Tuesday, September 26, 2017

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.


Sunday, September 24, 2017

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.




Sunday, September 17, 2017

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.

Saturday, September 16, 2017

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."

Tuesday, September 12, 2017

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.