking. This is the great paradox."

My Little Room.

When I was living on a beach in Mexico so many years before, when I would body-surf, when the force of a wave would throw me under and whip me around, I had a system. I would find a little room at the bottom of the ocean. I wouldn't struggle. I'd wait for the big bad wave to pass over and once it seemed like the coast was clear I'd resurface, ready for the next. While I was in that little room I'd just be with me. In fact I would just be. And sometimes there was no 'would just be.' There was simply 'I' alone. Words cannot go there, in that little room. I can't say where the waves come from or where they go. I can't say where the thoughts come from or where they go, where I come from before the body and where I'll go after. What I know is that there is a room at the bottom of the ocean of life which is pure and free. 

the problem with perfection.

it was a dark and stormy night. ok it actually wasn't at all but i always wanted to start a story like that. one recent lovely summer evening i sat down to put my truck up for sale again. and people wanted it again. safe to say folks were hot for it again. only in the morning i changed my mind again. i thought maybe i'm just restless and needing a change although i resist change. maybe i want another camper although i don't actually go anywhere. everything's pretty much perfect the way it is. and that's the problem.

i thought maybe i'll renovate only i don't need to. then i thought hey maybe i'll find a girlfriend but really why(?) ok that one was scary so i revisited the camper idea. i answered an ad for an old camper and drove out to beckwith to see the thing. it was all wrong and i knew it was all wrong before i even went and yet i drove all the way. so then as i toodled on home i thought eureka i got it! i'm gonna finally sell the house and move to my cottage. i'd been thinking about it for long enough. and as soon as i got home i began packing two huge suitcases, wrote up an ad, posted it on-line and drove to the lake. it was a final firm decision that i felt ferfectly fine about.

then at about nine-thirty at night while sitting on the thread-bare cottage sofa listening to a cbc program about old people divorcing i noticed a friggin mouse crawling around the kitchen. i watched it sniffing the loaf of bread the bowl of fruit and all around. and it kinda dawned on me that i actually don't wanna watch a friggin mouse sniffing my bread and my fruit and all around. so i packed back up and drove home and unpacked and cancelled the ad for my house. i wrote an ad to sell the cottage instead. it was midnight and had been a tremendously full-on wonderful day.

you gotta understand that my house is virtually the first place i've lived on either side of the world in which i do not have rodents sniffing my fruit so to speak. and while it's not a big issue and easy to deal with, that's not the point. the point is there's an innate problem with perfection. like when everything is in fact perfect and yet one remains ridiculously restless desirous and desperately dissatisfied one has to really recognize that the solution to the problem of perfection must finally be found within.

aristotle allegedly wrote: "i count a person braver who overcomes desires than one who conquers enemies; for the hardest victory is over self."

a moose is not just a moose.

a few weeks ago i went to the 'omega wild-game park' outside montebello. i'd been wanting to go for quite some time, to see all the creatures, especially moose. so i finally threw some clothing, a toothbrush and my lethargy into a satchel and headed east.

as far as i could recall i'd never seen a moose. i'd seen plenty of deer, of course, rabbits, racoons, skunks, otters. in india i'd seen lotsa water-buffalo, a couple of mountain-lions, elephants, camels, even a leopard one time. i've seen whales, porpoises, bear and even a komoda dragon. never a moose. it seemed i finally needed to settle on a game park for that.

several years ago i drove all the way out east: nova scotia, p.e.i., cape breton and back. mostly, yes, i wanted to see a moose but never did. all the way along i saw road-signs telling me to watch out for the moose, and never did. it was kinda irritating actually. eventually i heard that if you drive along cape breton's cabot trail in the early morning you gotta go slow 'cause you'll bump into them. well, i went really early and really slow and, nope, not a hint of a moose. i got excited at one point because in the misty distance i saw the distinct shape of a large one. then as i approached carefully i realized it was in fact a plywood cut-out sign advertising a place called 'the moose motel.'

anyway, i drove to montebello, checked into a terrible little motel that i liked quite a lot, and spent the afternoon walking around the town. lovely town, although tough for vegetarians. the motel was simple, clean, not much to it. it did have an above-ground swimming pool closely surrounded by a chain-link fence that made the whole affair look kinda like a medium-security penitentiary, and the gate was locked. i couldn't find the proprietor, or guard, at the time so i never did take a swim. but, i was very comfortable, the people were nice and i slept like a baby with hutchinson-gilford progeria syndrome.

the park was great. i arrived mid-morning, bought a bag of carrots at the entrance store and followed the as yet thin line of cars through. you gotta keep the window half-closed (or half open, depending on your point of view.) otherwise you might find the head of a deer, elk or even a buffalo drooling onto your lap. they really really like carrots. i totally loved seeing all the different deer, elk, even pigs. but as i drove around the park there wasn't so much as a road-sign with a picture of a moose.

there was a brief stop and walk-around at a hobby-farm. and as i made my way back to the car i paused to feed a carrot and pat a fawn. but i couldn't help noticing the deer-ticks all over the thing so decided not to get any chummier, quickly jumped back in the car and carried on.

i saw loads of buffalo with mammoth-sized heads, coyote, black-bear and even arctic wolves. at one point i offered a carrot to one of the park employees but he did not find my gesture the least bit amusing. then, just as i began losing all hope of ever seeing a moose in this life, there were a couple large majestic ones as i turned a corner. one stood behind a fence while another strode lazily along through their area behind. they looked just so beautiful to me. i stopped the car and just watched for a while.

"every name, from straw all the way to elephant, is a name of god." 'light of knowledge' by swami shyam.

don't try this at home.

Dear Hansraj;

The procedure went surprisingly well. The anesthesiologist was asking me a lot of questions before the surgery because I begged her not to give me a general anesthetic. At first she insisted, even though I promised her I'd be able to go into a meditative state and I promised not to move. It took a while, but she agreed. Only she added that she'd be watching on her monitor and if there was the slightest hint of a problem she'd have to step in.

Well, I lay on that operating table for two-and-a-half hours, repeating mantra, fully awake, aware of the procedure, feeling the stuff they were doing in my heart, and I didn’t move a muscle. I just kept repeating mantra. I so hate anesthetic. Following the surgery the anesthesiologist told Baal Krishn and Liz that she was extremely impressed that she didn’t have to give me anything other than the prescribed anti-inflammatory and mild anti-trauma medication. She said the machines showed that I had gone into a deep meditative state. I don’t know how they can know that with machines, but glory to modern medicine.

It was actually kind of neat. I felt and heard everything going on but was also detached from it all. I was myself kind of blown away by the whole affair! The doctor said my recovery will be much speedier because I didn’t have to be put under or heavily sedated. As well, they let me go home at 8:00 pm. I didn’t even have to stay overnight, which I was thrilled about.

Anyway, twenty-four hours later and, although I'm pretty sore and bruised at the entry point, I feel quite well. I'm not allowed to move much today, but apparently I'll be able to do more tomorrow. I've actually promised myself that the very first thing I'm going to do is get one heck of a strong cup of coffee! The doctor laughed when I told him that. I haven't been able to drink coffee in years. I'm relieved to think that I don't have to worry about palpitations anymore. What a blessing!

With love and affection, sincerely; Chaytna.

editor's note: Chaytna, Deborah Feinstein, has been meditating for over forty years, has lived in Kullu, H.P., India, at the IMI ashram since the 70s and is a Hindi and Sanskrit scholar. Her book 'Let's Learn Hindi' is used at Cambridge University and other colleges. Chaytna and her partner now spend a couple of months each year in Vancouver where she wrote to me from.

calling 911.

having met at a coffee shop in ottawa, my old buddy mike and i went out onto the patio. he looked better, healthier than last time. he had some sort of heart-related issue, clearly resolved, for now. we sat on those cheap chrome chairs popular outside coffee shops, maybe because they remain shiny in any weather and forever, maybe because they are, in fact, cheap. but they're also damned uncomfortable. my ass began aching before i was half-way through my latte.

in the middle of describing his new girlfriend, a lady i'll almost certainly never meet, all of a sudden mike winced. an elderly lady had missed her step behind me, fell, hit her head on the sidewalk. mike and others rushed to help while i called 911. the dispatcher put me through to the ambulance and i repeated where we were and what had happened. but, the lady on the line clearly wanted more information. of course i tried my best to answer her steady stream of questions, though i felt i'd done my job and i found myself actually getting irritated.

"is she conscious?" "yes." "are you applying pressure to the wound?" "no, i'm on the phone. somebody else is applying pressure." "is there blood?" "yes, of course, it's not pretty." "is she confused?" "well, i don't know, but i am. just a minute. mike. mike, is she confused? apparently a little." "how many metres did she fall?" "what does that even mean? she's a little over five feet tall, i guess, so she fell a little over five feet. i'm not good with metres." "does she know her name?" "mike, ask her name? yeah, apparently it's joyce, only how do we know for sure(?) i mean, if she's confused..." "ok, never mind. we're almost there."

at some point early in the 90s the local hospital in the village of kullu, india, got an ambulance. it was a major newsworthy event up there. in reality, the new ambulance was just a small tinny 'maruti' van with 'ambulance' lettered on the side. there was no life-saving equipment installed and no normal horizontal carcass could even actually fit in all the way. as well, ironically, 'maruti' vans were commonly called death traps, both because they were terribly flimsy and because in hindi 'maru' means 'death.' the hospital itself was to be avoided at all costs, but that's another story.

in the middle of a dark winter monsoon night someone pounded on the door of my hut. apparently, a girl had fallen asleep with her kerosene heater on and would've died from carbon-monoxide poisoning had her neighbour not smelled too much kerosene. the girl was still virtually unconscious when i got down to her room. someone had called for the ambulance, a first for us certainly at the ashram, but i began performing cpr. by the time the van got there, honking its horn incessantly to announce its arrival, the girl was somewhat responsive. nevertheless, we put her in, tucking her legs up so she fit, but then the ambulance wouldn't start. the driver had cut the engine to save petrol and for whatever reason he couldn't get it going again. eventually we ended up pushing the stupid thing all the way down the road to the hospital.

meanwhile, back to the future in ottawa, the big yellow ambulance pulled up in front of the coffee shop, the loud siren and flashing lights announcing its arrival. the medics went about their business quickly, professionally, but the lady paramedic kept shooting glances over at me. i don't know how she knew it had been me on the phone, but she knew.

  

the luncheon.

an indian lady, introduced by a mutual friend over lunch, was fascinated when she heard i lived so many years in india. but, i deftly sidestepped the inevitable tedious questions, rather turned the conversation around to her. ironically, i asked pretty much the very same questions: when did you come, how, why and from where(?) and i was struck by one answer in particular. since she came from the punjab, it was reasonable for me to wonder if she was sikh or hindu. she not only proclaimed herself to be a hindu, the lady proudly specified that she was a brahman.

i coulda left it there, shoulda left it there. but, me being me, i sardonically added: "so you're in favour of the caste system." it was a silly provocative remark, of course, as my comment apparently offended the lady deeply. she emphatically insisted that she certainly was not in favour of the caste system. i left it there, belatedly of course, did not point out the obvious disconnect, only offered insincere apologies, but our nice luncheon was effectively soured.

what has always amazed me is how the social ills of today actually began thousands of years ago or much longer than that. That the human race, in spite of remarkable advancements in so many fields of endeavour, has actually progressed so little boggles ones mind.

The caste system originated at a time, arguably around 1500 b.c. when the lighter-skinned indo-aryans, travelling from the northern caspian sea-russian steps area, wanted the land occupied by the indigenous people, the dravidians, in the indian deccan. the dravidians, for their part, didn't actually feel like moving on down south and, as well, they became rather enamoured of the cows they were seeing for the very first time, apparently pilfering one or three from time to time. and so, still all these centuries later, you have the caste system, the tamil tigers and a suicide bomber killing rajiv gandhi.

over dessert my lunch companion tried to explain the difference between valuing ones innate brahmanic characteristics and condoning the subjugation of any marginalized groups. not being a total imbecile, i realized it was a weak argument at best, but one i was quite willing to accept in the moment. because, strangely, i was more interested in putting the bumble-berry pie in my mouth rather than any more of my foot. it tasted better.

the undeniable truth, in any event, is that largely the issues we face today around the world originated with a simple basic problem: we see the differences easier than the similarities, and that's as old as dirt.

"i will build a great wall, -and nobody builds walls better than me, believe me,- and i'll build them very inexpensively. i will build a great great wall on our southern border, and i will make those people pay for it. mark my words." donald trump.

They Walk Among Us.

Fifteen and a half million people, mostly Hindu pilgrims, collected on the banks of the Ganges River at Ahallabad. The year was 1977, and it was the Maha Kumbh Mela, a festival that happens only every twelve years.

Once I made my way to the plateau overlooking the mela grounds, I could hardly believe my eyes. Eventually, I walked down and into the crowds, walked for miles taking it all in. The Naga Babas, naked with matted hair, crouched beside the holy river to make sure they’d be the first to take the ceremonial bath each day. I saw a fellow who’d been buried up to his neck for nine days. He said hello in English as I passed. I saw a Baba with a withered arm since he’d held it aloft for many years. There were elephants, horses, cows and of course dogs running all around. There was a spirit or a pervasive vibration, so to speak, of spirituality, of oneness. I watched the people, the animals, the life, and it occurred to me that I’d never see a spectacle to match the Kumbh Mela again in this life.

It had rained hard the night before. So there was no dry place to sit and eventually, exhausted, I sort of plopped myself down right in the middle of a muddy path, leaned against a tent pole to rest, to meditate. If I fell asleep it was not any form of slumber I’d ever had before. But, when I 'awoke' I found myself in the centre of a circle of yogis chanting mantras near a fire that lit up the night.

The peace in the camp of those yogis was palpable and so incredibly welcome. It was truly remarkable. They meditated, chanted, played their dotars, softly drummed and by the dawn a mist created a surreal and otherworldly effect. One of the yogis placed a bowl of curd and sweets in front of me that tasted as rich and wonderful as if it had come from a five-star hotel.

I’ve carried the memory of that night, the deep sense of peace, wellness, oneness, through all these years. Having been embraced so fully by complete strangers was profound. It was as if they were saying: "There’s no such thing as strangers, not really.”

a functional truth.

"for those without faith there are no answers. for those with faith there are no questions." the chief rabbi lord immanuel jakobovitz

these days, i'm not really into faith. i'd rather write about what i know, like erectile dysfunction. but i'll focus on faith, and god, or faith in god. i could write with some authority about erectile dysfunction. in fact i come from a dysfunctional family. but god is an important topic, and nobody's interested in my family crap.

speaking of crap, i recently upgraded the plumbing at my cottage. there's a new septic system, new pump, all new pipes, hot water tank, toilet, toilet paper, everything's brand-spanking new. now you may well wonder what the heck that has to do with god. well, folks came to stay at my cottage and immediately the toilet wouldn't flush. no flushing. i was flush once, but no more. thousands upon thousands of bucks, roupees, dineros, and those folks had to crap in the old out-house! now, i ask you: is there a god? does he exist or is he dead? and, if he's dead, who's running the show? and, if he's alive why doesn't my toilet work? why does he create typhoons, or bafoons? and why should i capitalize the G? oh yeah, and why is he a he, or is she a she?

i watched a youtube video lecture by a swami ballanuts who was all about incessantly asking oneself: 'who am i?' he was good in pointing out all that we're not: not so good with the who we are part. i mean, we are the eternal self? what does that even mean? does he know something i don't? or was that a leap of faith? was he just parroting what he's read or heard? meditation, the ancient science of 'dhyan yog,' is supposed to be solely concerned with personal direct knowledge. i know that my 'little brother' is dysfunctional, but i have no personal direct knowledge of eternity.

in meditation one experiences a cessation of experiences, an absolutely blissful state of consciousness no doubt. i get that, directly, and it's profound, tremendous, not to be minimized. it's a fully functional tool. it's huge. i'm proud of it. but my truth is: i wonder how the hell 'they' all can talk of an eternal self, a heavan, a paradise with such authority. what is god (?) who was the first mother (?) how did anything, any of us, even come into existence in the first place and where do we go in the last place (?) in fact, who am i (?)

why can't we all just admit that we simply don't know, and that we're all in this together (?) we gotta keep looking, keep searching. but, meanwhile, i believe every swami, rabbi, mullah, lama, scientist, philosopher, priest, pundit, tom, dick and harriette should face the certainty of our deaths without the certainty of answers, and cut the crap.

the buffalo.

re-posted from a few years ago.

On my third day in India, I saw a man beating a water buffalo mercilessly with a wooden cricket bat while a smaller man held it by its nose-ring and neck-rope.

The men were yelling while flogging the beast as it bellowed in pain. Nobody paid much attention until I grabbed the arm of the larger man and demanded that he stop. Then a crowd quickly formed around us and the two men screamed at me and at the crowd. There were a lot of histrionics I didn't understand until one willowy old man told me in English that the buffalo was very stubborn. I said that was no reason to beat i.

At that point, the two men did something I was not expecting. They handed me the rope and intimated that the buffalo was now mine. The two men stormed off, the crowd laughed, clapped, called out to each other while I stood frozen to the spot.

I was at a total loss, no idea what to do. Within three days of being in the country I found myself wandering through a market with a water buffalo that, by the way, was indeed incredibly stubborn. It seemed singularly ungrateful to a guy who had just saved it from a heck of a thrashing.

I hadn't gotten far when the willowy old man approached. Seeing me struggle, he smilingly said, "You can do with that buffalo the same as so many problems in the life. Before you lose your good sense, my son, you can simply let it go." And that's exactly what I did.

dylan's speech.

j; dylan's nobel award acceptance speech, more performance art really, has made me even more of a devotee. it's incredible, eloquent beyond words, and completely puts to rest any possible argument against his receiving the nobel prize for literature. it puts that to rest by his reading, with the piano hypnotically playing in the background, and its content. you know what i specifically mean: the influence great literature has had on his lyrics. but more than that, this speech is a testament to his literary greatness in and of itself, a tremendous bit of literature that will almost certainly, like his songs, endure the test of time. he deserves the prize for this speech alone: absolutely brilliant! thanks for sending the link. i may post my review on my blog. n. ps; the fact that dylan waited to the last possible moment to submit his lecture, and then to perform THIS, was also a piece of high art... 

the fire that burns in me.

you know how, when you finally decide to go see a doctor about a problem, the problem goes away?

ok, so i finally made an appointment and the problem didn't exactly go away, only kinda wasn't so obvious, kinda unnoticeable actually. i explained to the good doctor that the problem may not be particularly obvious at that precise moment, noticeable at that time, but it honestly does in fact become obvious and noticeable at other moments and times. so i was a little taken aback when her eyes flew open wide, she threw her arms up in the air and hollered: "holy crap that's friggin awful! like, mary mother of god! how did you even get here!? jeezes murphy i am friggin god-smacked!"

now, i may be slightly exaggerating her reaction and the problem. it's nothing compared to, say, leprosy. i have known a couple of folks with leprosy so i can say that with some authority. but, it is a problem none-the-less to me. i will not bore you with the details except to say that it is in fact a problem. well, it's essentially me having trouble facing the end of my illustrious, not, basketball career. and why have i been meditating if not for unending fantastic-ness.

i suppose my problem would appear to be of very little consequence, of no particular significance to someone other than me. simply finding it harder to keep up with the young bball studs that i've been, for some god-forsaken reason, trying to impress, may seem trivial. but i'm not pleased, and i'm important to me. i can still go to the gym, shoot around, lift some weights, take a steam-bath and blow-dry my genitals like the really old guys do. there's even a complimentary genital-dryer there that may be more traditionally meant as a hair-dryer. i don't know, but i digress. i just can't, you know, get it on the way i used to.  

if it weren't for my mornings, i'd swear this whole meditation thing is a hoax, a fraud. oh yeah, and i woulda been a singularly unpleasant sorta person. that's pretty clear. but, still, i've been meditating a long long time, i have a problem and does that seem fair (?)

"weapons cannot cut it nor can fire burn it; water cannot wet it nor can wind dry it. it has no beginning nor any end, and that thou art." bhagavad gita. chapter 2, verse 3.

no me without you.

"there is no me. i do not exist. there used to be a me, but i had it surgically removed." peter sellers.

'if a tree falls in the forest with nobody around, does it make a sound?' the real question is, of course: 'can something exist without being perceived?' i think about that a lot as i skulk around my house like a spectre in the night. do i exist since, by and large, i'm not being perceived? if nobody reads this blog, has it even been written?

the desire, the natural compulsion to be noticed is basically and ultimately a futile attempt to avoid the question, that most existential of philisophical quandaries. it drives us in so many ways: to keep friends, partners, children, dogs, cats, keep anyone close, to reassure us of our very existence. it compels us to 'make our mark', be a great success, become well-known, famous. it all comes down to a rather understandable attempt to avoid facing the possibility that we aren't really real.

in my opinion, a better question would be: 'if a tree falls in the forest and nobody's there to hear it, where the heck are they?' are we ever completely continuously and conclusively alone? or are we, as great sages, philosophers and new-age pundits have stated, actually never alone? actually not alone!? as i check the locks on the doors and peer under my bed, i feel strangely reassured. after all, if i'm not actually alone i don't need a puppy. i guess i do exist, or not.

"as long as you think of your real self as this person you are, of course you'll be fearful of death. but, what is a person? a person is a pattern of behaviour, of a larger awareness. you know, the two-year old dies before the three-year-old shows up. the three-year-old dies before the teenager shows up." deepak chopra.

quotes and misquotes.

"in a gentle way, you can shake the world." mahatma ghandi.

"until i met my guru i knew so many things. now i know nothing, for all knowledge is in dream only and not valid. i know myself and find no birth or death in me, only pure being, not being this or that, but just being." nisargadatta.
"until i met my guru i knew so many things. now i know many more things although nothing for sure. i know myself best of all and cannot entirely grasp the concept of death, just being, just life". nathan.

"meditation is very painful in the beginning but bestows immortal bliss and supreme joy in the end." swami sivananda.
"meditation is quite nice at the beginning but almost unbelievably blissful and deeply joyful by the end". nathan.

"god is all-full. he is self-contained. he is eternal satisfaction." swami sivananda.
"god is awful. he or she has caused eternal strife". nathan

"the man who has perceived god looks upon all types of men as dream motion-picture images, made of the relativities of the light of cosmic consciousness and the shadows of delusion" paramahansa yogananda.
"the man or woman who has perceived god looks upon all types of men and women, of all races and colors, as precious shimmering lights of a comic consciousness". nathan.

"give to everyone who begs from you, and of him who takes away your goods do not ask them again. and as you wish that men would do to you, do so to them" jesus christ.
"give to everyone who begs from you according to your capacity. and of him or her who takes away your goods, ask them again. and, most importantly, as you wish that men or women would do to you, do so to them." nathan.

"the surest way to cheer yourself up is to cheer somebody else up." mark twain.

the teacher.

on youtube, baking penis-butter cookies looked so easy i decided to make some. i love penis-butter cookies, ok, ok, peanut-butter. ok? but i often feel there's not enough actual penis-butter in them, aahahaha, so i figgered it'd be great to try it myself.

my experienced baker friend gigi suggested i get the necessary ingredients from the 'bulk barn', only i couldn'th find the place. i pulled in at a 'qwicky mart' to qwickly enquire, but the lovely oriental lady there had no idea what i was asking. "bawk bahn? bok bawn?" and i ended up finding it purely by chance as i pulled into a shopping area soon after for a cup of coffee.

later that same day, i mixed all the ingredients exactly as the woman on youtube had, fired up my brand-spanking-new electric hand-mixer and proceeded to spray my entire kitchen with all sorts of stuff, mostly organic. that's when i decided to sit down and write about how i learned to make chapatis a hundred years ago.

during those early years in india, if you couldn't make chapatis you wouldn't have any chapatis. that's just the way it was. but i hadn't had much luck with that. one hot himalayan day, as i wandered through the village of mohal, i spotted a lamb tangled up in some fencing. i spent a while unwrapping the wires, while it kicked and cried, and while a couple of toothy kids laughed and clapped nearby. once the creature pulled its last leg free and jumped off into the field, one of the kids grabbed my hand and led me into the family kitchen, a smoke-filled stone room with no ceiling, only a rough roof made from old tin cans.

through the smoke, a smiling old lady crouched and squinted beside her 'chulha' fire making chapatis. her face was like a topographical map of the mountains. she wore the usual brightly coloured though faded woollen patoo, ornate brass earrings, rings on several fingers and even a few toes. there seemed to be a generation missing as the ancient woman barked something at the kids. matter-of-factly she handed me a chapati with some curried vegetable wrapped in it which i ate without hesitation and which was truly amazing. i thanked her and somehow, using my terrible hindi, asked if i could watch her make chapatis.

apparently appreciating having an audience she patiently showed me how to sift the flour, knead the dough and roll out each little ball of the stuff. she soon had a whole rhythm going again: rolling, throwing onto the tava pan, flipping, tossing into the fire where each chapati puffed perfectly before it was removed and another tossed in.

i spent the better part of that afternoon having a hands-on lesson, while the kids chattered and chuckled. by the end, that old lady had me sifting, kneading, rolling, flipping, tossing, and that was how i learned to make chapatis from scratch.

"there is no recipe to being a good teacher. that's what is so unique about them." robert sternberg.

the half-empty glass.

my neighbour thinks i have 'low self-esteem'. she asked why i keep my house pretty dark at night, so i explained that i'm prone to walking around naked, specifically after a bath. i generally take my clothes off before bathing and don't immediately put them back on after. and my old carcass, i added, would freak anyone out unfortunate enough to be gazing in the window just as i was dancing to 'stayin alive' buck-naked under a bright lamp. that's when she diagnosed me.

obviously, my young lovely neighbour mistook my insignificant, self-deprecating quip as a symptom of low self-esteem. it's ridiculous, of course. i know exactly what i am. i'm a decrepit old man hiding and cowering in the dark. or, maybe i'm simply an aging guy in pretty good shape who values his privacy and respects the sensibilities of others. also, i have no curtains.

a couple weeks ago, the lake was half melted, or was it half frozen? personally, i don't think it matters how you look at it, not really. you're almost certainly not gonna jump in either way. but, i figger it's better to say the lake's half melted. yeah. it's got a nicer ring to it and folks appreciate your wonderful positive attitude. the truth is that every time i hear about another sixty-something-year-old croaking i get a hair-cut and buy a new shirt.

is my neighbour perceptive or is she just young and foolish? half full-of-it or half empty? you tell me. i will only add, in my own defence, the words of nora ephron, an american journalist, novelist and blogger who croaked in 2012: "in fact, looking back it seems to me that i was clueless until well past fifty years of age."

Ramana Quotes.

“Happiness is your nature. It is not wrong to desire it. What is wrong is seeking it outside when it is inside.” 

“Your duty is to be and not to be this or that. 'I am that I am' sums up the whole truth. The method is summed up in the words 'Be still'. What does stillness mean? It means destroy yourself. Because any form or shape is the cause for trouble. Give up the notion that 'I am so and so'. All that is required to realize the Self is to be still. What can be easier than that?” 

“Let what comes come. 
Let what goes go. 
Find out what remains.” 

Ramana Maharshi.

the awakening 2.

maybe a coma is just another name for samadhi. samadhi is a friendly and welcoming state of meditative absorption, a uniting with the whole, so to speak. think about it. people come out of comas all the time, and they feel so much better. or maybe at some point the person decides the coma's way nicer than the alternative. i always come back. i like this life. not too fond of those tooth-aches i get but, otherwise, my friends are cool, this home, the coming of spring.

one of the first things i do when i emerge from out of a coma each morning is ingest a nice strong cup of coffee. i only use a cone and filter, pour boiling water through slowly and slurp iit up in my vintage mug. that certainly gets me going.

somewhere along the line i heard putting a few grains of coffee in the soil also gets ones house-plants going, gives them a little boost, helps them grow. having often thought it a waste to throw those coffee grains away, i did it. i recently put some into my plants, quite a bit actually. and i think i may have overdone it. the effects have been positively freakish. it hasn't just helped them to get going. they're almost gone. they're jumping outta their pots. they're taking over.

maybe i never quite gave that wakefield espresso 'bean-fair' stuff the credit it clearly deserves or treated it with the respect i should've. whatever might be the case, i'm a little scared of my own plants, especially that hanging spider-plant in the hall. it's not actually hanging anymore. up until a few days ago the cascading fern-like leaves charmed everyone walking through the front door. now it takes their coats and it doesn't always give them back. i won't even begin to describe what my cacti are doing.

once my old mom slipped into what they called 'an irreversible coma' i suggested we put a couple of cigarettes under her nose. i reasoned that if anything could coax her back, it'd be the smell of tobacco. however, for some reason, my idea was met with scorn.

one has to ask oneself: what am i living for, what makes me happy, why do i come back each day?' then inevitably the words of my teacher come to me: "you need to live a little less for yourself and a little more for others."

the awakening 1.

there are mornings when opening my eyes is a big work, a hard task, and hardly seems a reasonable option. i may have been in my bed all night, but in samadhi from early morning.

the space opens, the kundalini rises and i find myself, my more expanded, my more perfect self in samadhi for hours then. i may be lying under blankets or propped up against the head-board with a pleasant stream of thoughts gurgling like a distant stream of clear mountain water. closer than that, deep but all-pervasive, is a sun to warm the world, a centre for the loving arts, a song that brings us all together: 'sat chitt anand', absolute bliss consciousness.

there comes a time, perhaps at seven or eight or even nine o'clock, when i think to myself: 'geez, man, open yer eyes, get yer pants on, drink a coffee, join the living.' there inevitably comes a time when i think to myself: 'get a grip, get with the program,' and i'll take a peek. but, like the classic late-winter groundhog, i crawl back into my hole and i hear voices announcing the news: "not yet. not yet." it's just so beautiful in there, so pure and free.

a few years ago i visited dr. katz, the lovely and earnest wakefield optometrist whose office is sandwiched between the actual sandwich shop and the dollar store. i just thought maybe i needed some glasss. but, after more extensive testing than i expected, and rather than simply benefit from selling me a pair of specs, she sent me to a specialist. what ensued was a full year of tests, test after test, by different eye-specialists, in gatineau, hull, ottawa and back to gatineau. they could see the problem, but they were baffled. they shook their heads and ran me through more tests. they could see the problem, but they didn't know why. finally, i asked that last guy for a prognosis. "well," he began, "you may go blind all of a sudden, gradually or not at all." "but isn't that just like life?," i said, and we both laughed. they could all see the problem, but they didn't know why.

there are mornings when opening my eyes is a big work, a hard task, and hardly seems a reasonable option. i may have been in my bed all night, but in samadhi from early morning.

Excerpts from my book: Unprotected Sects.

Silence 2, circa 1985.

In the middle of a busy day in New Delhi, I realized I had lost my shoulder-bag. Having also been in the gold and silver market that day in Chandni-Chowk, the bag not only had thousands of dollars in it, along with about one-hundred thousand rupees, it was full of gems and jewellery and, oh yeah, my passport too. Basically I was screwed, completely irrevocably screwed.

In my mind, there was no doubt I’d left the bag in the last scooter-rickshaw I had been in. But, trying to find it was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack and I knew it. I tried, of course. Eventually, however, close to tears, I retreated to my usual room at the 'Gandhi Guest House', sat down on the bed and put my head in my hands.

Perhaps as a last resort or out of desperation, I just sat still, silent. It wasn't meditation exactly, at least not formally. I was just sitting. And I kept on sitting for quite a while. I didn’t often feel as though meditation was very good on those business trips. Of course I knew one shouldn't label any specific meditation as good or less good, but that one, that one, while just sitting and not meditating, that one took me somewhere kinda special.

I had been to that place before, a place that’s not a place, a place that’s not anything and, gratefully, certainly not where I had been. I was quite conscious, very alert, but I had no problem, no bag was missing, my life as I knew it was not ending because it had not begun. There was a kind of bliss and a kind of freedom.

Then, strangely, from out of that space of un-struck sound, a thought occurred to me. I recalled briefly being at the 'Western Union' office in the 'Imperial Hotel.' My next thought was that I had had my bag after that. Nevertheless, I slid off my bed, with virtually no hope, and shuffled listlessly down the street to the hotel.

As I walked into the 'Western Union' office, there was a large crowd around a bag, my bag, all staring down at it. I immediately realized that they thought it might be a bomb, although in that case you gotta wonder why they were all crowding around it. I also realized the police would descend upon the scene within another few minutes. I wound my way through the crowd, grabbed the bag and quickly left the building.

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

“Silence and solitude is in the mind. One may be in the thick of the world and maintain serenity of mind. Such a one is in solitude." Ramana Maharshi.

Excerpts from my book: Unprotected Sects.

Silence 1.

In her book, 'How To Be Alone,' Scottish author, Sarah Maitland, writes: "I got fascinated by silence, by what happens to the human spirit, to identity and personality when the talking stops, when you press the off button, when you venture out into that enormous emptiness. I was interested in silence as a lost cultural phenomenon, as a thing of beauty and as a space that had been explored and used over and over again by different individuals, for different reasons and with wildly differing results. I began to use my own life as a sort of laboratory to test some ideas and to find out what it felt like. Almost to my surprise, I found I loved silence. It suited me. I got greedy for more."

"We have arrived," Maitland continues, "in the relatively prosperous developed world, at a cultural moment which values autonomy, personal freedom, fulfillment and human rights, and above all individualism, more highly than they have ever been valued before in human history. At the same time these autonomous, free, self-fulfilling individuals are terrified of being alone."

In his book, 'The Notebook,' acclaimed novelist, screenwriter and producer, Nicholas Sparks, wrote: “We sit silently and watch the world around us. This has taken a lifetime to learn. It seems only the old are able to sit next to one another and not say anything and still feel content. The young, brash and impatient, must always break the silence. It is a waste, for silence is pure. Silence is holy. It draws people together because only those who are comfortable with each other can sit without speaking. This is the great paradox."

Baba Hari Das is an Indian monk who has not spoken since 1952 and has lived in the west since 1970. Known simply as Babaji, he founded the Mount Madonna Center in Santa Cruz, California. He writes on a small black-board hanging around his neck. In his book, 'Silence Speaks,' it is recorded that, when asked what his greatest pleasure is, Babaji wrote: 'silence.' I did have the pleasure of being with Babaji several times in the '70s and will always remember the waves of 'saktipad,' peace, that rolled over me virtually every time we sat together.

Nelson Mandela was once quoted as saying: "It is never my custom to use words lightly. If twenty-seven years in prison have done anything to us, it was to use the silence of solitude to make us understand how precious words are and how real speech is in its impact on the way people live and die."

take me take me.

it was hard to know what to do when the fire-drill at the gym began. i was buck-naked in the shower at the time. i didn't know whether to run out front au naturel or take a few possibly fatal moments to grab a pair of undies, presumably my own. it was bloody inconvenient i can tell you. i hadn't even washed my gentles, not to mention use the blow-dryer. i was in a very wet quandary. it's not as if i would be leaving behind kids and grand-kids, but on the other hand i hadn't wiped off the history from my browser.

i was btw once married, to a woman. and as i was about to pop the proverbial question i recalled peter sellers' proposal: "will you be my first wife?," which i had always rather liked. i thought to use that same line, only for some reason i didn't and so we married. but i might as well have, since the marriage didn't last long. i actually had no idea what was expected of me and was horrified when i found out. i'd been a buddhist monk and a bramachari yogi for the better part of four decades previously, and by the time i recovered from that i had other issues, real nuptial buzz-kill-type stuff.

however, that brings me back to the decision i really had to make quickly in the shower at the gym with the fire-alarm blaring and middle-aged men running all 'round the change-room waving various appendages in desperation. some old men were desperately hanging onto their walkers yelling 'take me take me' while youngans were desperately hanging onto their large... egos. i decided to desperately lather up and continue on with an attitude gained through many trial-by-fire occassions in india, which basically was: 'i'll run if or when i see actual flames and not before.'

a yogi never panics unless he or she feels it's absolutely necessary. as well, personally, although i am in a long-lasting and loving relationship, it isn't actually with any particular person, creature or plastic blow-up doll. there's only me and i don't think i'd miss me so much. i feel as though i've gained a universal kind of love, a power to love everyone equally and unconditionally, except for fred, and anyway it turned out to be a false alarm, just like so many that people face every day. 

do you charge by the tooth?

the first night of my tooth-ache was the worst. i sat in my chair moaning, groaning, walking up and down the driveway waiting for the light of day. i'd been through that before. i knew what was coming: probably antibiotics, certainly more pain and another extraction. my relationship to dental pain is long and storied. that actual appointment, however, was mercifully scheduled within hours and was not so bad.

after applying novacane, my dentist announced he needed to make some sort of an adjustment and would return in a few moments. i didn't know what he meant. but as i waited my mind drifted way way back in time, to an occassion in india when i had the job of accompanying an old woman to a dinner party. the old woman was a respected member of the indian government being afforded every courtesy as a visitor to the ashram. and my not-so-simple task was to help her lumber up a really long set of concrete steps, built into the hillside, to the house where other dinner-guests were waiting.

aside from being aged, the lady was also unfortunately morbidly obese. the going was slow. we had to stop after every few steps for her to rest. by half-way up we were stopping after each step. at one point, about two-thirds of the way up the hill, the lady leaned against a boulder, took one desperately deep breath and as she exhaled her dentures went flying right out of her mouth and landed in the dirt. i, of course, had to crawl over, pick her teeth up and carry them in my hands the rest of the way up to the house. i washed them off in an outside tap on the porch before we made our grande entrance.

my dentist made his grande entrance as i was jolted back to the present. he slid into the room carrying a large pair of pliers and i spluttered: "what the hell?!" both he and his lovely assistant burst out laughing as he pointed out the pliers were for him to adjust a piece of equipment and i relaxed. the actual procedure was not so bad and i didn't have to re-mortgage my house.

the receptionist asked if i'd like to schedule a cleaning and i responded by asking: "why, to clean my gums?" she really didn't understand so i added: "do you charge by the tooth?"

freedom's star and love's rain.

in loving memory: Swami Shyam 1923-2017.

only along these hallowed hallways
of forms imagined in absence of candlelight
can Shyam recall with all relief
the brilliance of his own
and be ever after the benefactor of more bounty
than the fiercest pirate could have ever known
to roam with freedoms star at his back
amidst a celebration of fears flight

only within this structure
narrow and changing
along illusions foyer of time and space
can he watch himself lose its confines to reflect
upon being ever the recipient of more richness
than the shrewdest entrepreneur could’ve ever hoped to collect
to drift aimfully with loves driving rain at his chest
towards an awesome and humbling grace

only along these stairways of creativity
designed for joy and sorrows conclusion
can the very lord of the estate
enjoy the climbing
to look out upon garden and stream
a panoramic vision to the corners of a kingdom
more grand and expansive
than the greatest conquerors unfulfilled dream

to gaze forever undisturbed
with freedoms star and loves rain as his comrades against delusion
to walk forever undisturbed
with freedoms sparkling star and loves driving rain
as company in Shyam's eternal seclusion.

an inconvenient truth.

"when i wake in the morning, as long as i don't smell flowers or see any candles i'll get up." red skelton.

it's a mixed group at the gym i go to: you've got young and old all mixed up together. that's part of its charm, i suppose, and i wouldn't want it any other way. nevertheless, it can be a challenge at times, like when that twelve-year-old kid last week beat me on the basketball court or, like yesterday, when i walked into the change-room just in time to see a really old man blow-drying his genitals.

i'm not stuck in-between the two extremes. i'm closer to the old guy giving himself a blow-job than the young bball phenom. like, after playing some pretty average bball yesterday i was ready to take a shower, but for a couple of moments i could't find my towel. then one of the young studs there pointed out that i had it wrapped around my waist. oh they thought that was soooo funny, laughing snd laughing as i muttered: 'it's all down-hill from here,' on my way to the showers.

i was mugged once in the byward market: january 14th, 2000, 6:15 at night to be exact. after living in mexico for a couple of years, travelling all 'round the world and living twenty-five years in india, i got mugged in ottawa. go figger. i did alright considering it was three against one. but, at a certain point i got clubbed from behind and passed out. the point of all this is that, as i was losing consciousness, my only thought was: 'oh, i'm going into meditation now.' it was quite comforting really. i was familiar with that state of consciousness, even like it, even love it. i don't know what it is. but, it aint scary.

i marvel at the stoic nature with which we humans often face the certainty of death, the end of life as we know it. "death is not the extinguishing of light," ravindranath tagore once wrote so eloquently. "it is only the putting out of the lamp because the dawn has come." tecumseh said: "when it comes your time to die, sing your death song and die like a hero going home." what is that home? i don't know. i don't know. but, my hope is that it's got a hair-blower, cause i'm probably gonna want one.

Where Our True Life Begins. by Shayla Wright.

Many years ago, when I was living in the Himalayas, a beautiful young woman named Pingala would come and wash my dishes every morning. She sang as she washed–it was one of the loveliest parts of my day, hearing the clattering of dishes down below my house, mixed with her chirping little songs, as she lit the fire to heat up the water. She washed my dishes for so many years that she began to feel like part of our family.

One day I dropped a cup on the floor and it broke into about fifteen pieces. I put it in the garbage, thinking that Pingala would throw it away. The next morning, all of those pieces came back to me, washed and carefully piled up in one corner of the dish bin. I didn’t understand what she was doing, so I put the clean pieces back in the garbage the next morning.

The next day I found the cup in my dishes. Pingala had glued all of the pieces back together again, with great precision and exquisite care. The cup spoke of that care when I looked at it, when I poured my tea into it and drank from it. It didn’t leak a single drop.

A few days later I saw Pingala and thanked her for my cup. I told her I thought it was beautiful. She laughed, with the teasing attitude that many of the mountain people had for those of us from the West. I realized that our tendency to throw things away felt childish to her, disrespectful and careless. I discarded that cup as something worthless, and she spent time and energy repairing it. In doing so, she began repairing something in me.

I left India very suddenly many years later, without time to go back and pack up my home and all of my belongings. All of my possessions were given to the victims of an earthquake in the next state. I was surprised at how easy it was to let go of everything I owned. But I often think of that little cup and wish I had it with me. That cup is the Indian version of kintsukori: the Japanese art of repairing pottery with gold or silver, understanding that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken.

One essay on the subject says that the true life of the bowl or cup began the moment it was dropped. That sentence pierces my heart and helps me understand what Pingala gave to me: that which has been mended radiates the truth of both its fragility and its resilience.

Cups shatter–so do dreams and human hearts. Our broken dreams and hearts carry their own hidden resilience, waiting for a moment in which we are willing to turn back towards them again, to stop discarding them as hopeless. We can breathe life into them if we have faith that they will be more beautiful now, than they were before they were broken.

To know this we have to walk through our self pity, our resentment, our bitterness, into the clear sweet place where our body takes the shape again of a ‘yes’ to life as it is. This life in which so many things are broken, and in which new life, resurrection, is possible.

"Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything,
That’s how the light gets in" Leonard Cohen

with love, Shayla.
www.wideawakeheart.net. 

first world problems.

or: mental hygeine.

the high point of the day was a trip to the dollar store to buy a new tooth-brush. i know that sounds pretty pathetic but you gotta understand, well, ok.

be that as it may, there were several to choose from of all different shapes and sizes hangin in a neat row for my viewing pleasure. the one i chose looked cool: blue and white hard plastic, kinda thick handle with a rubber pick on one end, a slightly larger than normal brush on the other. it even had a small extra brush behind it, for those hard to get at places.

once i got home, i immediately and unceremoniously peeled away the packaging and trundled joyously off to my salle de bain... but the thing did not fit in my mouth! at first i couldn't bend my head around the fact that the brush couldn't bend its head into my mouth. i mean, who would make a tooth-brush too big for a mouth (?) and, just like donald trump's hands, the size of my mouth is "normal, good size, fine, slightly large actually." needless to say, i immediately returned the thing to the store. no, of course i didn't. i took my teeth out, some of 'em anyway, and brushed them over the sink. but, it aint right.

i know that sounds terribly pathetic, and i ask myself: how did i end up like this: living alone, away from all the action, in a tiny house in the back-woods of cold, wintery west quebec, with an oversized dental instrument (?) and the answer jumps immediately to my mind: i musta got pretty darn lucky, that's how.

as i sit in my favourite chair, shrouded in peace, a fire in the stove filling the room with its glow and warmth, a cup of coffee on the table beside me, i know i'm almost unreasonably fortunate. as i watch the snow gently falling, eyeing my heavy coat and boots waiting by the door, listening to a report about refugees unwelcome everywhere, i feel like i should really go buy a small toothbrush before the store closes for the night.

"too bad all the people who know how to run the country are driving taxi cabs or cutting hair." george burns. 

sleep on it.

"to die, to sleep – to sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there’s the rub, for in this sleep of death what dreams may come…” shakespeare. (hamlet.)

q: you recently referred to our diminished ability to make the experience of our lives pleasant. the question begs asking: how would you suggest one access those so-called innate feelings of pleasantness without booze and other funny stuff?

a: firstly, i didn't say that. i heard that, or maybe i read it. be that as it may, i've been meditating a whole heckuva long time. so i kinda push that 'cause it's worked for me. i'm very well-adjusted and continuously in a state of rapture. ok, well, at least i'm able to truck on without all that crap, a reasonably contented creature moving inexorably toward an unknowable whatever, which just maybe i do know a little about. maybe we all do. i'll come back to that. consider it, if you will, like this:

in its purest sense meditation is not something we do. it's actually something we stop doing. for example, when we crawl into bed at night we know we won't be in a waking state or even always in a dream state. we're pretty sure we'll reach a state of deep sleep, which seems to be kind of a cessation of all states. do we really even exist at that time? surely not as a fully functioning individual. where were we? yet afterward we say the whole sleep experience was refreshing, rejuvenating. it was very pleasant. and that sense lingers on and sustains us until next night.

so, one way to think about meditation is as a conscious training we undertake to access the incredible pleasantness of sleep, only better, and ultimately even deep sleep. in that regard, perhaps we do sort of experience meditation every night. there's the wonderful feeling of getting into bed, the finishing with the day, the letting go. that's the same as when we decide it's time to sit down and take a few minutes to meditate. the slipping into a lovely semi-sleep state each night is not so different from what evolves in meditation after a while. then, there's the dream state. well, in meditation we still think. we still have a steady stream of mental projections not unlike a dream. in fact, that eventually takes on a distinctly dream-like quality. and, of course eventually we slip into a deep sleep, which i'll refer to again.

now, within this process something very special happens. every step of the way, little by little, more and more, it just works. little by little, more and more, something within us gets activated or released, flooding us with a sense of wonder, well-being, relaxation and, for lack of a better word, bliss. i would even go so far as to call it intoxicating: not the shxt-faced kind that leaves one with a headache and a std. it's more the natural, subtle, high-on-life kind. and, btw, it's less and less subtle over time. and of course the process is not just like sleep, although eventually there's no distinction to be made. suffice it to say, meditation has deeply transformative qualities leading to profound insights.

which brings me back to the deep-sleep part: there comes a time in meditation when one may actually dissolve entirely, become fully absorbed, for a moment, or longer, and it's incredible. in sanskrit that's referred to as 'samadhi.' and in sanskrit ancient sages referred to death as 'maha-samadhi,' the ultimate sleep, the ultimate meditation. that's interesting.

(editor's note: for a further in-depth description of mindfulness meditation, including theory and techniques, refer to the blog posting entitled: 'i'm not a teacher, you're not a student.')

chicken or fish?

during the last few years of dad's life, my job was driving to toronto so i could simply take him out for dinner, which was not so simple. we had a pretty definite and somewhat complicated routine.

firstly, he'd check the weather. he wouldn't look outside or step out onto his balcony. he'd check on the computer. then the process of getting his coat on would begin. the zipper was always an issue. but once he was all bundled up in his big old coat, favourite fur hat and leather gloves, we'd take the elevator down to the heated garage, get in the car and drive to the mall. we'd park in the heated garage and then, lastly, take the elevator up. we would never actually go outside.

we'd always go to the same restaurant and, while he carefully looked the menu over, he'd ask: "you eat chicken don't you?" "no dad," i'd say. "i've been vegetarian for 30 years - as you know." then he'd look up over top of the menu and say: "fish?" "no dad. don't worry about me. plenty of choices here." he'd send the waiter away because he wasn't finished reading the menu and then, eventually, he'd order the same meal he odered every time.

during our meal, during one of those last dinners, during those last few years, old dad remarked out of the blue: "you know, there's still one thing that bothers me about you." "oh yeah?," i said smiling. 'here we go,' i thought. "and what would that be?" "it bothers me that you believe in reincarnation." i was a bit taken aback by that. "dad, i don't recall ever saying a word about that concept and i know nothing about it." "no," he continued. "but YOU PEOPLE all believe in reincarnation." i just kinda shook my head and said: "well, all i know is, if there is such a thing as reincarnation, i hope to be born again as your son." then, as he waved to the waiter to complain about something or other, he remarked matter-of-factly: "you think you're so smart."

it may not have been during that particular meal, perhaps another, that i asked the old guy what his idea of god was. but, i do recall his answer very clearly. after a few moments' thought he said: "the best i've ever come up with is that god is the power that makes the grass grow."