STOP, LOOK, LISTEN

What is your problem of the day? Have you ever noticed that when one problem is solved, a new one comes to take it's place? We often try to "fix" our inner problems by getting better at the external games we've always played, keeping us stuck in the patterns we've always held. We tend to rely on our mind to solve our problems. If we could realize that the advice of the mind often comes from our distorted thoughts of fear, we would realize the mind is disturbed and stop listening to it.
If we don't address our problems from the very root, it is like using a band-aide on a gushing wound. External changes will not solve your problems. First step is to STOP. Stop expecting your mind to fix our problems. Second step is to LOOK. Watch the mind play it's games, and you will realize you are not this mind and not get sucked into it. You are only the witness of it. Third step is LISTEN. From the vantage point of the witness, the mind and all its disturbed thoughts and fears, becomes like white noise in the background, and we are able to hear the call of our True Self.
Resting in this awareness you will notice your energy shift. Your problems do not get solved. You simply realize you never had any to begin with. You are not your problems. You've just been listening to your mind and instead of watching the drama of life, you got sucked into being that drama. You got sucked into it because you never stop or look or listen to what is really going on. Your patterns of conditioning keep you distracted with all your shoulds, shouldn'ts, needs and wants keeping you planning for the future and lamenting over the past. This keeps us stuck in patterns (samskaras) of the psyche, playing old tapes over and over again instead of celebrating the joy of our existence.
There is no doing anything. We are just here being conscious as we always have been. Just because we got sucked into the psyche doesn't mean we weren't still here being conscious. We just weren't paying attention to it. We are always here and never there, just aware that thoughts and emotions are being created around us while the world unfolds before our senses

Bengali Baba

Shantji came back from his morning outing excited to tell me of a new friend. He had gone to eat at an ashram where they feed monks everyday, and there he met a quite interesting Swami that lived up the hill. What was most exciting for me was Shantji told me he spoke perfect English. A lot of people in India speak English but not so many in the circles I had been traveling in. Even those who did speak English did not understand American English, especially with my southern drawl.
After resting a bit we would go to meet this Swami. We walked along the cliffs of the beautiful, blue green Ganges up a winding road then down a rocky path to a very tiny castle. I say castle, because that’s what it looked like, even though it was just one small room. Maybe it was more like the spire on a castle. Below was a small cave dwelling and an uneven, very steep staircase that lead you to a tiny railess balcony with a majestic view of the river. As we headed up, we were greeted from the top of the stairs from our new friend with a big smile and warm welcome.
“Please come, please come in and have some chai,” he cheerfully said as he waived us in. Tall, healthy, bubbly and shinning is how I would describe him, as well as a little goofy. He was originally from Calcutta. Bengali Baba was what they called him. He seemed to be 50ish. When he was young in Calcutta his profession was an engineer of some sort, so he was quite educated. I believe he told us he was around 30 when he met his Guruji and renounced it all for this austere life he was living.
I had met many Swamis in India, but I must say, Bengali Baba seemed to be the happiest. He just seemed like a happy soul. I’m sure partly due to his general nature, but he claims it is due to his “Mother,” and by “Mother” he means Goddess Kali. He lived to serve the Goddess and this he did with utmost joy and devotion. He was so exuberant about having us there, I giggled to myself wondering what Shantji might be thinking of this goofy Baba. It was as if in this very first meeting he wanted to tell us everything about his “Mother” and his life living there on the hill devoted to her… like we were his long lost friends that he may not never see again.
This was on my first trip to India. These Babas who lived in caves, slept in alleys and wandered the country were new to me. I was delighted to finally meet one who spoke good English and could understand my accent. However, Bengali Baba was giving me so much information, my head was starting to spin. He was amusingly giddy.
Shantji was quite delighted to find the days newspaper and settled himself in on Bengali Baba’s cot. I sat on the floor chattering with Bengali Baba while he made us tea. In front of me in a shrine on the wall was “Mother.” This was always the way Bengali Baba addressed her. The statue seemed quite old and very well loved, decorated with flowers and sweets rested at her feet. From underneath his cot he pulled out a container of hot mix and one of sweet biscuits. He served us lovingly and… exuberantly, of course. Shantji and I were amazed how delicious the chai was, as we knew he made it with powered milk because he had no real milk. You would have never known. Bengali Baba had a certain magic, and everything he ever served you was the most delectable regardless of how humble its nature. Perhaps it was blessed by “Mother.”
Bengali Baba was a humble soul but was quite proud of his cooking and although grateful, he found most of the food he was fed in the nearby ashrams quite unsatisfactory to his more sophisticated taste. He told me how fabulous Bengali food was. Being very interested in the art of Indian cooking, I asked if he would teach me to cook a Bengali dish. He agreed to the cooking lesson… yes, quite exuberantly, as you might imagine. He gave us a list of ingredients to bring back tomorrow for lunch. Not only did we get a list, but we were instructed very specific shops to buy the different items. He only considered one shop in the area worthy of a very particular type of sweets. Only one of the dairy shops had the quality yogurt and only one sold the best basmati rice. We did not have a written list, so this would be left up to our memory. I hoped Shantji could remember the details of the names of the special shops, because the funny sounding Hindi names were hard for me to remember.
When we came back the next day at the appointed time with groceries in hand, again we were greeted warmly. We handed over the items for his inspection. We did not get the best basmati rice. Shantji thought it was over priced at the shop. Bengali Baba was disappointed in its quality, but said he would make do. The special sweet shop was not open when we went to get the sweets, so the sweets we brought were also not up to par. He said they were for “Mother” anyway. I thought to myself, “You have to have special sweets from a special place to feed your statue?” To Bengali Baba “Mother” was not a statue. She was a form of the Goddess as well as every woman in a human body.
Shantji headed down for the river for his morning dip while Bengali Baba and I started cooking. We sat on the floor in the tiny room in front of “Mother” washing, chopping chatting and laughing. He had one funky propane burner and two pots to cook subjee (vegetables), dahl (mung beans) rice and chapattis. Underneath his cot, in all types of odd containers, he had a variety of seeds, spices and chilies. I watched his hand measurements of a pinch of this and a throw of that and tried to write it all down as best I could in the book of recipes I had been collecting. Within an hour or so we had the most perfectly prepared, delicious Bengali feast. This goofy Swami was charming me.
Shantji was delighted to see me charmed and perhaps even more delighted with the food. Bengali Baba offered us his space to rest after our lunch… a very lovely Indian custom. Shantji nestled himself on Bengali Baba’s cot, and I found a cozy spot in front of “Mother.” Bengali Baba went down below, as the room was too small for 3 to spread out.
After a good, long rest, we all enjoyed another cup of chai. Then Shantji and I moved along our way. We stayed in Laxman Jhula for about 3 weeks, and several days a week we would visit Bengali Baba. Shantji and I liked to take our dip in the Ganges just down the river from Bengali Baba’s, so it was always convenient to visit afterwards. I enjoyed getting to know him, and Shantji enjoyed his newspapers. Bengali Baba’s tiny castle became like a home to us. We were always welcome.
The most adorable thing about Bengali Baba was that he honored all women as the Goddess. He saw all women as incarnations of “Mother.” Shantji thought he was just smitten with me, but I thought differently. As a woman you know they way a man looks at you how they are seeing you. He was smitten with me and perhaps even in love with me, but not with Uma as “Uma the American woman.” He was in love with Goddess Uma, an embodiment of “Mother” sitting right in front of him. I was in love with his light. It was the sweetest love I ever experienced with a man without any romance. We fell in love with the divine reflection we saw in each other.
We went to see Bengali Baba one last time before we left Laxman Jhula. I brought him some special sweets from the special shop, some milk from the quality shop and some flowers for “Mother.” We said a teary, but cheerful, good bye to each other and he followed us up the path to the road and waved us on. Those days in Laxman Jhula were some of the most mystical of my life. I knew that I would return to that place again, and I hoped Bengali Baba would still be in his tiny castle loving his “Mother” when I did.
Fortunately, the very next year I got to go back to Laxman Jhula. We had been just an hour away in Haridwar at the Kumbh Mehla for about a month when one day the opportunity opened up for us to catch a ride to Rishikesh with Swami Nardanand (another beautiful being and another story). We spent the morning at his ashram in Rishikesh. We had some business to attend to and needed to use the computer there. We had a lovely meal and a nap (of course). All the while, I’m feeling excited to get over to Laxman Jhula and find Bengali Baba.
After resting, we catch a rickshaw through a very crowded city. It was Kumbh Mehla time and the Dali Lama apparently was in Rishkesh that day. Many roads were closed off, so we had to take the long way around to Laxman Jhula. Finally, we were dropped off in the crowd and the heat to walk the rest of our way. I was even side swiped by a car in all the commotion. It hurt, but I was not injured. This was not a pleasant walk. I wanted to stop and buy some fruit or something to bring to Bengali Baba. All the fruit was dusty from the road and over ripe from the hot sun. Finally, after much aggravation I found some not so happy looking grapes that would just have to do.
Shantji and I were grumpy and grouchy with each other from our stressful trip and decided not to speak to each other for a bit. The crowd finally thinned as we started walking up the hill. We walked down the cliff to the Ganges to take a much needed dip before reaching Bengali Baba’s. Even the riverbank was crowded. This was not the Laxman Jhula I remembered from the year before.
Shantji stripped down to his underwear and got right in the river. Men are allowed to do this. Women, however, are not allowed to wear something as convenient as a bathing suit, so we have to change our clothes outside. In India I have a swimming dress. One of my biggest joys of being in India is dipping in Mother Ganges, so I had gotten to be quite good at changing into my swimming dress out in public and comfortable with it also. However, today I was agitated with the crowd and the men onlookers hovering around like buzzards waiting to catch a peep of something. I knew they would not dare do this to an Indian woman, and their lack of respect infuriated me.
Finally, I get into the fresh, cold water and feel the power of the Mother running through my veins. I enjoy my time merging with her and then find a rock to sit and dry a bit in the sun which now feels fabulously warm in contrast to the cold river. My onlookers are still present, and I tell them off and suggest they go away. I don’t know if they understood me or not, but it felt good to get it off my chest. Shantji comes to my assistance and tells them more sternly, and in Hindi, to bug off. It’s much easier and more graceful to get into a dry swimming dress than out of a wet one. Shantji’s presence and the big rock provided a little more peace.
I’m feeling better after the dip but still frazzled but happy that Shantji showed some chivalry. We walk up from the cliff and over to Bengali Baba’s castle. I’m slightly nervous to find him not living there anymore. We walk up the steep staircase to find him there smiling his beautiful smile. He is even more radiant. Shantji and I both notice this right away. He is even happier, more shining but he is also calmer and more centered. He is as happy to see me as I am to see him. I forget entirely about the stress from earlier. We share our new stories over a cup of his delicious chai, and my pitiful looking, dusty grapes could not have been more sweet.
A couple comes to visit him while we are there. The woman’s name is Uma too. They are thanking him for the blessing of a grandchild. He was loving that woman the way he loves me, the way he loves “Mother.” I had never seen him with another woman… it had always been just me and “Mother.” It was beautiful to see this divine reflection showing through another mirror. Shantji notices this too, and this time I see Shantji charmed by him. I think he too has become smitten.
Bengali Baba had changed some. He was still the radiant light of the “Mother,” as he was before, but was more empowered with her love. His being was more integrated. He was also still humble, still bubbly, still shining and still goofy. I think I will see him again. I don’t know why, but somehow I think our paths will cross somewhere, sometime.

One-Eyed Baba

I fell in love so many times in India with the most unusual of beings. It was late in March of 2009 at Ram Jhula, a typical evening in India along the Ganges where the Mother is celebrated everyday as the sun sets. A grand arrati was about to be performed at a popular ghatt where a huge statue of a very handsome Shiva resides. People were milling about, families were settling in, children were running around and monks were gathering. When I would see these monks cloistering together, sometimes I would wonder if Shantji felt any burden by my presence. A swami traveling with a western women did raise a few eyebrows, so I imagined that his usual freedom of joining any circle of monks was somewhat inhibited. Much to my delight, I found, more often than not, these divine beings welcomed me most graciously.

Everyday in India for me was a new adventure filled an entire cast of eclectic characters. Shantji has this way of attracting people and making friends instantly. While waiting for the ceremony to begin, Shantji wanted to find someone to share a chillum with, and that was usually more difficult with me. I took this opportunity to wander through some shops, an activity Shantji had no interest in, so we went our separate ways and made a plan to meet up shortly. Of course, when I found him again he was with a new friend. Shantji greeted me cheerfully, singing the praises of this tall Baba walking with him. His thin body was wrapped in an orange cloth with a dirty salmon colored shawl tied around his shoulders. He carried a walking stick and one of those cotton shoulder bags you saw many monks with. I would come to learn this bag contained a unique collection of things. I was always curious what these wandering monks carried with them. I wonder for myself if everything I owned I carried with me, what belongings would be treasured?

The most unusual thing about this wandering Baba’s appearance was that he only had one eye, but before I even noticed that, I was greeted with the warmth of his smile. What touched me the most about One-Eyed Baba was how he immediately accepted me like he was just walking along the path in Ram Jhula that evening waiting for Shantji and I to arrive. It did not matter to him where I came from or who I was. There were no pretenses, no formalities… We were just instant friends.

One-Eyed Baba wanted to show us were he lived. We walked to an alley way. He removed his shawl and laid it down for Shantji and I to sit upon. This was where he lived. The interesting thing for me was that I did not feel sorry for him. He was not unhappy about his lot in life. I could sense his contentment and his freedom in being. If you are free, what do you need?

A friend of his joined us, a younger, kind of mysterious looking baba… So, there we sat the four of us in the alley way smoking a chillum together seeming to those passersby an odd group. I was drawing attention and this made me uncomfortable. Being American, I was concerned about smoking in public. Noticing my discomfort, One-Eyed Baba compassionately assured me everything was fine and there were no worries. It was interesting that I felt no uneasiness sitting in that alley way until I noticed the concern and disapproval from onlookers. In this I see my own bondage, a bondage not had by the company I was with. We left that evening feeling charmed by the One-eyed Baba laughing and blissing out sharing our stories of our new friend as we made our long walk back to Laxman Jhula.

We did not see One-Eyed Baba again until the day we decided to leave Rishikesh and head back to Haridwar. My quest to find a bag to carry my newly acquired yoga mat took us back through Ram Jhula. He saw us in the crowd, and just like that… there we were, old friends meeting up again. We decided to spend some time with him before leaving and found a sweet spot on some rocks overlooking the Ganges just below the bridge at Ram Jhula.

It was a beautiful day with a much appreciated, soft breeze. It seemed like it was always sunny in India and in the afternoons that sun could be intense. One-Eyed Baba was with his sidekick, the mysterious looking one. I think of him as Alibaba Baba, because he had a middle-eastern look about him. I wondered if he had a sword tucked away in his robe. There were many people around. Some were taking a dip, some were just watching the Ganges flow, and children were selling boats made with palm leaves that held flowers and incense. Shantji wanted to take his daily dip in the river, and I got a flower boat to give my offerings to the Mother.

Sitting on the rocks with One-Eyed Baba and Alibaba I looked at the pearl malas Alibaba made and hung loose with my friends without care or concern. People seemed to be just as intrigued as before with how different I was from the company I was keeping. Somehow it did not bother me this time. I noticed that my comfort with the situation made the onlookers more comfortable with it, and instead of feeling their judgment I sensed their entertainment with the juxtaposition of the blonde with the monks. Neither of them spoke English and I no Hindi, but as I already knew, this did not make much difference. Consciousness knows no language barriers.

Out of his magical bag, One-Eyed Baba showed me some of his belongings. In this bag he had a book, a picture of a saint (I cannot remember which one), and tin of rose salve which he gave to me. We had difficulty getting it to open but finally did, and it smelled delicious. I felt so honored to receive this gift. He gave it with such love.

Shantji came back to join us, and Alibaba left. One-Eyed Baba and Shantji got involved in a conversation in Hindi. I was distracted by a handsome American man sitting on a nearby rock. More than him, I was attracted to the Papaya he was cutting up. That papaya looked so refreshing, and I was hungry too. I guess the man caught my thought vibrations and offered me some. I was learning be shameless from Shantji so when I went over to get my piece of papaya, I asked for some for my friends as well. We exchanged our brief stories of where we were from and how we came to be in India and what we were doing in Rishikesh, and then I went back to our rock with papaya in hand.

During my absence it seemed One-Eyed Baba had quite a story to tell Shantji. I came back to see a touching site of One-Eyed Baba crying with his head in Shantji’s lap. Shantji was soothing him, and One-Eyed Baba was expressing his gratitude and appreciation for Shantji. Apparently, he had been carrying something heavy in his heart and needed someone to tell. One thing it does not take long to understand about Shantji is that he is not judgmental and whatever it is, he can take it. Shantji has a transcendental quality about him that helps others to transcend their own darkness. Apparently, One-Eyed Baba had carried this for a long time and finally he was relieved. What Shantji did for One-Eyed Baba that day is the highest way to serve a fellow being, and all he did was to be his Self. I like to think One-Eyed Baba was set free that day.

It was time to get on with our journey back to Haridwar. The three of us crossed the bridge over to Rishikesh. We wanted to share a sugarcane juice together before we parted. The crowd was thick and bustling. Unfortunately, we found a rickshaw before we found a juice vendor, and in a hurried way, got on the rickshaw saying our goodbyes to One-Eyed Baba in the street. Shantji invited him to visit Yogalaya in Allahabad. We hoped he would come but doubted that he would. I think Shantji and I both regretted not sharing that juice with him before we left.

The next year I went back to Ram Jhula. Even though I knew the chances were slim, because One-Eyed Baba was a wanderer, I had hoped to find him there again. I disappointingly did not, but he remains forever mystical in my memory. To this day I have the tin he gave me. Every now and then I pry it open to see the pretty pink salve, smell it’s lovely, rose scent and remember One-Eyed Baba, Ram Jhula, that soft breeze, the beautiful blue green river, and that moment in time.

There is No Safety Net

There is no safety net, and it’s not all good. You can take a leap of faith. You can fall, and you can crash. The story they sold you about there’s always someone or something to catch you if you fall is a lie. If they told you the truth, you would not believe them and if you did believe them then they would have no control over you. It’s not all good. It’s about 50/50, as long as we are still looking at things as bad and good. Whatever we consider good in this lie that we are living is also 50% bad, just depends on which side of the coin is flipped up in the moment. If you had a choice to physically incarnate as a human being and were told that you going to be shown an illusion so grand that you would fall madly, deeply, passionately in love with it.... You would become so attached to it that you would feel you could not exist without it. It would be so magnificent, so beautiful and seem so real that you would forget it was only an illusion. Then at some point they will tell you it’s not real, and no, you can’t have it. Would you sign up?

When you’re on the beach looking out at the beautiful ocean, you see the foamy, white tops of the gentle waves rolling in from a soft blue horizon line, and you feel peaceful. You don’t see the sharks, piranhas and other flesh eating creatures that await you underneath the beautiful top layer of the sea. I don’t think most of us ever even think about the perils below while watching the sweetness above, but it’s still there. For most normal folks, there is something innate within us that seeks beauty over ugliness that seeks pleasure over pain … so we look for what we want to see. However, that doesn’t mean the ugliness and pain is not there. It’s there and that tsunami could blow in, that school of piranhas could infest the calm waters… and then the coin would flip. What was “all good” just turned “all bad.” What was pleasurable would become painful in an instant.

Now what can our mind do with this? It can do nothing. If we hold a concept of good and bad, and we all do, it is impossible for the mind to process that what once brought us so much joy, now makes us hurt. So what to do? Approached from the perspective of the mind, we can only think about it, because that is all the mind is capable of doing. Thinking will create new concepts and ideas to deal with the new data. The mind doesn’t really know anything. It only thinks it knows, and it will think it has discovered something new. It really hasn’t, though. It has only created another pattern of thinking that creates another groove in our psyche. There is nothing wrong with this process. If the mind could not do this, it would certainly blow, and “we” as a body-mind system would become completely dysfunctional.

I am beginning to understand that to break through this cycle of creating patterns and treading the grooves of our conditioning, the mind does actually have to blow blasting the container held together by its perceptions. The rug must be pulled completely out from underneath us, and we must give up on the sense of being grounded to anything. We must become groundless… petty scary, huh? How many would walk a path, join a religion or follow a teacher if we were told upfront nothing is what you think it is? What if you were told upfront that none of us really know anything? There is no destiny. Life is much more random than you can ever imagine. No one is enlightened. And if you seek the ever illusive enlightenment, you will surely go mad trying. And if in your pursuit of enlightenment, you actually find Truth, you’re mind will blow. I think very few would walk, or join or follow, but there are a few who will, a few that are willing because they have nothing to loose. They already saw the complete, total mind fuck of the lie they live. Somewhere in someway the rug was pulled out from underneath them, and they lost their footing in the illusion. This has probably happened to them many times and at first they reach for anything to gain ground with concepts and patterns of thinking. This happens over and over again until something happens that shakes our very core… something so hurtful, so painful, so horrible that we loose hope. We give up. We are fed up. We are too tired and have no energy to keep supporting the lie. Giving up on hope is where living a raw and truthful existence begins.

As long as we entertain the hope that something will be different than it is, then we also have to continue to entertain the fear that it won’t. Hope and fear are two sides of the same coin. A life without hope may sound sad to imagine. Can you imagine a life without fear? Really, ask yourself, “Can You?” If you can then you will see there is no need for hope. It is wise to keep our hope until we are truly ready to look fear straight in the eye. Avoiding fear does no good. Fear will keep knocking at your door until it is acknowledged. Fear only wants your respect, not your power. There is no path, no religion and no teacher that can do this for you. Until we become intimate with fear, there is no one you can count on or trust, not even yourself.

The only way to know Truth, to know what is real is to know fear, to know pain, to know loneliness. When we can sit with our self and watch without the need to change anything, to fix anything or to hope for anything different than what is happening in the now, then we will have achieved self-mastery. Tsunamis will devastate. Wars will explode. Death is inevitable. There are sharks in the ocean. It’s not all good, but half of it is. The sun will rise everyday. Someone somewhere will love you. Babies will be born. There all dolphins in the ocean too. So what can we do? We can only watch, become a witness of the story be told. Our intelligence will do the rest. When I see the straight fin of a shark, I will stay out of the water. When I see the curved fin of a dolphin, I will jump in with playful delight.

Nature takes care of itself. Evolution occurs in all of nature, including the human being. There is no safety net. There is only Divine Order. Don’t bother trying to trust in it, because you’re mind can’t really grasp it. The mind can be transcended, though, when we learn to sit and just watch it do its thing, think. Beyond thinking is awareness. In awareness is Truth, and that is what you can count on, that is what you can trust. Don’t try to trust, just be truthful and trust will well up from the Truth inside you. There is no hope we will ever discover the Truth, but there is no fear that we won’t. Enlightenment, I don’t know about, and I am not seeking it. I think, perhaps, I will stick with freedom.

Shivaratri... in the Jungle with Bats, and Jackals and Spiders... Oh My!

This morning I light a candle in for Shiva and reflect back to this time last year. Shivarati is a festival in India honoring Lord Shiva. It means “night of Shiva.” Shiva is the intoxicated God and celebrate him they do in Uttar Pradesh! I had been to the Shiva temple in the Jungle for Shivarati the previous year, however, this year was a special celebration and we would be staying for a couple of weeks. This would turn out to be one the most intense, most magical, most unusual two weeks of my life.

Work had been underway for this celebration for many months. Shantji had made plans for the construction of a new platform around the circumference of the area where the Shiva Temple was. It had been quite the undertaking for Raju over the last few months, but now it was ready. A bhandara (a great feast) was planned to celebrate Shivaratri and inaugurate the new construction. I had been at Yogalaya in Allahabad for about 6 weeks and plans for this Bhandara were the focus of attention since we arrived in India.

The Shiva Temple in the jungle was about a mile and a half from the remote village where Shantji grew up. It holds special memories for him, as he spent a couple of years living there in a cave. It is a magical place, and like no other I have been before. From the village you walk through all the mud thatched huts of the villagers and into the fields of gram and mustard greens to arrive at a small jungle area. In Florida we would call it a hammock. In India it is a jungle. The small, modest temple is up a hill. Downstairs is where Ram Das, a young swami lives. Up the stairs is a flat roof top walk way that circles the Shiva shrine. Inside one of the sweetest looking white marble statues of Shiva I have seen. Shantji had it installed many years before. Down from the temple is a big flat open area and around the corner under another hill is the cave.

The other new addition this year was a brick structure with a roof and 2 sides built onto the opening of the cave. Much to my delight they had put futons there underneath the structure for us to sleep on. I had imagined sleeping in the cave…. with the bats. The view from the cave looks out onto a huge, majestic tree and then down to a sweet little river. Also, much to my delight they built a latrine for me down the hill. I would be the only woman staying out in this jungle, so this private bathroom made me very happy.

On the top of the hill above the cave is simply the most amazing tree underneath which a platform has been built. It is an easy to climb up to a natural perch where you can gaze out onto a beautiful vista covered with the bright yellow flowers of the mustard greens that sprawl over the rolling hills below. Because it is up on a hill you look down on to the tops of other trees and watch the birds dance and fly. I spent many hours nestled in the nurturing arms of this magnificent tree.

We arrived about 3 days before Shivaratri. The first day was your typical bright, warm, sunny India day. The next two brought the rains. On the day we traveled I noticed what seemed to be an insect bite on my leg. When we left the village for the jungle I noticed it looked infected. By the end of the first day in the jungle its size had quadrupled and was quite sore and quite hot with infection. I was not feeling so well either but tried not to give it much energy.
Late that evening a group of men from the village showed up unannounced, and I would guess, intoxicated. Everyone spoke Hindi, so I hardly ever knew what was really going on. We were asleep when they arrived. The men staying out with us tried to stop them from coming to the cave, but they came anyway. They sat right down and seemed to be a little hostile about something. That much I could tell. Shantji dealt with them in a kind but stern way and then they left without much trouble. However, I was quite awake and a little on guard. I never expected a group of intoxicated men in the night in the jungle. I think they had something to with bringing supplies for the bhandara but more so for harassment.

Shantji went to converse with the other men, and I guess I feel asleep only to be awoken by very tall, strange looking man at the end of my bed. Who, upon seeing me, was just as surprised to see me as I was to see him. He muttered, I think, an apology in Hindi and walked on. “How many people wander around this jungle in the middle of night,” thought to myself feeling quite concerned! Okay, now I was bordering being freaked out. I grabbed my flashlight ran down (actually hobbled now because my leg had become so swollen) to where everyone was and very excitedly told them what happened. Then a manhunt ensued. They found my intruder. Apparently, he was a wandering swami who often slept there. He was just as confused about me as I was about him. He was harmless, but adrenaline was still pumping through my veins.

Finally, I fall asleep due to sheer exhaustion only to be awoken again. This time by the strangest sound I’ve ever heard. It was a blood curdling, deep growling howl that sounded about 10 feet away! I sat straight up out of a deep sleep and grabbed my flashlight to shine out onto nothing but fog. An eerie, mystical fog had settled in during my slumber and I could see nothing. I realized I was there by myself in the cave, as I looked over to ask if anyone else had heard that sound. I did not hear it again, but I slept with one eye open most of the night. As I lie there half asleep and half awake I feel the breeze generated from the bats wings as they fly over my head going in and out of the cave through the night. “This was going to be a long couple of weeks,” I thought to myself.

The next morning we awoke to torrential rains, and I to a very swollen and painful leg. The concern started about the bhandara. The road to the jungle was turning into mud and it would be difficult for the vehicles to get down it to deliver the food to be prepared for the feast. Preparations were still being made but there was a concern it would have to be cancelled if the rains did not stop. It rained the entire day; however, celebration for Shiva was well underway. The chilom was passed. The stories were told and the waiting for the rain to stop began. Once again the eerie, mystical fog moved in. The rains were no longer torrential but still steady.

I was feeling worse and worse. My entire lower leg was swollen and was excruciating to the touch. I laid most of the day on my bed with my leg up the brick wall wondering what I was doing out in this jungle with all these crazy Babas, unusual villagers, and not to mention that strange animal that growls and howls in the night. I asked everyone about this animal and no one seemed to have heard it but me. Also no one seemed concerned about it but me, and here it was nightfall again. Again came the bats and the growling, howling beast from the trees, and then something new that scared the heebie jeebies out of me. I awoke in the middle of the night again, to the sense of someone or something’s presence at the end of my bed, and it was the sweet, mangy dog I had befriend earlier by giving him my chapattis. He stood at the end of my bed, ears straight up, eyes wide as if he were asking to spend the night here. I felt comforted by his presence and thanked God for my new watch dog. Surely he would protect me from the howling, growling beast. This night was more peaceful.

The chanting for Shiva started at 5:00am and was to continue for the next 24 hours but in actuality, I think it was more like 36 We would fast and chant, and for those who were inclined, smoke chilom or drink bhang (a drink made of an intoxicating herb). The rain had slowed to a constant drizzle but still present. The drumming and the chanting, “Hara Hara Maha Deva Shiva Shambo Kashi Vishwanatha Gange.” The rain did not dampen the hearts of these shivaites.

The concern grew over the fate of the bhandara. The chanting to Shiva brought his blessings. A group of villagers came to offer their support. As the strength of the devotion brought a power to the group, a declaration was made and the bhandara would happen rain or shine! The food was delivered by ox carts, by motorcycles, by bicycles and even carried on the heads of the villagers themselves. It was decided a huge tent would be put up and under that the food could be cooked in the rain. The hole for the fires was dug. The gigantic pots arrived. Everyone participated. We all took turns chanting. When the chanters got tired, in a natural flow, fresh new chanters would replace the weary ones. Shantji was responsible for the morale of the troupes and kept the energy going strong by singing, dancing and charming everyone. I don’t think he slept more than a couple of hours for a couple of days.

I’ve never seen so many tomatoes, so many potatoes and heads of cauliflower, so many people coming together, working so hard, enjoying it so much and serving God so sweetly. About 50 or so women and children came to make the thousands of chapattis. There were choppers and stirrers and the best cooks of the village. The people of this village are uncomplicated, innocent people and delightful to be with. The sight of this production is one that will be one the loveliest of my memories. I was deeply touched by their sweetness and ignited with their compassion.

Shantji had appointed me official videographer for the event, so I hobbled about the day recording as much of this event as I could. I needed to get off my leg. I had been asking Raju for a couple of days for some antiseptic and a hypodermic needle. I felt that if I could drain the nasty boil on my leg that it would release the pressure and would not be so painful. He finally, reluctantly brought it for me. He and several others advised against my popping of the thing. I, however, thought I knew better. It’s still debatable whether that was the right decision or not. I am still alive and still have a leg.

It was late in the day, and I found a quiet spot alone and did the deed. It pulsed and throbbed from pain after I did so. I felt weak and sick. I laid down and dosed in an out. The eerie, mystical fog came, the bats flew in and out, the howling, growling jackals came (I learned that this sound was from a jackal and that they are dog-like creatures afraid of everything) and once again my dog scared the heebie jeebies out of me and then took his position at the foot of my bed. The drums pounded. The chanters roared. The rain poured.

I was delirious from fever. My entire body was on fire. I broke out in red-hot hives. My throat started to close up. I know enough to know that I was having an allergic reaction and that when your throat starts to close off you’re in trouble. I seriously thought I might die. I woke up Shantji to tell him that I thought I was going to die. He stated the obvious, that there was nothing really we could do. It was 3:00am. We were in the jungle, and because of the rains no vehicles could get in or out. He told me, “All we can do is pray. It’s all God’s up to God’s will.” However, truthful this was, to someone thinking they might die, it’s not that comforting. I think I commented something like, “Well, start praying hard, will you? I had never been more miserable. My fever was high, and I started to hallucinate. Interesting thing though, I could feel the pain, the fever and even the fear. I knew I was hallucinating but still having a very vivid hallucination anyway. I had a very strong and clear awareness of the Witness even through my delirium. Even though I knew this experience was being had, I knew I was not this experience. I was only witnessing it occur.

In my hallucination, or perhaps mystical experience, Shiva appeared to me through the mist, resting in the tree about 20 feet away. I felt as if I was receiving some sort of initiation from Shiva himself. I asked him, “Do you want a piece of me?” Go ahead take it, I surrender.” He never spoke to me in this vision, but seemed to transmit some energy to me. Like I said, “I know I was hallucinating.” Whatever was happening, it was powerful. I dosed off finally and when I awoke, my fever had broke. The hives had cooled off. Shantji’s praying? Shiva’s blessing? God’s will? I was still alive.

The rain stopped, and I watched a beautiful sunrise over the river from my bed. The bhandara would happen! Everyone was blissfully preparing for the feast. I was weak, but much better. I may have been in the jungle, but I was treated like a queen. I had my own personal bathroom. There was a latrine, a brick floor with bamboo poles covered by plastic tarps. Not fancy, but was quite luxurious for the jungle. Whenever I asked, one of the men who so sweetly took care of me, would heat up two buckets of water over the fire and carry them down the hill to my bathroom. It was the first time in days that the sun warmed up my bathroom. I was grateful to be alive, feeling the warmth of the sun as I poured the hot water over my very weak body.

There is so much that went on this feast day. It’s hard to know where to start… so many stories within stories. No one knew who would come, because it was so iffy due to the rains. They hoped for 3,000 but planned for more and feared there might be less. More there was. They came in droves. I’m not sure how they counted, or who actually did the counting, but they say 6,000 came. I would believe it, give or take a 1,000.

It was a gloriously festive day. Shantji was the happiest I think I ever saw him. This was his party, and he was the host of hosts. Everyone ate, sang and danced. I think what made him so happy was not just that people were fed and had a good time celebrating God, but that the event brought everyone together for the common good of the whole… and it happened in the grandest of ways without struggle or fight… just pulling together. He saw thousands of old friends and made thousands of new ones.

Late that afternoon a group of Swamis that were fabulous musicians just showed up. They rocked the jungle with the most fabulous kirtan for a couple of hours. As the sun set, the music stopped, the chanting stopped and the musicians sat down and were served by Shantji and Raju. It was such a beautiful sight to see the gratitude, the reverence and the love on the faces of Shantji and Raju as they stood watching these holy men eat this holy food on this holy day. After the musicians ate, the last to be fed, I watched Shantji and Raju eat the first food they had eaten, breaking the fast. In India the hosts don’t eat until everyone has been fed. Never have I enjoyed watching someone eat as I did that day. I too felt the reverence, symbolism, the love. It was blessed food for blessed souls.

The warm colors of the sun were disappearing behind the hills. I stood slightly above the crowd on the wall at a distance taking in the entire scene as people said their goodbyes and the crowd thinned down to a small group. I see a group of motorcycles driving up the path. One Swami with 5 men wearing navy blue blazers, white pants and white turbans with riffles slung across their shoulders seemed to ride in with the sunset. The Swami wore an orange robe, a leather jacket, dark glasses and was quite good looking. I thought to myself this day was certainly not over, and I would be right.

Swami Swatantranand had arrived and that’s a whole other story…as well as many others from this day and this jungle. I’m surprised I got out of there in one piece. I fell in a 6 foot kiva. There were flat tires and scooter accidents, and that whole almost being kidnapped story. Oh yeah, and the bite was a brown recluse spider whose venom ate the flesh on my leg and took 6 weeks to heal. You know what? I’d go back in heartbeat, though. India is another planet entirely, and one I hope to return to many times.

Om Namah Shivaya!

Guanas Going Around & Around

I've observed this cycle passes through. I've been watching it for quite some time. I don't know if its changed any or if I'm just seeing it more clearly. Sometimes it moves through painfully slow, and sometimes it moves through intensely fast. This is what happens. Something triggers my emotional body in a negative way. I'm a very sensitive person, mind you. Depending on how loaded this trigger is, depends on how intense my reaction is.



I'm going to describe the scenario when its a loaded trigger. I get my feelings hurt. Then I am mad at the person or thing that upset me. I then feel disgusted with myself for letting things get to me, which can turn (in a really bad case of it) into self-loafing. Self-loafing creates sadness. My sadness turns into depression, and sometimes it gets very dark in my little world. This is a little know fact about me, because I keep it to myself to protect my own image. I imagine that more people know this about me than I care to admit, but I guess the cat's out of the bag now anyhow.



This depression reeks all kinds of havoc in my system, and even goes to the point of manifesting physically in my body. I'll experience really low energy which makes me not want to do the things that always make me feel good. Then this creates a downward spiral that perpetuates more misery both physically and mentally. Then something happens. Even through this storm of emotions that blows through, I am usually able to keep a routine of meditation and yoga. Sometimes it will slide but not for long if it does.



It's just conditioning. I have practiced for so long that my system is wired to do so. I'm not special, but I am disciplined. This yogic conditioning will pull me out of my bed kicking and screaming the entire way and sit me down to meditate. I may be restless the entire time, but I will still do it. I live alone. There is no one here to impress. No one will Know, except me, if I do it or not. My meditation, regardless of how hopeless it was, will ignite something else. I will hear my teacher's voice in my head, "Always do your Yoga even if you can only do 10 minutes." Then down on the mat I go. Sometimes I can only do 10 minutes, and sometimes 10 minutes turns into 2 hours. Regardless of the time spent it changes my energy in a dramatic way.



I may or may not go back into my depression, but something will shift; however, slowly my energy shifts. For me, in this cycle, the physical energy shift starts to lift the depression. I am embarrassed to admit, but as the fog of depression begins to lift, I get angry. It is no longer self-loafing. I want to blame somebody else, something else, anything else. I even get mad at God for my predicament. Crazy, I know, but this anger lights a fire in me. This fire in me sees something beyond the cycle of these Guanas (the forces of nature) that come and go, around and around. I feel sometimes as if the Guanas bat me around like a ping-pong ball, and then comes, what I call, the " fedupness."

I become utterly fed-up with everything. Fed-up with the illusion. I know I am watching this. I've seen it before, and know I will see again. I can see the helplessness of my own conditioning. I am fed-up that with all I know I am so deeply affected by the goings on of the forces of nature, of which I have no control. How absurd it all is!



You know what? Then clarity dawns like a brand new day, right smack dab in the middle of all my self-absorbed crap. Imagine that. I then become profoundly clear. My teacher, knowing my cycle and me all to well, will ask me, "What happened? How did you gain this clarity?" All that I can do is explain the cycle, because I don't know for sure. It seems for me, that everything has to come to some big ugly head and then it disappears as soon as I see it for what it is. The storm brews out in the ocean gaining its strength, hits land, moves on or fizzles out entirely. When its all over and the calm returns, its just like I burped or farted. I apologize for my rantings and happily go on about life.



I don't seem to have any control over the storm. What seems to be changing slowly is my conditioning. My wiring seems to have changed through all this yoga, meditation and practice of truthfulness. My system is being rewired to handle the patterns of energy that pass through. When Shantji says, "You have to be a truthful doer first before you can have any real understanding of Non-doing,"... This is what he means. You can't gloss over it. You have to plow straight through it to get to the other side. Understanding must come before realization dawns.



Why am I exposing myself in this way when I'd prefer projecting the image of being a very together, peaceful, conscious yoga teacher and healer? Because I don't want to be bound by the facade any longer. Its what keeps me from the connection, from the richness, the fullness, and most importantly the freedom I so desire.... Also because Shantji suggested I do so. I don't always understand him or his ways, but I trust him implicitly. I think it is important that if you are to call someone your teacher, your Guruji that you should take their advice when given or perhaps choose not to have a teacher or to find another one.

. Please don't come to me with your helpful advice. I would just like to know if I'm the only one having this experience. I don't want to be fixed. I don't even believe I can be fixed. I think my only hope is to transcend all this cycling business. I think I'm on the right path, because I've become truthful enough to look at it all square in the eye and ask, "Do you want a piece of me? Go ahead take all you want. I am not this. I AM THAT."

Today on Facebook one of my friends, Laura, asked about the closing of City Yoga. Below was my response. I just felt like saying it out loud.

"Thanks for asking, Laura. First, let me state that I am speaking on my own and my views are just that. I am not speaking for Angela or City Yoga, but I am taking advantage of this opportunity to say something publicly that I've been keeping to myself for quite some time. The business of Yoga is difficult and almost oxymoronic. Most teachers of Yoga, like Angela, become teachers and open studios because of a deep inner calling to share the wisdom. In this country to have a space to teach cost money. If a teacher is teaching that means he/she's not available to work doing anything else during that time. Time is also money. So, what to do? Right off the bat, it takes money and time to teach a yoga class. Sounds simple that if students appreciate the teaching they will support the teacher(s) and the studio where they gather to practice. Sounds like it would work. When Angela decided to go with a donation based studio, at first I thought, "uh-oh, I hope you can get your bills paid, honey." It has been my experience in St. Augustine that when a love offering is asked for, people don't feel much love. My second, third and fourth thoughts were of hope, inspiration and encouragement. I thought maybe people were ready for a deeper experience of Yoga... that maybe that sense of connection and unification would happen instead of just going to an exercise class. In India there's an incredible amount of support for teachers, centers, ashrams and just about any true spiritual seeking. It's not just lip service. People put their money where their mouth is and monetarily support spirituality... even if its a rich Swami sitting under a 24K gold umbrella or Swami under a tree carrying everything he owns on his back, a prophesying schizophrenic on the street corner or the yoga teacher that lives next door. I still have faith that the deeper teachings of Yoga will penetrate our very thick culture, but it is taking some time. It took guts to do what Angela did, and I am proud of her for doing so. Like most of us, Angela has to make a living. She has a family and responsibilities like everyone else. If we, as a community of yoga students and teachers, would have supported her a little more then maybe City Yoga would not be closing. Angela is taking work that she really enjoys and brings her money instead of costing her money. Of course, who wouldn't? I think she opened the doors for a new way of approaching the "business" of yoga here in St. Augustine, and great good will come it. When I see the restaurants full with yoga students every weekend that cry how much they miss Yoga but cannot afford it anymore, I know why the studios are struggling. So, if you love your yoga class, support it. It can't continue without its students. The only thing one may loose going to Yoga class is some mind chatter and a few extra pounds." Hari Om Tat Sat.

Kumbh Mela 2010 "The Grand Celebration of God"

The spring equinox is a most auspicious day for new beginnings. Shantji and I will leave the very worn, yet peaceful, city of Haridwar, India at 4:30 tomorrow morning for the Himalayas. We arrived to a fresh, polished up Haridwar just 6 weeks prior. No longer shiny and clean, Haridwar looks a bit worn for the wear. Kumbh Mela, the largest spiritual gathering on the planet, has been going on for almost 3 months... the height of which we were in attendance. I breathe in my last impressions of this holy city.

Dust blows over a sleeping dog lying in the hot Indian sun on a lazy afternoon in Haridwar. The Kumbh Mela has now ended. The pilgrims have moved on to higher elevations and cooler temperatures. Huge trucks filled to the brim with brightly colored futons and blankets clutter the path that follows along the Ganges beeping their horns scattering pedestrians out their way. For months pilgrims arrived by the droves, and now everyone seems to be heading elsewhere. The twinkling lights are gone, and tents are coming down one after the other. The party is over.

Everyone seems exhausted and reflective from their experiences had at this most intense and celebratory festival for God. So much energy, time, money, blood, sweat and tears has been exchanged. So much service, love, kindness and devotion has been given. So much mystery, intrigue, deceit, lust and greed has been seen. Its seems all of life's dramas have been played out somewhere by someone, and over and over again, at this grand, cosmic play called the Kumbh Mela.

I take it all in one last time, and I notice the perpetual cycle of good and evil, of death and rebirth, of the sun and the moon. Everything has a never ending cycle of beginning to end... and then just starts all over again. Rawness and sweetness are displayed in the drama of life, but only world changes, only form changes, only desire changes. The underlying source, the essence of everything, always remains ever the same, ever still.

Yes, before the millions of people came, the hundreds of millions meals served, and the zillions of prayers prayed and songs sung, Haridwar seemed shinier and newer. I, myself, arrived much cleaner, more energetic and innocent, but today I leave this holy city much wiser, much stronger and more humble. Just like this city, I am grateful for the incredible ride this Kumbh has given me.

The trash has piled high, dust has covered the freshly painted buildings, and cracks have appeared in the newly paved roads. It will take months to restore this place, and it will never be the same again. My head is full of experience not yet integrated, some of my ideals have been shattered, and my digestive system ravaged. It will take time me time to re-organize, renew and revitalize. However, my heart, is filled with more gratitude, love and inspiration. My eyes sparkle with the light from the core of my being that shines brighter than ever before. I am happy to report Uma will never be the same again, but my essence remains ever the same, ever still.