Let go...

And you shall find all that you've been yearning for. Such is the thought that forms when I reach that cliff at the edge of despair. But, where does despair come from, if not from thinking, too much thinking, a life time of thinking. Meanwhile, the heart knows, intuitive wisdom, a connection with truth forgotten, or blatantly dismissed as rubbish, as emotional stuff.

The heart knows; I know. The heart knows; in the blink of an eye, it recognizes truth, love, god -wouldn't you agree? The heart knows; the Beloved is one and only one -how can there be any mistake?

Thus, I bow to the heart that knows, to the Beloved who opens the heart, and to every event and action that have led, or will stem from my surrendering to this truth...

Yet, with life being a playground designed by the king of all tricksters, nothing is as simple, or as straight-forward, as the heart of a devotee might desire. Obstacles abound, in the form of riddles and labyrinths, strewn with mountain ranges and annoying pebbles caught in the seeker's shoe.

Take my case, for example... Impatient, confused, a bit lost, greatly inspired, the beloved so vividly present in my heart, I ask, in dire need of an answer, "What should I do, Guru?"

The teacher smiles, lovingly, "Think about it, and then, decide."

Go figure. Following the heart, I'm sent back to the mind. And the mind, elated, says, "Yes. Thinking, I know how to do. Thinking, is what I'm all about..."

Yet, this time the heart is open, and the mind is, just as it should be, totally inebriated with the scent of my Beloved.

Thinking about it, until ready to decide

From Amma's world...

the mind re-surfaces for a split second, from the unfathomable unknown, to give a quick sign of life, while caught in whirling, writhing, frothing life. Swept and carried along by irresistible currents of what-else but love, and faith, in seas brimming with Mantras, Poojas, Sevas, bhajans, tokens, Darshans, and much, much friction, and as much kindness and warmth, passing through white reefs of devotees, in a world held by rules, around a nucleus of unbound love, Divine love, Impossible love. Thus, in this world of rules and austere inclinations, rebels abound, and passion is more abundant than chai.

Amma, Guru, Sitting, embraces, and who knows where her touch might lead. So if you ever wander in these parts, I say, be careful what you ask for. Then again, I say, be bold. Be daring. Ask big, and let go. Surrender -Of course, I'm still working on this one.

From the heights of the building referred to as the E building, the view is magnificent, especially at sunset. Palms trees as far as the eye can see. Backwaters, on one side, and the ocean on the other.

Around Amma the lover dances and dances and dances... where will he land, I don't know, not that it matters, for, as the wisest fool might say, it is always as it should be.

Be joyful. Allow bliss. Allow its opposite. And Love. Love it all. Love it all.

A grain of sand and, at times, self-proclaimed king of the crows

In India, like anywhere else, nothing is...

Ever exactly as it seems. Once the downpour abated, I decided to take a walk around the neighborhood, and while at it, get a much appreciated 10Rs coffee to alleviate the effects of high humidity indexes and jet lag. I, once again, walked past the same homeless group - a large sort of family blessed with many little ones. These were the people I had noticed the night before at the same spot. At the time they’d been asleep, the night sky their roof, and the sidewalk their mattress.

This time the adults, mostly women, were seated cross-legged surrounded by a half-dozen playful naked children. They were laughing, seemingly happy, comfortable in their skin. Catching me observing them, one of them smiled, a broad smile, a beautiful smile, generous and real, free from any hint of unease or embarrassment.

I suddenly realized that since my arrival to Chennai, and despite the looks of things, what with Poverty and Squalor having claimed the streets, I’d only been accosted by a couple of beggars, which is pretty incredible if I were to compare this experience with let‘s say Puthaparti, where Sai Sathya Baba, Great living Avatar, god in the flesh, dwells physically, a divine being in a wheel chair, completely helpless when it comes to fighting poverty. Thus, whenever one steps out of the heavily guarded ashram -a city of its own, the whole main street seems to turn to a begging affair, with teary eyed children masterful of the art of grabbing your hand, with a tender firmness that is just impossible to shake off, unless one does the right thing and gives in -of course. Then, comes permanently bent from the waist elders, followed by a few wandering lepers, and if that is not enough, then there are also the random healthy looking middle aged adults with nothing better to do…

Here in Chennai, things are different. The homeless don’t necessarily raise an open palm to receive charity. No, they’re just doing their thing which is mainly sitting on the sidewalk, overseeing their little ones, waiting for something. As for what that something might be, I finally found out, after much observation, or field work as some might call it. What’s obvious, after one starts paying attention, is that the homeless have, besides a cell-phone, which I have to admit isn’t an anomaly in this part of the world- some sort of work to do. And the work as for this very specific group of gypsies is the servicing of all those little shops that are butted one against the other from one corner of a block or two to the other side. Mainly, they do washing, cleaning, and whatever out-sourceble job there is to do. Voila.

Of course, this isn’t an isolated case. No. Along the same stretch of busy road, women, mostly women, sitting cross-legged, are busy at work, making baskets of straw, cutting bamboo into even strips of wood, for who knows what purpose, before gathering the strips into a heavy bundle they will carry with confidence, to who knows where, on their heads, as if it were a bag of feathers -Meanwhile, I continue to complain about the weight of the ’stuff’ I carry in my backpacks because I couldn’t do without, what with having a long way to go to just to learn to be comfortable without material stuff.

Comfort and happiness are a state of mind. The poor in India, as lacking in bare necessities as defined by more fortunate cultures, might just be a great deal happier and more in peace with themselves, then many citizens of our so-called developed, or as some used to refer to them, first world, countries. The more I look and pay attention, the more I can see how grounded in reality the poor of Chennai are. Comfortable with less than what I might call the basics, they are completely at peace with their lot. Moment by moment, borrowing from the jargon of those who read books with tittles such as ‘Rich Dad, Poor Dad‘, they industriously choose to ‘turn lemons into lemonade.’ Nothing is wasted. Everything is used, and reused. Everything can be, and will be, turned into a Rupee or ten.

Meanwhile, I am wandering about, sort of procrastinating, sort of bidding my time, sort of dejected by the way this world is turning, weighed down by global issues I feel pretty helpless about, shackled by that lack of direction that is affecting my stride. Some might say, I suffer from having been spoiled by too much useless knowledge. Others might go with my having been spoiled rotten, period. Whichever the case, there is a choice to be made, at each and every moment of our lives. The past doesn’t necessarily dictate our future. The present is always an opportunity to start anew, and fully participate in life rather than just react. And while wallowing in oh-poor-me episodes is a pretty valid, and let us just be honest here, popular choice of reaction, I say how about, trying something more original and daring, like you know, grabbing life from the waist and aiming for the most incredible tango performance of one’s lifetime. Day after day. Moment after moment. Wouldn’t that be something worth the try?

Be well and if you’re as confused as this writer here, consider choosing a different frame of reference -surely, he’s looking into it.

In the now, ready to find my way

Inadvertently misbehaving at the temple…

Walked into one of the Kapaleeshawarar temple‘s secondary entrances, barefoot, holding an offering of white flowers. People around me are moving assertively. I follow circumambulators around one of the central square buildings. I’m taking pictures, later I’ll notice a sign that clearly prohibits picture taking, at least of the deities

This is a Shiva temple, where a confluence of deities await their worshipers with stoic composure, for after all they are as still as the most inanimate of objects, while priests busy themselves with sacred verses, performing pujas, bestowing blessings on every devout visitor available to receive.

I stop to get my share, thinking of those I love, of those I miss. I receive flowers with my right hand, ashes on my forehead. I enter grounds I will later find out I was not supposed to enter -being non-Hindu. Inside, I follow those who seem to know the way, from dark room to dark room, from hallway to hallway, from line of deities to line of deities, from altar to altar.

Along the way, I bow for Darkshinamurthy, hands held together, fingers extended, feeling that it is the right thing to do. A few steps ahead, there is another puja. I linger on. A younger priest, carrying something mushy I cannot make. By hand, I am given some sort of paste to eat, gestures the man in charge of washing SelvaGamapathy. The priests don’t seem to mind. Rain is a pouring, flooding the square, washing everything.

I leave in the rain, feeling blessed, for this downpour that has inundated the streets that will lead me back to the bus stop. The smell of urine is strong. The murkiness is ankle high. I’ve been splashed a few times. I feel soiled. I feel blessed. These two, seem to go hand-in-hand in these parts. I’m eager to get back to the guesthouse, where the shower awaits. But, before I can get there, there is Krishnamurty’s temple, where a different sort of puja is scheduled to begin… If I time it right, if I can find my way back, what with the bus system being a complex affair run as if in accordance with chaos theory’s core principles, I’ll get to hit the internet shop just in time to check my emails and make a few indispensable Skype phone calls.

Be well, and if you feel like it, keep in touch.

Under a rain that won't stop

P.S: the statue is that of Vivekananda -the wondering monk

What one sees in Chennai...

9:30pm Chennai. I just walked out of the internet shop. 15Rs per hour. The connection was poor, but I’d gotten my hour’s worth. A few steps from the building’s entrance, I reach an intersection. A child, no older than 15 months is lying on the sidewalk, actually on the cement lid of a gutter hole, poorly wrapped in a torn into shreds sort of blanket. For a second, I stand above her, unable to move, unable to help, unable to take a picture. The girl’s eyes are closed. Her face is covered with soot and boogers. Her head is turned to the side. I can see a tiny foot and a tiny arm. This I know shouldn’t be, but it is. It is in more places than we’d like to acknowledge.

I reach for the camera, but feel rather uneasy about a direct shot. So, I take a few steps away from the street corner, pass a small group of homeless folks, an old woman seated cross-legged, a few children, ages between three and five, and two more shapes, one covered by a blanket, all clearly asleep on the sidewalk. I steal a picture to share this moment. You can see them, poor and homeless, the adults and the little girl, who couldn’t be older than 15 months.

I steal a picture because somehow the whole experience puts life into a different perspective from my ego-self-centered-usual-vintage point. Suddenly, I wonder what it was I was complaining about. Suddenly, I wonder what it is I am after. I wonder what it is I am sacrificing, what it is have been complaining about…

Mind you, this isn’t pity. We all have our trials to go through. And a roof above one’s head doesn’t equal peace of mind. There is sadness in me. There is disappointment in me. Sooner or later they will have to be faced, again. Sooner, reality has to be accepted, -again, and life has to be lived -again, as it is, truthfully, and with unwavering integrity -otherwise, why even bother?

Be well, count your blessings, and make sure to follow your heart.

Skipping a few stops...

I move right past New York, Frankfurt, Dubai, Delhi, and jump right in the crux of Tamil Nadu's big one, Chennai. Big and dirty, dirty but warm, warm but humid, a place where my lungs are feeling pretty challenged, after a nice little stroll by the big Wahajah Mosque and the beach, for it is, somewhere in between these two landmarks, that my guest-house of choice for this evening has its weirdly complicated elevator running its vertical course.

Otherwise, there are too many schoolkids around, way too many, and they're very excited to see a long-haired fellow with a backpack wandering through their turf -nice kids though, so what can I possibly complain about. No, life is rather complex, and I am trying to make some sense out of it, by following a most ingenious program of getting lost and uber-stimulated and even-more-so challenged by India and its abundance of complexities and effervescence of testing experiences. Yes, such is my plan, fighting fire with fire, figuratively speaking of course, or if I were to be more accurate, confusion with uber-confusion.

Does it work? Well, that's for time to decide. As for us, what else can we do but try and participate in these uncertain processes that form the fabric of this very life we are attempting to reclaim, or at least, reconnect with. Meanwhile, time is fleeting, and love is the only antidote to the madness that is intrinsically part of the 'We' that is us.

Be well, and if you can really feel something, from your heart, then you're really ahead of the masses that have forgotten how to create and appreciate.

From Chennai, hallucinating, confusion my traveling companion -for now.

Catching up with traveling...

Airports are life-teaming hubs, filled with the hustle and bustle of people on the move, people with a destination, a kaleidoscopic mix of looks and attitudes, sexy high-heels, trendy black coats, jet black silky hair, blonds, brunettes, and redheads strutting with style, followed by the ogling eyes of waiting-to-be-boarded unleashed let us call them, for the sake of generalization, pseudo-bachelors, who tend to completely ignore every flower pattern clad limping lady.

Airports are transitory passages, where chaos theory is the name of the game, with blueberries buzzing and flashing, illuminated gizmos of the most efficient kind, with the fingers of high-tech junkies sliding and tap-tapping with resolute determination, or just out of habit, and so as not to feel left out. Life is a busy place, especially for those who are busy avoiding it.

Airports are totally unchecked fashion runways, where anything and everything is bound to happen, as chic meets sharp, as shooting-for-fabulous gives way to could-care-less, business pushing past leisure, the ancient dragging-its-reptilian-bottom past the slick and modern, assertive strides side-stepping the self-conscious, and a whole AliBaba’s cave’s worth of accessories, I-phones, earphones, laptops and who-knows-what-I-might-just-have-missed.

Airport are a world of sounds, and voices, interspersed conversations, the sound of no-non-sense shoes on marble floors, flight announcements, Priority passengers, Elite/Platinum members, first class, group 1, 2, 3... Etc. The system is feudal, socially stratified, and money buys a better experience, and if not, well at least, a finer affiliation. Meanwhile, the tap-tapping of shoes continues, accompanied by momentary visions of black leather, gray slacks, cool hair-dos, cool shades, their opposite, tired folks, lost folks, security, staff members pushing wheel-chaired travelers, Rabbis, Hijabs, more blackberries, frappucinos, Cappucinos, Starbucks to-go cups…

The airport is flooded with life, with transient experiences, snapshots of hundreds of unrelated lives, and sitting watching, taking it all in, wishing for something more, whishing for someone to meet someone, for Cupid’s intervention, and I’d settle of the role of the pleased, agreeable, supportive witness. I’d bless the moment. I’d savor it and thank the gods for allowing passion to flow through that world of hustling and bustling drifters. Yes, I’d thank the gods and while I’m at it, I’d definitely throw in a little something for myself, what with having a rock and two birds to strike, I’d ask that my turn may not take too long to come.

Be well, and as long as you're at it, always allow love to find you

P.S: Forgive any typo you might notice, for I do not have enough battery life to fix them all

Amidst the chaos...

I had to stop and double-check the news as they reached my ears. Forgetting about my own instability, being still lost in a state of transmutation, bracketed by the old that is to pass, and the new that is to come; the present, is after all nothing but a perceived link between what was and what is bound to be. Life goes on, unwilling to allow any sort of stillness in the style of its unfolding. The universe is in a state of continuous flux. Nothing remains the same, and everything that is, shall cease to be, for being is and will always be an attempt at going against the grain of life itself -fruitless and moot, unless what is valued is the experience itself, and not, absolutely not, the outcome. Where was I again...

Oh, yes, and as I had started explaining, even in this world where anything and everything is possible, and therefore nothing should be viewed as surprising, and definitely not, shocking, I found myself surprised and somewhat amused, despite the fact that, at the time of my finding out about what I was about to find out, I was pretty lost in my own teacup-size storm of poor-little-highly-important-me. And what were these news might you be demanding by now, rolling your eyes unable to hear anymore of my existential angst-related extrapolations. Well, my dear friends, begging you to pardon my cautious approach, for it is only for your benefit and safety that I am slowing the delivery to a frustrating trickle,I will go ahead and present you with the facts, as I received them, and leave it to exactly that -I promise.

Earlier today, I heard while listening to an online streaming of NPR's best, that Italy's numero Uno, Prime minister Berlusconi, a good man, surely, a man of the people, for the people, a moderate man, who doesn't control the main national media sources, a leader with open-minded views when it comes to ethnic groups unrelated to the type of ethnic groups that usually insist on being labeled 'pure', is, it appears, being dragged, obviously by evil enemies of the good life, in yet another sex scandal, this one having to do with a Moroccan underaged pole dancer, who's been arrested and who's been spilling the beans on the happenings at some exclusive parties where Mr. Berlusconi seemed to have been having a good time. But, to make the story short, for this isn't what shocked me, no, no, no... The best has yet to come.

Responding to the accusations, Mr. Berlusconi explained coolly that, "I work hard, all day, and at the end of the day, I enjoy beautiful passionate women. Surely, enjoying a passionate woman is better than being gay."

What else can I possibly add? Way to go Mr. Prime Minister B. Surely, these are precisely the words the good people of Italy, a country where homosexuality never ever set foot, what with its peoples' dedication to the true and unadulterated spirit of machisimo, have been waiting to hear. Bravo! I guess is all I can come up with. Or as a belligerent, bellicose paisan might respond, "Ma, vaffan----!"

Be well, and keep your eyes opened and your ears clearly uncluttered, there is so much madness to be enjoyed.

Ponderously yours

What we let go of...

We learn to appreciate, always too late though. Perhaps, someday soon, the grass will cease to look greener elsewhere. Until then, I continue to evade my own failure at finding fulfillment. Perhaps, I am fearful of giving in. Perhaps, I am simply too selfish to face responsibility without a hint of regard to what price I'll have to pay? Selfish, I feel, although I am not. Not really, at least not beneath the surface. Yet, I choose to label myself negatively, see the muck before the light, even when I know too well that judgment and critique of one's character should be left to those who know one best.

Every encounter, every interaction is a window through which light can be shed on what's hidden beneath the surface of our masquerading personalities -forgive the redundancy, for every personality is inherently a product of what is true but concealed and what is censored to please and appease before it is put in display.

At this juncture, you might be wondering what I am rambling about; and I am with you, for in all honesty, I, too, am unsure about the destination of this little composition, which seems to be much affected by a rather serious case of withdrawal from the Beloved.
For only with the Beloved can I be totally true, and only by being totally, unwaveringly true can I really be with the Beloved.

Alas, and much like my people before me, whomever they might be, and I ain't going there, the subject being too murky and complex to be tackled in a single post, let alone a single paragraph... Thus, and as I was hinting, conforming to the norms of my folks from the time of wise and real-good-at-borrowing-said-wisdom Maimonides, I am my worst enemy. This it seems is our blood curse, and if it is proof you require, well, what more proof could I offer you than what I am about to confide in you...

You see, I was there. I was right where I should be, where I'd been destined to be. Oh, please, do not be deterred by a word as innocent, and yet, as potently obscure as destined. Destiny, didn't you ever believe such an outlandish concept could actually have its due place in the lexicon that makes our whole universe make complete sense, while goes around and around... No? Well, I have hopes, or at least, I've always prided myself on being rather a naive fellow with quite the romantic inclination... So, please bear with me, and let that destiny stuff slide.

So, and as I was saying, I was there. In my own personal Nirvana, and if not, well it may have just been called that. The beloved was holding me not too long ago. The beloved was breathing love into my life, embracing me despite my shortcomings, despite the sum total of every imperfection that makes the dreamy child I once was into the fool I've managed the become. And its embrace was rapturous, its company blissful.

Yet, I departed, unsure of the how, unsure of the why. Thing is... the wind had been howling for too long, and I foolishly, and out of habit, surrendered to its call. And here I am now, lost beneath the stars from millions of years ago, and even before that.

Beloved, how I long for your closeness. Beloved, how I yearn for you.
Be well, and continue to meet life whole-heartedly and without a smidgen of hesitation or doubt.

Lost, a storm within, ditto without

Dissatisfaction rules my world, and meanwhile...

Pro-life zealots harassing 'baby-killing doctors', cholera and flooding in Haiti, the middle-east is still a center of madness, and as the saying goes, 'as without as within,' for inside, I am chaos, restlessness, imperfection seeking that impossible opposite, like a snake swallowing its own tail. And although I have my suspicions, I cannot say with certainty that everyone is as messed up as I am. Then again, if the state of our little planet were to be used as an indicator, I might just be willing to bet that we're all in it together.

Dissatisfaction rules my world, but it doesn't have to be so. I have hope, which I guess is just the other side of the proverbial coin -dissatisfaction being the other, in case you're wondering. Nothing special about this. From the first chapters of our collective history, the myths of mankind have been pointing to this dogged inability of ours to settle for what is. From the biblical fall of Adam and Eve to almost every Greek melodrama. We always want more. We want perfection, but we are unable to recognize it, even it it smacked us right on the nose, let alone grasp it.

Happiness is so simple, so easy. Unfortunately, we, no I'll just speak for myself, I, seem to be faultily complex -code word for broken. We, no let's stick with I, might be a big time schizophrenic.

A door opened, I encountered the divine. The body, the heart, the soul and spirit, were all ecstatically basking in bliss. But, somewhere, somehow, in the shadows, in the depths of my darkest-self, guilt whispered, 'This cannot be.' It scuffed, 'You are nobody.' It rose, like a tidal wave that could neither be stopped nor denied and pointed a rigidly judgmental finger, 'You are nobody. Let go. Let go. Let go...'

But, I'd been here before. I'd danced this dance before. And while I seemed to be doing what was expected of me, Hope was rising like Apollo's sun disk, beckoning change, a wind that awakens, a barely noticeable breeze that carries the seed of transformation, the scent of the beloved...

Be well and if you feel lost and confused, know that you're not alone -there's a bunch of us, in fact, I think we might just be the majority.

Doing my best, I fell

P.S: It is okay to fall, because you can rise again, dust yourself up, and give life nothing less than your best once more.

When it comes to it...

I'm tired of being lost, tired of being confused, tired of trying to make sense of a life that in so many ways insists on making absolutely no sense. And before you jump into any hasty conclusions, I'm not, irrevocably not, complaining. This is no isolated case. No, no, no. We're all confused. we're all lost. We're all trying to make sense of something too large to fit into the complex and intricate organic clockwork of our little craniums.

Yet, many go on trying to fool themselves, and the world with them. Thus, opinions abound, held higher than any flagrant truth. Stories become religions, and religions shape the fates of billions. Humanity is so afraid of not knowing, it believes in the impossible. And who's to blame, when darkness, as it appears, is a scary place.

How many of you know someone who swears she/he knows what's best for you? How many of you know someone who swears she/he has all the answers? How many of you are surrounded by judges too eager to point out your foibles and imperfections? How many of you are told everyday that what they are isn't enough? Welcome to the club, cause, we're all in it. It appears that as a species we have mastered the art of projecting our shortcomings onto others.

I don't know much, but I can tell that we're all confused, all lost, all clueless. At least, I am. And if you think otherwise, well good for you. As far as I'm concerned, life is messy no matter how you look at it. As for those who put you down, who hurt you, who offend you, who betray you, who let you down, who short-change you, who bully you, well, they're part of it too. They might be blind. They might be hurt. Whatever they are, there is a great chance that they can't be changed, can't be helped, can't be fixed -at least not until they are ready for the change, and who knows when that is to happen... So, I say, just accept them, accept their anger, accept their neurosis.

I know it is easier written than done. Entanglements get complicated, burdened an warped by a big knotted mess of guilt trips, heavy disappointments and terribly bad-for-your-self-esteem regrets. Try and wish as we may, we can't fix others. I wonder if it wouldn't be wiser to just accept their jabbing and stabbing our way as a fact of life. Surely, it wouldn't make things any worst. Then again, what do I know?

Wishing you well, from the bottom of the pit of confusion.

Heard the guru ask me to ...

Write something today, and said no, thank you, knowing all too well that I would -what with free will and all that sort of rubbish. Anyway, I'd been meaning to type something profoundly clever for quite some time. However, the thing with typing is, you have to do it from somewhere, a sort of foundation, a ground on which to stand before taking aim at some deeply existential target disguised in convoluted banter, and truth is, I've been feeling like an awfully unfocused mass of confusion -if ever such thing as an awfully unfocused mass of confusion could feel. Imagine a fog spilled all over the place, with no real center; that would be me, and how can anyone write in this sort of condition?

Of course excuses are excuses, I should've written a little thank you to Alex and his family for the jar of veggies they sent me last Wednesday -after all what's Facebook for? So Alex and Zhenya, and family, thank you so, so so so much.

The guru said write and I said no, knowing all too well that I would be doing exactly that -what with having a choice and all. Driving by the campus area, not really paying enough attention to the hectic traffic of slow moving cars, and zigzagging-too-close-to-my-front-bumper-for-their-own-health-and-what-the-!-environmentally-caring-cyclists, I caught myself pondering on some serious questions, sort of questions that come with funny looks and bouts of mumbling to oneself, you know the kind that pop out when you least expect it, yeah, that sort of questions. Anyway, I caught myself thinking about how lost I've been this past couple of deca..., eh, how about we just say recently and leave it to that.

Driving poorly, I was castigating myself for being the root cause of all the ills of the world and more -a typical symptom for someone suffering with a chronic case of the good ol' illusions of grandeur syndrome. Not only that, but being of the industrious multitasking type, I was also rummaging in a closet with enough buried skeletons it may as well have been a very popular public cemetery. Once again, I was casting judgment, skillfully might I add -what with being human and prone to sticking, or at least reverting, to unhealthy patterns.

Poorly grounded, I was bouncing in slow motion between dichotomies -metaphorically speaking that is, between light and darkness -metaphorically speaking again, in case you were wondering. There are times when I feel inspired. There are times when the flame within is as bright as sunlight. Shadows disappear, and everything seems possible. Yet even then, I hear the shadows calling from the abyss. Shadows that shrink away from the light, but never die. Shadows that know my name. Shadows that know me well. After all, they are part me, and as such there is no escaping them. Sooner or later, I look down, and as everyone knows, when walking on a tight rope, somewhere between there and there, one should never look down -I'm pretty sure it's in chapter four of 'Tight rope walking for dummies'. But I do. Over and over again. And I fall over and over again.

Sometimes however, and maybe because the divine prefers curves to straight lines, falling, or rather plummeting, I grow wings -and a jet pack. The fall becomes a flight, and flying, I soar. Coyotes, after all -and as the mad shaman tends to suggest, behind a cloud of sacred smoke, for the bastard is smoking like a tavern's chimney- should always get another second chance.

The Guru asked to write and I said no, knowing all too well that I would, because the devotee is in love, ecstatic love that is. They say when the disciple is ready the teacher comes. Today, the divine seems to have a shape, a scent and a taste and I am totally inebriated. The flame within is ablaze, and I'm about to put a fireproof sign with the following warning: "Hot! might burn you if you come too close." Words fail to describe what it is I feel. Everything is illuminated, as ecstasy embraces me.

The Guru asked me to write and I said no, and then I wrote and that was that, as for meanings, I invite you to find your own, and good luck with that.

Be well, be happy, be kind.

Between dichotomies, between pleasure and sadness, glimpsing the light -and I'm not talking about the one at the end of the tunnel

Looking upwards...

into the heavens, away from my own inflated sense of self, towards higher atmospheric strata, into worlds of blue hues, floating cloud formations, and of course miniature airplanes trailing plumes of white smoke, stretching into straight lines, often curved, seldom unbroken.
Knowing what I know about the damage each of these flying machines is inflicting on our planet, I should be cringing, or at least shaking my head, but instead there is a silly grin on my face, as I struggle to peal my eyes from the vastness above, if only to keep up with the morning traffic.
Yes, airplanes are heavy polluters, definitely not built to fix our ozone problem, and therefore, as one ill tends to lead to another, our kind's newly acquired hyper-sensitivity to the sun, reflected in a steep rise in the number of skin cancer casualties -something else to fear and worry about.
Yet, gazing upwards, I find beauty in the way those trails of exhaust fumes seem to cross each other, at least from my vintage point, bisecting the sky as if it were the surface of an abstract painting in the making. Perhaps, the beauty I perceive has something to do with the fact that the canvas will never seize to change, that every line, along with every cloud, will eventually dissolve.
Every line is unique, an imprint of our human imperfection, and callousness towards nature, and therefore ourselves. Temporal, the white strips converge, some as thick as a feather, some as thin as hair, some warped by the wind, some set ablaze by the sun, some curved like a scimitar, and others as straight as a Spanish fencing blade.
The imagery leads me to the subject of swords, swords forged with skill and great care, beautiful works of arts, yet instruments of death. And for a moment, I wonder why is it that beauty moves so closely to death. Then again, I remember that each breath leads to the undoing of life. There is no life without its opposite, no matter how we suppress that fact.
Like those lines, we are temporal. Like those lines, we are, with all our imperfections, beautiful imprints of something deeper than what we could ever grasp from our lowly vintage points. Perhaps, we too can learn to fade and let go with as much grace as smoke seems to display.
Driving, I grin.
Be well.
Learning to be as light as a cloud

walking down the iles...

of my local Wholefoods store, I passed the meat section, which usually consists of blurred out area I rarely find no need to look into, and found myself riveted to the recently re-tiled floor. I blinked once, twice, etc.. Was what I was staring at a product of my imagination, or was it yet another display of someone's lack of access to a second opinion?
Brushing the first option aside, for the simple reason that my imagination hadn't been that creative for quite some time now, I licked my lips, and allowed my whole being to bask in in this priceless experience.
By now, if my modest understanding of human nature, mine excluded, is half as good as I think it is, you are probably getting a bit restless, ready to skim through this unnecessarily elongated narration of the endlessly winding sort, in order to find out what it is I am babbling about. Well, I hear you my friends, and forgiving your impatience, I submit to your caprice, for we are friends, and what are friends for if not to let each others' faults and imperfections of the mind and spirit, etc... pass? Please, notice and appreciate the clever use of etc.
Now, and back to the crux of my story, which is based on facts, and facts only -scout's honor, not that I ever was one, what I was staring at, my precious comrades, was no less and no more than a phrase that, written on a board set in grand display behind the meat counter, read as follow, "Grass fed ground beef"... Need I say more?
For those of you who, now, are reaching for the backs of their heads tempted to give in to that primal urge to scratch one's cranium when encountering a riddle,I will just add that this visit to wholefoods was one of phenomenal educational value, for as you too, who are now aware, or perhaps you already knew this, meaning that this whole time you could have been doing something more productive instead of wasting your time with the content of your humble servant's blog, I now know that there exists somewhere on this planet of ours, a creature that is called ground beef,surely a rare species from the bovine family, a creature so sweet and kind and peaceful that it can live, unlike our very violent kind, on a simple grass diet. Sniff, sniff... my eyes water at the thought of ground beef, standing at the very top of a green hill, munching on grass, free of guilt, free of anger, etc... Having done it again with another artistically dropped etc, I bid you goodbye.
Be well and smile, or even laugh.
Still googling ground beef, and not getting much -could it be a hoax?

questioning my lifestyle...

A few minutes ago, this morning, I walked past a young man holding a stick with a basket and an a hook attached to one of its ends. Wearing a straw hat, the young man was picking apples from a tree that stands at the corner of the parking lot of a 'Noodles and Company', not too far from my Borders bookstore, and very, very close to the side entrance of a Copps supermarket. He'd raise the stick, setting the basket under an apple, and with a downward tug, make the apple fall right into the basket. Needless to say, I was quite impressed, and rather surprised.

The reason for my surprire was not that I had stumbled onto a quasi-urban fruit-picker in my neighborhood, but that I had failed to notice this apple tree before. Surely, I'd taken this path before, a plethora of times, by car, bike and on foot; after all, I've been this very location's Borders patron since I moved to Madison.

So, and with a thought leading to another, I began to wonder, "What else was I missing?" "How could I have been so blind?" I decided to go back to the tree, just to make sure it was really there, and I hadn't just imagined it. Well, it was, and not only that, but the ground surrounding it was covered with rotten fruit, which, if anything, was an indication that I wasn't the only one who had failed to see this tree for what it really was.

Now, sitting at a table, outside my bookstore/cafe/office, I ask, "How many readily available resources are going to waste like this? How many of us choose on a daily basis to pass trees just like this one, and enter a supermarket to buy the same fruit they could have collected if they'd wanted to?" Yes, these apples are tiny looking things, but I suspect them to be tastier than what is on display in our stores' produce section.

For quite some time now, I've been hearing about urbanites, all over the western globe, who are changing the way they're living their lives, choosing to be more careful about how they use their local resources, more careful about their impact on this planet of ours. They use their balconies to grow vegetables and greens. They take over abandoned lots to turn them to community gardens. They recycle smartly, turning trash into compost. They ride bicycles, or take advantage of what public transportation they have access to, instead of driving cars. They're members of food co-ops. They support their local farmers. Yes, they might strike you as hippie-wannabes, as they might own a Subaru, and might indulge in the burning and inhaling of certain mind-altering substances... anyway what was I trying to say? Oh, yes...

We all say and think that we want better, healthier, lives. We all say that we want to be responsible more involved in how we build our world. But how many of us are willing to do the right thing, make the necessary changes, let go of luxuries and wastful habits that have become so ingrained in our daily modes of thinking and being, moving our whole planet towards a disastrous tipping point. So, to these rebels, these example setters, people who care, people who walk their talk, I say, I am humbled by your ways, and truly ashamed of mine.

I wish I could join you. But, I don't really believe that I can. I've become too attached to my car, too disconnected from nature, although, I did once work as an horticulturist assistant in Florida, but all I remember is doing a great deal of watering and pruning of tropical plants I knew almost nothing about, that, and getting attacked by crazy fire ants, and giant roaches... Still there is no harm in hoping. No harm in trying, and what's there to lose anyway?

Perhaps, this is why I am here in Madison, Wisconsin. A small island of awareness, a mid-sized town with many green spaces, hills, forests, lakes, native sacred mounds, free summer concerts, people who care, rebels residing mainly, but not only, on the East-side of the University, who choose to live more responsibly and creatively, or at least outside of the consumerist mainstream box. There is so much to learn here -if only I was opened to learning.

With this said, I invite you to share with me what beauty you see wherever you are. Today, my world is one made of a thousand and one fluttering butterflies, a few crows, a gliding hawk, and a cloudless blue sunny sky.

Be well, be happy. Life is now.

Envie de glisser...

avec le temps qui ne fait que passer,
sans jamais s'arreter,
Autrement, je me noie dans des pensees
profondement grises, depressantes et ameres.
Le temps, le temps, jours qui m'effleurent,
annees qui me tourmentent,
tout s'efface, la bonte comme l'affront,
La gifle comme la carresse.
Des fois, j'ai comme envie de faire marche arriere,
revivre tout ces moments qui me semblent
avoir glisser entre les doigts,
surfer toute mes vagues,
Dire je t'aime chaque fois qu'il le fallait,
sans arriere pensees, sans compromis,
qu'il arrive ce qu'il arrive...
Glisser, tomber, suivre la courbe de ma vie,
qui se brise et s'ettend,
entre ecume et infini,
entre sables dore's et horizon lointain,
debut et fin,
Tout se repete.
Tout se repete,
Entre Shiva et Shakti,
une flamme de vie dance,
m'attire, me consume,
inperfection que je suis, chair et reves inaccomplis,
Elle me prends, me defait,
en matiere primaire, en desirs elementaires,
et avec ca, une petite etincelle jaillit entre doigts divains et sanglants,
Soudain, l'envie revient,
Envie de glisser,
Envie d'aimer,
Chaque vague qui s'ettire et se courbe,
entre sable dore's et horizon lointain.

Unfortunate accidents...

Happen every now and then. And when they do, all we can hope for is that the recovery is quick and that our lives aren't too shambled by whatever befell us.

Two days ago, I entered a Copps supermarket wanting to fix myself a little meal at the salad bar and ended up getting more than I had originally hoped for. Yes, somehow, I slipped and fell inside Copps as I stepped on a large puddle of water that seemed to be coming from a leaky cheese cooler. The result was a visit to a nearby ER, a tetanus shot in the leg, a painful wrist and a stitches on my upper lip.

Two days past, I am still waiting to hear from Copps, or at least from their insurance company regarding what I am supposed to do about my newly incurred medical bills. I remember giving my contact information to the store's director, prior to being taken to the hospital. I recall, a few hours later and while still under the effects of a facially administered anesthetic, a brief recorded phone conversation with some insurance representative who, having called me from an unidentifiable number, managed to end her interrogation without leaving me any means for reaching her.

Now, and maybe I'm too involved in this affair, but I somehow feel that kindness has been thrown out of the equation. Empathy has been discarded, or at least constrained. The Copps store director could check on me, if for no other reason than in consideration for the generous amount of blood I left in his store. What if I have concerns? What if I have questions? No, the insurance company has been notified. After all, this is exactly why insurance companies are heftily paid. Meanwhile, why not ignore the victim, and move on with business as usual?

So, thank you Mr. Director of the Copps supermarket, at 3650 University Avenue. I truly appreciate how you are handling this one. No, in fact, allow me to extend my gratitude to Copps Corporation and Roundy's for their very-far-from-satisfactory policies on accidents such as the one I have been a victim of. Thank you for showing how much you care about this particular patron's well-being.

But worry not, Mr. Director, I will recover, although I'll have a scar to remind me of this unimportant accident. Yes, I can't wash my face and hair for a few days, per the doctor's directions, but I will somehow come to laugh about this whole debacle, right?

Be well, and watch out for slippery floors.

Summer blues...

Too much heat. Too much humidity. Otherwise, the midwest is often a world of sky-tearing storms. Beneath, I tend to feel incomplete, riddled with empty spaces. There is heaviness within, as mine is a fertile ground for the negative. Boredom has settled in, and books continue to fail me in undoing this curse.

A while ago, I was elsewhere -Asia. But, I was also in Madison, caught between the opposing polarities of where I physically was and where my heart still lingered. Tension made for busyness, made for liveliness, as I navigated through unknown and uncharted environments. India aimed to challenge, or perhaps, it was I who wasn't ready for what millions of gurus and tenfold as many devotees had to offer. Whichever the case, In Asia, there seldom was room or time to indulge in boredom.

Today, in Wisconsin's capital, Madison, I stand at a crossroad, unable to decide which way I should go, starring into the distance, as if lost in a state of helpless stupor. Meanwhile, life goes, music, concerts, fairs, and more bike paths than I might want to explore. Children are playing in the parks, amidst flower-patterned dresses blown by a warm wind, in a world of white doves, bouncing bunnies, active chipmunks, and dancing butterflies, all of it moving to the symphony of a hundred chirping birds, and the whisperings of a thousand trees.

Life is beautiful. Yet, I fail to connect. I hope these words remind you that beyond personal human anguish, beauty is awaiting.

Be merry, if you dare.

At the crossroads, unable to choose

Here and now...

The present is where we are, where life takes place. Here and Now is where we create our world, you from your side, and me, from mine. Yesterday, the demented master points, is gone. Tomorrow, Tomorrow, well, that one never comes. It is always now and here.

In Hermann Hesse's novel, Siddhartha, a gray-haired character wisely explains how like the river we should always be in the present. The river is everywhere, at its source, at the ocean, on the mountain and the valley, in its beginning and in its end. The river is always present in its entirety.

Like the river, we are born, grow, experience, feel, change, physically, mentally, emotionally, withering along the way, until one day, it is time to depart. Like the river we have a beginning and end. We go through highs and lows. We are all of that at once, but our relation with time makes it seem otherwise. Our senses introduce us to shades of what is, giving us a limited perception of our realities, a glimpse of the iceberg. We see ourselves as water molecules, disconnected from the whole, helplessly caught in something frighteningly large and uncontrollable.

Yet, and here is our dilemma, we suspect, feel that there is more, that we ought to be more than the droplet, more than what we see, hear, feel, more than the senses. We suspect that we are the river, but as a thought it is too big to manage, too big to swallow. So we live in doubt, torn between our limited perceptions and the physically impossible richness of our potentiality. We are disappointed by what we were yesterday, fearful of remaining as we are when tomorrow comes, unable to see, hear, feel, know, experience our Truth.

Our vision is too narrow. Our yesterdays are a burdensome load, a false treasure, a casket of shame, too heavy to carry; yet we refuse to let go. Tomorrow, is an imaginary friend we've learned to rely on. Tomorrow is a black hole of doubts, fears, hopes, desires and wishes that have gone unchecked. It is what we feed it. Our present is what we do to satisfy both past and present. It's rarely about us... that is until we awaken, until we choose to awaken. And even then, there is a chance of relapse, for every now and here is a new beginning, where again and again, we can choose to either be awake, or to forget.

For days now, I've been contemplating this image. This morning, I felt like sharing... so, here you have it. By the way, there is also the movie, under the same title, Siddhartha.

Be well and remember to be like the river.

At times a drop, at times a river

Dear reader...

Dear, Dear reader,

I would like to share with you a few thoughts on my present situation, as an almost-unemployed citizen of the glorious and God-Blessed US of A. The use of the term almost-unemployed stems here from a couple of hours of yoga instruction at you know where, and if you don't and want to know, just let me know. As to that passing reference relating to geopolitical positioning, well we’ll just have to leave it for another time. The above mentioned couple of hours, however, represent the extent of my current contribution to society‘s immediate well-being. Of course, there is the writing, but I‘ll get to that later, and in due time.

Meanwhile, let us stick to palpable matters, i.e., the fact that my bank account is suffering from a condition where its content is flowing one way and one way only -that way being rather out than in. One would think that such a trifle issue wouldn’t be worth an inveterate dreamer’s attention, but as it happens, in this case, this case being no different from any other, the dreamer’s world, has the frustrating habit of switching to mainstream reality -the nerve.

Thus, and although this might sound awfully unbelievable, your once carefree -carefree as you might be inclined to deduce is used loosely- servant, here, has began suffering of an unpleasant condition known in layman’s terminology, layman's terminology is used at this juncture, and from now on, for the sake of clarity, as stress. Yes, dear friends, stress -notice the ominous presence of three ss in the referred-to condition. “Stressed, I am,” might just be my new motto, or as I prefer describing it, ‘cri de guerre‘.

Suspecting that some of you might try to interject their wisdom at this very point, by coolly remarking, “Not all stress is bad”, I will go ahead and nod, thus creating the false impression that I am in agreement with this nobly-empowering (or whatever attributes you might want to associate to such a remark) yet completely inadequate statement. Of course, you are not to blame your naivete, or should I say lack of insight, my dear, dear by-now-wondering-where-is-he-going-with-this-one reader. For how could you know the extent of my ‘angoisse’? And in passing, notice the use of French words for the purpose of creating an air of philosophical depth -have I fooled any one? Well I hope so.

I mean let us look at the facts, and just the facts. Here we are, with, not one, not two, but three ss in one word. I mean… how could I not feel threatened? And as the wise man cried, “Leave it to God, leave it to God, but don’t you stop rowing away from those rocks!“ Let me add that no one knows if the wise man made it or not. At any rate, and as a student of life and of wise men who seem to have a clue, I can proudly boast that this teacher’s cry didn’t land on deaf ears. Absolutely not. Not only did I hear, but I was also paying attention.

This is why, precious reader, (assuming you’re still there, which I will not use against you, although I could), this storyteller has to declare that steps are being taken. Yes, steps that can only lead to a win-lose situation, as the ss are smitten and obliterated beyond repair -if you know what I mean. “And what steps are these?” might you ask. Well, all I have to say is that these steps are too complicated to try and elaborate on them, so I won‘t, doing us both a favor. Suffice it to say that I’ve been strategizing to come up with an infallible and quantifiably applicable plan that would secure me a position within an organization of the type that tends to remunerate the members of its order for their time. In layman’s terms, once again for the sake of clarity, I am looking for work.

Yes, my either worried, or now gone, reader, Karim is looking to get a job very soon. “But why? Oh why? Oh why?” and believe me, I hear and feel your outcry -or maybe it is just my ears reacting to the café‘s expresso machine. Whatever the case, I say, “I understand, and that is why I would like you to know that this is the only possible course of action, and please go ahead and discard the idea of hobos, no matter how enticing it appears, for that is a line of work for which I am definitely under-qualified, and… where was I again?

Oh yes! My esteemed companeros e companeras, I would like you to know, and here is my argument, and it is quite a simple one, a beautifully incounterable argument based on mostly altruistic and honorable motives, this distantly-gazing-into-who-knows-what writer of yours, needs to start working and presto, because, when he is not working he goes on driving aimlessly, moving undecidedly between points A, B, C and D, as if lost in a deep haze, a menace to this already tried and battered environment of ours -that is if we are gullible enough to take in those clearly unfunded rumors that have been spreading about this so called environment by evil scientists from the left of the political spectrum, and before you start rolling your eyes, let me add that this last statement is based on strong scientific research supported by Fox News, so don‘t you even go there.

But I digress, aimlessly as if I were driving -do you see my point? Picture me on the road, moving at the mind blowing speed of thirty miles an hours, and you, you my mesmerized, or maybe you’ve moved to distant pasture -and I understand, Facebook fan (are you? If not, what are you waiting for? Time is of the essence), you, behind me, sinews tensing like the tight rope of an expertly crafted noose, squeezing the wheel of your car with both hands, knuckles turning translucent -which is a shade beyond white, gritting your teeth -knowing that it won't help your TMJ, blind to your dentist's future disappointed gaze -and you know that's coming, ready to scream, wondering, why, oh why, and, what the… and let us drop it here.

I could say, my all too patient amigos, take a chill-pill, relax, or as I heard it in some undisclosed location, chill-ax -here, I have to stop and salute the genius of the English language. Yes, I could indulge and reply, "Chillax," for it would bring me great pleasure. But, I don’t. Instead, I say, “I know. I know. And I’m looking. So hang in there. And don’t you forget to take a deep breath. As it happens you don’t look too good. Oh, and finally, sorry, sorry, I never took sign language, so your gesture doesn’t ring a bell…” This is what I say, or something within these general lines of open-minded parlance.

As you can see, as I am sure to have proven the gravity of the moment, and for the sake of not throwing combustibles at an already raging fire, so as not to be as those who are in charge of our all-so-so perfect economic systems, those who throw more of the good stuff, the real stuff, into the furnace of speculation, a furnace that we happen to be uncomfortably sitting on, confused by our situation, what with the media and all that goes with it, yes, why not take more from the people, give more to the problem, way to think, way to go, or maybe not. Anyway, what’s important is that I am looking, so despair not. Hang in there. What else can I say?

Otherwise, Be well, hang in there, and way to go.
Constantly awed by the blatant lunacy of those in power

As it happens...

I've been feeling a bit weary lately, about the BP situation mostly -not that I can do much about it. I feel helpless, caught in the messy affairs of bigger cats in the block. Cats who take advantage of the ignorance of others, others being us -the people, as opposed to profit-seeking corporate machines. Us, the people is what it come to. Leaders come and go, and anyway, power is tricky and corrupting. The closer one gets to it, the blinder one becomes. Us, nationalities and religious affiliations set aside, is what it comes to. That is why I'm feeling weary. That is why I'm feeling helpless.

Sadly, this 'Us' looks rather fragmented right now, and maybe, it has always been so, and will always be so. Some optimistic historians say that things have gotten better -imagine. I look at the Middle East and wonder when that affair will get better. The Isrealo-Palestinian debacle started before I born -so how long before it gets better. Will the blindness of men ever be cured?

What is it that makes us so fearful that we have to draw blood? What is it that makes us behave the way flesh eating ants do? Why is it that every prophet, every spiritual teacher was a recluse? Why is that every message of love is turned into a rigid doctrine, into books of rules and laws? I wonder. I wonder...

Looking at our past, considering our present, it would be easy to say that our prospects as a species look rather grim. But I am an optimist. So, I know that weariness will pass. I know that there is always room for improvement. The past can never define the choices we are about to make today. The past is gone, and there isn't much we can do about it. The present however is a whole different story. The present is always a blank page. Today is always the first day of the rest of our lives, as the line goes in some film I can't place right now. Yes, we can always choose to turn the page, start afresh, be smart, be wise, be caring, or we can go on messing around, not giving a nickel, or is it a dime, to what it is we are doing.

Closer home, there is a family of farmers who's been running a dairy sort of cooperative, and they are getting heat from the Man -not sure if its the state, or the county. But, whomever the Man is, he is trying to close this family's business. Because you see, there seems to be a bogus expired license issue, or maybe, just maybe, it has something to do with the fact that this family happens to sell raw milk products, in a state where selling raw milk is considered illegal. Grazing acres is the name of this cooperative which has been operating through a legal loophole -and I'll leave it to that. What's important is that Grazing acres has been making a lot of raw milk lovers happy.

Personally, I don't like milk and don't even mention butter -I know, what's wrong with me. But let's stick to the issue at hand, which is: these people need help, need the 'Us' factor. And although, I can't really relate to raw milk loving folks -I have no doubt that they're nice people- I, surely, do appreciate freedom of choice, and alternative ways of thinking. So this morning, I called this number: 608-266-1212 to complain about the Man's actions, and about the lawsuit that has been thrown at this family of rebels. After all, we have to support our local rebels, otherwise who will?

Meanwhile, I met Michael today at Harbor. Good guy Michael. Wise and sharp, then again he grew up in Brooklyn. He always makes me laugh, or at least grin. This weekend, I just found out, Michael turns sixty. So I say, "Keep up the good work and congratulations."

Finally, if you see me at the Borders cafe, with eyes glued to my tiny laptop, wearing a cool and wet towel around the cranium, it's probably because I am working on something super important -as you can see.

Be well, and do remember that we are One -no matter how hard it is to believe.

Felt like sharing, hoping you don't mind

This field...

is the name I decided to choose for the last short story I wrote last Saturday. Click on the following link if you are inspired to read it: This field. Also, feel free to send me your suggestion for a different title, if you think of one; as well as your thoughts on this story, if you happen to have any...

Otherwise, may you be blessed with beauty's company.

Be well and don't hesitate to truly smile.

Smiling, I breathe out

P.S: There is a certain website I've been using as an extension of that which I think I am, and in case you don't know about it, well, it is: www.reehtales.com

Writing happens...

Every now and then, I get a strong urge to start writing; it comes and goes, and I don't have much control over the process. Still, I rejoice whenever the muse honors me with your intoxicating company.

As it happens, I was overtaken by such an urge this past Saturday, and consequently, found myself glued to a chair and table at the local Borders Cafe. I don't know how long I was there, but it was long enough to write a short story titled, mmmm, how about, 'field I Knew'.

Anyway, here is the first paragraph -this is for those of you who do not have anything better to do, and, of course, the others who, as crazy as it sounds, enjoy reading.

The full story will be available on www.reehtales.com -the website my ego built to feel important.

But I digress, So without further ados, here is the first chapter of 'Field I knew':

It seems I’ve been standing in this field for an eternity. I can’t remember how I got here. In the middle of nowhere, green grass all around, stretching so far, I don’t see anything else. But I am not worried. Not a bit. I feel at peace. No urge to hurry, rush, find out... No need to understand. Even if my feet are bare, naked -which is very odd, given my obsession with shoes. ‘The right shoes, for the right occasion,’ has always been one of my favorite mottos. In fact, at this very moment, the matter of footwear feels so trivial, unimportant. And even stranger than that the feeling itself feels right.

I laugh, and the breeze laughs with me. It had been so long since I’d laughed so freely, so honestly, without worrying about anyone else’s judgment -what a sad realization. Yet here I am laughing, out of lightness, as if a crippling burden was lifted from my shoulders. What burden was that, I wonder? My life wasn’t that awful. It was quite an ordinary one, and I enjoyed most of it… I think.

A few days ago...

I was in a different world, Ubud-world, Bali-world, crowded streets, taxi drivers smiling, calling for your attention, "Taxi. Taxi." Scooter owners going, "Transport. Transport? Maybe tomorrow." Uneven narrow sidewalks with unexpected openings, strange doorways leading downward, a hindrance to windowless storefront shopping, or just to walking.

A few days ago, I was complaining about being stuck in a tourist hotbed. Then, having complained, and therefore having become more relaxed, a doorway opened. Suddenly, Ubud was wearing a different outfit, showing a completely unexpected face.

A few days ago, I was in a different world, when kind hearts led me out of superficiality to the outskirts of Ubud's main streets, to the crux of matters dear to my heart.

A few days ago, seeking, hopeful, I met friends I'd love to meet again...

Until then, I wish them the best of everything.

Until then, heart at home, love by my side, I'm readjusting to Madison's rhythm, allowing time to make room for me, whether in Wisconsin's capital, or elsewhere.

Until, I wish you beautiful experiences, and much more...

And don't hesitate to stay in touch.

Allowing -simply allowing

P.S: The mad teacher says, "Once we stop having expectations, once we stop having desires, once we stop pushing for what we think are the best results/outcomes, once we stop pretending to know, once we stop saying this is good, this is bad, once we become thankful for every breath, then magic happens, then results take shape, then gifts are bestowed, effortlessly, simply, as they should -Life is a river called Love, and we are tiny conscious droplets within it. Surely, when a droplet decides she can control the river problems will arise. Surely, when a droplet allows herself to enjoy the journey, she becomes the whole river, and becoming the river, she becomes whole, she becomes the journey. Get it?"

Coincidences...

there are no coin- cidences, especially if one believes in such a term as the Oneness of everything, such as we are all One, such as we are all part of the Absolute, that higher I that is always there, within, without, all encompassing, all experiencing...
And if there are no coincidences, when serendipity manifests itself, like a pleasant, jolt that hits us right when we need to awaken to the moment, why not awaken to Now, Here? Why not forget about the past and the future? Just be here, allow, and participate...
I wonder, I wonder, as the marvelous goes on blending, and blending, with my little reality.
Be well.
somewhere close to the Dalai Lama and the Ganga

Tiruvanamalai

Many an ashram. Many a beggar. If you stray down the road, there will be much honking going on. You might have to do some major dodging as you make your way from one side of a street to another.
Coffee and Puri for breakfast, for 20 rps. Sadhus will try to get a few too, and children like their mothers will stretch their hands for a few coins.
This is India. This is the land of altars in every street corner, and so much more.
Be happy.
Seeking

The road of a thousand wonders

As the roads takes us by the hand, across the unknown, at time unpleasant, at times surprisingly inspiring, we are invited to keep our eyes opened. Stepping beyond the comfort zone, we stretch and find out that what we thought was all there was, is nothing but a sand dune, a curve on the path of our lives.
Today, I entered Tiruvanamalai, Shiva's mountain is nearby, and Ramana's Ashram is even closer. But first things first, and laundry is the priority, then some internet to connect with those I miss, and after that, well after that, magic takes place, wonders happen, and the heart is too eager to find out what is around the corner.
Be well, and allow for surprises to happen.
Sending warmth your way

Laptop dependency...

is a newly acquired charact- eristic of mine, so new, I hadn't bee aware of it until a couple of days ago when the Dell died on me. So I worried, and when I think of it, I am not sure what it is I worried about... Was it that endless stream of emails, coming from who knows where, most of the time, I feared not getting my share of? Or am I just a high-speed-wifi-web browsing junkie? A Facebook-cum-farmville addict?

Meanwhile, a journey is in the making, and how am I supposed to stay in touch with those I care about, as I get moving, home becoming a distant beacon, although close to the heart, until I am drawn back, if not with the magic connectivity of the net? Life is complicated, surprisingly unexpected, so we plan, and do, and wait for doors to open, for pathways to appear, for our destinies to unfold.

So do your thing, do you thing, from the heart, fearless, hopeful, the rest will come, the rest will come.

A whirlwind in a glass of water

Resisting

holding back, or pushing to get this and that, moved by fluctuating agendas, carried by a flood of goals preceding goals, a geyser of wants and desires, I lose myself in meaningless pursuits, ignoring the whispered songs of wisdom, left by every teacher of Peace and Liberation, echos from the past, "Fully present, accept; Fully aware, Go with the flow; Always embrace compassion, Always thrive to be of service, Don't take yourself too seriously..." Echos from the heart, like raindrops seeking the ocean, returning to the heart. Ripples of joy, Ripples of bliss, Ripples of love. But the heart is busy, and the mind is restless. Once again, Stillness is avoided, and the storm is allowed to going on raising dust, raising doubt and confusion. A choice is made with each breath, a choice is made, while the teachers' of better ways, from times forgotten, from places unknown, go on throwing pebbles at our windows, may we listen, may we awaken.
Be well, and if you can give a moment to yourself.
Seeking, always seeking

Inconsistency

knows where to find me, knows my weaknesses, hits me hard, and laughs at my reactions. Meanwhile, I try to hide in sweet routine, a life of activities tightly crammed, one against the other, an infinite line of 'I'll do this, I'll do that...' But the over-achiever is a helpless perfectionist, rarely satisfied, doubtful, prone tempestuous mood swings that could inspire the design of a seriously eye-popping, adrenaline-gushing roller coaster, with too many vertiginous peaks, followed by unfathomably depressing depths.

Some say, "The secret of happiness is contentment," the phrase rolling so easily out of their tongues. Some say, "Life will teach you many a thing about yourself." Some say, "Travel will open your eyes, widen your perspective, lead you to understanding."
I say, I've tried. I say, I'm still trying. I say, I'm unhappiness incarnate, breathing melancholy, walking nostalgia, a professional brooder, an emotional whirlwind, too many lows, too many highs, a pain to live with, the saddest jester, the worn traveler, the most impatient dreamer you'll ever come to meet, basically a work in progress...

Be well, and hang in there.