Longing...

As far as I can remember, I’ve seeking the beloved. As far as I can remember, I’ve been striving to enter into that flawless connection which romantics tend to entertain in their hearts. And no matter, how often, the heart is disappointed, let down, and the relationship, along with the passion that sustains it, turn out to be nothing more than threads of illusion leading to delusion, I continue to intentionally allow myself to fall into the same hopelessly hopeful patterns, as only a true die-hard romantic can.

What is it we’re looking for in others? What is it we’re seeking in our attempts at building deep connections with someone we think, believe is a quintessential element in the making of our happiness? Don’t we know that all we’re seeking is already ours? Questions coming at me, by the shovel-full. Questions swirling about in my mind, like a soup of questionable quality, and not so kosher ingredients.

Questions go round and round, like a finely tuned and oiled Freudian-cum-Jungian Ferris wheel, reminding me of some metaphor, or other curved parable of deep, hidden, and therefore priceless wisdom my wise-cracker of a teacher of far-fetched spiritual matters, once told me about, while building a strange sand castle on some deserted beach, situated who knows where.

“Life is Maya, illusion playfully deceptive,” says the teacher, smirking at my foolishness.

I shrug off the comment, “Life is a journey; I wrote it on my business card, and so it must be true.”

Dismissive laughter; the teacher, illuminated, immune to my ways, wipes of a teary eye, “You’ll never learn, will you?”

A wave breaks and foam flattens the castle. The teacher waves a finger at the ocean, continuing for my benefit, “What you desire is a bit like your shadow, no matter how far you try to run after it, it will continue to run ahead of you, refusing to heed to your blindness. Sooner or later, you need to come to your senses and see that your shadow is totally yours, it is with you always, and if it could speak it would say, ‘Hey, you! Stop running, I am here already. There is nothing to grasp, nothing to gain.’”

“Listen! There is no happiness, no love, no peace, but that which is within. The trick is to realize that it is all already yours; you cannot own it, more than you already do. So you can keep on chasing after whatever it is you think you really can’t live without, whatever you believe you’re missing, or you can let go, and truly realize that you don’t need anything. You are complete. No one, nothing, can add to your happiness. You are what you’re looking for, you thick headed-dunce!”
Hearing these last words, I grin with pride, for this is how my venerated teacher addresses me when satisfied with my progress.

Another wave breaks behind me, I turn around and run into the water to meet it.

Be joyfully well.

They ask the seeker...

They ask, “Why are you wandering in the desert?”
“The desert is on the path of seeking.”
They question, “Why all this suffering?”
“Suffering comes and goes, a transient companion.”
They inquire, “Why not come back to the righteous path.”
And I ask, “How could I when I am so close to being lost?”
“Come back.”
“I am a seeker, on the path of a thousand and one wonders.”
“Come back.”
“I am a seeker, and I’ll share the road with whomever wishes to share it.”
“The sun will burn you.”
“Purify me to better reflect Her light.”
“The heat will scorch you.”
“My longing for Her is a hundred folds that and more.”
“Come back. Don’t you see we’re trying to save you?”
“She is a mighty river, and I, nothing but a drop.”
“Come back. You deserve better that this agony.”
“The drop like the river seeks its shore: what better prospect might there be?”
“You are gifted and the world will reward you.”
“Nothing but a seeker’s life will I seek; what reward could compare to Her company?”
“The good things of life are yours, if only you recant.”
“I am hers, and how could I wish more than that?”
“Surely, you have desires?”
“All hers to fulfill.”
Surely, you have needs?”
“She is all I need.”
“Come back, will you not?”
“I am too far already. I am too close already. I am and remain a seeker. Nothing but a seeker.”
“And how about us?”
“To each his and her path; and anyway, your time shall come.”
“You are lost!”
“I go in peace.”
“Fool!”
“Yes.”

A spider's web...

At times, I wondered what I was after in this strange place, surrounded by sand, nothing but sand. As far as the eye can see, it was a world of dunes, subtly rippling through. They were like waves, and if you knew how to read them, you could ride them. One could either travel with the grain, or against it. One could journey in ease, or struggle in ignorance. It was just a matter of paying attention, being continuously aware, and willing to adjust one’s course as needed.

For the first time since I had begun walking with Aslam, we had climbed a dune, a large one. Rather, the dune had slipped under our feet, so that we found ourselves standing at its tip, without having exerted ourselves to get there. Beyond us, and wherever I turned, was just the desert, teeming with travelers, walking in every direction, some alone, but mostly, they were moving in groups of varied sizes and collective behaviors.

Although we had encountered some of them already, I was still awed by what I was seeing from our elevated vintage point. What I had mistaken, during those encounters, for completely unrelated traveling tribes were actually all connected, now appearing as lines that crossed and merged with one another, resembling when viewed from a distance, the intricate shape of a continuously growing, shifting spider's web.

There they were, with their idiosyncratic beliefs, those who walked backwards, those who bowed down every ten steps, those who carried rocks, those who moved sideways like crabs, those who carried spears, and so many others, those who walked on their knees, or on all fours. All moving, all connected at points where separation had happened, where discord had appeared, where a belief was challenged; revolutions.

In these intersections, where divisions, often violent, had taken place, a single group would break into two, or more, factions. If the newly created group remained too close to those who had chosen to stay their course, clashes would occur, and continue to occur until the paths separated clearly, by moving each in a different direction. Until then, and as I could clearly see now, they would be loses, fatalities, corpses left to be absorbed by the sand.

Meanwhile, the spider’s web was growing, from division to division, belief to belief, from faith to faith, from fear to fear. Thus, if you followed the lines backwards, bridging the gaps filled by the passage of dunes, you would, as I did, reach the main trunk, the source, the original line, one too far to reveal its details, but an existing line nonetheless.

The spider’s web was a big family that seemed to be forgetting as it advances that it is a family. Hard divisions, foolish divisions, based on hard beliefs, based on hard fears, based on ignorance, creating suffering, creating pain. Looking at Aslam, I could understand his tears.

To be continued

Before the world as we know it...

Once again, out of Nothingness, the All, as a seed, exploded into an infinity of possibilities, fragments of itself, which in their turn exploded into an infinity of possibilities, the sequence repeating itself, infinitely; or in a reality ruled, as it is in ours, by the concept of time, as long as Time is meant to flow.

Unity, fragmented, over and over, infinitely, playing with, and experiencing, the possibilities within a bottomless cauldron of a simmering soup of possibilities, picking this one, discarding that one, with each seed germinating, becoming something, elements that make up a universe, a galaxy, a constellation, a star, a planet, life, ecosystems, fauna, flora, humans, men, women, children, cells, particles, cities, villages, institutions, machines, technology, music, noise, art, consumed goods, rubbish, ideas, thoughts, actions, reactions, possibilities, energy, nothing…

In a world measured by Time, the All Becomes. And, once it has become, it flows back toward Nothingness, toward Absolute Unity. Then, even Time itself, being nothing but a possibility, a seed, is called back into that very Nothingness. Thus, a cycle ends. Thus, a cycle begins.

Unable to grasp this truth, the human mind has tried, and that since its birthing, to explain its origin, its place in this vast phenomenon that is life. Unfortunately, the best it could do was make up stories, such as this one, myths of creation, building cosmologies out of thin air, and as it has been in our current reality, by assigning the role of creation to a single divinity.

Over and over, and within every single civilization known, or somewhat known to us, humans end up turning faulty theories into hard solid facts, creating rigid rules to defend shaky viewpoints based on the limitations of our physical nature.

However, and despite the inherent faultiness of our conscious endeavors, signs of the True nature of this All that encompasses everything that is, was, and will ever be, and therefore Us included. Clues abound, stored in our unconscious minds, within our warped myths of creation, in nature itself, and in our archetypal symbols, (i.e., the infinity symbol, the heart symbol, the Native American’s Wanka Tanka, yin yang, the alchemical circle, the Tarot’s wheel of fortune, the whirling of a Sufi dervish, the sun cross, the Celtic cross, the flower of life, a large number of Yantras...)

Such symbols have, over and over again, been intuited by, and revealed to those who were able to slip from the limitations of the mind into what could be referred to as states of unblemished clarity.

If meditated on, these symbols have the power to carry us into unexpected pathways of association, and revelation which no organized religion, no biased explanation of creation would ever be able to take us to. Allowed to do their work, they can point us, in the right direction.

Thus, having allowed, having opened our hearts, having emptied our minds, having giving up on knowing, we glimpse the path, which if followed leads us in the most intuitive and effortless of ways to the Truth of the All, and therefore to our own Truth.

What symbols speak to you? Which symbol are you most attracted to? Have you ever taken time to meditate on it? If you haven’t, I invite you to give it a try. I invite you to take time, to make time, 15 minutes of meditation on a symbol you feel resonates with you are enough -surely you can spare 15 minutes…

Then again, just have ice cream, or chocolate, or whatever tickles your tastebuds.

Be well. Be joyful.

wrong and right...

Walking through this strange landscape of rolling sand dunes, we met many people; people with very idiosyncratic behaviors. While some were alone, and others were traveling in groups, their numbers varying from a very few to numbers so large that I couldn’t count them, they all seemed to share a strong aversion toward us. This, however, wasn’t something I would have wanted otherwise. As far as I could tell, they were all mad, or at least behaving as if they were.

Thus, while a whole procession had gone past us walking backwards, another, made of hundreds, was crawling its way toward us. A few hours earlier, a large group with members, each carrying a massive stone, made their way in front of us, under a brazing sun, led by their strongest –the man carrying the bulkiest rock, while their elders were falling behind without anyone to care for them. Whomever fell was just left behind. Every few paces, they all would stop, drop their load, and prostrate themselves before the stones, before picking them up once more and continuing ahead. Sometimes, a challenger would attack the leader to take his place. The men would fight to death, and whomever survived would be the group’s new leader.

Completely baffled, I asked Aslam the meaning of what I had witnessed. His reply was as follow, “Every group you met and will meet, has come together because of fear, fear of tomorrow, fear of not finding water, of not finding food. Somehow, they’ve come to believe that they have found the way that assures their survival in this desert.

“Some walk backwards because they believe that in doing so, they are behaving, according to the laws of creation, in a manner that assures that they are rewarded by their gods, who shall reward them with water, food and shelter. It is the same for those who crawl. And it is the same for those who carry those rocks, who judge their merit by the weight they can lift, who show no kindness for their own elders and weak, and who can kill for the privilege of being first to drink and eat when the opportunity arises.

“But,” I protested, “You know how to find water. I’ve seen you. Why don’t you show them? Why don’t you help them?”

He shook his head, “I’ve tried and succeeded only in angering them. It doesn’t work. They believe that they are right. To them my way isn’t an option. To them I am wrong. To them I am disrespectful of their traditions.”

“Can’t they see that they are suffering?”

“They aren’t ready. They believe that they have to suffer to deserve whatever they are seeking. I cannot change that. I am following the path of Noor. I am living my life according to the truths She shows me. These aren’t truths I can force on others. No matter how painful and wrong this seems, you need to accept that not everyone is ready for Her way. In fact, we will meet many going on very different paths than yours, doing what they whole-heartedly feel is right. And no matter how wrong it may seem, you have absolutely no right in judging them. Life is a journey, and while the paths may seem to differ, sooner or later, we all end up having walked through the very situations we once stood against.


“What is right and what is wrong are but perceptions from a particular point of view. While one may believe that the wrong can, or should be eliminated, the truth is what is deemed right can only exist in juxtaposition with its counterpart. They are inseparable facets of one reality. What is right and what is wrong come together, like light and darkness. One can only be understood, or at least experienced, in relation to its opposite.


Thus, it is best to abstain from judging others, and to focus on being as true to yourself as you possibly can. Only then will you create the change that you wish to see, not only in yourself, but in the whole of reality as you experience it.”

To be continued...

The path of fear...

Life is a dream, a grand illusion –so had I heard, but I still had to believe. Thus, I woke up to a lingering wave of oppressing heat, deep discomfort following me to the surface, clinging to the skin, drowning my every pore in suffocating humidity. Anxiety and sweat sat, like a paradox, on the back of my neck, fear and confusion hovered in the recesses of my mind, slowly gnawing at my defenses. No answers for what tomorrow might bring. No answers to where I was heading. I felt lost, cornered by my choices. I had pushed away every one that might have offered a hand, and now I was left alone with no one to rely on. We are One –so had I read, but I still had to trust… and I still had to believe.

Aslam had repeatedly led us to water. I could see that he definitely had abilities that were beyond anything I was capable of comprehending. When I told him this, he laughed and assured me there was nothing special about him, that whatever abilities he had, I too had, adding “You just have to trust.”

Our walks which were long, always started under the stars, and ended by a water source, before the sun would reach its zenith. This had occurred a dozen of times, yet each journey was very different from all those that had preceded it. One might think the desert a dull and uneventful place, but, in any case, this desert was everything but dull and uneventful. It was teaming with life, full of unexpected experiences.

On our third day, we reached our first group of people. A long walking procession that was snaking its way towards us, stretched so far I could not make out the features of those who were trailing at the very end. Excited to meet other travelers, I began hastening my pace. But, Aslam reached for my shoulder, causing me to stop at once. Somehow, and to my dismay, my guide had other plans.

“Why are you standing there?” I urged, “Let’s go talk to them.”

Aslam lowered his eyes, “It would be very unwise.”

Noticing how his voice had become laden with sadness, unable to understand, I asked, “Why? What’s wrong?”
“They would not receive you kindly.” They live in fear, and fear causes them to be threatened by anything new.”

“Surely, they know you. You could introduce me.”

He shook his head, “I am not welcome amongst them.”

“Why?”

“Many come here. But not all come for the same reasons.”

I looked at them again. It was a slow moving procession, made out of the most unkempt, bedraggled group of individuals I had ever laid eyes on. They were advancing, looking our way. None of them was smiling. A long bearded man at the front began shouting words in a language I had never heard before. The shouting spread, growing louder and louder. Suddenly, rocks of all sizes were thrown our way. I stepped back, startled, frightened. Aslam remained still. The rocks were all falling a few feet in front of him. There were tears in his eyes.

To be continued...

The sound of everything...

We had set out traveling a few hours before the break of dawn. The sun had risen, and the shadows its pressing rays were casting behind us, had already gotten very small. Thirsty, I asked Aslam how far we were from the next water point. He stopped and pointed forward, replying, “Just after that dune. We are very close. Be patient, brother.”

I nodded, and we resumed our slow advance through a world that was getting increasingly hotter with each passing minute. Focusing on the dune Aslam had pointed to, I tried to ignore a strong wave of fear that had suddenly risen from the gut. Doubt was beginning to cloud my mind. Questions arose. What if this man was wrong? What if there was no water behind the dune? We would die.

As if guessing my thoughts, Aslam looked my way and smiled, “The unknown can be very frightening. But, more often than not the fears it instills are based on negative speculation, on ignorance.”

“How can you be sure there is water behind the dune?” I asked, unable to shake the worry that was draining me of my strength.

Aslam nodded, “If you listen carefully, with an empty mind, you will hear the water. But, first you have to let go of the fear that has nestled in your heart. Once the fear is released, you will have to empty your mind of everything you think you know. Then, and only then will you be able to listen without judgment, without any expectations, and once you can do that, you will hear a sound, like silence, long, almost endless; that is the pulse of the desert. Beneath it, or should I say, flowing over it, you will also hear a variety of pulses, a bit shorter, some softer, some deeper. One of them, soft, gentle, like the breath of a life-giving river is the pulse of water.”

“So you can hear the water?” My voice betrayed my inability to relate to the explanation I had just heard. I had been walking for hours in this desert, and I had yet to spot any other sounds but the ones we were making with our steps, along with the soft whistling of the wind.

“Everything has a pulse, You, me, the wind, the water… Everything. You too can hear this, if you let go of what you think you know. It is the only way. And if you don't believe me, just close your eyes, and listen.”

To be continued…

Others...

It had been over a month since Tamri, and since my first encounter with Aslam. The desert was calling me in, and I didn’t seem to have a choice. Although, according to Aslam, it had been the other way around; it was I who had been calling for the desert, or as he kept on referring to her for ‘Noor.’ Whenever I pressed him for more details, he would withdraw into silence. And there we would sit staring at the horizon, waiting for yet another day to pass.

One day, feeling more restless than usual, I asked him if we were alone, in this place, as I’d never seen anyone else beside him. He shook his head, “Most people end up coming here, sooner or later. Even now, there are thousands and thousands of our brothers and sisters roaming around this area we’re in.”


“How could that be?” I protested, “I haven’t seen anyone.”

Aslam nodded, “You haven’t seen anyone… yet, because you’re not really paying attention. You’re too much in your head.”

“Where are they? Show me, because I am having a hard time believing you,” I said.

Standing up, he raised his arm toward a large dune that had been crossing our field of vision. Resembling a soft edged pyramid, its closest base was a good five hundred meters away from us. I squinted, “Are you sure? I don’t see anyone there.”

“Look into its shadow, and you will see them.”

Trailing behind the dune, the shadow was a wide moving surface of blocked sunlight, which resembled a cut out segment of a skewed ellipse. Within it, once my eyes could focus on the various shades of black-to-grays, I began seeing shapes. It was amazing that I’d missed them, as there were so many of them. There were hundreds of silhouettes, walking in the shade, as if purposefully following the dune.

“Who are they?” I asked.

“People, just like you and I.”

“Where are they going?”

He closed his eyes, as if a sad thought had risen in his mind, “They’re lost.”

“What do you mean?”

“You will see.” There were tears in his eyes, “Soon enough, you will see…”


To be continued…

Samar is her name...

I woke up a few times in this desert, woke up to silence, to the sound of a breathing wind, silently shifting sands, shadows moving like faceless mourners, amidst a slowly moving procession of a departed loved elder, or like priests in ashen robes, lost in thought, walking an old trail, past the familiar walls of a forgotten citadel. And every time, I would see him standing in the distance, a small figure waiting in the distance, the edges of his robe dancing in the wind. So I would wave, and he would come, always as if carried by sand itself. He would greet me with a ‘Salaam,’ and warm smile. And I would greet him back.

In the beginning, hoping to find out who this man was, I asked him a great deal of questions about himself, his family, his tribe, his life. His answers, court and modest, were always forthcoming; he was clearly a man who didn’t need to conceal anything. Aslam was born in the desert, son of a salt trader and camel herdsman, he had followed on the steps of his father’s, as his father had followed on those of his father, and as tradition required, for as long as his people had inhabited this land.

Aslam had started traveling across the desert before learning how to walk. He could read the dunes the way a seasoned scholar could his subject of expertise. He could not only tell where every oasis was, but what the best path was to each one, depending on the time of the moon-year. He could read the stars, and was teaching everything he had learned from his father and from the desert itself to his two sons. Talking to him, I quickly realized how content he was.

Always calm, he spoke with great passion, especially when talking about his wife. “She is the wisest woman in the desert, respected by all. Samar is her name, and she knows every dune by name. She can travel faster than anyone else to the furthest edges of our world. She can heal any disease that ever touched our people. She can quiet sand storms, with her prayers. She can raise the wind with her songs, and when she calls in the clouds, they come in haste. She is a kind neighbor, a caring daughter, a loving mother, and Samar is her name.”

Telling me about his wife, he was brimming with pride, and his eyes were like two shimmering stars. I was moved and tears gathered in my eyes, for I had never heard anyone speak of his companion the way he had.

To be continued...

The first dream -meeting Aslam...

Opening my eyes, I found myself surrounded by the golden dunes of an immeasurably vast desert. A world of shimmering gold and shadows, dancing, moving, and flowing as if the mighty waves of breathing ocean. There was nothing static about this desert. Yet, the area where I was sitting seemed as if unaffected by all this movement.

I could clearly remember having been staring at the ocean a few moments before. Although, whether that experience had been real I could no longer tell, as there was no sign of water as far as my disbelieving eyes could see. Was I dreaming, I wondered, running my hands through the sand. Warm and dry to the touch, it seemed real enough.

I should have panicked, but somehow I didn’t. It was as if I was supposed to be right where I was, even if less than thirty minutes ago, I’d been fighting the ocean for my life. Nothing made sense, but somehow I wasn’t too worried about this lack of continuity in the story that was supposed to explain how I’d arrived in this strange desert.

Lost in my confusion, I almost didn’t seem him. But, from the corner of my eye, I noticed a small figure standing in the distance, atop a tall dune. A shadow of a silhouette, in a canvas of sunlight reflecting sand. He –I refer to his as ‘he’ because as I write this, he and I have already met- was just standing there, facing my direction, not really moving, yet advancing toward me, as if carried by sand.

He was a tall dark man, wearing the turquoise robe of a Tuareg. On his right hand he held a long, and slightly curved, walking stick. He had broad shoulders, the gait of a proud man, a man who had always been free. Illogically, he reached me in what seemed a few seconds, when the distance that had separated us would have required a least good five to ten minute walk. He saluted me with a friendly, “Salam.” Nervously, I returned the salutation, and asked, “Who are you?” He told me his name was Aslam, son of Jamal-Al-Alli, son of Hilal-Al-Layl, hundreds of times over, and until that time when there was nothing but sand and light, and the children of Truth…

Too preoccupied with my present situation, I failed to listen, and interrupted him to ask, “Where am?” He smiled, and his smile was both patient and unrestrained.

“Am I dead?” I swept my right hand in a large arc, in direction to the dry world surrounding us.

“Who knows if we’re dead or alive?” He was calmly looking me in the eyes; in them there seemed to be nothing but peace and understanding.

“Then wh-why am I here?”

“Because you’re looking for Her.” His words cut through me like a sharp blade that hit its target.

“Her?” I repeated, taken aback. I was pretty sure that I hadn’t been looking for anyone, yet somewhere within, his words were stirring some serious emotional unease.

He nodded, “I am here to help you reach Her.”

“Help me reach who?" My words came out, as if brimming with fear.

He spoke slowly, “She has many names. But, you know her as Noor.”

I shook violently. The man wearing a turquoise robe became a blur. The world went pitch black. The desert disappeared. And when I opened my eyes, it was to find my surfing buddies standing over me, with worried looks on their familiar faces. I smiled, and stood up slowly, trying to forget where I’d been, what I’d seen, what I’d heard, hoping, praying that it had all just been a seriously vivid dream the like of which only someone who had almost died could have…

This was the first time I’d dream of the desert. More dreams would come. All different. All as real as the first one.

To be continued…

Inspiration....

There is a story in me I’ve been meaning to share with you, for quite some time, really...

However, wishing it to be in the form of a novel, I found myself waiting for the right time and circumstances to give shape to a narrative that would do this story justice. This, of course, if we were to examine my case, using a magnifying bullshit-free lens, ought to be indicative of a strong tendency toward procrastination and irresponsibility.

Irresponsibility, such a strong word, and a bit harsh might you say, wishing perhaps to come to my defense. Unfortunately, it is a pretty valid one, when I choose to wait for the right time knowing that there is and never will be a guaranty that tomorrow, let alone a tomorrow with the right circum., shall come. Just like you, I know all too well that I should never put off what I want/have/should/ought to do today/now for tomorrow/later. As much as we would like it to be otherwise, the future is nothing but an idea.

Thus, and without further ado, or perhaps because the time has come for me to let go of this story, I’ll begin as one should -from the beginning…

There is a story in I’ve been meaning to share with you. It is a story that is linked to a dream, a recurring dream I first entered over two decades ago, on a day I was supposed to die. It was a beautiful December day, the third one on a trip I had taken with a number of surfing friends to Taghazout and its neighboring beaches. The swell had been too small on that day for most spots, so a couple of buddies and I decided to head to Tamri, which is about 1 hour by bus.

Sure enough, Tamri was delivering that day. But, somehow, what was supposed to be a simple get in, have fun, and get out, turned out to be a whole different adventure, as fifteen minutes after paddling in, I noticed that I was being pulled by a insanely strong rip current, and, that I was alone. All my friends had somehow changed their minds and gone back to the beach, which was no longer an option, as the beach was already receding in the distance. Giving it my best, I paddled in, hoping to get past the current area, but that wasn’t an option.

Exhausted, I stopped paddling and sat on my board, to my right sets were coming, bigger and bigger, to my left, and where the beach had once been, was a vertiginous cliff, against which all waves were breaking –it was high tide. The current was still pulling, and it was taking me toward a jutting out, pretty ugly looking section of the cliff. Sitting, I realized that I had no control over what was to happen to me here. I could no longer fight to stay alive. So I surrendered. I relaxed and began paddling toward the cliff, toward death.

Truly, I was supposed to die, but I guess I was very lucky that day. I was giving another chance. Perhaps, and if you have room for such a thing as a guardian angel/spirit in your belief system, I’d say that mine were busy that day, and that they really would have to love me a great deal to keep on hanging around for me, cause I have to admit that, for as long as I can remember, I haven’t made it easy for them –not the slightest.

Thus, on a beautiful December day, I ended up lying on my back at the edge of a cliff, facing a magnificent ocean, lacerated, bleeding, unable to walk, out of breath, but alive, and it was there that I opened my eyes to find myself in a place unlike anything I’d ever seen before.

To be continued…

Kuala Lumpur, once again...

I’m walking its streets, city of striking contrasts, two worlds tossed into each other, modern Babylon, shimmering glass high-rises, and the down-trodden crawling in squalor, luxury and homelessness frothing at the peripheries, where the unfortunate, the lost have come to suffer, to barely survive. Smiles are scarce, except in the twin towers’ shopping center.

What’s my role in all this? Why do I keep on landing in this polarized mess of hopes, of dreams, scooters, rats, the veil of Islam, the pujas of Hinduism, the call for prayer, the minarets, Chinatown and its thousand food stalls. Little India and it’s colors, Bollywood-style.

Where do I fit, when only I few days ago, I was where I ought to be, where my heart wished to be? A few buses, a train, an airplane, and all of it in less than a day, and here I stand, elsewhere, too far from you, too far from what I believe is right.

Then again, do I know what’s right? I’m as lost as ever, torn, hopeful, worried, determined, confused, a dreamer, a skeptic. To think that only a few moons ago, my world was so healthily-centered, on dawn, the moon, Venus, waves breaking, on a shore of rock and sand, and I was there, heart opened, completely at one with everything that is divine. Go figure….

Paths -concluding dinner time

Returning to the question, “What’s wrong with being alone, independent, self-sufficient…?” a story draws itself within the mind’s synaptic framework. A story almost as old as humanity. A story from long, long ago, witnessed by the stars, and recorded, and told, by the keepers of time -basically, I’m just channeling here.

Once upon a time, on a lush and generous land, lived two tribes whose ways of co-existing with the rest of creation were as different as night is from day. One tribe was settled on a green valley, in a setting that could be described as that of a communal village, surrounded by arable land, at the foot of a wide mountain range and close to a riverbed. The other tribe, if one could call it that, was dispersed on a harder and less fertile ground, along the rising faces of the region’s mountains. The people residing in the valley were known as the tribe of Plenty. The others, belonged to the tribe of Scarcity.

In the village, meal time was a time to share celebrate, and enjoy the fruits of one’s work. There was always plenty to go around, and even if the times were difficult, it still seemed as if there were more than enough for everyone. Around the table, they gathered to give and receive, to share, and to solidify the love that was intrinsic in what they saw was the fabric of creation. Singing was for everyone to enjoy. Elders told stories that strengthened the villagers natural connection with Creation. Children played freely, beyond the reach of greed. The people of Plenty were smiling people. Happy. Relaxed. Thus they ate, and thus they lived.

On the mountainside, there were men and women who lived separated by the topography of their world, people who had little to no contact with the village. Hidden in the shadows, usually in groups of no more than three or four, but mostly as lonely figures, they would hunch down to eat, backs against the wall, always a meager meal, often raw, uncooked so as not to draw attention to oneself by making a fire. They ate nervously. They ate looking over their shoulders, ready to fight to protect their catch. They rarely smiled, never sang. Their faces were hard and tense. Their eyes showed not a hint of kindness or compassion. Thus they ate. Thus they lived. In the tribe of Scarcity, elders never lasted long. Children lived in a world of isolation, greed, fear and anger. And thus, fear, greed and anger were passed from generation to generation.

In the village of Plenty, where hospitality was a way of life, visitors (no matter where they came from, what they looked like, what language they spoke…) were always greeted with welcoming arms and hearts, even those from the tribe of Scarcity, who couldn’t help themselves from stealing food, and whatever they could get their hands on when their hosts weren’t looking. The villagers never minded the repeated thefts; for them it was just stuff. Surely, the mountain people must have needed what they took, otherwise they wouldn’t have taken it. What mattered was that someone could benefit from whatever had disappeared.

For a while, contact was scarce, although, the tribe of Plenty kept its village opened to everyone. But with time, and with word about this naïve people living, defenseless, in opulence, slowly spreading along the mountain slopes, the tribe of Scarcity, having been forcefully united by a strong man, who once was a very frightened and angry child, attacked the neighbors whose way of life it couldn‘t understand.

The pointless attack didn’t last long, but the damage was heavy. Most villagers perished. Violence makes hideous monsters out of those who embrace it. As for the survivors, although battered, frightened, they managed to escaped. A few men. Mostly children, women, and elders. They left their land behind and became wanderers. They walked through forests, deserts, or paddled on small boats across the unknown, always allowing Creation, despite what had happened, to guide them. The tribe of scarcity having destroyed the village lost a friendly neighbor that could have taught them much, and what meager gains were obtained were quickly wasted. Afterwards, it was back to the old ways. Each for himself. No room for weakness. No room for peace. No room for love.

Since then, this story has traveled through time and space, replicating itself ad-infinitum. And as a consequence, the two tribes have migrated, mixed and intertwined their worlds and histories, so that eventually, nothing other than choice can make one belong to one tribe rather than to the other. And, this choice is made, daily, by each and everyone of us, for in each and everyone resides both the seed of Plenty, and Scarcity.

Creation is bound by love. Creation is kept apart by love. Being part of creation, we each have the choice to embrace and be embraced. Or, we can choose to remain apart, create the I, the mine, and the other. Both ways are possible. Both are allowed -through love. Yet, one way is easier and more rewarding…

A few factoids:

1-Following the first exodus of the people of Plenty, a few of their direct descendants can still be seen wandering the earth, a homeless peoples searching for home, suffering the abuse of those in power, or most often, of those who are in need of a scapegoat to take their frustration on. But mostly, the descendants of this tribe, have been totally assimilated in all regions of the globe. They have no distinct look or language to differentiate them from others. Naturally, some of them are having a very hard time to fully participate in today’s consumerist life. In the end, we are all Children of Plenty, that is if we wish it to be so. Otherwise, may as well start wearing the colors of the Scarcity flag.

2-Lao Tzu spent time in the village of Plenty. There, he learned and wrote about the Way.

3-Buddha stumbled upon the village of Plenty, where Love thy brother/hospitality is the Way, and after a prolonged stay, walked out looking as some statues depict him today -you know, the laughing Buddha.

4-A man named Jesus is said to have spend a few years studying the way of Plenty, thus honing his catering management skills to miraculous levels.

5-And if you have a problem with any of it, remember, ‘Don’t shoot the messenger’, is a good one to meditate on.

6-This could go nicely along a good history book teaching creationism, or maybe not...

On a less spiritual note: Assessing my Vibrams

Yes, I bought Vibrams FiveFingers, you know those thin and funky looking shoes, with the insertions made for each one of your toes, and, and let’s not forget the technology to keep them from sticking -says the brochure/booklet. It was an investment; wanted something to handle the myriad terrains of India.

A few months later, I am ready to give my honest opinion on this finely marketed product of sportswear's latest. Here it comes: Light and easy to store in a backpack is about the only good thing I can say about them. Otherwise, there was the excitement of wearing them the first couple of time.

It is without a hint of exaggeration that I say Vibrams have succeeded in failing me on more occasions than I would have imagined in my best skeptic's mindset. A twelve kilometer walk on the tarred roads of Goa, a simple stroll from Agonda to Patnem to be precise, wearing my Vibrams, ended with an impressive blister, the like of which should warrant a great deal of motherly attention.

Using them at the beach was a huge mistake. Sand gets in, and then if they get wet, good luck getting the sand from them. And what is the problem with having sand in the Vibrams, well for one thing, it does a great job at scratching one’s skin, especially around the Achilles. But that is no big deal -right?

Now, where I really needed them to deliver was on rocky terrains, such as one might find around a waterfall, or just the sort of terrain one expects to encounter walking up a mountain path, such as that of Arunachala -a tar and rock, man-made path, rising upwards at mostly, at a gentle slant. Let’s just say that Vibrams not only provide very little cushion for the descent, but they also are more slippery than bare-feet could ever be on wet rocks, and even more so when they’re wet.

Also, they do stink. The shoe expert/salesman, from a specialized store, assured me that they are made so as not to produce odors. However, if such odors did begin to make themselves at home within these fine works of futuristic footwear, both salesman and booklet recommended that I wash them, and then throw them in the dryer for a spin. Now, guess how often I came across a washing machine, let alone one with a dryer, while in India? The answer is, I bet you got it right, zero, zilch, not once.

But, and so as not to be unfair, I’ll say that there was something good about my Vibrams. What? Might you ask, perplexed to no end. Well, they did attract loads of unnecessary attention, whenever I wore them in India. So if you enjoy being the center of the universe, and you plan on being in India, then these are the shoes for you.

And to finish this assessment, the ultimate question: Would I buy them again, if I had the opportunity to play with the wheels of time? I think not.

Be well, and be kind to your feet -give them a nice massage, or just a rub, every now and then.

Happy feet on the path

P.S: The mad teacher laughing at my feet, shakes his head, and says how about getting back on the path. The heart is hungry for the Divine, and you're talking shoes.

Paths -dinner time

I stop at a place to have dinner. Sit a table right in the middle of the dinning hall. In front of me a woman in her mid-seventies is eating alone. Hands on the table. Legs held together as tightly as lips. Looking at her plate, she rarely smiles. The back is straight and the face is sad. I want to join her, but feel the moment is past. Silly how I didn’t notice awkwardness as it joined me at the table.

I check the menu and place my order. Something easy. Now it’s a matter of just waiting. To my left, sits a man, alone, bald and round at the waist, maybe in his late sixties. He’s handling his meal quickly, glancing every now and then around him, as if worried he might miss something important, or juicy. I see him fitting better in an Irish pub, with friends around, laughing and joking.

The woman is eating, and so is the man. My mind starts working, wants to play cupid. A match-maker, what a great idea, says my heart, without wasting a second to consider the thought. The food arrives, I put the pen down and fold my piece of paper. In it are all the sentences I’ve 'doodled' since I arrived. Nothing important, nothing worth revisiting.

The woman is eating, and so is the man. Her posture is too tight. His, too lax. Enveloped in their respective loneliness, they refuse to look at each other. The other tables are of no help, and cupid forgot his arrows tonight. To my right are four Spanish girls, early twenties, having a closed conversation over a popular Ipad; things to see and do, planning the future, agreeing and arguing.

The woman is still eating, and the man is already done. He’s short, bold and round, with I know a heart of gold. She’s shy, introverted and too worried about breaking the rules, with I know enough kindness, held within her, to drown the whole world.

My food arrives, and Cupid says he’s hungry. Behind me sits a young man. Tall traveler. He’s eating alone. What is it with this place? So much space separating us all, what’s it for? Why do we close our hearts to the world? Why do we hide in our tiny little bubbles? Wish I could burst them all. One by one if I have to. Although I know that’s infringing on your rights, meddling as you might want to call it. So tonight, I’ll start with mine. I’ll burst it again. Sure, it will form again, and again. I know that. I know. But, cupid is here, and that what he does. That’s what he loves. Otherwise, why carry arrows -when he does actually carry his arrows?

Going through this note a second time, putting myself behind someone else's reading glasses, I want to ask, “What’s wrong with being alone? With being self-sufficient and autonomous? What wrong with wanting privacy? With wanting space? What’s wrong with being strong, independent ? What’s wrong with being an island?” As far as I am concerned, the answers are clearly one and the same...

To be continued.

Paths -a story (Part 2)

And looking at his reflection, on this pool of water that had been waiting for him to arrive on a rock of an island, the shape of eye, the man said, Thought I knew myself pretty well. Thought I was a catch and more than that. But when I took a real look at myself I saw nothing but lies, a fraud, a fake, a master at wearing disguise after disguise. I’ve been pretending for so long, no one knows me. I don‘t even know myself. So much wasted time and energy, building a life of lies. Looking at my reflection, he said, I saw that I was nothing but a hollow man, worthless. That’s what I saw, and it is no way to be. The man shook his head, So I decided right there and then to fix my life, drop all the masks, to let go of all pretenses, and just be whomever I happen to be. Be true. True to myself. Yes, I decided to do things right, once and for all.

The man chuckled and pointed at the massive mountain behind him, But you see, it’s not that simple. Everything has a price, including all those lies, all that pretending, all that dishonesty, everything I’ve sown along the pathways of my past. They have to be answered to. It is my debt. It is my load, this mountain you see here, to clear out. Make it disappear. Erase all of it. Recycle. Yes, recycle. So I carry it along as I go. I know, there is so much of it. But, I have nothing but time to take care of it. One handful at a time. That’s all there is to it.

Having said that, he smiled, eyes deep as the night, serene and filled with hope, thrust his hand into the mountain, pulled out a handful, and began to eat. Tears welled up in my eyes. I wished I could help. But what could I do? What could I say? And it was then that I remembered a dream I’ve had a few nights ago. A strange dream. A dream that seemed clearer than reality. A woman, dressed in white, surrounded by a sea of wailing and crying people who seemed to be coming from everywhere, converging towards her, spirals of humanity, in total despair, while she remained in the center, calm, smiling and singing, receiving it all with, I could feel it, love, taking it all in, removing burdens, erasing debts, giving love, giving love.

Following my intuition, I spoke of the woman. Immediately, upon hearing my narrative, the man jumped to his feet and began dancing. I asked him what warranted such reaction. And he laughed, until tears began flowing from his joyful eyes. Then, after calming his breath, he proceeded to explain. He said, Strangely enough, I had the same dream, more than a year ago, and having inquired about its meaning at many a teacher’s feet, I came upon a beggar who had shared a meal with a caravan of travelers headed East, past the desert, to join the silk road, which was to lead them this woman. Since then, I've been on a quest to reach her.

Hearing this, a wave of joy overtook me. My heart expanded, and love, love born in the shape of and eagle of pure light, tore my ribcage into thousands of little shards, shimmering crystals embedded in the walls of a dark cave, a sky of burning stars on a moonless night. I embraced this stranger whom I felt I knew better than many friends and acquaintances. I thanked him for his honesty, wishing him success on his journey, bid him farewell, and got back on the road, for each has a journey, and all lead back to Her.

To be continued

Places and faces

Walking, walking,
Along places and faces,
Reminding me of spaces filled with love.
Filled with memories of you and I.
Sweetness in the air,
Walking along the river of our dreams,
Your laughter and a smile.
Gazing at the stars,
The moon watching over us.

Walking, walking through busy streets,
Along places and faces reminding me of spaces,
Filled with love,
Memories, sweet memories,
Dancing in my head,
Spinning, spinning,
Spinning me around,
The sound of your voice,
The taste of your lips,
Birds watching over us.

And I am walking, walking through a city,
Lost in the scent of you,
Lost in your eyes,
Falling,
Falling deep,
Falling for you, in
Memories of you and I.
Music all around us
No chaperons to watch over us.
Just you and I,
And the night watching over us.


Walking, walking by,
Couples and lonesome figures,
Along places and faces,
Reminding me of spaces,
Filled with love,
Filled with you and I.
And I keep on falling for the two us,
Strand by strand,
Lost in your hair.
Your skin and mine.
The scent of you.
Sweetness in the air,
And angels watching over us.

Walking, walking,
Through so much love.
Memories of you and I.
Longing, falling,
Falling,
In downward spirals.
Choices made.
Broken promises.
We say good-bye.
We say good-bye.
A rainy day,
Heaven's crying over us.

Walking, alone in the night,
Reaching for strands of you and I,
Floating through places and faces,
Reminding me of spaces,
Filled with love,
Memories of you and I...
Sweet raindrops,
Always falling,
Heavenly teardrops,
Always falling.
And I go on walking,
Through spaces filled
With you and I.

Barber shop visit

Eying my messy beard, I thought that a bit of a trim was needed. So, I stopped at a barber’s I’ve been passing on my daily bicycle excursions around the same neighborhoods of my Chiang Mai. Could have gone to a, modern looking, 'western-styled' salon, but feeling adventurous, I parked the bike and got in.

From underneath a dust, or in this case hair, mask, holding scissors and I couldn't really tell what else, the barber invited me to have a seat in his waiting area. The TV was on, and there was a man lying almost horizontally on a proper barber’s chair. Nicely covered with white towels, he was chatting while being worked on. From the look of it, it seemed that there wasn’t much left to do there. Of course, I was wrong, very wrong.

This barber took his time, passing the razor’s sharp edge on areas of the face, the forehead for example, I didn’t realize should warrant a visit from such a awe-inspiring instrument of grooming, or in the hands of recklessness, slicing and dicing. Then scissors went into the nose. The light of a serious lamp was directed to the ears, and unknown tools of the trade appeared. The work was extremely meticulous, and without the slightest sign of haste. One ear at the time. All over each earlobe, and in he went, with long tweezers, and the cotton covered tip of a fine sort of scrapper -looked very much like a tiny antenna.

Forty-five minutes had passed, and I was beginning to worry about my choice. But, I stuck around, and sure enough my turn came, and I walked voluntarily to the chair. In a few words, the barber asked me what it was I was expecting, and I tried to explain that I just, emphasis on just here, wanted him to use his electric buzzer on my beard and mustache. And following a short back and forth volleying of numbers, mostly, 1 and 2, we agreed that he would use a number 1 on the beard, and a 2 on the sideburns. Thus, the world seemed to be a perfect place, filled with understanding and clarity.

Pop went the lever, and flip went the chair. Horizontal position. Surely, I trust this fine man, I thought, in my rather vulnerable position. Although, and in the spirit of honesty, the corner of my right eye was fixated on the drawer where those ear instruments had been stored -you just never know. Anyway, the operations went as follow: Towels. Nothing out of the ordinary. The buzzer. Still fine. Trim. Trim. Trim. Fine. Fine. Fine. Repeat. Still okay. Then came a pause. The barber moved closer to his work bench, and proceeded to prepare himself for the next leg of our journey together.

Thus was applied a substance on the face, along the jaw line, along the inner and outer outlines of the beard, under the nose, above and beneath the lips. The blade came next. First shave for this customer, I wanted to share, but the language barrier wouldn’t permit. So I sat quietly, buzzing with excitement. Excitement lasted for a while, but then, it just had to give way to a sense of wait-a-minute-what’s-going-on-here -I know you’re a perfectionist, a fine craftsman, one might even say, an ‘artiste,’ but I have a tad suspicion that you’ve been going at it with that razor of yours for quite some time now, I mean, and although, I can’t see what you’re up to, I can feel that blade of yours going places where it wasn’t expected, so, what’s the deal?


Needless to say, half an hour later, the chair was raised and I found myself staring at the reflection of a Karim who came looking like a Jesus wanna-look-alike, and was going to leave with a fine very Asia sort of look -go figure. So, with a smile, I paid my dues, said thank you, and walked out of my first Barber experience.

Be well, and when on the unfamiliar path, stay cool and don’t sweat the small stuff.

New look in Chiang Mai

Paths -a story (Part 1)

Walking down the road, I came across a man seated at the foot of a great mountain. Eyes closed, he nodded. I said hello. Invited me to sit in. So, I laid down my bags, and, joined this stranger seated at the foot of a mighty mountain.

After a little while, of nothing but silence, he opened his eyes. Deep like the night. Serene and filled with hope. I said, how goes it, brother? He nodded again, and with a gesture honed by repetition, dug into the mountain, pulled out a handful, took a long look at the dirt he was holding, before putting the stuff in his mouth.

For a while, I sat there, in nothing but the sound of his chewing and swallowing, not really knowing what to make of what was happening. So, when he opened his eyes. Deep like the night. Serene and filled with hope. I went and asked him, what’s your story, brother? He said, Wanna hear it? I said, Sure do. The man cleared his throat, and with his right hand, drew a stick figure on the ground, right next to his feet.

There was a man who thought a great deal of himself. You know that kind of man, believes himself better than the rest of the world. Seen him, I bet, walking around, wearing his confidence and pride, like a badge of honor, and as if he owned the whole of life. Royalty without a crown, you know. Well, one day, that man who thought so much of himself, was walking on a low bridge to cross a river. Being in no hurry, he stopped in the middle and leant over the rail to gaze at the water.

The water was flowing slowly. It was so clear and clean, it invited him to jump in. So, without hesitation, our man took off his clothes, and jumped. There was a splash and then laughter, followed by cries of a playful nature. The man swam, and floated on his back, allowing himself to be carried by the river, without any worry for time -it was after all a beautiful day. There is no telling how long he stayed in the water, or how far he was taken. But, at some point, he reached a small island, which had the unlikely shape like an eye that was staring at the sky, set at equal distance from both banks. The island’s length was that of a tall man or woman.

Unable to resist the temptation, our man swan to this eye-shaped island, got off the water, and sat on golden sand spread thinly over a hard surface. The island was actually a large bolder. The top part, on which he was sitting, was fairly smooth and flat. Except for an area that had a perfectly circular dip on it. It was the size of a large vinyl record, hollow, concave, looked just like a bowl, and was filled to the brim with water. The man had sat right next to it.

Looking into the bowl, the man found his reflection, and thought to himself, Hey, look who’s here? He smiled, feeling on top of the world. A success story. He looked again. The smile faded, and a question arose, Really? It shook him from within, from head to toes. It demanded an answer. It demanded the truth.

Startled, our man looked away. But the question had been asked, and the iris was still there, unavoidable. The man looked again...

To be continued…

Chiang Mai walking...

Mid-morning hour, took the new birkenstok sandals, 300 Thai bhats, for a test-stroll. A stop at the railway station to change my departure train ticket to a later date. Then, off I go, camera at hand, to play tourist.

Meandering, I'm shooting randomly, at temple facades, and whatever else catches the eye. The mood is light, and, so is traffic. Slowly, I start feeling the beginning of a blister. It's been a few hours now since I left the guest-house.

Walking, the sky is clear, and the sun is settling nicely overhead, leading to a few stops at pretty available 7 Elevens for re-hydrating breaks. Afterward, a much-needed toilet stop -traditional style. Mosquitoes take advantage.

Walking through lunch time, siesta time. Blister growing. Time to head back. A watermelon, 30 bhats, purchased last night at a street market, waiting in the fridge, comes to mind.

Following pathways drawn by shade on sidewalks, staying close to walls and trees and business awnings, avoiding as much as possible the perpendicular touch of sun-rays, I advance.

Walking, through Chiang Mai's main shopping district, past Le Meridien, across the street from Starbucks. Grounds' cleaning hotel employee carrying a cat. Homeless, bed-ragged woman sitting at the corner, makes eye-contact, lazily raises a hand, moving her lips as if to say something.

Walking, I turn the corner, the hotel's employee is still carrying the cat, searching for something. On the sidewalk, street vendors are getting ready, and so are the shop owners. Along the way, Thai pop music is blaring out of a store. The bars are open, prostitutes seated quietly inside.

Walking, I pass tourists, young, old. Some smile. Crossing the street, I'm following an gray haired westerner, cellphone in one hand, tooth-pick in the other. Passing him, I watch, his hands move, over and over, as if from a nervous tick, or maybe, he's just strumming some invisible string...

Walking, along the river, brown, with a few kayak enthusiasts slipping by, racing one another, I cut across a couple of markets, through pars and bits of Chiang Mai, past a thousand Thai smiles, glances, gestures, words, conversations, laughs, past dozens of gilded temples, hundreds of quiet alleys, shops, massage parlors, restaurants, bars, whatever-you-might-think-of-and-more street vendors, cooked food stalls, fresh fruit stalls, tourist traps, travel agencies, crafts worthy of Ali Baba's cave, a million necklaces, colors, clothes ready to wear, bright fabrics to be fashioned as you wish, a brown river, trees, flowers, a few mountains looming in the distance, and closer to my feet, food offerings to the gods of good fortune, from rice to beer, from two simple items to a full menu.

I walk on, getting closer to my room. The new sandals have failed the test, and can now join ranks with the disappointing Vibrams I had brought from home. A seamstress with a shop on the sidewalk smiles. I bow, turn at the corner and enter the guest house.

Be well, and if you can remember, walk lightly, walk with a smile, walk with love.

P.S: The watermelon is sweeter than should be permitted. But like the walk, it is missing the magic of company. And, as the mad teacher goes on singing, "Seek solitude as you wish, oh Fool.. In the end, if you ever wake up, it is within the give-and-take of love with others that you really are home."

Did I ever mention...

That somewhere within lies a mad teacher, a bit impatient, a bit tired of explaining the obvious, a bit done repeating himself, a bit ready to reach for the proverbial stick -I think he's Japanese. Luckily, he is a loving master, whose patience towards me is a bottomless sea of the stuff, even if he wouldn't admit it if it were to save his wrinkly skin.

I mention this, because, during these last couple of months, while wandering through a world of darshans and satsangs, of avatars and gurus, I've noticed and been abducted/consumed by, an interesting phenomenon; nothing new really... Actually, the story is as old as woman/man's desire to understand her/himself, and why not find out whatever the meaning of this-thing-we-call-life could possibly be.

And to sum it up, so as not to insult your ability to put one and one together, my lunatic of a teacher stated, borrowing his words from another mad know-it-all, without taking his dreamy gaze from his favorite pond of quietude, where I suspect he does indulge in quite a deal of skinny-dipping when I am not looking, "Don't mistake the finger for the moon, hey."

Noticing my with-all-due-respect-what-the-huh-are-you-talking-about look, he kindly proceeded as follows, "Especially if the finger thinks he/she/it is the moon. Got it?!"

Then, and just to add confusion to confusion, he laughed, a roar of a laughter, until the earth and the sky began to shake -obviously I am exaggerating- concluding, "And never forget that when you believe that you're seeing fingers and moons, when you operate in duality, you can crave for the message if that's your style.

Or, you can high-jack the message and become a middleman between the light and the seeker. Although, and in my oh-so demented opinion, why waste your time being a profiteering finger trying-so-damn-hard-to-pass-for-that-big-old-moon, when you already are the whole starlit sky.

Be well, and if you're up for it, let us drop all middle men, and be the moon, the stars, and while we're at it, all that stuff we can't see

Gazing skyward on a clear night

Sean Hayes - Never Alone

Hope...

From a distance, news of social unrest reach our ears. Throughout the globe, the wind of transformation is reshaping the fabric of nations one at a time, gathering momentum, growing stronger. Sporadically, sparks are flying, and who knows where all this energy might lead us. Perhaps, the time is simply ripe for humanity, as a whole, to let go and take a leap of faith.

Traveling, I see much hope in what is to come. Wherever I happen to be, and no matter the cultural background I skim through, a constant remains. Today’s youth are moving with open-minds, and a bewildering ability to receive, adapt and be flexible whatever comes their way. On a quest, unburdened by the rigid framings of intellectual truisms, such as the ones that had shaped and limited those before them, they’re searching, graceful and honestly, for that which they have been denied, a grounding truth.

Born and raised in times of constantly shifting fads, of short-lived fabrications, of collapsing beliefs, of broken systems, and in continuously leading-to-dissatisfaction consumerist lifestyles, they have been toyed with, used and taken advantage of, and even today, marketing strategists are continuing to refine their craft in order to make a generous profit.

Yet, and somehow, these last couple of decades’ youth are coming around. Being conditioned to seek palpable pleasures through products tied to images of success, happiness, and even bliss, only to be disillusioned again, again, has somehow turned to their advantage, for they are naturally connected to the present moment, even if in the beginning the connection is mostly superficial.

Traveling, I meet them, and there is so much depth, and so much promise in their eyes. They come from all over the globe, to blend with ease, for theirs is a globally tied culture, where everything is possible. The rules and presented-truths of their world have changed too often, as if written on sand rather than on stone; nothing can hold them from receiving, from experiencing, and hence, from finding out what is truth and what isn’t.

Looking into their eyes, I am humbled and deeply touched by their openness, as I see all the paradigms of old, all the systems based on scarcity and fratricide that have stemmed from these fear-based ways of living, which are leading us to the brink of very dire times, crumbling, falling apart, for there is no room for them in the world of whomever is really opened to live, and be in the truth. So I have hope, because, while we once talked and discussed, and dreamt and envisioned our utopias, they are here to do and be.

Today, this is happening at the fringes, and of course, there will be resistance. But soon enough, it seems, the wind of change will pick up speed, as it is already doing, and we can either resist, and be broken, or allow ourselves to be transformed, with grace and compassion for one another. Maybe, I am just a naïve idealist… whatever the case, I truly believe that the time of ‘What’s in it for me’, is coming to a end, and soon, soon, we’ll have to join hands and hearts, be brothers and sisters, a big family, a global family, and what better time than this time.