Category Archives: on spirituality & religion

messenger

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Today I post a piece that I wrote a few years ago but never published. It’s an excerpt from about 100 pages that I released on a keyboard during a half-month manic frenzy following the last of 700 miles spent walking along the Camino de Santiago thru Spain and Portugal. It’s a very intimate insight into my personal spiritual life, and for this reason I kept the experience safe in a sacred inner lock box. But in the years since, I’ve learned that the more layers I peel off my being and expose, the more sensitive and authentic is my appreciation of life; and thus I’m going to bare all and skinny-dip this story as well.

The following certainly falls into the realm of the mystic and mysterious, where only those with an open mind and imagination should venture. Truthfully, the story still sounds strange even to me. Luckily, I’ve got a mini-Michael Franti in my head and every time I begin to heed my aversion to possible perceptions of abnormality, he starts signing, “All the freaky people make the beauty of the world” — and he doesn’t stop till my heeding does.

Excerpts from The Living Path – a creative non-fiction memoir based on a two-month pilgrimage along the “Caminos de Santiago” in May of 2003.

***** Converging Realities

I am sitting on a thick cement wall that surrounds the pilgrim hostel where I have registered to spend the night. I massage my weary feet of their fatigue while watching the waves of new pilgrim faces flood in.

Although a pilgrim can walk solo, she is never alone. The Camino de Santiago is a travelling community and the faces on the path are as familiar as those that live in the more stationary houses of neighborhoods, “at home.” They pass you on the path one day and disappear into the future of your camino (path, road or way) the next. And just when you are sure that one of your neighbors is days ahead of you, perhaps even relaxing IN Santiago, he comes up from behind you, smiling and waving a greeting over his walking stick fence.

But today the faces are not familiar. Nor is their number. Lines form at the reception desk of the hostel. A group of over a hundred Spanish high school students noisily file by on the way to a community center. A small group of company-branded cyclists stop briefly to inquire as to the availability of rooms at the refuge. They learn that the hostel (due to over-demand and priority to walkers) is not accommodating bikers, and amidst long sighs and a few swears, they re-mount and continue on to the next town. I watch a couple on horses pass by. And I almost fall off my wall in disbelieving delight when I actually see a motorbike with a scallop shell grumble its way past.

No. None of this is familiar. But there IS something about the essence of what’s going on here that is.

I watch the pilgrims cluttered around the grass, attending to wounds, examining maps and excitedly comparing experiences…and then it I suddenly realize what it is! The energy here is exactly the same as that which I experienced on my second day of the Camino, over three weeks ago. Yes! New bandages, clean boots, crisp guidebooks, fresh clothes, first blisters and initial insights. Somehow I have walked for weeks and ended up at the beginning again!

“Overwhelming, isn’t it?”

I’m not sure where she has come from or how long she’s been standing next to me observing the incoming tide alongside, but I turn to her now. I immediately feel the familiarity of another whom I have yet seen, but know has been walking with me all along.

I follow her gaze back to the new pilgrims. And she continues:

“You know why right? You see, somewhere along the path today was the marker that indicates where there remain only 100 kilometers left to reach Santiago. The 100-mark is that which is considered to officially qualify one as having made the pilgrimage of the Camino de Santiago. You have to traverse over exactly 100 kilometers to receive the certificate of completion. So they all started today; the students, the vacationers, the sport enthusiasts…”

She cocks her head in a pose of uncertainty, pauses and continues, “I’m not sure how I feel about it all. The spiritual searchers have been diluted and the messages of the Camino, the energy, and the magic, seem somehow…muted.”

She sighs and goes on, “…but I suppose this is the way of the modern world. The paths of those on the Camino have converged just as the roads of the earth have. I suppose it’s our job to figure out how we can share the space and all move forward together. And not just the walkers, but the cyclists, the runners, the kids, the groups, the horse back riders, and perhaps even…” she grimaces slightly, “… perhaps even find a way to accommodate the motorbikes.”

She finally turns to face me, but her attention is immediately caught. She looks curiously over, but not beyond, my right shoulder. I am just about to follow her gaze when she turns her eyes back to mine, and with sudden seriousness says bluntly, “You know that your grandfather is with you? Your father’s father. You know that right?”

I’m so caught off guard by this comment that I stumble upon my reply, “Well, no. I mean, yes. I mean… You know, that is really strange as this is the third time in my life someone has told me that exact same thing. But my father was orphaned when he was only a child; he has never mentioned anything of what he remembers of his father and I don’t even know my grandfather’s name.”

My mind is so absorbed in its own internal search for clues to this mystery that I barely notice another pilgrim step up to the woman and tap her on the shoulder.

I look up and see that whoever this man is, he’s clearly relieved to see her and he sings with a happy sigh, “I’ve been looking for you for days! I’m so happy to see you! Please, I really need to consult with you…”

The woman turns to me, “I’m sorry. Will you excuse me?”

“Of course,” I respond and watch as the man touches her on the arm gently and guides her away.

I am exhausted and decide to retire early.

***** Sleep Talk

Since I retired early, I arise alike.

It’s still completely dark outside when I sit up straight in bed and rub the sleep from my eyes. Having slept in a different bed for dozens of nights in a row, as often happens, I lose my grounding in time and place. I search the space around me for some clues as to where and who I am.

I am still shaking off this haze when I hear myself speak:

“Where has my grandfather gone? He was sitting here at the foot of my bed waiting for me to wake. He’s eager to walk today. But where has he gone?”

Despite the soft edges of sleep still drifting around me, this question is as sharp and clear as if it’d been said aloud by a third party.

I shake off the subject, look around me again, hear and see the snorers and scratchers that surround me, and my place and perspective finally return; a pilgrim hostel. That’s right. I’m walking the Camino and I’m sleeping in a pilgrim hostel.

I grab my watch from the ground and look at it; it’s much too early to start walking. I lay down again, pull the sleeping bag over my head, and fall back to sleep.

***** Puzzle Pieces

The next morning I start walking late.

I prefer to have the path to myself, so I enjoy a long breakfast in order to avoid the morning rush hour of pilgrims. When the mass of them have passed, I finally pick up my bag and walking stic
k and take to the Camino.

I am treading ground quietly but not peacefully, for I feel like someone is walking immediately behind me, stepping on the back of my heals in desperate and annoying attempt to capture my attention.

Suddenly I stop walking. And the realization that was walking a step behind, collides directly into me.

The echo of this morning’s question stumbles out of bed and to attention; “Where has my Grandfather gone? He was sitting here at the foot of my bed waiting for me to wake. He’s eager to walk today. But where has he gone?”

Without hesitation, I suddenly remember the name of my grandfather and I say it aloud. And as I do so, I feel something within me leap in recognition.

I am now stopped in the middle of the path, but the world starts to swirl around me.

I remember my Grandfather’s name! I can’t remember being told it, but here it is. And I know it like I do all the names of my family members; I know it like I’ve never not known it.

The certainty starts to confuse me.

For no reason I can point responsible, my eyes begin to well up in tears. Connections start crashing down upon me, like a box of puzzle pieces upon a table. I’m overwhelmed by the task of putting it all together, and at the same time, I already know the picture the pieces will ultimately illustrate.

I drop down to a rock on the side of the path, grab my pen and journal and begin to write frantically, intuitively pulling the odd puzzle piece out and snapping it together with another. The pieces are seemingly inclined by a will of their own to finally reunite.

A shadow falls over my rock and a voice from over my shoulder suddenly stops me:

“Well imagine the coincidence of finding you again here,” she says.

Despite the choice of her words, I can see by the confidence of her composure that she clearly would never give “coincidence” the credit of arranging this convenient meeting.

I cannot believe that the very woman who broke this puzzle over my head now stands right in front of me. I am shocked into silence. Sitting on the ground with my puzzle pieces still scattered about me, I have lost all words and the alphabet as well. I sit there, looking up at her, with my mouth open, fumbling to find lost letters and string them together into any sentence of substance — but nothing comes together.

“Hum.” she comments, “It seems you have some thoughts to put together before we meet again.”

And without a gesture of goodbye, she walks on.

Only when she leaves do I finally catch my breath. And then I return to sorting and matching the magnetic pieces.

***** Messenger

A few hours down the trail, I look up and see that low, dark clouds have collected their efforts in order to prove their dominion by casting an intimidating shadow across the land. The front line of what appears to be a formidable army to follow advances and large water droplets land on my hood like the warning shots of canons. In an over-exaggerated exclamation of its reign, within minutes, the storm has marked its territory and I am completely drenched in evidence.

Shoes flooded and water cascading down my every curve, I arrive at the sheltered deck of a small cafe. I remove my useless armor and leave it at the door. As soon as I walk in, the heat of a nearby fireplace curtsies my cold fingers and begs me to come closer. I immediately accept the warm invitation.

I crouch down and let the fire properly greet my cheeks with soft licks that evaporate the cold and wet upon contact. When the backside of me becomes envious of the attention, I adjust to allow the fire to distribute its love fairly. When I turn around, the element of surprise sighs with defeated exhaustion; knowing this is the only way it could ever happen, I calmly recognize the same woman sitting at a table, sipping on tea, smiling and watching me.

I sigh and smile. For if there is ever a moment when I have, without doubt, felt the gentle hand of the Universe in mine, I am so very sure it is this moment.

She waves a request to the bar woman for another cup of tea to be brought to the table. She then welcomes me to join her.

I walk across the room and sit down in the chair across from her. My alphabet crumbles yet once again and I desperately hope that she is prepared to guide this discussion. But she reaches across the table, takes both of my hands in hers and says, “So my dear. Tell me the story.”

And out it comes: the morning’s vision, the afternoon’s realization, the internal battle between rationality and faith, the overwhelming feeling that a major truth has just been uncovered which fights brutally with the fact that I can not justify it with anything but the evidence of intuition.

I struggle to control myself, but I can’t; my emotions heat up; my words melt down. I begin to cry, and once I start, I find that I simply cannot stop. The storm has permeated the roof on my perceived reality; sought, found and drenched me even within the refuge of my skin.

Through the hiccoughs of my surrender, I finally stutter out, “But why did you say what you did to me yesterday? What did you see?”

She calmly reclaims my hands from the napkin dispenser and looks, not at, but through me. The light behind her eyes is unveiled but does not so much burn me (as I suspected) as it does soothe me. She says:

“You see my dear, over the course of my long life, it has been revealed to me that I am a messenger.

Things are often whispered into my ear, and I know not where they come from. I only know that I must repeat them, and from experience, have seen that these secrets sometimes have powerful effects on the people that receive them. I know nothing more of your mystery. But let me tell you what you have shown me, but are afraid to recognize yourself:

The spirit of your grandfather resides aside you. He has walked with you for a lifetime, unacknowledged in your waking reality, as he walks with you now. You have known this all your life, but have brushed aside the evidence because it comes from an invisible realm that is not appreciated by the world of the rational. But you have heard his voice in the quiet of your heart. You have listened to his advice and felt his gentle guidance at every turn in your path. And until this day, you have credited the unexplainable fortune of your path to what you call Intuition. But Intuition is only a language — and language is only a tool of communication from a greater source. Instinct, trepidation, impulse, love and all the other “unexplainable” feelings, they are merely the words of that which inspires them. You pride yourself on always hearing, respecting the advice, and following your Intuition; have considered it almost a best friend. And now you are shocked to find it is exactly so.

You are obviously overwhelmed in emotion, but you don’t cry out of sadness. You must understand that, for guiding spirits, the day they are recognized is the happiest of all. You spirit guide weeps in joy at being recognized. That emotion overflows unto your own spirit. You feel that joy in the same manner that you feel the other gentle emotions of guidance. You weep also in happiness, at the first recognition of a best friend whom you have always felt to exist, but never met. What you feel is the silent embrace of a long awaited reunion of souls.

Sometimes you need permission to believe. Sometimes you need permission to cry. And I am here only to deliver to you those permissions. The realizations are your own.

“This is the message that was whispered into my ear when I met you.”

She sighs and glances out the door.

“Ah. Look, the rain has stopped. That’s my sign that it is time for me to take to my own Camino.”

We both stand up and she embraces me.

She squeezes my hand one last time, and walks out the door of my life, for, as
is the seal of all effective messengers, we will never meet again.

*****

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and MercuryFrog for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

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sacred ego stomping

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The Sacred Lake Namtso

(For more stories from Tibet, visit the archives for April, 2005. For more pictures from Tibet, visit the Tibet Photogallery.)

I’m in the mood for a story. And this one is particularly good, because it *literally* stomps on any pride I’ve ever held in assuming myself a culturally sensitive individual. But having recognized that my heaviest burden is ego itself, I’ve come to love my humbling moments, for it seems to be the stripping of pride itself that enlighten our lives the most. So without further disclaimer, let’s get back to laughing at myself…

And contrary to the progression of most good stories, the best line in this tale is actually the first, because it starts like this…

“So I’m walking a kora (pilgrimage circumambulating a sacred site) with a monk, a hermit and a 7-year old Tibetan nomad…”

(Do sentences ever slip out of your mouth that make you step out of your existence, scratch your ethereal chin, and wonder just who the hell you are and how you have become what you have? Well this is one of those sentences for me.)

Anyway…

So I’m walking a kora with a monk, a hermit and a 7-year old Tibetan nomad. Also with me are two of my Dragon’s students. The three of us set out to make a sacred turn along the shore of Lake Namtso, and we have quickly found ourselves in the colorful company of these vibrant characters. Language is certainly limited; the sum of the Tibetan words we know and the English words they know, barely surpass the number of toes and fingers within the group. But wide smiles and excited gestures of welcome speak loud enough to convey their enthusiasm for the union of our individual pilgrimages.

Pointing with a single finger, as it is in many eastern societies, is considered rude, and so our hosts, with open, sky-faced palms, gracefully spread an arm to one direction or another, sharing via animated gestures the legends behind each cave, rock formation, and stone indentation marked during the magical battles between their Buddhist and Bonpo heros as we continue our circumambulation of this sacred site together.

A sky-faced palm rests on a rock where many curious round marks are left. A charades-like battle is acted out, where Guru Rinpoche throws fireballs from the sky; the path of these projectiles terminating on this very rock. The monk, the hermit and the young nomad girl each approach the rock, bow their bodies, and touch their foreheads to the stone; a demonstration of their most sincere respect to this sacred spot. Then they turn and eagerly urge us on to do the same and we happily, and with like respect, mimic their motions.

We continue the circumambulation and approach a cave.

A sky-faced palm indicates to a spot in the rock, where indeed, there appear to be the impressions of two very human-like hands; another mark left during the making of this magical myth. The hermit shows us where to place our right hand, where to place our left, and where to touch our forehead to the rock. We follow their lead, and exuberance is the only adjective I can think to use to accurately describe our hosts’ wide-eyed delight in witnessing our mimicked example. Lake Namtso is, I remind myself, one of the holiest of pilgrimage sites for the Tibetans. It’s entirely possible, that by our actions, we are unknowingly rising ourselves out of a few of the of the Buddhist hell realms that we are currently living in; the excitement of our hosts matches nothing less than a feat of this magnitude.

A sky-faced palm motions to a hole further in the cave. Careful instructions are presented to us by example as the monk demonstrates the path that we must follow, through the hole, up over a kind of rock-bridge, and then dropping down back into the entrance. His smile pauses only for a minute when his eyes get very serious as he indicates to a specific rock along the bridge. His hands cross each other as he clearly emphasizes the importance of not touching that specific rock. By the look in his eyes, as well as those of the hermit and the nomad girl, it’s quite obvious that there might not be a point in living any longer if we touch that rock. The hermit and the nomad show us again, each in turn, the path. And as each of us follows, and appears again in the entrance, nothing less than the Tibetan equivalent of an American standing ovation applauds our great success.

Three more sky-faced palms present similar prostration points, tests of merit, and sacred spots to accumulate good karma.

I, however, am starting to seriously suffer from the effects of the 15,500 feet that separate us from sea level. As much as I am enjoying this incredible exhibition, my head is splitting from the lack of oxygen in the air, nausea is gurgling in my stomach, and the thought of presenting something as unsacred as the contents of my stomach anywhere near this special site, scares me into a subtle slinking away from the group.

I manage to clear about 15 feet before a 7-year-old hand fervently grabs mine. With no hesitation, the young nomad girl pulls on my arm with all her might, quite clearly communicating her desire to have me re-join the group. Despite the strength of her will, I have about 70 pounds on her, and I stand my ground. I let go of her hand and make the classic charade motions of stomach illness. I groan for added effect. I point to my tent and make the motion of sleep.

First she stomps her foot. And then she cries. Actually, she sobs. Tears are cascading down her sun-chapped cheeks, streaking the dust of her nomadic life, and revealing the rosiest color owned by all those living at extreme elevations of existence. She whimpers for her own added effect. And I give in. Her smile returns so quickly that I question if the little storm that just passed was just a well-rehearsed act. But there’s little time to contemplate the question as she pulls her prize back to the scene.

As we arrive, one of my students is just finishing the latest of tasks. He is carefully slipping his full upright body through a thin vertical crack in a rock strewn with colorful prayer flags. When he successfully emerges, there is another clap-less (but emotionally thick) applause and the crowd turns attention to me.

I visually take in the measurements of the crack in the rock and, quite confident that my small frame will have no trouble limbo-ing both walls, assure myself that this test will be easier than the rest. I disappear around the corner and squeeze myself into the entrance. I clear the first few steps and can see everyone on the other side; the hermit, the monk, and the nomad girl appear to be holding their breath. Since everyone is waiting with such great anticipation, (and I like to think due to my altitude-onset-delirium) for a little added effect I pretend to get stuck. As I feign my struggle, eyes get larger, breath continues to be held, and the monk’s knuckles turn white on the mala (rosary-like) beads of which he is gripping. Having properly built up to my big moment of success, I swiftly slip through the crack and land with full feet, ala Olympic gymnast, with jazz hands and a full-spread grin on the conveniently placed rock at the exit of the crack.

But my 10.0 landing is not received how I expected.

The hermit’s jaw has dropped and his mouth is framed by the perfect “O” of horror. The nomad girl’s face crinkles up in an expression of devastation most certainly and sincerel
y more authentic than her last act. And as the monk closes his eyes and grips on to his mala with noticeably horror-stricken hands, I imagine he is counting how many million mantras he will now have to chant to bring my soul back from the hell realms from which I’ve certainly plunged it.

My students’ response is a bit more practical…

“GET OFF THE SACRED ROCK!!!” they scream.

In my delirium, I am slow…

“What sacred rock?”

“THE ONE YOU ARE STANDING ON!!! Get off! Get off!!!”

I jump off the sacred rock. A cumulative sigh is exhaled from our hosts, but the devastation they feel for the obvious and terrible end of my existence hangs thick in the air. They are still speechless. Thank the 9 Buddhist heavens that my students are quicker to the rescue…

“Hurry, hurry, go through it again!” they push me and my jeopardized soul that hangs in the bardo (Tibetan word for the world between worlds) around the corner. “And whatever you do, DO NOT touch the sacred rock!”

In clear understanding of my mission to save my life, I quickly slip into the crack, slither my way between both jagged sides, come to the exit, *oh so* delicately clear the sacred rock by healthy inches all around, and appear on the other side.

The breathing of the hermit, the monk and the nomad girl all becomes regular again and the creases of fear on their faces begin to melt. They are not quite ready to smile again, but I can feel them warming up to it.

The students and I wait.

And sure enough, I think they come to the unsaid conclusion, that being as ignorant as I am, perhaps the All That Is One will have enough compassion to spare my tiny, little, stupid soul. “Ah yes,” they begin to smile, laugh, and greet me as if I have just traversed many worlds to re-join them in this one of the living. They pat me on the arm and assure me that I’m going to be okay. After all, I have built up a fair bit of merit on this pilgrimage already, and countless sky-faced palms will continue to open themselves up to innumerable opportunities to gain additional karma, for many lives to come.

(And the story of my total humiliation was reenacted at campfire after campfire for the remainder of the trip.)


The hermit doing another circumambulation around frozen Lake Namtso (Picture taken my by co-leader.)

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and MercuryFrog for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

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sword of words

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*ouch. change can hurt*

A notice on the door tugs on a corner of my subconscious, but my ambition (as ambitions do) to complete the mission with which I set forth speaks over the whispering omen. No worry, for this omen (as omens do) will present itself again…

Having not found the book on digital photography that I was looking for (and probably never was) I pass the woman who left the notice on the door. The snippet of intuition I feel suddenly snaps perfectly together with the puzzle piece I so briefly noticed when I hesitated at the door to read the notice. Recognizing an opportunity for a glimpse of the divine picture — this time — I pay attention.

I turn around and approach the woman. She’s sitting down and, as a matter of personal policy when speaking to anyone with whom I recognize as either a teacher or student, I lower myself below her eye level. (This, by the way, is a fun game when speaking to someone who abides the same personal policy; I once descended an entire case of stairs, in turns, with such a person.)

“You read cards?” I ask.

There is an eagerness in her sigh and smile by which I read the fact that today has been slow in business, “Yes! Please sit down!”

The truth is that I play with tarot cards as well, just as I delight in experimenting with any other tools utilized for understanding the subconscious (dream interpretation, symbolism, archetypes, astrology, aura reading, etc.) and I am only interested in seeing the artistic nature of the symbols on her deck and wondering what one charges for such a service. She tells me her price and I politely explain to her that I am in a period of savings and apologize for misrepresenting my interest, if I have done so.

But she motions me to the seat anyway, “You must sit down. I insist. The reading is free. I do that you know; when I feel inclined. Stop, stop, declining. You should feel no obligation. You can return the favor to anyone you meet in this town later, agreed? Now sit.”

Left with no options not to, I sit.

“Choose three cards.”

I close my eyes for just long enough to ask that what I draw may be truly representative and offer me an appropriate learning.

As she turns the three over, I read their interpretations in my head as I have learned them from my own experience:

X Swords…. “Major change on the way, resistance is futile.”
IX Swords…. “Darkest hour before the dawn.”
VI Swords… “Relief will come after a struggle. Sea voyage possible.”

“All swords and matters of intellect!” I exclaim and recognize that, given that (I feel) my intellect is my greatest weakness, it is no wonder that I am indeed struggling these days.

It takes me a minute to become conscious of the fact that while I am analyzing the cards, she is analyzing me. I suddenly realize that the cards mean nothing to her; only a single petty medium, one of many, through which she can read. She’s not looking at the cards; she’s looking at me, and seeing.

Now, and only because I have mentioned them, she looks at the cards. But they are bothersome details. Offhandedly she comments, “Yes. Strong on swords. It’s definitely a time of great change and reflection for you.”

And then she continues with the story she read behind my eyes, “A traveller. With extreme drive. Compassion is the lesson of this lifetime. But you will not learn it from motherhood, will you? No. Through service. Through something that you will dedicate the rest of your life to — when you find it. You won’t be here long. You’re a seeker, and continue you will. And this work you do right now, it is good. But it is not enough. Maybe 10 years you will share your inspiration through this channel. But then, then you give your entire life to spiritual practice. And I see a book. Writing is important to you isn’t it? You must keep practicing; keep writing. It will have a strategic place in your life.”

You’d think that this kind of information, given to you by a complete stranger, would be shocking. But when it happens it isn’t; the conversation has the familiarity of a conversation with self. I’ve had readings from teachers/gurus/mentors from Guatemala to India, and what they tell me never surprises me because the fact that it’s true meant that I already knew it. Or the fact that I knew it, meant that it was already true.

“What are you afraid of?” she asks.

I answer out of alignment with truth and against that which I know will never be; “That I will grow comfortable here. Everything is so pleasant and easy. I’m afraid that when the time comes, I will no longer want to leave.”

To this she actually throws her head back and laughs out loud. It is the first time we have broken an eye-to-eye contact that burrowed into realms beyond vision, and this release makes for the most perfect red curtain in closure on this session. I AM laughable, I realize. And I join in with celebrating the humor of the incredibility of self-perception.

The lull of relief at the end of our shared life laugh motions for a movement towards our separate ways.

“Not a chance,” she puts the period on her laugh and says with a smile. “Now go on.”

I put my hands together, bow and offer her the South Asian sacred salute of, “namaste” (“recognizing the divine in you”), to which she with instant recognition, and naturally, returns.

*****

(I should take this moment to make mention of “Osho,” a great Indian guru who the Dalai Lama recognized as enlightened, under whom the woman I just wrote of was a disciple, and who has 576 book listings on Amazon, five of which I’ve read and loved. If you’re interested in sampling, the Apple Online Music Store has a free “Osho Podcast” so you can download a 1-hour discourse and hear him speak of how to live a creative and holi-life.)

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and MercuryFrog for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

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a minute apocalypse and creation myth – by sol

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One day the Divine Spirit grew tired. It only happens once in every few million years and today was that day.

So by means of a small earth tremor, the Diving Spirit snapped its fingers and the inhabitants of the world woke up.

Birds stopped singing. Mothers stopped nursing. Poets stopped composing. Brothers stopped competing. Fishermen stopped fishing. Children stopped playing. Dancers stopped dancing. Doctors stopped saving. Bakers stopped baking. Dogs stopped barking. Politicians stopped lying. Babies stopped crying. Countries stopped fighting.

Everything stopped. And everyone turned their attention to the Divine Spirit.

“Ah, hem” the Divine Spirit coughed, (as it had been millions of years since it had last used this voice). “Yes. Thank you for your attention, for it has come to mine that you are all asking and complaining of the same matters. So today I would like to give you the opportunity to ask me any questions of your heart to which I will give you the most clear and concise answers.”

All the beings on Earth looked around at each other and then one brave young man stepped forward and asked, “Okay. Well. What is Love?”

The Divine Spirit, in one clear and concise sentence, defined Love.

And all the beings nodded their heads in affirmative and final understanding of Love.

Then an elderly woman raised her hand and questioned, “And so then what is the purpose of Life?”

The Divine Spirit explained in the most simple and eloquent terms, the purpose of Life.

An excited chatter rippled over the audience, as all beings finally comprehended this very intuitive understanding of the purpose of Life.

Just as quickly as the excitement had passed through the crowd, a silence now fell over it.

Knowing she spoke for all, a young girl stepped forward and asked, “Divine Spirit…,” she hesitated and then continued, “Divine Spirit. What now?”

The Divine Spirit shrugged its shoulders by shaking the mountains, smiled by flaring the sun, and said, “Why you are the Creator, so that is up to you.”

The young girl turned around to face the crowd, but she quickly realized no conversation was needed. With unsaid universal agreement, all the beings on Earth urged her to continue to communicate their unified will.

The young girl spoke, “Divine Spirit. You have told us what Love is and have explained to us the purpose of Life, and they were wise answers indeed. But we would like to learn those answers for ourselves, through our own direct experience of personalized mysteries. Is that possible?”

The Divine Spirit, in a soft uplifting breeze, nodded yes and said, “That IS possible. It will involve pain. It will involve challenge. It will involve death. And it will certainly involve struggle. But if you agree to these terms, I will give – to each of you — an opportunity to learn the meanings of Love and Life through entirely unique and creative experiences.”

The young girl turned to the crowd and they nodded in eager agreement. She turned back to the Divine Spirit and said excitedly, “Yes. We accept those terms.”

The Divine Spirit continued, “And of course, in order for the Great Mystery of Life to be so, you must also forget this conversation and agreement. Is this also okay with you?”

“Yes, yes! We obviously agree to that!” the people excitedly jeered.

And the Divine Spirit sighed with renewed inspiration and again shook the Earth with a simple snap of its fingers.

And the birds started singing. And mothers started nursing. Poets started composing. Brothers started competing. Fishermen started fishing. Children started playing. Dancers started dancing. Doctors started saving. Bakers started baking. Dogs started barking. Politicians started lying. Babies started crying. Countries started fighting. And everything continued…at least for another few million years.

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art of alchemy

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3 times stranded without cover in sudden rainstorms. 3 expeditions sent to “get help” to pull our minivan out of the mud. 20+ group efforts to push or pull our car out of muck-ruts. 6 snapped towropes. 1 dead engine. 30 miles of ankle-to-knee-deep mud. 700 mosquito bites (averaging 50 per person plus Raphael’s 200). A fair number of unmentionable words sworn. 1 jaundiced leader suffering from a (as of now) confirmed case of Hepititis A. 1 nail-less big toe. 11 pairs of squishy boots. 4 expressed emotional breakdowns (unknown private ones). 4 mysterious rashes. 1 mule stuck in the mud. 1 dead tarantula. 1 hour walking in the dark with 1000 sets of shiny spider eyes reflecting the light of our headlamps. 2 tarps short of covering the hammocks and cooking fire from a sudden downpour…

2 tarps suddenly found to save our dry clothes (and souls) from another drenching. Numerous hysterical laughs when one could do nothing with the situation but crack. 11 of the best Snickers bars ever tasted. 8 hours of the most exhausted, and thus sound, hammock sleeping. 1 graceful surrender for the sake of safety. 1 sunrise at the top of a pyramid at the ruins of Tintal with views of the jungle-covered temples of Mirador and Nakbe peeking above the canopy of the Peten rain forest. Many sightings (and soundings) of both spider and howler monkeys. 5 AMAZING local trek guides with unlimited energy, enthusiasm and knowledge of the forest and its animal and plant inhabitants. 100’s of enormous bright blue Morpho butterflies flaunting their easy flutter as we sludged along. 2.5 oranges per person, per day. 11 bodies surrendered fully and finally to the mud. Dozens of unexcavated ruins left by ancient Mayan civilizations lining, like small rolling hills, both sides of our trail. 5 girls laughing so hard they were mistaken for monkeys. 2 royal “throne” jungle outhouses. 1 ballpoint mustache. 1 impressionable sight of a full chicken bus coming to our tow-rescue. 2 video remakes of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” 11 excited hoops of hurray when the minivan was finally yanked out of the mud. 1 angel sent from heaven with a 4×4 pick-up truck to save us from being stranded. 1 unforgettable experience scarred from skin to soul.

Dear Students,

Our last day was, by any Hero’s definition, “epic.” And although it felt much longer than the 24 hours that a day usually confines itself to, dizzy with disbelief of each unfathomable moment as it fell upon us, I somehow lost the time to communicate my congratulations to you.

I suppose we each have a point where we (think) we can take no more. And to my (perhaps sick, yes) delight, I witnessed many of you reach that point this week. But my satisfaction comes not from seeing you suffer, but from witnessing you each successfully limbo what you thought to be your bar of ultimate endurance. Tears were cried, words were sworn and the existence of hell realms on Earth were certainly questioned. But it is only through these soul-shaking and reality-challenging encounters with our limits that we have the opportunity to push our walls in life an inch out, up, higher and lower; creating some space (in the box of Life that limited perception creates) for us to sigh, breathe, play and grow in confidence.

And isn’t it such a peculiar and relieving confidence that is inspired, not by conquest, but by surrender? Just when we think we have reached the wall of our will, the unfathomable pushes us right through it and we suddenly find ourselves on the other side with the realization that the walls of what we think we can do in this life are actually illusions. And suddenly we are laughing out loud at the all the unnecessary time we spent dreading, worrying, expecting, defining, avoiding, denying and hesitating…

Remember on our first day when we set out in our dry and clean clothes? We took enormous care to scout and then hurdle ourselves to each dry island along the path. We employed machetes to hack down what we thought would be a faster track. At each rest stop we took twigs and scraped the mud from our boots. We cringed at each raindrop that landed on our dry clothes and threatened an entourage behind it. And with such desperation we dug through our bags for our expensive Gortex jackets when the clouds grew dark. But isn’t the rain one to humble even Mr. Gore himself? For as we clearly saw with Storm Stan, is there anything that Rain can’t eventually drench, uproot, sweep away, flood, or famish? Despite what any REI clerk will claim, in the ring between Gortex and a tropical downpour, poor (but expensive) breathable plastic never stood a chance.

And thus we were drenched.

But, really, how often do we humans get truly, thoroughly and without resistance, wet? Looking at my own history of umbrellas, ponchos and shelter-sprints, I’d say I’ve spent a good portion of my life skirting, swerving and scowling at the sky’s natural showerhead. So imagine my surprise when, after observing the unrelenting rain go from saturating my “protective barriers” (2 minutes, by the way, Mr. Gore) to forming an impressive drainage system along the natural divots and divides of my skin, I realized (or remembered?) that the only completely impermeable and breathable material on this Earth is skin. And eyebrows and eyelashes work together as an impressive windshield-wiper team. And, (oh blessed surrender to my 7-year old self!), stomping in knee-deep mud to the tune of a full volume storm is invigorating and liberating!

“Surrender” has gotten such a terribly undeserving bad name in our dualistic-minded society. (But then so have Surrender’s friends “emptiness”, “minimalism”, “death”, “stillness”, “different” and “darkness” – but wouldn’t that be an essay.) Yet in my life I continue to learn that it is not my conquests that make me stronger, but the experiences that humble me in beauty, bigness or recognized brotherhood. Contrary to all I was socialized into believing, it’s the events and visions that make me feel smaller that make me feel more comfortable in my proper (little) place in this world. It’s the ocean, the sunset, the full moon, the dark sky, the pyramids, the jungle, the thunder, the lightning, and yes, a full pummeling by a storm that make me realize just how small I am — and just how “okay” it is to be small.

So we did not reach our original destination. But we did push our inner and collective endurance to heights and horizons that make the pyramids of Mirador look small. Many of us have admitted that some of our most challenging days on this semester, and in the field of Life, took place on that muddy little path this week. But it was certainly an experience worth the lesson of coming to know (intimately) the depth of the mud that we can successfully trudge through. And isn’t it exactly the swamps of life that allow us to walk with renewed appreciation for the ease of the drier paths in Life’s more maintained and manicured parks?

In Buddhism, a “bodhisattva” is one who is enlightened, but consciously chooses to stay on Earth to “participate in the sorrows of the world with joy.” When I look back at the epic tale of adventure that we wrote last week, it’s the picture on the last page that I most remember. It’s the vision of you all — knee deep in the mud, covered in dirt, car broken down, sun setting, mosquitoes swarming, hours away in either direction from any shelter — and smiling. And not just smiling, but laughing, dancing, singing, and sighing at the sight of the near full moon putting a fantastic sunset (and epic day) to bed; participating with joy in a situation that would by most definitions be defined as miserable.

So congratulations to you on an ace on your first exam in Alchemy. For you have all shown yourselves as promising Alchemists — whose art is only that of changing obstacles into chal
lenge, the horrific into epic, the unknown into adventure, misery into magic, metal into gold.

*****

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as it is

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(Sun setting on the clouds upon arrival in Guatemala.)

There is a mantra which was recently re-whispered into a valley of my subconscious and has now risen to an echo that daily booms and bounces off the mountains in my mind…

“anicha”

“anicha”

Right before I came again to Guatemala, I served and sat at a Vipassana (meditation) course where Goenka-ji reminded me of one of my most important lessons from Buddhism: That we humans tend to live in a never-ending cycle of suffering because we attach ourselves to two very dangerous emotions: craving and aversion. When we “don’t like” something we react with disgust, anger, disappointment and negative emotions that amount to the action of aversion. When we “like” something we react with longing, unchecked desire, mindless passion and an addictive “craving” for more of that same thing. The problem is that, despite all our wishes for life to be so, nothing is permanent; everything is transient and passing. And thus, in chase of the illusion of being able to attain some mythical state of stability, we spend our minutes, days, years and life hopping back and forth between these two, mild but constantly, painful states of being; aversion and craving. The key to leaping out of this cycle of suffering is to practice equanimity; to (first become aware of and then choose to) dismiss our initial inclinations to immediately define all people, places, events and things along our personal sliding scales of “good” to “bad” and instead, to accept each stimuli in life simply…”as it is.”

Or in Sanskrit,

“anicha”

(the rising and passing of a moment)

So when Dragons changed my fall assignment from the Himalaya to the Guatemala Semester, instead of pleading out my (devastating) desire to return to India, I simply shrugged and whispered to myself, “anicha”…

…as it is.

And now here I am; visions, memories, sights and smells of Guatemala deliriously swarming in and all around me, a vigor tingling at the tips of all my fingers and a energy stirring underneath every inch of my skin. An inner self is dancing, leaping with joy at being able to walk again in the land of magic and mystery that first inspired my entire quest as a perpetual pilgrim. Yes. Guatemala’s multitude and magnitude of majestic volcanoes have overshadowed the entire Himalayan range and left me bowing my gratitude and respect to the Divine Plan that always (always!) knows my place and path better than I. The only thing that grounds me is the absolute certainty that there is no place I should (or would rather) be, than right here, now.

And attesting to the universality of the (life) language I’m learning, I turned yesterday to an indigenous woman of Mayan decent with my ridiculous list of petty “why?” questions in regards to a bus schedule to which she replied, “Asi es. Porque asi es.”

“As it is. Because that’s as it is.”

*****

< A few new photos in the new Guatemala 05-06 Album

*****

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melted clocks

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T = (F + PT) * 0 + (APM ^)

Where:

T = Time
F = Future
PT = Past
0 = Constant that negates the existence of the future and past
A = Awareness
PM = Present Moment

(Where the future and past do not exist, time equals awareness of the present moment to the power of an undefined infinite degree.)

*****

On the path of every traveller is a shared minute-liberating moment when s/he scavenges the basement of a backpack for the estranged watch that no longer leashes wrist and mind to a defined conception of time…

“It’s Friday right?”
“No, um…I’m pretty sure it’s Tuesday ‘cause church bells woke us up a few days ago.”
“Was that really only two days ago? Okay…so Tuesday the what?”
“I have no idea. Wait, my watch has the date on it. Hold on a minute. It’s down here somewhere…”

This conversation is usually followed by a moment of dazed bliss, mild hysteria, or a laughing-fit; for the machine-less tumble in time (via a tunnel painted by Salvador Dali), with hands thrown in the air and mental fingers sticky with melting clock, can be quite an exhilarating experience.

And how egotistical was I before to think that Time actually cared about me? Imagining myself being gently nudged from behind and buffered from the front, prodded and poked in order to keep my proper place walking down an imaginary life timeline?

Who knew that Time was all the while laughing, waiting for exactly the moment where I lost balance, slipped, fell down the “reality” rabbit hole and landed on my (capital-A) Ass before it sardonically whispered to me its secret…

“Lose track of me, and I’ll lose track of you.”

And now here I am, years (measured not in days, but smiles, sighs and sunsets) later, with a staggering statistical measuring unit from the old abandoned lifeline that has somehow managed to limp a way back into my life. Now be careful, for the following five words have been known to arouse adverse reactions:

10-Year High School Reunion

Oh did you feel it? Because I did! I don’t know where you went, but I’ll tell you where I did: For a single moment, I reverted straight back to my 14-year old self; first month of my freshman year at a new school, lunch bell screaming in my ear, pulling a brown bag from a cold, beaten metal locker and silently begging (“please God”) that today I might find another soul as lonely as I with whom I could share an empty hour eating sandwiches.

Not a memory I like to live long in, so quick, bring me back and let me catch my breath on the fresh air of the present moment.

I wonder how I would have experienced high school differently if I knew then what I do now. In that parallel world, I think I’d join the drama club, run for class president, experiment with a lot more drugs, hang out with all the foreign exchange students, spend Friday nights reading, stand up and face off with arrogant teachers, skip a lot more class to go the beach, do my book reports on Gandhi and reincarnation, start a “Recovering Catholics” and a “Salsa Dancing” club, initiate all my dates, cram my schedule with art and photography classes, and eat lunch outside, barefooted, joyfully alone, every single day.

Well since by my equation the past no longer exists, I don’t have four years of high school to relive (which is sigh worthy). But I do have one day to newly experience old memories in a body, mind and spirit I’ve comfortably and finally grown into.

So a 10-year high school reunion that happens to be taking place during one of five months in the last ten years that I happen to actually be in town?

Awkward. Nerve-wrecking. Identity-challenging. Scary. Unnecessary. Reality re-defining. Interesting. Unpredictable. Strange. Uncomfortable. And yes, downright freaky.

And for exactly all those reasons; Let’s go!

Of course all that logic came quickly into question as soon as I entered the room full of vaguely familiar faces grimacing under the terrible tune of C & C Music Factory, which (come on DJ!) really should be restrained (by order if necessary) to the 90’s.

Yes, there was a slightly painful and scripted prance through the entrance catwalk. Lucky for me, I had at my side one of my best friends in the world who happens also to be the exact same soul “lonely as I” that “God” sent to my side freshman year in high school and who has held my hand through the ups, downs and ins and outs of life every single day since.

Soon enough smiles were recognized and so warmly remembered. Laughs I hadn’t heard for years brought back sweet memories so worthy of fond recall. Surprised hugs and forgotten friendships renewed relationships and inspired dates for further investigation. An hour and a half into the crowd and I hadn’t even made it to the bar (a good sign). Of course there were still awkward and even embarrassing situations (and specifically two pretty blush-worthy ones for me which are not worth the details). But one of the advantages of not being 18 any more was being able to address the awkwardness with, “So, is this uncomfortable or what?” “Um. Yes.” and the heightened consciousness it takes to call out and/or laugh anything off with the indifferency that discomfort deserves.

Adding a unique twist to my own personal experience was the existence of this weblog. It’s one thing to post your most intimate thoughts, experiences and opinions for an anonymous online audience, but it’s an entirely different thing to imagine your old high school classmates reading your personal diary. Most of the friends I make while travelling go for months without knowing about this website. Some don’t find out until they randomly find the site themselves years later. So I was shocked, humbled and self-conscious when it became evident that people other than my mother were reading my ridiculous run-on word rants. But really, what can I do but shrug, surrender to the inner-self exposure, and laugh it off with the indifferency that my discomfort deserves?

So I have an aversion to numbers in general as they seem to me limiting in their expression of many things that I consider constituted of unit-less essence. But after this weekend’s reunion, I’m gonna break from my normal annoying vague jargon, and say that 28 looks pretty damn good on people; perhaps because experience and confidence also look good on people. And I’m seeing an exponential trend as well; that with each time period passed, there is an equal and uprising unit of respect, appreciation and individual advancement. So despite the physiological advantages, there’s no amount of pickled mango (I’m currently missing India) that would ever make me trade 18 for 28. After all, 1-27 got me where I am, and “here” is my favorite place to be. And I guess that would be the APM^part of the equation.

As for my 14-year old self, I travel through time (because, I’m pretty sure that if travel is indeed timeless, then I can somehow *with a little more imagination* deduce that we are also able to time travel) and shout down to her the one message that I also hammer into the heads of all the 18-year olds I work with; “Fall in love or fall in hate. Get inspired or be depressed. Get confused or be straight. Flunk a class or ace a test. Become a slut or be reborn a virgin. Get fit or get fat. Make babies or make art. Speak the truth or lie and cheat. Live happily ever after or get divorced. Dance on tables or sit in the c
orner and be shy. Let me (scream or whisper) a secret to you: It’s doesn’t matter. Nobody’s actually watching. Life is divine chaos. Embrace it. Forgive yourself. Breathe. And enjoy the ride.”

*****

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violet umbrella

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Time. Just when I think it no longer exists, it stops; Against a wall I crash; Into the realization that more than a meager measure of minutes, it is a cunning calculator of change. Elevated for a single breathtaking glimpse of the horizons of the divine plan, and then falling back in faith that the story is, indeed, written all by the same hand.

And I knew Time wasn’t linear, but who knew that in circles we could travel so far? So I follow the loop, and go forward, back; To a minute captured in ink, at the entrance to the Jokhang, in Lhasa, Tibet.

April 4th, 2005
Journal Entry

Mind, Speech, and Body. Thought, Word, and Heart. Pilgrims in their most intimate surrender, on all sides, surround. Full body prostrations humble egos insistent on standing, solemnly to the ground. Men and women. Rich and poor. Ignorant of race, sex and class is the number of miles we each must walk, simply to fall on Humility’s floor. Instructed then, to yes please enter, but leave the life we’ve walked in, with the pile of shoes at the door.

I thought I came to observe, but I’ve quickly become the observed. A man squats, telephoto lens, no bush to beat and without blush, snapping shots of the pale girl sitting in the street. Obviously odd for her square and muted clothes, she scripts in matching block letters, acting innocent of being noticed.

And to whom and what of, does she write? I look through his lens and wonder too. It seems a very Western obsession to wander back and forth between past observation and future expression; Over- and under- analyzing segments of time that no longer or yet exist, instead of simply experiencing the moment of “now” naked and as it is.

An ancient Tibetan man, with a smile a lifetime younger, spins a prayer wheel in his right hand as he extends to me in his left, a customary gesture of welcome. I smile back, and his eyes they glow. A mirror flashes as recognition catches, before a gust of wind starts time again and blows; In a blink, back down the veil falls over his eyes, with a final teasing wink testifying to the truth of our oneness that he knows.

Square shadows of square shoulders cast square shade upon my ground, as a group surrounds me in the suits and caps traditional to the men of Tibet’s region, Kham. In low dusty voices they chatter, scratch chins, point fingers and finally decide my activity no longer worth their banter. The cloud of their presence passes, and I find myself for the first in many minutes, in observer absence.

I poke my head out from the cover I’ve taken in paper and pen…

Mind, speech and body. Thought, word and heart. The prostrating pilgrims keep in rhythm with the small hand of a clock. Suddenly aware, for the first time, of my own looming shadow over them, I slap myself for ignorantly assuming I had a right to sit here and witness these intimate acts of devotion and submission.

I turn just in time to see, in front of a barred window, a small monk in signature maroon robes. In one hand he holds a violet sun umbrella that he reaches up into the air as he grabs onto the bars to help lift himself up onto his toes. (I know the window, for I’ve peeked through it too, and know that thousands of prayer-lit butter lamps present a very peek-worthy view.) And again the mirror flashes and blinds me with a body swapping vision of myself; Small girl, eager toes, an understanding shaded by the big umbrella of all she thinks she knows. Stretching up, peeking in, through the barred window of her severely limited perception.

I scribble incomplete and run-on sentences in an attempt to comprehend it all, but am stopped by my own smile, when the violet star-shaped shadow wanders from the window and upon my journal falls.

*****

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revelation recovered

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I don’t look up, but feel the table vibrate as a chair is pulled out from under it and curious arms fold themselves across from mine…

“Hello.”

Although my eyes are reluctant to pull themselves from the egg hunt of inspiration that I have found in the book between my hands, I put a final exclamation point in the margin of my most recent golden revelation, close the book, look up, and return the greeting…

“Hello.”

His dark arms uncross and reach across the table to tilt the book to a title-reading angle.

“Sri Aurobindo, The Adventure of Consciousness,” he reads aloud and continues, “you like this book?”

“It might be the best book I’ve ever read,” I reply.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because after five years of intense spiritual searching, I can only stutter and sigh when trying to translate my learnings into words. But what I have come to know from my direct experience and experiments with Truth, Satprem seems to have captured here in this book; and with perfect grace and eloquence I believe he’s really transcribed messages divinely inspired.”

He smiles like he might know something I don’t.

And then he continues, “So, how did you find out about Auroville and why have you come here?”

I look to the left bottom corner of mind, where my fondest memories seem to be kept, and after reveling in the essence of the experience for a blissful minute, I tell him, “Nine months ago, I met a boy in Ecuador. As soon as I saw him I knew he was an important messenger in my life. I approached him while he sat alone on the beach, and two sentences later he said the word, “Auroville.” And when he said this name, chills ran up my arms. And for that reason, the chills of recognition, I’m here now.”

His smile, this time, is completely transparent to something inside of him that he judges it now safe to share. Another question slips through his smile, “And now that you are here, what do you think?”

“I think I’m going to live here.”

These words — MY words — startle me. There is confidence in them from which source I’m unable to identify. And my ego, unprepared for the treason, stands aghast and open-mouthed staring back at me.

The tone of confidence apparently carries itself all the way to him, for without jest or doubt, he sincerely asks, “And you discovered this by coming here?”

I look inside for a second to see if this statement is true and then reply, “No. I didn’t discover it. I re-covered it. And embraced the revelation like a long lost and beloved friend who’s been patiently awaiting my arrival at its recognition.”

While he reflects on my comment, he looks past me and, from the bottom of its protruding roots, follows the trunk of a mighty Banyan tree up to its outstretched leafy limbs that are shielding us from the sun-reining sky and blanketing us in a bath of cool shade. His gaze falls upon the gardens and I follow it. Chipmunks tear around the grounds in a mad game of touch tag while a thousand butterflies loft and land on the sweet of their choice in this blooming flower candy-land.

He continues, “So what have you found here that makes you realize you have a place here?”

I tilt my head for the delivery of my questions and ask him, “Do you know what “integral yoga” is and the philosophy behind it?”

“Of course,” he replies.

So I continue, “Do you know what, “ahimsa” is? And do you understand “voluntary simplicity”, “self sufficiency” and “human unity?” How about the terms, “organic”, “higher consciousness,” and “inner spirit”? And the concepts of, “the interconnectedness of all life”, “transparency to the divine within” and “synchronicity”?

“Yes. Of course I am familiar with all these things,” he says plainly.

“That is why I want to live here. Because I have spent a long part of my life searching, finding, defining and adopting these words into my practical living lingo. And because here in Auroville, for the first time in my life, I have found a place that not only shares my “speak,” but has these terms written into the very constitution of the community.”

He looks hesitant and I know what he is thinking, so I continue, “And I know that words are only words and that this place is so very FAR from perfect. Auroville is young. But have we not all gone through puberty? It’s the clumsiest stage of life: conflicted, rebellious, undirected, awkward, ungraceful, ugly, reckless, immature, blundering and sometimes plain scandalous!

But the potential of puberty is worth every toe-stepping moment of its dance with adolescence. For in this same youth there is endless energy, passion, possibility, hope, courage, compassion, vitality, adaptability, risk, undefended love and vision!

There is vision here in Auroville.

And for the same reasons that I love to work with 18-year olds, I want also to invest my hope, love and energy in the mission and vision of young Auroville,” I end.

“How can you be so certain?” he asks.

“I’m not. I’m not certain of anything in this life except for the certainty that nothing is certain. But do you see that painting?” I indicate to the garden.

He turns around, looks and nods his acknowledgment.

Embracing even my own curiosity in my voice I reply, “Nine months ago, on the back of a restaurant placemat, I drew that exact same image.”

…and it’s only one of a dozen synchronistic omens that have fallen into my lap since I arrived here. I feel like the Tetris game of life’s divine mystery just jumped to a bonus round and the puzzle pieces are falling with a sudden speed that I can only respond to on intuition.

And that is why I want to live here…

…because someone is jumping up and down inside of me at the excitement of being found.” As I deliver these words, I feel the jumping cease for the single second of time it takes for the mysterious “someone” inside of me to sigh in appreciation of my external expression and recognition of inner self. (And in the corner, my ego resorts to sulking.)

Perhaps my new friend sitting across the table meets quacks like me all the time for he accepts my story with honest interest and little surprise.

After a minute of comfortable silence he asks, “So then, do you know the legend behind Auroville?”

I open up my mouth and rally off that which I’ve recently read, “Of course. Auroville was Sri Aurobindo and The Mother’s inspiration to create a community that belongs to humanity as a whole; a place of unending education, constant progress and youth that never ages; a site of material and spiritual researches for a living embodiment of actual human unity; a center of accelerated evolution where a person must begin to change her world by means of the power of the inner spirit.”

He smiles and replies, “Yes. That’s the West’s version of the tale. But do you know what the Tamil people native to the land, my ancestors, know as the legend?”

I tilt my head in curiosity and beg him politely to tell me the other side of the story that I haven’t yet heard.

He obliges, “Let me tell you…”

There once was a kingdom here that was lush and lovely and plentiful. And on the outskirts of this kingdom lived a great yogi who spent all his days and nights investigating and navigating the spiritual realms. Well one day, this yogi went very deep into meditation; so deep that he stayed in this meditation for many, many weeks and months. And oddly enough, when he did so, the sun came out and decided not to leave; so for many, many weeks and months, the sun shone down on the kingdom while the great yogi meditated.

But after some time, with no monsoons on the horizon, the people of the kingdom began to worry, for their crops were starting to dry out and their animals becoming weak with thirst.

The King, quite wise and making the connection, realized that the rains had not come since the great yogi had gone into retreat. Wanting to wake the yogi, but knowing that no matter how unlucky you are things can always get worse with the curse one receives from disturbing a meditating holy man, he knew he needed a good plan. So he sent for all the best musicians in his kingdom and instructed them to approach the cave of the great yogi and play music so beautiful that would lure any soul back from the divine.

The musicians went. And they did indeed play truly beautiful music.

But the yogi did not wake.

So the King scratched his chin and came up with a new plan. He instructed his attendant to find the most beautiful and talented dancer in all the land and to bring her to the palace. When the woman, belonging to one of the lower castes (as all dancers were) was found, she was obviously the most beautiful woman and talented dancer in the whole kingdom if not the world. The king kindly instructed her in her task..to dance beautifully, and with equal grace to capture the great yogi’s attention and bring him back to the reality of the world.

So the dancer set out to the yogi’s remote home on the outskirts of the kingdom. And when she arrived, she put on her best bangles and began to dance all around him.

And she did indeed dance divinely.

But the yogi did not wake.

So the dancer stopped dancing and sat down to watch the yogi. She waited and watched, and watched and waited, and finally, after sitting with the silent yogi for many hours, she saw a nearby tree shake a branch and from it fell a single lush little green leaf right into the palm of the yogi. The dancer watched with disbelief as the great yogi, while still in trance, moved it to his mouth and ate the single leaf; his one and only daily meal to sustain his body while his mind was afar.

And the dancer came up with an idea!

She returned to her house and cooked up a very special and deliciously spiced curry. And from it she made one small and especially delightful bite that would awaken the excitement of any taste bud. And with this treat in her hand she returned to the great yogi the next day and waited. This time, when the tree shook its branch, she stood behind the yogi and dropped into his hand, in the place of the leaf, the tongue-tantalizing morsel.

The yogi, still in trance, gracefully accepted the offering and put the delicious truffle into his mouth, delicately chewed it, smiled…and woke up!

As soon as he opened his eyes, great grey clouds broke over the hills and into the sky, and as they smashed up against each other, they let out deafening roars of thunder and water poured down upon the entire kingdom!

And the people ran out into the rain and filled their troughs and watched their seedlings sprout and danced, and laughed and sang their thanks to the great yogi, the wise king and the rain gods who’d finally been awoken from their long hibernation.

The King was so happy that he sent a fine carriage to the cave of the yogi and humbly invited both him and the dancer immediately back to the palace for a jubilant celebration. The yogi and the dancer accepted and soon were in the palace with the whole of the kingdom celebrating on the estate. And the King asked that the beautiful dancer might perform to honor the great occasion.

And so the beautiful dancer did exactly as she was instructed, and danced.

But while she was dancing, one of the bangles of bells tied around her ankle fell off. And the great yogi, noticing that it had fallen, picked it up and touched her foot to tie it back on…

And when he did, a great hush fell over the crowd of the kingdom, for it is very much against all rules of caste for a great spiritual man to touch the foot of a mere dancer from the lowest of the castes. And the people who did not scorn, they laughed! Out loud and obnoxiously the whole kingdom laughed!

The great yogi stood up. And suddenly a great bolt of lightning from the thundering skies above shot down to the earth and stuck the great lingam (stone symbol of worship to the god Shiva) cracking it completely in half!

And the people were suddenly silenced in enormous fear.

In the midst of the pervading quiet, the great yogi explained that caste meant nothing, that all human beings were equal and united, and that since the kingdom had failed to recognize and appreciate this, he had therefore placed a curse on the land that it should dry out and turn to nothing but red dust.

The people of the kingdom were of course terrified for they had already witnessed and knew very well the power of the great yogi. And so they threw themselves down to the ground in prostrations and asked for his mercy.

The yogi listened to their lamenting and felt that they were sincere in their apology. But he knew it was impossible to remove a curse once it is given. And so he explained to the people, that indeed the land would still turn dry and die, and become nothing but red dust.

BUT…one day, far, far into the future, he explained…

“… one day people — different looking people with strange languages and unfamiliar behaviors; people from distant countries and cultures — will congregate on this one spot and share this same piece of land. And when they do, when the footsteps of people from all sides of the Earth converge and make their unified mark upon this land, without regard to caste and respectful only of their shared human unity — then, and only then — will the red earth sprout green anew.

And the land will once again — become lush, lovely and plentiful.”

*****

(Auroville in 1965)

(Auroville today; with a population of 2000 citizens coming from six continents and over 30 different countries.)

*****
(The next 15 months of my life calendar have already been filled in with an itinerary of traveling, leading, learning and loving. But I’ll be back in Auroville for the winter holiday to continue arrangements for my trial settlement in the community starting in the fall of 2006.)

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walking with Jesus and Buddha

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Once upon a time I fell in love with Christianity.

I went to church twice a week and made the sign of the cross each time I went down on my knees. I memorized and repeated prayers as I counted through my rosary’s beads. I sang songs in the choir and lit candles around the alter and I bowed my head before each high hanging porcelain sculpture of the savior. I confessed and repented each of my sins, wore a cross around my neck, and read the Bible from cover to cover.

But I had questions; Why can God only speak through men from behind the alter? And why, in exchange for my blessing, must every practitioner of differing faith be damned? And if Jesus taught us to treat each neighbor as our self, then why are there exceptions if he is black, poor, Muslim, female, or speaks a language we don’t understand? And if any act can be forgiven, why have we never apologized (or even recognized) the trail of blood that bought and brought the conversion of Christianity to the Americas?

Christianity put a finger to its lips and hushed me.

So I turned my back, and walked away.

*

And then one day I met Buddhism.

I was told, “Take only what you need, and anything you don’t like just leave,” and then thought to myself, “Now here’s a religion in which I can respectfully believe!”

So I went to the temples, clasped my hands and bowed, or even made rounds of full body prostrations to humble myself to the ground. I counted on the beads of my mala repetitions of Tibetan mantras memorized (only as I knew them) as segments of sound. I adopted the 8-fold path into my daily life and was careful to always circumambulate in only directions clockwise. I lit butter lamps and participated in pujas and made mindful walking meditations around towering white stupas. I meditated hour after hour cross-legged on a cushion, wore an eternal knot around my neck, and studied the ancient Sanskrit sutras.

But I had questions; If the female form is equivalent in power for progress towards enlightenment, then why do all the high lamas reincarnate only as men? And if Buddha did not want anyone to sculpt his image for praise, then why do we meditate with visualizations of him with a crown on his head, his body high upon a throne raised? And if all sentient beings are created and respected as the same, then why is a “perfect rebirth” into the human realm considered supreme? And if unattachment to the physical is a true precept of this religion, then why do we circumambulate ornate stupas painted in gold flake and housing relics of old lamas from whose bones appear pearls? And if Buddha promised us the path to enlightenment could be attained entirely from direct experience, then why does Buddhism prescribe a disciplined routine of prostrations, meditations, circumambulations and memorizations?

Buddhism shrugged its shoulders, smiled softly and said, “Fine then. Find your own way.”

*

So I took a deep breath and, once again, heaved my pack upon my back. Taking pursuit of my own trail knowing not what would lie ahead but quite happy to leave all I had learned “I’m not” in the past. And as I stepped back in alignment with personal truth, direct experience, unattachment, meditation and mindfulness, I, for the first time, looked down to see that the path was littered with a million dusty footprints of evidence. Yes! Imprints of feet, from a thousand past pilgrims, that all faced forward in one direction forming a one-way path for those for whom returning wasn’t an intention.

And suddenly I felt soft hands slip into the left and right of mine, and a secret whispered softly in two voices of kind;

In the left…

“Between my words and the Bible exists a great void, which everyone moved quickly to fill forgetting that in stillness is my voice.”

In the right…

“And the Sutras I did not want written but only whispered from ear to ear. You don’t need to know Sanskrit to understand, all you need is silence to hear.”

And in both…

“The path of the pilgrim is one we’ve both walked. We’ve left you our footprints to follow, alongside the voice of your heart.”

“Now continue child. Walk mindfully. And keep it in your head, that it’s for you, and ownership of your own enlightenments, that on this road, alone, you tread!”

The hands let go of mine, but my pack became lighter. And one humble tear of thanks bowed down my cheek, as I brought my hands together and lifted my respect, love and appreciation for this most precious piece of guidance graced upon me from higher.

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