inside out.

it’s actually kinda ludicrous attempting to describe an inner phenomena, a transcendent happening. and yet, here i go. anyway, not so many folk actually read this blog anymore and, who knows (?), maybe this’ll be an inspiration to one person, one day.

there’s absolutely no difference between me and any other aging man, especially at night. sleeping is typically hit and miss. i’m up and down a lot, trundling off to the ‘salle de bain’ with various degrees of success. it’s in the early morning when things become... unusual, extra-normal and entirely profound. a kind of grace descends upon me, or opens up from within me. a kind of bliss, for lack of any other better word, consumes me, subsumes me and carries me away, sometimes for hours at a time. it’s not only in the early morning, by the way, but it’s always in the early morning.

for the most part i’m conscious, aware of the happening and incredibly grateful for it. this has been variously decribed as samadhi, kundalini, super consciousness, absolute bliss consciousness, even god consciousness, whatever the heck that means. to be perfectly honest, i don’t know what to call it other than a blessing. 

because that’s the way my life has evolved. for one reason or another i’ve led a tremendously solitary life. which is not to say that i’m in any way displeased or unhappy. it sounds terrible but it’s not. it simply is what it is. at this point i would most certainly be considered one of those isolated old folks you hear about on the radio or read about on-line. i’m alone most of the time... and then there’s that!          

“In Samadhi, that very deep state of meditation, you are given energy and long-lasting bliss. It carries you higher and higher until your very presence radiates love.” Sri Sri Ravi Shankar.

the sandwich.

there was a portion of the road leading in to the ‘figaro coffee house’ that was kind of wondrous. it reminded me of home actually: a shimmering, glimmering cluster of trees trembling on their small island. it was an island surrounded by mostly pavement but shimmering, glimmering nonetheless. it was a white island with thousands of icy prisms throwing kaleidoscopic patterns onto the dash-board of my old truck as i turned in.  

the cafe was busy dealing with beautiful lunch-time people all dealing back in their various ways: chatting loudly, ingesting quietly, laughing, texting, scrolling. the clear, layered display cabinets were filled bountifully with a cornucopia of angina-inducing super sweet and ridiculously rich pastries, thick and filling paninis and sandwiches. only i couldn’t see any vegetarian ones there except for the one actually reflected in the glass, looking, looking. i asked for a cappuccino and enquired hopefully if i might possibly and even perhaps preposterously get a veggie sandwich, on a croissant.  

the young dark-eyed girl was no doubt momentarily taken aback. but she was in no way defeated. she was simply understanding just how not mundane life always is or can be, no matter how mundane ones job may seem at first blush. she smiled encouragingly at me, at herself, then swiftly scooted into the inner sanctum leaving me with my thoughts. however, she scooted back just as swiftly, interrupting not much to ask a few details before again scooting off. 

once i paid with thanks, collected my coffee and draped my coat over a chair, i was confronted by a very short lady wearing an apron, white cap, warm smile. this was unbelievable, i thought. this was extra-normal, i thought. this was not the stuff of legends, i thought. that would’ve been going too far. but it certainly was unusual. the short sandwich-maker had come to discuss my tall order further. she wanted to get it right. i just wanted to get it at all. she could not know, of course, that i’m not the most discerning croissant-sandwich aficionado ever since the earl of sandwich unwrapped the very first proto-type. 

eventually my coffee was gone and some of the people who‘d been chatting, ingesting, laughing, texting and scrolling around me had gone as well. eventually i began to wonder as one does when the wait-time seems inordinately long. but right then the short, aproned lady re-appeared, towered above me, presented my lunch with a napkin and a flourish. i could not believe it. my eyes could not take it all in and i momentarily wondered if my mouth could either.

i continued to undress it with my eyes for a few moments, layer upon layer. firstly, the croissant clearly had been on steroids or some growth-enducing hormones. it was bunion-esque, schwarzenegger-esque. in-between its impressive upper and lower selves there was avocado in slices laid out neatly side-by-side from end to end. there were brilliant red tomato and green/white cucumber slices, a layer of lettuce, sprouts, cheese, mayonnaise. the croissant was just crispy enough, although eating the whole sandwich was probably not pretty, certainly not elegant. it was huge and admittedly i’m somewhat dentally challenged, but it was soooo good.  

four napkins and twenty minutes or so later i was done. i sat back briefly to appreciate the moment and to reconsider what constitutes being the stuff of legends. i put on my coat, deposited the dishes in a bin before heading for the door. i spotted the dark-eyed girl scooting off to the side, away from the counter. she was busy, too focussed to notice the aging croissant-loving vegetarian standing there hopefully. eventually i lightly tapped on the glass window, or maybe i tapped on the plexiglass window. whatever may have been the case, i tapped and she was surprised, maybe even a little shocked. she looked up at me quizzically, questioningly. 

for a split-second i remained silent as her eyes widened slightly. finally i blurted out: “THAT WAS FUCKING AMAZING!” we both laughed and i thanked her, beseached her to relay the message. i made my way out then to where thousands of icy prisms were still throwing kaleidoscopic patterns into the world. 

sparkling new youtube channel.

to check out my new videos, go to youtube.com and simply type in ‘nathan vanek.’

my unimportant opinion.

dear nancy; 
     i appreciated that after your long retreat you had that realization of our impermanence and unimportance. i also appreciate how important family must be in that regard. 
     honestly, i don't think much about family. it's lovely if not exactly how i view the situation. family must help one feel important or at least afford one a sense of belonging. i've never had much of a family life. so i remember my longer retreats as occassions when, with no sense of personal history, friends or family, i came to know myself simply as a living organism, and eventually not even that: like in deep sleep or samadhi.
     since my life has been a fundamentally solitary one i feel like i understand the importance of each living being, from a blade of grass to an elephant and certainly any human, that i see or come to know. and so i sense the strange contradiction: that we're both important and unimportant. after all, we‘re apparently both a transitory body and the very life continuum that animates it. 
     this is of course not a definitive statement on the subject of our importance or unimportance. but there's something about this path we’re on, and specifically meditation, that leaves one, in the end at least, ok with not having all those big questions answered. one seems to nevertheless end up with great love, affection, tremendous happiness and a deep appreciation for the apparent endless wonder that we call creation.
     best wishes always; nathan.

stop the presses!

headline: franziska heinze of the ‘nudes of wakefield calendar’ accused of misappropriation of funds.  

after reading the editorial i honestly felt that everyone needs to take a breath. 

i certainly understand why franziska’s upset, hurt, even outraged. she has every right to be. melanie shouldn’t have written that, should’ve thrown that letter into the garbage where it belonged. it was a mistake to give it any attention. but that’s what it was: a mistake. she should’ve turned her attention to how incredibly long it takes for road-work to get done around here. 

at the same time melanie did repeatedly point out that the letter was anonymous, that the writer offered absolutely no proof and that franziska’s hard work has precipitated local charities to receive “life-changing” assistance. frankly, i wondered why it’s anyone’s damn business anyway. 

her accuser is most likely some disgruntled, ugly, cowardly, bathdurd who‘s never been asked to be in the calendar. no not me. of course, i have often wondered. i mean, when i get out of the shower and look in the mirror at various angles i mumble to myself: ‘hey, who wouldn’t wanna see this?’ ok, i may not use those exact words but i digress.  

melanie’s made a mistake in judgment. but let’s face it: there’s not a helluva lot of scintillating stuff to write about. but we certainly didn’t need to read that nonsense. we’ve already read franziska like a book and that’s our very good fortune. 

freedom to offend.

“a book is a version of the world. if you do not like it, offer your own version in return.” salman rushdie. 

freedom is like a drug, and i gotta say i’ve been on a trip this summer. with absolutely no old friends visiting from india i had time to drive over to visit my lovely ex-wife and mom-in-law near peterborough a few weeks ago, just returned from tadoussac where i visited some whales and i’m going to perth this weekend. 

the situation’s like this: the amazon rain forest’s burning, puerto rico keeps getting slammed by tropical storms, racial intolerance is on the rise... and my little book, ‘unprotected sects’, is being burned, metaphorically speaking. 

i’m actually amused by the collective response of my old friends in india to the book. especially since these are the same folks who i wrote in that same book are ‘good, intelligent and highly aware people.‘ although i suppose it was somewhat predictable, i certainly feel it’s somewhat unfortunate. however, i’ll briefly explain why their disdain also doesn’t somewhat upset me. 

aside from it having been kinda nice not being inundated with guests this summer, not having to entertain, support or drive people around, my phone and ipad have been incredibly quiet. they’re not dinging or ringing, they’re not pulling me outta meditation or sleep. as well, this is some throw-back medieval ignorance going on. and so how could i possibly get upset by losing such ‘friends’. for the most part, keep in mind, they haven’t even read the book. apparently, when asked recently if he’d read the book, one of that group stated that nobody there has any intention of ever reading it. 

to understand the full significance of their collective response, you gotta understand that these are folks i’ve supposedly been friends with for over forty-five or fifty years. these are folks i’ve lived with, tripped with, hosted, defended and in some cases supported. some of these, up until the shoe dropped, would send emails, whatsapp messages or texts on a daily basis, for years. 

make no mistake: i absolutely knew and know that there are aspects and parts of my book that folks may not like, parts that may be offensive to some. i have never been under any illusion about that. and, in spite of all the good feedback i’ve received, i knew and know it can precipitate other reactions as well. that’s not what i’m talking about. 

i’m talking about deepa mehta causing outrage among hindu fundamentalists for her film ‘water.’ when once asked if films can cause change she responded: “what a good film can do is start a dialogue and provoke discussion.” in fact she faced death threats and was thrown out of varanasi where the filming was taking place.  

“what is freedom of expression? without the freedom to offend it ceases to exist.” salman rushdie. 

the good conspiracy theory.

there’s always another way to look at things. there’s always another point of view. i have appreciated painting a slightly negative picture of religion, spiritual aspirations and new-age philosophy. i suppose i’ve appreciated painting a slightly negative picture of religious leaders, spiritual teachers and new-age gurus. and yet, i ask myself, where would i have ended up had it not been for all of those in my life(?)

there may be no beginning or end to the enquiry. as a matter of fact i firmly believe that. it seems so obvious. and it also seems as obvious that anyone who states or infers that he or she knows ‘the answer’ is either a fool or worse. but, perhaps the very best a human can aspire to is a direct cognition of an underlying reality, an all-permeating self, irregardless of the question ‘ok, but where did that come from?’

the fact is i’m not saying anything so important. or if i am, it’s certainly not different than a lot of folks have said, from george carlin to friedrich nietzsche. hey, anyone who would not simply spend a lifetime in hiding after being named friedrich must’ve been a great philosopher. and apparently he did not have an ultimate answer. he philosophized, like george and me, that religion may be the greatest conspiracy ever played on humankind.

however, a friend recently asked: “what’s the harm of believing in an eternal self without beginning or end?” and that was a really good question, the absolute right question. we know very well that certainly a blind faith in an ideology, theory or idea can cause horrible huge and hideous harm. and if i wanted to remain the glass is half empty kinda guy i’d leave it at that. 

but that glass is also half full. so, yeah, a belief in a god or an underlying reality can precipitate tremendous good. there’s no doubt about it. and, more to the point, if a practice of meditation can actually acquaint or reacquaint oneself with that reality, irregardless of its seeming endlessness, what a tremendous blessing. 

as well, if enough people were to meditate on the infinite and interconnectedness of all life, what a blessing it’d be for the world as a whole(?)

a danger 2.

Nathan. I was happy to read your latest posting ‘a danger to my self’. Here are some thoughts that came up for me as I read your post... You wrote: "i believe in an underlying eternal reality. what i don’t believe is that’s ‘the answer.’ in other words: where did that self, that reality come from?" I wonder: that underlying-reality, that eternal self you believe in and experience in meditation... why does it have to come from somewhere? or go to somewhere? does it have to have a beginning and an end? Perhaps that self just IS, with no beginning or end, no coming or going. And if you haven't discerned a beginning or end to that self, maybe there isn't one...? Also, I wonder... having discovered that underlying eternal reality... does it really matter where it came from - if indeed it came from somewhere? I put these thoughts forward with much respect and curiosity...

non-answer: Zofia Kumas-Tan your comments are very right-on and i couldn’t agree more. i would only add that when you say ‘perhaps that Self just IS’, you’re basically reiterating what i wrote in my post, and i say it may be a bit of a cop-out, that the question remains. ‘cop-out’ may be too strong a term, but i am simply warning against an assumption that one has found the answer. and i’m specifically warning against thinking anyone else has either and therefore is some sort of great prophet. a belief, due to meditation, intuition and logic, is not a certainty, a knowledge. that’s all i’m saying. and as long as a yogi is making that distinction, enjoy the saat-chitt-aanand. you’re saying ‘maybe there’s no beginning or end’ and ‘does it really matter?’ those are both great comments/questions.

Also, I fully agree with your position that the true yogi will seek to have a personal experience of Truth, rather than blindly accepting teachings... and it seems to me that the best teachers encourage us to practice yoga/meditation and to find our own answers through the practices, to find our own inner teacher. At the same time, I find great value in having faith. It's true... this faith aspect approaches religion... but if it fuels me to continue on this path, to apply myself earnestly, to stay with the practice... is there harm in having faith? in drawing inspiration from the teachings? Especially if the teachings touch something in you, and that something in you responds with a kind of joyful recognition, or remembrance... Do you know what I mean?

non-answer: Zofia Kumas-Tan you’re clearly an intelligent, deep thinker. again, i agree. i agree there’s nothing intrinsically wrong with faith. in fact, i sometimes almost envy folks with deep faith, in a prophet, in a god. is there any harm in it? well, we see that there certainly can be.
but what i appreciated most of all was your last couple of lines regarding inspiration and a ‘joyful recognition or remembrance’. that’s beautifully put. and yes i do know what you mean.

a danger to my self.

the simple truth can be dangerous. it’s quite simple really, but not very popular, apparently kinda hard to swallow. i’m simply saying that nobody really knows ‘the answer’, and that’s the truth. 
   
probably the dangerous part is that i don’t believe anybody has ever known ‘the answer’. and that includes jesus, moses, buddha, shivananda, muktananda, the pope, mooji, mohammad, tholle, nanak, chopra, yogananda, certainly not me and almost certainly not you. and whether the great teachers, masters, gurus, saints and sages past and present have come straight out and said they know or they simply inferred it, i think they’re full of rotten tomatoes or tomaatos. and any way you slice it that’s hard to swallow.

leaving aside the great religions of the world for the moment, we come to the so-called contemporary new-age movement. and we observe how it too has devolved into a kind of religion. with the belief in an all-permeating self, an underlying eternal reality, we fall straight into the trap. the guarantee was that dhyaan, meditation, would be the direct portal to that self, that reality, when in fact it may well have been the very trap itself. i believe in an all-permeating self. i believe in an underlying eternal reality. what i don’t believe is that’s ‘the answer.’ in other words: where did that self, that reality come from? 

after a lifetime of meditation with a dedication most could not fathom, i know about samadhi, kundalini, kaivalya, moksha. but, i won’t lie. what i still don’t know is where we come from or where we go. i don’t know who was the first mother. i haven’t seen the beginning or end of creation. i don’t know god.

of course, at that point you’d hear ‘it’s’ beyond words, beyond intellect. you’d be told the human mind can’t reach there: it’s beyond the beyond, it just is. the truth, in my less-than-humble opinion, is that’s a kinda colossal cop-out at best, a manipulation at worst. 

my beliefs come from meditation, intuition and logic. only, as a yogi one is not supposed to accept what one hears or reads as gospel. a yogi is to rely on his or her own personal direct knowledge, hence the use of the word ‘belief’. however, even if one accepts the direct experience or cessation of all experience, the conscious dissolving of ones individual identity into the whole, the self of all, the question still remains. and it’s important, as a yogi, to bloody-well be honest about it. otherwise it’s not different from any religion: faith in an all-permeating, eternal life is not different than having faith in a god. which is fine, but it’s a faith, a belief. it’s not knowledge. 

ramana maharshi allegedly encouraged people to keep asking: ‘who am i?’ i certainly don’t know who i am in deep sleep, deep samadhi, when unconscious or dead. so, yeah, it’s a valid question. and perhaps we should include the question: ‘and where did that come from?’ we may never really get ‘the answer’, but we probably should never stop asking. 

and, by the way, not having ‘the answer’ in no way minimizes the meditative tradition. it may minimize the guru tradition, but the value and profundity, the beauty and majesty of meditation remains. that i do know.

graceland.

at four in the morning kennedy road’s quiet. i drive along it often at that time and rarely see another vehicle. i often run across deer, have to be careful in fact not to run over deer at that time. 

there was a thick fog this morning, more than an early morning mist. there was more than a hint of daylight and, as i took the first or second bend in the road, there was a deer. it leaped off the road, over some low bushes into the field and stopped. i stopped as well, even backed my truck up a few feet and lowered the window. she began to move away: cautious, suspicious. but soon after i turned the music up, paul simon’s ‘graceland’, she moved a little bit back: still cautious and suspicious, but also curious.   

there was something in the music that kept the creature transfixed, engaged. there was something in the music that made her relax, attentive. and we shared those moments together listening to an african beat, a world-music experience. she was watching me carefully, ears up, still, until i actually saw her head begin to subtly move in time with the rhythm. it was almost imperceptible, may even have been the result of an over-active imagination. however, i definitely felt the hair go up at the back of my neck. 

once the music changed, she slowly began to move back through the field, away, until eventually she broke into a slow trot: unconcerned, elegant, as though she had diamonds on the souls of her feet. 

the dark side.

i’ve received a lot of truly heart-warming messages from folks after they’ve read my latest literary effort, ‘unprotected sects.’ 

but hey, i’ve also received some loud silences and a couple of down-right cranky messages. i think it’d be fantastically funny, not to mention more real, to record the not-so-positive reviews along with the positive ones on the back cover. that’s assuming i ever do a second printing.

one of my dearest old friends, a lady whose opinions i value tremendously, so eloquently wrote: “i expected it to be racy. i did not expect it to be crass, insensitive, inaccurate and down-right disgusting.” i like to think that otherwise she loved it. ok, of course i found her comments mildly unsettling. but then i consoled myself with the thought that at least she’s too far away to throw hard objects at me.  

the aged mother of one of my good buddies, a lady who apparently reads a book each week, told her son she couldn’t finish mine.  

an eighty-year-old cousin, after telling me how much he was looking forward to reading the book, offered no reaction at all, for a long long time. eventually he sent an email suggesting i visit him in haliburton ‘to discuss the book.’ i do like road-trips but it aint gonna happen.

“there is only one way to avoid criticism: do nothing, say nothing, be nothing.” aristotle. 

the appointment.

after phoning the clinic and asking if i might have a doctor’s appointment, the receptionist asked what was my issue. i told her i was lonely. there ensued a pregnant silence during which i tried to assure her that i was joking but i don’t think she believed me. 

the truth of the matter was i had been barely able to walk for weeks. my back, left hip and leg all felt as though i’d all of a sudden become a cranky, aging, sixty-eight-year-old guy, which of course i am. 

anyway, after all the pushing, poking and prodding, the doctor suggested tylenol and physio. well, he also organized an x-ray just to make sure there was no bone damage. but basically he was pretty convinced my issue was a sciatic one and it’d just take time. i had no intention of doing physio and frankly i thought he was very wrong. i was quite certain the situation was much more serious than that. 

as it happened, the doctor was far more interested in some spots he spotted upon my otherwise lovely face. and so the only treatment i really received was a very liberal spraying of liquid nitrogen upon said previously lovely face. that left me looking as though i was of no fixed address, as though i probably mostly hung around various taverns on clarence street. 

once safely back in my car i drove immediately up to tim hortons where i seemed to fit in very well. and, as difficult as it was for me to admit, my back felt strangely much better.

Power of Thought.

Most illness begins with a negative mind.

It’s been proven again and again. Hypochondriacs, people who are convinced that they are sick even though nothing is wrong with them, experience the exact symptoms of the actual illness. For them, the illness is just as real as if their bodies were ravaged by disease. It is also possible to make yourself ill through constant worry and fear of failure, because the mind constantly strives to turn into reality the things we think about most. Protect your mental health with the same care you give your physical body. Just as your body requires healthy, nourishing foods, and a balanced diet, so does your mind. Make sure you feed it plenty of positive thoughts.

From The Napoleon Hill Foundation. 

books books books.

my two newest books, ‘unprotected sects’ and ‘the legend of anson minor’ are available on amazon.com, amazon.ca, blurb.com and more locally at the following locations:

ottawa:
in new edinburgh, books on beechwood (beechwood avenue.)
in the glebe, octopus books (third avenue.)
in old ottawa east, singing pebbles books (main street.)
in centre town, perfect books (elgin street.)

wakefield:
wakefield artisans galerie, within patisserie la toque (chemin riverside.)

I’m Not a Teacher.

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

This article is written for those special people who have become interested in or perhaps even fascinated by the idea of meditation. If you’re searching for instructions into a Reiki Level 1 course, Tarot cards, healing with crystals or how to contact your dead grandmother, this will not work for you. As wonderful as all those things may be, this article is exclusively concerned with explaining the pure, ancient and highly respected science of meditation, how and why to include it in your life. There is really no certification at the end of studying and practicing. There is, however, tremendous relaxation, a profound sense of well-being and a greater understanding of something rather vague I call ‘self-knowledge.’

At the start of one of my sessions, a severe-looking lady asked what my qualifications were for teaching. A lesser man might've broken down, admitted to being a total fraud. What I said, what I always say, is that I have no certificate or accreditation from any institute. I invited her to feel free to read the back of one of my books to learn a bit of my personal history, specifically as it pertains to the study, experience and teaching of meditation. But most importantly, I added, one has to rely on one’s own intellect and power of discrimination in order to choose who is worth listening to on any subject, especially this one. Moreover, ultimately, one has to take what is useful from any teacher or technique that guarantees results. Even the historical Buddha allegedly said that any technique worth employing must help a person in his or her life, here and now, right away.

The main teacher of the two main teachers in my life, Swami Shyamji, once gave me a piece of advice that I continue to keep close to my heart. As I was leaving his Himalayan hermitage to join a six-month, silent Vipassana Buddhist meditation retreat in Maharashtra, India, I asked if he had any last minute words of advice. “Yes, I do,” he said smiling impishly. “My advice is: Don’t be a Buddhist, be the Buddha.” And with those words ringing in my ears I slithered away. Along with countless other words from Swamiji over the years, I’ve never forgotten that advice. I’ve often repeated it to my so-called students and even expanded upon it. Don’t be a Buddhist, be the Buddha. Don’t be a Christian, be the Christ. Don’t be a Hindu, be Krishna. Don’t be a Sikh, be Guru Nanak. Don’t be a Jew, be Moses. Don’t be an asshole, be Trump.

So, no matter who we choose to listen to, sit with or learn from, it’s up to each of us to dig our own freedom, to find our own way, to become the enlightened one with no certificate to show for our trouble. Just freedom. It is in the light of this realization that I humbly offer these suggestions. In reality, I am not a teacher and you are not a student. If what I write is true and if it strikes a responsive chord within you, then we are united in that understanding. We are united not as teacher and student, but as Truth itself.

Having said all that, I should add something about why it may be helpful to seek some form of guidance or a ‘teacher’ when beginning to examine the science of meditation. One needn’t stay for long. One needn’t cook or clean for him or her, do anything strange in bed or hand over one’s money. What one must do is take advantage of the experience of a fellow traveler who has gone before, who has been up the path and who just might know the tricky twists and turns to watch out for along the way. And there’s one more reason to sit with someone whose meditation practice has matured. The rare people who have dedicated themselves to the process over many years actually emanate a spiritual essence, a vibration that is transmitted to those around them. That may sound terribly mystical, but it’s a fact and a quality not to be underestimated.

On one visit from India many years ago, my dad asked why meditation seemed to have helped me so much, but not my sister, who had also been meditating for some years. She was a devotee of a highly respected teacher, master and guru from India, Swami Yogananda, who had been a pioneer in bringing the information about meditation to the western world. Unfortunately, really, he passed away long before my sister ever heard of him. I replied to my dad that I didn’t have a definitive answer to that question, assuming that he was even correct. But I offered a possible explanation. I said that if one wanted to learn to play the piano, it wouldn’t really be of any use to sit in front of a photo of one’s teacher placed on the music stand above the keys. Why would meditation be any different? Why, for that matter, would religion be any different? It’s interesting that all truly enlightened people have said that we are one life, one energy, one love, irrespective of caste, race, creed, color or any other apparent difference. Why does the essential and original message of the enlightened beings through the ages become so perverted as to cause wars? Don’t be a Buddhist. Be the Buddha.

There’s really nothing hard to understand about meditation. And yet, it’s widely misunderstood here in the western world, and even in its home country, India. From the Sanskrit word, dhyaan, meditation has become synonymous with all things flaky and maladjusted. It’s been blamed for wasted talents and even wasted lives. Nothing could be further from the truth. I will admit that I put the Saran Wrap in the refrigerator and the milk in the cupboard once in a while. But I, along with so many other people who have spent years meditating, have found something so fine, so beautiful and freeing that nothing can compare with it. Rather than blame the proud process of meditation for our foibles, we praise it as the cause of our deep sense of well-being.

My teacher, early on, once said, “Nathan, the same mind that has gotten you into trouble can get you out of it.” In those days I rather hoped drugs might be the answer. But he assured me that was wrong, that drugs would only ruin my nervous system. I still prefer a mild pain-killer for headaches. However, somehow I came to understand that meditation is a powerful tool. Once trained, I realized, the mind could be used against the enemies of true happiness, such as a myriad of physical ailments, mental complexes and even the innate fear of death. Apparently, the Buddha was known to say that desires are the root cause of all problems. My mother said that lack of money is the root cause of all problems. My friend Danny seemed to think that not having many relationships is the root cause of all problems. Since I tried my mom’s solution and Danny’s solution for a while, I decided to try the Buddha’s, even though I never actually met the fellow. I thought I saw him once at a party, but I couldn’t be sure. Be that as it may, I was pretty concerned about losing my desire for money and relationships if I began to meditate. My girlfriend at the time was even more concerned. Now I see that’s not how it works. You don’t have to give up anything. You only have to add one thing to your life: a few minutes of meditation daily. Then sit back and watch it enhance whatever else you’re into. Watch it help you let go of what you want or need to let go of. Watch it make you see the cup as half full. Watch it make you happy.

One of the most prevalent misconceptions about meditation is that you have to stop your thoughts, kill your mind. What one has to stop, cut or kill is only the concept. Leave your mind alone. To allow a wild horse to settle down, it probably isn’t a great idea to put it in a very small corral. It’s far more preferable to give the creature a large, wide-open field to roam around in. It'll settle down on its own. In the same way, it’s far better to let the thoughts come and go freely. Merely sitting or lying down for some time each day and applying the technique assures one of a positive result. Only your misconceptions concerning what you’re doing can get in the way. The very act of stopping for a while will have a positive influence on your day, your life. That’s because, actually, you do not meditate. You just need to get out of the way for meditation to happen naturally. I'll explain. It’s easy, yet very few people will do it.

Dhyaan actually means ‘attention’ or ‘contemplation.’ Whether a mantra (usually a Sanskrit phrase) or the breath becomes your chosen point of attention, the results of meditation, as I’ve said, are assured. Done with the right understanding, your mind will settle down, you will enjoy a heightened sense of well-being. Done with continuity, you will be well on your way to becoming a more contented person, walking happily through life while, of course, sometimes spoiling the milk by putting it in the cupboard. 

There are three states of consciousness that everyone is very familiar with: the waking state, the dreaming state and the deep sleep state. From the moment of conception, the ancient sages have said, a person begins to forget that he or she has a fourth state, which is called Turiya in Sanskrit. This state permeates all the other states, just as water is the essence of the iceberg. So the very act of stopping all your activities and tuning in to the essence of your existence, which is what you’re effectively doing in meditation, will take care of a lot. And the benefits are many.

In eastern philosophies and scriptures, you’ll often read that whatever is transitory cannot be said to be real. You’ll read that whatever is eternal is real and true. So this body, mind, ego mechanism is in that case not real or even existing. The ancient sages said that there is, in fact, no death because there was no birth. The space from whence ‘we’ come from, to where ‘we’ go, is considered real. The technique becomes, in the light of the previous paragraph, like an anchor. Utilizing it helps bring one’s attention back to one’s own self, to the reality of the essential life animating your body and mind. The technique helps us stop. As well, the technique trains the mind to focus like a laser beam, which will have far-reaching effects on your day, your life and, ultimately, your true knowledge.

The Vedantic scriptures liken the mind to a monkey flitting from branch to branch, tree to tree. Our mind flits from object to object and from thought to thought. We become so extraverted over the course of the years, or even as each day progresses, that it behooves us to find a way to regroup, so to speak. So, when we’ve decided to let the thoughts come and go freely while we sit and watch, we merely add one new thought. The phrase, or mantra, becomes a very significant and enjoyable thought as time marches on. All true mantras mean virtually the same thing: ‘I am the pure life, the essential energy animating all the forms.’ There is a popular Buddhist mantra that goes ‘Om mani padme hum’: ‘Behold the jewel within the lotus flower.’ There is a popular Hindu mantr that goes ‘Amaram Hum Madhuram Hum’: ‘I am immortal, I am blissful and indivisible.’ All real mantras basically refer to the one life, the one light at the center of all beings, the energy that animates all the forms.

It is often noted that Sanskrit is used for mantras because the vibration of the phrases resonate within the human mind to open certain spiritual channels. For an in-depth dissertation on the vibrational qualities of Sanskrit, I recommend Chaytna’s book, ‘Let’s Learn Hindi,’ which can be found through her website; www.letslearnhindi.com. I’ve always used the Sanskrit word; ‘Shyam’, as my mantra. It’s the name of my teacher and of the power that sustains life. It really doesn’t matter what mantra you choose, although Sanskrit mantras are the most recommended. However, choosing a mantra and sticking to it is important. Meditation is a technique of being one-pointed, after all. Chogyam Trungpa once wrote that western people tend to try many different techniques, which is like a thirsty person digging many shallow wells but never hitting water. He wrote that we should dig one well deep enough to achieve the desired result.

Having chosen a mantra, or been given one by a spiritual guide, master or guru, you’re ready to begin. My teacher used to say that you should be able to meditate anywhere unless somebody is physically shaking you. I once climbed all the way down to the bottom of a dormant volcano in Hawaii, called Haliakalu, in a quest to find the perfect spot for meditation. A hut had been constructed there for trekkers or foolish folks looking for a perfect spot to meditate. I felt so sure I’d finally found my place. Unfortunately, since there were no panes of glass nor screens in the windows, a couple of flies flew fairly frequently in there making a racket like they were at the El Macombo on a Saturday night. I left in a huff the next morning. 

Later, on my way to India for the first time, I was compelled to sleep on the rooftop of a hotel in Peshawar after a long and tiring day of travel. The noise level from the crowds up there and the hollering, smoke and smells from the streets below were off the charts. I was convinced meditation would be a wasted endeavor in such a place. But, I had little choice. It was my rule to sit every evening one hour. And after an hour, in spite of my misgivings, I felt rejuvenated, refreshed. As well, contrary to popular belief, it’s not necessary to sit ramrod straight with legs crossed. It’s not even necessary to sit at all. You can lie down, settle into a comfortable chair or sit on a cushion with legs out or crossed. Since meditation is first a process of relaxation, let the sense of ease be your guide. You should feel relaxed and comfortable.

It’s easy to find a spot where there is very little noise. It’s easy to find a spot where there are virtually no pungent odors, unless of course you don’t bathe. It’s easy to find a spot where you’re not touching anything other than the pillows. But how does one get away from one’s own mental projections? As I’ve said before, the first thing to not do is mind your own thoughts. Don’t mind your mind. Remember, the same mind that got us into trouble can get us out. The mind is a trickster, a monkey. It will first distract you from your mantra and then make you feel bad for being distracted. Allow your thoughts to come and go freely. Decide beforehand that you won’t feel bad about them. Because I promise that you will be distracted again and again. So each time you realize you’ve been thinking or listening to a noise or feeling pain, pleasure or a strong emotion of some sort, just go back to your mantra without any sense of self-recrimination. There’s no need to beat yourself up over this. You can even get right into thinking, about your day, your life. You can get into thinking about life itself, pure, free and forever. Just keep returning to your mantra, again and again.

It is important to understand that whatever one perceives and experiences in meditation, just as in ones day-to-day life, is transitory and changing. Whatever one thinks, hears, whatever pain, pleasure or strong emotion one experiences will have a beginning and an end. So, when you meditate it is useful to just watch it all. Don't try to get away from anything or hang onto anything. Just practice being the watcher of it all. The same uninvolved observer who was watching as a young boy or girl is the same one who is watching now. As your body has grown and as you’ve gained more and more skills, qualifications and life experiences, that watcher has never changed. That one has been watching all the changes and is watching still, unchanged, uninvolved. That uninvolved observer has always and will always be fine throughout the life and even after. Think about that.

In spite of what I wrote earlier, I am going to suggest two more techniques. Because I feel sure that the people reading this dissertation, like the people I keep meeting, and especially now with the right understanding, are brilliant enough to decide which is best suited to them and how to use the information offered here. 

The first of these two techniques is called Anapana, with a soft ‘a.’ It is a technique of concentrating on the breath. Anapana is referred to as the maha mantra, the ultimate mantra. The reason is that it’s the least tangible, the subtlest point one can attend. There’s virtually no form to watch, no form to hold on to with your mind. However, the ancient sages have said that it’s a bridge between the part of us that’s transitory and the part that’s eternal, the source of our energy. I have often suggested it can also be combined with mantr.

The million-dollar question is this: Can you allow the inhalation and exhalation to happen on its own without asserting yourself? Can you stop doing anything and just observe your own breath? While sitting, slouching or lying down, or while waiting to be wheeled in for your gall-bladder operation, put your attention on the nose-nostrils-upper-lip area and watch the breath. Don’t follow your breath in or out. This is not a breathing exercise. Watch the inhalation, the exhalation and the spaces between. And, again, as often as your attention is deflected into your thoughts, the noises around you or the pain in your tummy, that many times you have to go back to your chosen point of attention. And don’t bother being bothered by being bothered by being distracted.

You may not think you’re having a very peaceful meditation. As I’ve already pointed out, you may think you’re wasting your time. Just keep in mind that rooftop in Peshawar and give peace a chance. There is no such thing as a bad meditation. You may doubt that you can do it. You may doubt that you should do it. I suggest that you be patient and give yourself time. In one of my recent sessions, a lady said that she really didn’t understand what she was doing while meditating. That was a valid point. It was a valid point because she was not doing anything. We’re not used to stopping. We’re not used to letting go. It’s much simpler to run around the block for a half hour than to stop all our activities for the same time period. It’s the most worthy and yet the most difficult of all activities. It's easy and hard. In fact, it’s too simple. And don’t get stuck on the technique. You can just watch the space, so to speak. You can decide. You are the teacher. You are the path.

Which brings me to my third suggestion, my last technique. This simple technique is close to my heart. In fact, it's close to everyones heart. Here's how this one goes: 

Just think about a person you have loved with all your heart. Dwell upon that person, or even that pet, you have been most enamored of, most attached to, the being whose presence you have most treasured. Even if he, she or it is physically no longer in your life, even if the memory causes you pain, don't turn your thoughts away. The pain is because there was that much love, that much oneness and I assure you the pain and pleasure are not two different realities. 

After a few moments, let go of that person or being and put your attention on the feelings, dwell on those feelings, follow those feelings to their source deep within you. Because those feelings existed long before the object of your love came in front of your eyes and other senses. Those feelings and that heart-space have always been there. Eventually, you can envision a pond that, when a pebble is tossed into it, causes ripples to spread out from the center. Let those waves, the vibrations, ripple throughout your body and flood your system with all that goodness. Envision that life-sustaining healing power spread throughout your body and even beyond. But, mostly, dwell on that place, space, center, the force, the source of your love. 

One of the first things you’re likely to notice is that the quality of your thoughts will change. You probably won’t feel like hollering at your wife or husband so much anymore, tying a tin can to the tail of your neighbor’s cat, back-ending the guy who just cut you off. You may feel uncharacteristically charitable. When that happens, and it will, you may think something is wrong. Of course, if the new thought processes seem strangely soothing, continue. It won’t be long before you’ll get the feeling you’re looking for. When one is sitting, continuously placing ones attention on or identifying with the watcher, one is essentially developing equanimity. Each time one says ‘pain’ rather than ‘my pain,’ or ‘pleasure’ instead of ‘my pleasure,’ one is essentially stepping back from the ever-changing phenomenon just a tiny bit. In that way a person will observe again and again how all of ones sensory perceptions, whether pleasant or unpleasant, change. But a person will also observe again and again how the observer, the watcher, remains ever the same. In that way, one is travelling in the right direction and eventually, aside from any deeper effect, an ability to pause before reacting to whatever is going on around you is necessarily developed. And that ability to take a moment, even a split moment, to act creatively rather than react blindly, is incredibly valuable.

When a person throws an insult in your direction, for example, and you catch it as though it’s a bouquet of roses, the insult loses all its power. It would be tempting to underestimate the technique I’ve suggested. But before discarding the practice out of hand to return to your Scrabble game, you may find it interesting to dwell on the fact that there are thousands of people around the world who have dedicated their lives to doing nothing else. Of course, then you’ll have to figure out if they’re all misguided idiots or folks who have actually discovered a way to answer first-hand those insidious questions that linger in our minds from early childhood. While everyone is striving for name, fame and fabulous wealth during this lifetime, people tend to lose sight of one very important fact. In a hundred years or so, nobody you know now will be alive. And nobody who is alive will really care who you were.

There are certain things that don’t go well with meditation. Smoking cigarettes, smoking dope and drinking copious amounts of alcohol tend to be counterproductive. Heroin, crack and meth are not recommended. It’s a matter of going from the grosser to the subtler. And in that regard I would also take the chance to suggest eating less meat, especially red meat, and consuming more fruits and vegetables. People who are completely into eating animals on a regular basis might not appreciate my writing that. But, I think it’s really very important that I do. I only hope you don’t come after me with a meat cleaver muttering something about it being all fine if you use the right spices. In fact, as i've said, nobody need necessarily 'cut' out any pleasures whatsoever. Just add one more thing to your life. Meditation will help everyone.

And while I’m offending people’s sensibilities I may as well mention my belief in the importance of continence. I’m not referring to the obvious advantages of curing oneself of adult bed-wetting. After all, there are effective plastic sheets on the market these days, or so I’ve been told. Certainly, I’d have to be insane to suggest cutting down on sexual activity, it being the way we tend to judge how wonderful we are. So I won’t go there at all. This sensitive area of the ancient science of the sages is esoteric and I therefore will not explain it. It’s secret. My lips are sealed. I’m only lightly, gingerly alluding to the possibility of a certain conservation of energy. I will write all about it openly in my upcoming book, ‘Unprotected Sects.’

When I returned to Canada in 1998, I was quite amazed to find out how many people had attained miraculous powers rather, well, miraculously. It still seems to me that every second person has the ability to heal merely with a touch. Many don’t even need to touch you. They can do it over the phone or by skype. There are a plethora of channelers, people able to communicate with angels, crystal bowl healers, psychics, clairvoyants, palm readers, garden variety fortune tellers, intuitives, aura readers, tea leaf readers... It seems that in the new-age everybody’s sister, mother and brother are powerful healers and teachers. And that’s just great. I would only mention that one might be well advised to keep ones attention on the goal.

Many years ago Alan Abel, who was with the Globe and Mail in Toronto at the time, came to visit the Hermitage in Kullu, India, where I lived for twenty-five years. During his interview with My teachet, Alan asked if Swamiji had any extra-normal powers. “Yes, I do,” Swamiji said. “I have the power to love everyone unconditionally.” I’m quite convinced that greatest of all powers can be only attained by the direct experience of the oneness of all life, the one life permeating all the forms, pure, free and forever.

There’s nothing to compel one to meditate or even make enquiries about it. However, if you’ve gotten this far, if you are impelled, you may as well read the rest of what I want to say. When one looks up at the night sky and sees all those stars, one has to wonder where it ends. And, for that matter, one has to wonder where it all begins. Intelligent people through the ages have continuously wondered where they came from and where they end up after the body dissolves. 

I haven’t an answer to those questions, not from firsthand experience or knowledge. But, I do know that asking oneself those questions is certainly the beginning of a great journey. And my direct personal experience has left me quite convinced that there is more to life than what meets the eye. There’s more to me than this body and mind. This is a fact that I know through personal, direct experience. It has also become extremely obvious to me that, in spite of the many differences, we all breathe the same air, that our hearts all pulsate with the same love of life, and that we all desire freedom.

Namaste.

The Interview.

both books are now on amazon.ca.

news: What inspired you to document your experiences in Unprotected Sects? 

Nathan: ‘Unprotected Sects’ is a book that just sort of demanded to be written. The idea for it had been in my head for a long long time. I really wanted to write about a tricky subject not written about and largely ignored: the sexual component to a spiritual life. And once I finally decided to begin it became very obvious that my personal experiences had to be its basis. 

News: Unprotected Sects is quite the explicit read, did you go into the project planning on being so honest or did you realize after starting that writing it like that was necessary? 

N: Yeah, I definitely went into the project wanting to be honest, even brutally honest. We’re always hearing about abuses by the clergy, gurus and others. We don’t hear about why. I wanted to describe the theory behind the practice of abstinence, celibacy. I wanted to describe the possible powerful benefits and the apparent great dangers. And whether as a feature-writer, in articles, books or my blog, I’ve always been careful. I simply didn’t wanna be careful this time.

News: How did it feel writing so explicitly? 

N: I’d like to offer you a very deep and insightful response to your valid question. Instead I’ll tell you the truth. I realized almost immediately that I really enjoyed writing explicitly, I enjoyed it quite a lot. 

News: I for one appreciate honesty in writing but not everyone does, so did the thought that some people would think its disgusting, or worse, pop into your head while writing Unprotected Sects? 

N: What’s worse than disgusting? Listen, I’m under no illusions about this book. People close to me will tell you that the idea many will not appreciate it, for various reasons, did not just pop into my head. I am very aware of it. However, I love it and I’m tremendously happy to have written it. 

News: How did you have time to write two books at once? What was that juggling process like? 

N: I drink a lot of coffee. Anyway, it’s what I do. I talk to people about meditation, I write, I watch Netflix.

News: Was it hard to switch in between writing fiction and writing an autobiography? 

N: Not at all. It was easy. In fact it was really fortunate that I got into writing those stories when I did. There’s just so much of me in ‘Unprotected Sects’. So much of it’s about me. Sometimes I get tired of me. I wanna leave me. That’s why I meditate. But ‘The Legend of Anson Minor’ also allowed me to step away, to escape. And I really love each of the stories in that book. I’m very proud of it. The fact is there’s a lot of me in there too. 

News: Do you run any workshops or guidance seminars around the Outaouais? 

N: Nice of you to ask. I teach meditation in my home, these days only two to four folks at a time upon request. And once in a while I’m asked to give a talk or hold sessions elsewhere, although not recently. I’m available for that.

the enflamed vowels.

there was a pretty aged naked fellow engaged in animated conversation near my gym-locker the other day. so of course i could’t help but over-hear. he was telling his equally aged and equally naked friend all about his enflamed bowels. the fact that he repeated the term over and over, and over, was off-putting for sure. but what really shocked me was that he’d apparently written an eight-hundred page book on the subject.

that may have been a real page-turner for his neighbours back in whatever retirement home the fellow lived. but i just kept thinking about something a teacher in college had once told me: writers often make the mistake of being too wordy. 

i’ve never been a particularly prolific writer and i’ve never been accused of being too wordy. years can go by in-between books and they’ve never been more than a couple hundred pages. my latest two: ‘the legend of anson minor’ and ‘unprotected sects’ are the result of a couple years worth of sporadic work. a friend recently asked how it felt upon their completion and i responded that it’s not like i now feel i could die happily. that’d be going too far and kinda stupid. but, i added, it’s on the spectrum. 

i’ve always written about what i know. just like the aged gentleman in the locker room, albeit four-hundred pages less so, my books are very personal to me. even the fictional short stories in ‘the legend of anson minor’ are personal, each in their own way. ‘unprotected sects’, however, is fiercely personal. and, while it has created a tremendously soothing sense of satisfaction deep down in me, i’m aware it will irritate the heck outta some others. some may even end up with enflamed lower extremities because of what i’ve written.

obviously i thought about that a lot, debated the pros and cons of it for ages. but, at the risk of sounding too new-agey, it was a book that positively demanded to be written. 

the secret.

the secret to a seriously successful spiritual life is to open oneself up, to allow oneself to become a weee bit snaky. and i mean that in the nicest possible way. 

the kundalini, often known as the serpent power, needs be unleashed, released, freed. it’s always been there of course. it’s just apparently been dormant, trapped, waiting for the time it might escape, rise up. it would certainly leave a person amazed and inspired, with an unshakable belief that he or she could or even should found a new religion. but that’s really just the beginning, of a tremendous journey with no apparent end, one that many have gone on before. and, while the imagery of a dangerous cobra intertwining itself along the spine leads to the pervasive concept of it being fabulously dramatic or even violent, nothing could be further from the truth. 

as a matter of fact, as powerful as it is, the actual happening is profoundly relaxing, a spectacular unfoldment, a wondrous flowering. and while gross methods such as the use of drugs, jumping around madly or self-mortification may open ones kundalini, the only real sustainable method is actually to purify ones body and mind, to become more and more, and still more, subtle. 

dhyaan yog, the meditative lifestyle, is in fact the practice of going toward that subtlety in body, mind and spirit, so to speak. it’s the practice of creating an environment in which the kundalini might make its escape. the meditative lifestyle is the culturing of oneself such that one is capable of perceiving the release and the power of the kundalini when it is arisen. 

the question then begs asking: what helps that process? of course a meditation practice, alone time and good company, a more plant-based diet, the letting go of vices, not squandering ones sexual energy uselessly, and one more thing: it’s quite useful to sit close to one whose gone before. and that shouldn’t be someone who has only experienced the opening of the kundalini. that should be someone who knows kundalini intimately. somebody who is more than just a weee bit snaky.     

ps: ultimately, having said all that, i must add something the dalai lama once wrote: ‘the secret to a successful spiritual life is kindness.’

the apple-sauce.

usually i get off the highway and head for ’moca loca’ for a coffee. sometimes i go to ’aladdin.’ today my kundalini rose a bit before st. joseph boulevard so i kept on going, just to enjoy for a while. that may seem odd, almost certainly curious, but it’s why i ended up with a killer cappuccino and a muffin at ‘robo cafe’ on somerset street before heading to the gym.

there was an ancient-looking guy in there with a coffee in front of him and a tiffin full of what from a distance looked like apple sauce. it might’ve been anything but i imagined apple sauce. because the fellow did not seem overly pleased, reminded me of my old dad during his final few days and how a simple bowl of apple sauce made him crazy.

i’d walked in to his hospital room only to find five people surrounding his bed. there were two frightened-looking nurses, a concerned-looking social worker, a sincere-looking chaplain and a physician who was hard to read. They were collectively trying to settle him down. My dad was lucid up until the end, only as cranky as all get-out. And he was certainly cranky that morning. There was a tray of barely-eaten food discarded on a small table that he’d pushed aside. there was a tension in the room you could’ve cut with the plastic knife.

“what do you want judge vanek?,” the social worker was asking. “tell us what you want and we’ll do our very best to get it for you.” there was a momentary silence during which i could see dad was considering the question. then he looked up and in a most authoritarian tone he barked: “i want an apple!” for whatever reason, that made the whole group laugh uproariously. and at the same time, perhaps because i had arrived, they all filed out.

as i watched the old man in ‘robo cafe’ scowl down at what i imagined was apple-sauce, the young attractive barista went over, sat down across and took his hand. his whole expression changed as the girl spoke. his whole demeanour lightened, brightened as she smiled lovingly and i wondered if i’d had anything close to that effect on my old guy.

i sat down on his bed that morning curious why he’d been so upset. his whole expression did not change. his whole demeanour did not lighten, brighten, not that i recall. but then i never held his hand. perhaps i should’ve. he just muttered something about the rotten food and demanded the ‘globe and mail’ newspaper i always brought.

the paper was a little scrunched up from having been in the bottom of my sack. he shot me a disapproving glance but didn’t say anything as he opened up the first page. at that moment, however, one of the nurses came in tentatively with a small tray. she did not look relaxed as we watched her clear away dad’s breakfast and replace it with what she’d brought. on that tray was one bowl, of apple-sauce.

“what the hell is that?!,” dad hollered.
“sir that is apple-sauce.”
“did i ask for goddamn apple-sauce?!”
“sir you can’t eat an apple,” the nurse said in self-defence.
“how do you know i wanted to eat it!?,” he hollered loud enough to wake the dead. “maybe i just wanted to lick it or sniff it!”

the nurse quickly began to snatch up her tray before dad, rather softly, put his hand over hers and asked her to leave it. he actually thanked her as she left and the old bugger winked over at me: “cute aye. you know, she’s east indian. you should ask her out.”

pema chodron.

from: ’The Places That Scare You’. by Pema Chodron.

without having ever met the lady i like her, have for many years. her writings always feel authentic, filled with a loving heart and an open mind. i don’t entirely understand what she writes, like within this article. for example, why should we stay in the so-called middle? why shouldn’t we dwell in a continuous state of equanimity and warmth? but i adore this line perhaps most of all: ”Becoming intimate with the queasy feeling of being in the middle of nowhere only makes our hearts more tender.”

the overall effect of this article, as well as others i’ve read that i don’t entirely understand, is incredibly lovely. chodron leads our attention to a state of compassion, for ourselves, for everyone. sometimes we don’t need to understand perfectly well. sometimes it’s enough to understand or perceive where the person’s coming from, so to speak. perhaps that’s just as the great lady so beautifully says: “it’s how the warrior learns to love.”

"We are told about the pain of chasing after pleasure and the futility of running from pain. We hear also about the joy of awakening, of realizing our interconnectedness, of trusting the openness of our hearts and minds. But we aren't told all that much about this state of being in-between, no longer able to get our old comfort from the outside but not yet dwelling in a continual sense of equanimity and warmth.
Anxiety, heartbreak, and tenderness mark the in-between state. It's the kind of place we usually want to avoid. The challenge is to stay in the middle rather than buy into struggle and complaint. The challenge is to let it soften us rather than make us more rigid and afraid. Becoming intimate with the queasy feeling of being in the middle of nowhere only makes our hearts more tender. When we are brave enough to stay in the middle, compassion arises spontaneously. By not knowing, not hoping to know, and not acting like we know what's happening, we begin to access our inner strength.
Yet, it seems reasonable to want some kind of relief. If we can make the situation right or wrong, if we can pin it down in any way, then we are on familiar ground. But something has shaken up our habitual patterns and frequently they no longer work. Staying with volatile energy gradually becomes more comfortable than acting out or repressing it. This open-ended tender place is called bodhichitta. Staying with it is what heals. It allows us to let go of our self-importance. It's how the warrior learns to love".

the survivalist.

it has been brought to my attention that propane fumes can kill while kerosene might only cause brain damage. i found that information strangely reassuring. and so of course i opted for a kerosene heater when shopping around for a backup heat source. 

the fact is my new kerosene heater’s a backup to my backup. i installed a fabulously expensive propane fireplace a few years ago fundamentally for power outages just like the one we endured last week. my neighbour had texted me about the outage while i was in ottawa, and she did mention power wasn’t expected before eleven that night. i was largely unconcerned because of my propane fireplace. the battery-pack would keep the pilot light lit, it’d kick into action according to the temperature i’d set it at. what could possibly go wrong?

upon my return the house did feel a little nippy. so i immediately trundled off down the stairs only to discover the dam thing hadn’t kicked into action at all. and i couldn’t get the thing to work for love nor money. it looked good, styled as an iron antique wood-stove with fake logs behind a front glass. it always worked well while the house was on the grid, so to speak. but it remained spectacularly dormant on that occassion just when i needed it most. and to make matters worse my little propane heater, camping stove and all my candles were at the cottage. 

anyway, i did what any seasoned survivalist and world traveller would do in a situation like that. i drove over to tim hortons. 

Jake’s Journey 2.

Old Jake walked to the post-office boxes by the highway. He usually waited ‘til late, enjoyed the privacy of darkness, under the stars, taking his time along the long dirt road. He really didn’t care if there was a letter or not, probably preferred not, and there were none that time. There was a flicker, however, a dark shadow glancing across the metal boxes causing Jake to look back over his shoulder.

He never took one of the bags of brochures and coupons left hanging on the hook. He just carried on walking, along the highway to the next road. Jake did that when there wasn’t much traffic, made his way back along the other long dirt road that passed by at the back of his property. 

As he strolled across the grass he spotted the black-bear cub bashfully half hidden behind one of the trees that ringed the large yard. Jake stopped for a moment. Wondering where mama bear might be at he scanned the whole district quickly, carefully. Then keeping his distance from the young one he made his way up to the house. Mama didn’t seem to be in the picture or, well, the parent wasn’t apparent in any case as Jake stood on his back steps taking another good look around. 

The cub had moved out right into the open field beside where a few chords of firewood were stacked under a green tarp. He or she stood right up and sniffed the air, seemingly ok with old Jake being not too far. But for his part, still wondering where mama might be, Jake didn’t feel quite so comfortable. He went inside, glanced back through the window before throwing the keys in the basket and sitting down at the yellow 1940s kitchen table. He opened the iPad to check any emails, rather surprised that one was waiting from his old best friend Victor. Because he really hadn’t spoken to Victor since he’d run off with Jake’s wife over two decades earlier.

Sometime in-between absently watching a couple innings of baseball and taking out his teeth for the night, old Jake peered out his kitchen window again. The bear seemed to have wandered off, which was good. He had no intention of befriending a bear cub. He sat back down at the table to re-read the email. It was pretty simple, pretty much to the point. Laurie was dying and had mentioned it’d be nice to see Jake. The message ended with the hospital’s address in Picton only he had no intention of actually going. That was outta the question.

Their marriage hadn’t been wonderful, great or eventually even ok. There certainly hadn’t been a lotta nuptial bliss happening. Laurie had expected there would be, had wanted there to be, but the truth was Jake came from a long line of spectacularly un-blissful people, nuptial or otherwise. She hadn’t known that at first, unfortunately, and Jake tried. He really did. In his way he honestly loved her. But, more to the point, he was afraid of ending up all alone, which of course is exactly what happened. And even after being all alone had become actually blissful, even after accepting that he’d virtually pushed Laurie away, he held onto the grudge.   

Evening had almost turned to night. He grabbed an apple and wandered out onto his deck, as he liked to do right about that time of day. He sat down at the picnic table and took his first bite while simultaneously sensing, realizing and then actually noticing that he wasn’t entirely alone. There was still enough light to see huddled the black shape between the boards. The bear-cub, obviously no longer the least bit bashful, had curled up right beside the deck and didn’t seem concerned about old Jake at all. Jake slowly stood and reached over the railing, offering up his apple, letting it fall in front of the creature before moving toward the door and off to bed. He hoped it’d be gone by morning.

In the dim early morning light, however, the bear-cub was rolling around on the grass, disturbing the mist, shaking up the dew and making old Jake smile broadly. Jake never smiled broadly, and yet there he was smiling broadly. He grabbed a few apples, a couple pears, his coffee and strolled out. He sat down on the top step of the deck and boldly held out a piece of an apple. The cub waddled right up and snatched it out of Jake’s outstretched hand, plopped down a few feet away and ate the thing unceremoniously. They sat there together eating fruit. And by the time all the apples and pears were gone they were good.

The bear wasn’t much of a talker and Jake had to do the cooking, but Bear was an agreeable sort for sure. He’d begun simply calling her Bear. It seemed appropriate. She followed him all ’round the property over the next few days, never strayed too far afield. She waited patiently for him to come outside or arrive back home. Bear became aware of his moods though he tried not to be moody. Jake more or less accepted her strange ways. They took time to get to know each other. He kinda assumed she was a ‘she’ maybe because of the way she went about her business or because she wasn’t quite as bulky as a ‘he’ would be. Or maybe it just made Jake feel more comfortable about the whole affair. Whatever may have been the case they’d effectively joined forces by the time Victor’s next message arrived. 

Old Jake was still definitely not gonna go see Laurie. There was no chance of that. But he did want one more trip before the end of summer. The cub, who seemed a bit bigger and bulkier every day, watched Jake crank up the camper’s jacks one at a time methodically until it was at full height. He didn’t appreciate the look Bear was giving him as he pulled his F150 into position. He didn’t like being pushed. Meanwhile, inch by inch he backed the truck in, getting out to look several times, making sure to get it just right. Inch by inch Jake backed it in under the camper until it was in place. He cranked the thing down onto the truck-bed, attached the tie-downs and only then did he turn to Bear: “Forget about it miss. No you aint comin and that’s that.”

Nevertheless they inevitably drove off together next morning, headed south, then west without a plan. Silver lake wasn’t far enough. Jake didn’t really wanna go to Bon Echo again. He wasn’t into heading up to Algonquin. However, even though it was too close to Picton for comfort, he did like the idea of going to Sandbanks Provincial Park. He’d never been there before, highly doubted that Bear had either. He knew that having a growing black-bear in the back seat of his pickup could possibly cause quite a kafuffel at the park, even at any time along the way. And she couldn’t help with the driving, frankly had questionable personal hygiene, but he enjoyed the company, figured to work out the kinks along the way. 

As it happened there were no kafuffels along the way. Some hoots and hollers but no actual kafuffel. And in the end they never made it to Sandbanks at all. On the first afternoon rain and wind pelted them, excuse the expression, so hard that Jake pulled off the highway early, near Gananoque. They spent their first night in a Tim Hortons parking lot, beside a large corn-field. Bear had the back seat and the field while old Jake was in the camper. 

The rain was torrential, monsoon-ish, and water dripped steadily in through the air-conditioning unit. The bench-cushions were awash before Jake noticed. He emptied kitchen stuff out of one of the plastic bins, placed it strategically under the leak, only it took a further few minutes to figure out why that wasn’t working. He stared quizzically from the bin to the water pooling on the camper floor and back until he finally figured out that the plastic bin itself was leaking. So he replaced that one with another better one and eventually, wondering if Bear was having a better night than he, crawled up top to try and get some sleep at least until he needed to empty the bin. 

They drove down next morning into Prince Edward County and through Picton. Looking back at Bear through the mirror he inaudibly muttered: ‘I aint gonna go see her, that’s for sure.’ Bear never said a word of course and they continued right on out to Sandbanks. The rain had subsided, the sun was at its most brilliant: a perfect day to spend by the lake. Or so it woulda been were it not for the lineup miles long of vehicles full of hordes hoping for a treasured spot at Sandbanks Provincial Park. Hundreds of rigs, from little cars to huge diesel-pushers, snaked along the road moving as slowly as could possibly be. 

So Jake wheeled into a five-point turn soon enough and drove straight back to Picton and, yes, directly on up to Prince Edward County Memorial Hospital. He parked as usual near where there was some natural space, a wooded area that time, and demanded perhaps a little too gruffly that Bear stay nearby and behave before he entered the red-brick building.

Old Jake was guided to Laurie’s room by a large friendly nurse, the door was open so he walked in. Victor looked seriously old, haggard, although Jake figured he himself probably didn’t look much better after the night he’d had. But Victor lit right up when he saw his long lost friend. One might even say he slowly jumped out of his chair. Smiling broadly he wrapped his arms ‘round Jake. “Jake I’m so glad you came. I’m so glad to see you. It’s really really good of you,” he spluttered. And Jake simply responded matter-of-factly: “Of course.”

He looked down at the frail, skin-and-bones lady shining up at him from the bed. The once sparkling young vibrant girl full of love and grace had become after all a sparkling old dying woman full of love and grace. Extricating himself softly from Victor’s embrace he sat down on Laurie’s bed, took her hand and kissed her warmly on the forehead as she began to cry. “Jake I’m sorry,” she whispered through her tears. “You have nothing to apologize for,“ he said stroking her sallow cheek. “I should apologize to you, and I do. I’m a stubborn stupid old man but I’ve always loved you.” 

By then, however, they all became aware of a kafuffel going on out in the hall. Bear had been sniffing her way slowly through the hospital while doctors, nurses and patients screamed and bounced from wall to wall to avoid the creature. There had never been a kafuffel like it before. Even the security guard shrunk back into his corner impotently, having no point of reference for something so strange. And as the lumbering beast passed through the door into laurie’s room Victor yelled, Laurie gasped as two attendants followed behind not at all sure what to do. Old Jake turned around on the bed before holding up both arms high and emphatically announcing: “It’s ok, she’s with me!”

There was a long moment, a pregnant silence, as everyone tried to grapple with the situation. Bear put a paw up on Jake’s right shoulder and Laurie, looking from one to the other and back, began to laugh. She began to laugh, harder, deeper, like never before. And that’s how she died. Laurie literally died laughing.