Heart Lotus

Kane Learns To Skate

2011-12-30T15:01:00.000-08:00

Today, a little Goderich boy named Kane had ice skates strapped to the bottoms of his tiny feet for the very first time. On this lazy afternoon he was attempting to propel himself forward like millions of other Canadians have done for more than 100 years. As he was prepared for the event, sitting with his family in the hardwood bleachers of the arena, he was poised to join the sacred, almost universal fraternity of Canadian skaters.

This precious historic moment was safely nestled in the glowing period that lolls between the two towering winter holidays, of Christmas and New Years. A golden opportunity had opened up in the life of this preschooler. It consisted of a fortuitous convergence of opportunity, motivation, and timing. Some of which belonged to him and yet much more belonged to the inevitable force and momentum of the Canadian psyche.

The critical elements also included, besides available ice, competent coaches and trainers for this operation to succeed. This was fulfilled quite nicely by the attentive encouragement and support of his parents and the appearance of a bonus Uncle, as added backup, should the coaching breakdown in any way. The most important ingredient in all of this was of course a pair of brand new skates. Provided no doubt by the recent visit of Santa, who had either brought skates fresh from the North Pole or the local Canadian tire store.

Kane, to his credit, had already clearly mastered all the standard problems associated with humans primary mode of locomotion, namely walking. Was he ready to adventure forward into the more challenging world of skating was another matter. I never had much of a discussion with his folks, but my guess was that they had simply decided that today was the appropriate moment to test the waters, or rather the ice. Regardless, this day, Wednesday December 29th had been anointed as the proud moment when Kane, regardless of the outcome, was going to stride forward in his life and officially take part in the great Canadian past time, skating.

There are a little over 34 million of us stretched across this vast country. The number of indoor rinks has been calculated to be roughly around 2500, depending upon which census you look at, or believe. When you factor in as well the countless frozen ponds and lakes that are created, when the heel of the frosty winter boot strikes down hard upon our 10 provinces. The opportunities to strap on sharp steel onto your feet and fly across expanses of frozen water in this country of ours is tremendous.

Skating in 1884 Montreal

This day at the arena there were skaters of all shapes and sizes. For most regular working folks the slender window of Christmas vacation had already been knocked away faster than if it had been struck by the blade of a Wayne Gretzky slap shot. So the number of older folk noodling around were misfits and ne're-do-wells much like myself. I confess to be one who only infrequently straps on skates. Besides the pleasure of it all I also have to endure an annoying inner conflict whenever I do find an opportunity to skate. It is a simple dialogue between my body and heart that goes something like, "boy this is fun and, wow, there is a pain beginning to erupt in my floppy ankles that I haven't felt since last winter, when I swore I would never do this again."

So simply said it was a kidapalooza at the arena. Lots of tykes with new hockey helmets and dreams of pucks, goals and the tantalizing allure of the NHL. Brightly dressed little girls who were exploring new spins and perhaps hoping for confidence and talent that they just might be the next Barbara Ann Scott. The arena air itself was filled with a heady blend of boundless energy, giggles, and just a few groaning aches of those like myself. We older folk who still held not too distant memories of that magic time when tiredness did not even exist in our once effortless young lives.

I was enjoying all the action whizzing around and about me but it was clear that Kane was perhaps the star attraction today. He was the smallest little boy by far of all the kids. I couldn't help but imagine that this day would most likely be one that he might never forget. Certainly his entourage would not forget. As they all masterminded and coaxed this marvelous moment, and occasionally snapped pictures with a small digital camera.

The learning process proceeded through several distinct phases. The first was the Dad holding Kane gingerly upright and skating backward. This was observed by an arena full of folk who clearly remembered their own awkward right of passage into skating proficiency. Kane seemed nonplussed by his apparent inability to even stand upright little alone make forward progress.

Then, just when it seemed that the laws of physics and biomechanics were simply not going to get the job done, modern technology was brought in. Yes, it was time for the dreaded last resort, the red plastic slidy stand. Which oddly enough seemed to provide no more advantage than the less practical but emotionally more supportive arms of Dad. It was evident after some time that the learning curve for Kane's tender was going to be skewed onto a date in the not too distant future. Eventual success of course was virtually inevitable in this skating crazed country of Canada.

After many minutes of not making any visible progress there was a welcome time out moment. Kane's uncle stepped in and broke his nephew's seeming inertia and lack of progress. He simply scooped the little fellow up in his arms and zipped around the arena. It was only then that Kane could feel that familiar rush of delight that all skaters enjoy. Have the cool air brush past his cheeks, feel the strides of strong legs churning in a long familiar motion under him, and hear the rhythmical swish swish of his uncle's skates slicing across the ice.

Throughout Kane's foray into the new and daunting world of skating, I never noticed even an iota of a change of expression in his zen like gaze. No joy and yet no fear or frustration either. Perhaps the whole experience was simply overwhelming, a mix of mystery and wonder. As well neither did he speak a word, utter a cry or laugh with glee. It was all very puzzling, difficult, but also perhaps he felt the not too distant pleasures of the sport teasing and tempting him. That perhaps in just a few more days and weeks he would be able to conquer it all on his own.

Pretty soon I had had enough or at least my ankles had. Kane was posing for a few more photos and his folks were no doubt planning some new strategy or just going to bide their time. Wait for nature and growth to provide a little more tweaking of his neural muscular pathways. Before I left, his folks gave me their camera to take a picture of the little family on this historic day.

An irresistable temptation got the better of me and I found myself asking them if they thought Kane might one day become a hockey player or perhaps a figure skater. Dad said simply, that Kane was not destined for gliding glory on the ice. Instead he insisted, Kane was certain to find his rightful success in another sport, golf.

Christmas Lights: Beyond the Glow

2011-12-23T13:53:00.000-08:00

My Greek neighbors live in a sturdy red house directly across the street from me. They are practical folk who have lived in this neighborhood a lot longer than I have. We have never talked much, but I have noticed over the years in a smattering of brief conversations, that their accent is still pretty strong, despite no doubt many years in America and many years in their tidy red house.

The neighborhood has no doubt changed a whole lot since they first moved here. At one time the street probably had lots of other Greek families, but now just a few grudging holdouts further up the block. The street now is a spicy blend of humanity. Next door to them is a family from Bangladesh, across a family from Guyana, and the diverse ingredients of the neighborhood soup just goes on and on. The little world that is 160 st has changed a lot even in the time that I have been there. Because they are such rock solid people I really no longer take much notice of them. In the winter they scoot inside quickly like everybody else on chilly days.

Today I stopped to take note and a picture of their Christmas display. For all I know they have plugged in the same decorations since 1973, or maybe they put them up for the first time this year. Under oath I couldn't really say. I have never really noticed much of what they did over except when they sit in those aluminum folding chairs. As for their little display, I kind of like its simplicity actually. It is just a small pool of sparkle on this the longest darkest night of the year. Gratefully it is really mild and so the misery of darkness doesn't feel so bad.

Because it was so mild I thought I would go out and explore other displays of Christmas lights. I meandered over into Jamaica Estates where I heard about this place that was by rumored to be off the charts. I really wasn't quite sure where it was, so my jogging route followed some unexpected twisting and turning down other wise dark streets. Then, almost as though being startled by a search light, I caught a glimpse of the tree, saturated with brilliant lights against the dark. Blazing against a pitch black moonless sky and just seeming to be endlessly pouring unearthly brightness into the void. It was late afternoon and yet night was fully upon us. It was shocking just how much stuff, lights, Santas, and every conceivable holiday image was on display around this gigantic corner house. Most of the decorations were bright stationary colorful tableaus, but lots of characters were dancing and moving, particularly the multiple Santas. It all looked like some transplanted Disney theme park, with just the right complimentary music and ho ho hos emanating from carefully planted speakers.

Cars were pushing onto the street already and kids, old ladies, and folks of every description were spilling out onto the narrow street with cameras already fired up and slack jawed wonder plastered across their faces. They couldn't believe it and neither could I. For a few minutes I took some pictures and just stared like everyone else. I assume that in a few hours more the street would be plugged solid with others also wanting to get their Christmas spirit charged up, or perhaps get ideas of how they could improve their own displays. It is hard to imagine anybody topping this one for pure extravagance and yet it somehow all worked together. It was certainly not created by some amateur hobbyist. It was all clearly put together by someone who had an ample imagination, budget, and tremendous storage space. The one touch that inspired me most, was the simplest part of the display. A sign high above the house that said, "Peace on Earth," hard to argue with that.

It is a couple of miles away and as I ran back I thought about all those lights and the solstice with its darkness. I am pretty sure that early pagan people probably figured out pretty early on that when the long dark winter set in they really wanted to encourage the sun to come back and warm the place back up again. Maybe if you tried to throw light into the darkness you could invite the sun to return, like priming a reluctant pump. No matter what we do however nature and the calender cycle is simply going to do its own thing and come around in its own good time.

When I got home I took another look at the Greek house and stopped to enjoy the lights again. Just a minute, that was enough. I was glad that the Greeks were my neighbors and not the folks with the xmas extravaganza for a house. If you lived even a block from that place life must be a nightmare until they turn the whole thing off in January. There can't be any peace for the rest of the neighbors for endless traffic jammed weeks. If you lived across the street the light is so bright it could almost beam laser like through the walls or curtains.

I might go by again some time but somehow I don't think so. The pictures I took are more than enough. If I am short of any Christmas cheer I will step out of my very dark house and gaze across the street, into the little pool of brightness, that the Greeks are offering. I just have to remember to look over before 10pm, after that their house disappears once again into darkness.

World Harmony Run Sudaji Bali

2011-04-12T16:40:00.000-07:00

It was just a tiny inconspicuous speck on the map. It hardly seemed like it was worth the effort, to take the long and rambling drive in order to get there. Still, a World Harmony Run was going to take place, and these events always have the unique capacity to open doors and generally inspire and surprise you in ways you could not ever imagine.

The trip there though meant trundling for several hours over the mountainous Balinese terrain, in an on again off again rain storm. The day was so damp and gloomy I began to feel my enthusiasm gradually diminish with each new bump and sharp turn. There were moments when I thought, that if there was going to be a silver lining to the long drive there, the cloud was taking its time to reveal its hidden dazzling charm.

The Bali roads are narrow and winding and even a half hour trip on them can seem so long, little alone one that smothered us for several hours in a soupy fog. On the map least ways, Sudaji Bali was a miniscule dot surrounded by miles of undulating green. It is far, far from all the pristine beaches, and it is not serenely tucked beneath the rim of a silent volcano. The scenery is not manicured or extraordinary by Bali standards, and it has no picturesque temples or monkey forests. It has never been featured as a must see place in Lonely Planet guide books.

It is not a place I had ever heard talked about, and if I were really asked to describe it now, there really isn't much to say, other than, you must go and see it for yourself.

There will always be those who come along and say about extraordinary places, "oh you should have seen it way back then." The first visitors to Egypt's pyramids probably uttered something like that several thousand years ago, as did those who staggered off the Mayflower at Plymouth Rock. This phrase comes along each generation to describe the presumed diminishing charms of places in which no doubt visitors first passed out in awe the moment they stepped off the gang plank of a trans pacific steamer. Bali has long been featured, and rightly so, in song and tales as a place of unique beauty and charm. I am quite sure that if even it were invaded by millions of pawing panting tourists, that they could never ever diminish entirely, its pristine allure or its special charm.

In a way, to describe Sudaji as a lonely green hilltop is not too far from the truth. It is a little sacred nook, in which camera clicking, beer drinking, souvenir buying tourists have yet to come. It is a place so far, unspoiled by the outside world, and it is in this simplicity and authenticity that it reminds us all of an unspoiled paradise, in which you just might feel you are the very first to come. I happened to meet a transplanted Irishman named John Martin there and he enthusiastically described Sudaji as, "it is virgin territory."

When we first turned up the road to the town we could tell we were at the right spot. There was a row of men in crisp white shirts getting ready to play their instruments.

Click to hear greeting music

There are always many paths laid out in front of us. Most times our choices appear limitless, or sometimes this is what we perceive to be the reality. When we seem to tumble down some rocky slope, we wish so much that we had taken another route, and yet perhaps the bump has made us wiser and stronger. Later, when such a thing comes along to tempt is us again, we may be less willing to go that way.

When participating in the World Harmony you are always offered an opportunity to have a powerful new experience. It will be one in which you can always trust, that not only are you most assuredly adding to the forward progress of your life journey, but also perhaps doing something positive for the world at large.

The event that day in Sudaji was one that was somehow simpler than the simplest, and yet at the same time, an all embracing heart felt spectacular.

Once the run began, the route wondered up and down narrow lanes and trails.

At each stop small trees were planted, songs sung, games played, and everyone included in some way.

It is hard to say what it all meant, to a place that seemed so far removed from the rest of the busy world. To be part of the World Harmony Run doesn't require much. Run along with torch as best you can, and if the route is just too hard walk a ways as well.

For the littlest ones it all may appear so new and so big and yet they just might feel the greater world beyond their doors. Maybe feel that peace can fill the world once and for all.

Atulya was one of the main organizers of the event in this wonderful little town.

At one point I let the torch and all the runners disappear down some narrow lane. I wanted to explore some of the quiet nooks and corners of Sudaji. A little boy trying to fish.

Some dancers getting ready to perform at one of the ceremonies.

A boy seeing someone very strange wandering by his home, and his dog protecting.

Young rice so green and vibrant you can almost feel it grow.

So many unexpected things took place during my short visit so Sudaji. A procession of some kind.

Smiles from those who were genuinely pleased to see us and the faces of those who have seen so very very few strangers to their world.

Some who had little time for play but who could still offer a smile while they worked hard.

John Martin tells me simply, "there are no tourists here. When you walk around the streets you will see it in the kids faces. Some will run away." He is clearly concerned how any kind of development will affect this rare unspoiled place.

He himself had only been here 5 months. What drew him to the place was an opportunity for some spiritual training. He loves the place so much that he now has his 2 children enrolled at a local school. He tells me that they love it so much here that they don't want to leave and go back to Ireland. He calls himself, "a full time babysitter."

He says, "I came here with purposes, and those purposes were thrown out. Bali decides what it is going to do with you, and what it needs you to do. Those who come here for the right reason stay here, and end up helping."

Click to play John Martin interview

I am far away now and months have passed. Yet as I once again go over the pictures I took that grey Monday in Sudaji the soulful tranquility of that special day all returns. I know how much I was inspired by its peace and beauty. I hope that perhaps, that all those we met there, just might remember the World Harmony Run as well. Feel that during our brief visit they could touch the world with their own unique peace, and share for just a little while, paradise with their world family.

THE SOUL OF PARADISE

You have thought
Good thoughts.
Lo, you have become
The body of Paradise.
You have meditated
Silently and soulfully.
Lo, you have become
The soul of Paradise.
You have dedicated
Your life unconditionally.
Lo, you have become
The goal of Paradise.

Sri Chinmoy, Europe-Blossoms, Agni Press, 1974.

Stone Cutters Of Ubud

2011-04-02T19:32:00.000-07:00

My brain was filled with but one clear emphatic thought, "Don't do this." Emblazoned from the very beginning, to the very end of the horizons of my mental landscape was one firm belief. It was written large and printed in a bold font. There was no nook or cranny for any other idea to grasp a tenuous nibbling hold. I could examine the foundation upon which it was firmly embedded. It was straight up rock solid common sense. It would be both foolish, and dangerous to attempt such a thing. I had calculated and examined all the possible outcomes, none of them would lead to anything other than failure. It was unequivocally a doomed plan, with absolutely zero chance of a positive outcome.

Padyatra spent perhaps 10 seconds or less peering over the precipice and simply said, "Oh, come on," and hopped over the stone wall. In a moment he was skidding down the nearly vertical muddy trail. One with no steps, no stone ledges to pause, just slippery mud with a meager selection of hardy vines or branches to latch on to for safety, if you were lucky. For a while I could hear him sliding, bounding, and letting out the occasional 'whoop' as he slithered out of sight. I really had no idea how he could physically do it. In one hand he was carrying a $3,000 dollar camera and in the other a large tripod.

I looked down at the sandals on my feet. I was quite certain that it wouldn't take long for them to mangle my feet to shreds, long before I hit the bottom. I had equipment as well, but not nearly so expensive and burdensome. Than suddenly, like a traffic light, that just blinks from red to green, I found myself clambering over the wall and beginning my own foolish descent.

Cursing silently, and perhaps more often, with a great deal of vocal vigor, almost every slippery yard. It was treacherous going down and around, each and every tangled sliding step and turn. Why I committed to such foolishness I am not quite sure. In an instant I seemed to suddenly have no options, other than to go. I had said goodbye to logic, leaving it parked tidily and alone on the ledge above me, where I had been so certain and so content just moments earlier.

It was bad from the very first moment of my descent and than quickly escalated to very bad. If I hadn't been such a wimp I would have taken pictures on the way down to prove this point. You will have to take me at my word, and if you ever run into Padyatra do not believe anything he has to say about it.

He had somehow enticed or convinced me to do this crazy thing by saying, that the sound, screaming out of the deep gorge below us was probably coming from an archeological excavation team. Certainly you could just see some men, working under a cliff on the far side of the river. I found this observation to be just completely impossible to believe. To my ear it sounded just too much like the nasty screech, my own 2 stroke gardening machines make, when they attack the urban landscape in Queens. What it sounded like to me was the interminable and relentless racket of men cutting stone.

Too add to the logic, or lack of it, this is not what we had set out to do when we had left Sanur earlier in the day. What we had planned originally to do was to take scenic pictures of terraced rice paddies, from a pleasant coffee shop, on the outskirts of Ubud. From the edge of the cliff there was clearly no fields, no farmers, no systematic farming of any kind. It was a steep and nasty drop down to stony plane and than a frothing river, which by the way, introduced the next logical thought. At this moment I was loosing nearly all my faith in my capacity to reason. Regardless, I was now confronted now with obviously the next and perhaps most intractable dilemma, "How will we get across?"

Padyatra had somehow arrived swiftly at the bottom of the cliff and was picking his way out across the rocks. On the other side of the river, a man from the far shore was walking out to the water's edge to greet him. My sandals, not very effective at climbing down the cliff, were even less so, on the jagged trek across the sharp rocky field that led up to the river.

By this time Padyatra was many yards ahead of me and I could see that the workman was readjusting a couple of bamboo poles that stretched out across the rushing water. My recent urgent question, "how will we get across," was now being regrettably answered. Quite naturally, I returned to my original preeminent thought, "I don't want to do this."

Somehow Padyatra crabbed stepped across and then turned his attention back to me and repeated an earlier phrase that had originally worked so well, "oh, come on." Now however, I seriously considered the option of parking my backside down, and just abruptly stopping the foolishness once and for all. The steep descent of the cliff had turned, what I had thought were quite firm quadriceps muscles, into something that felt more like wobbly tapioca pudding.

A further examination of all my options came down to 2 unsatisfactory possibilities. One, I could stay dry and quivering on my side of the river and learn to accept the label of, "You are a big chicken." Or two, go trembling out there on the spindly bamboo poles, fall off into the rapids. With this outcome, of course, I would not be considered a coward, but just an idiot instead.

Needless to say I selected the second, of the 2 poor choices. I began to pray for my survival almost immediately out loud. I vigorously attempted to invoke the Supreme, with such intensity, he would have had to been a very deaf God indeed not to hear my boisterous cries for protection.

As you can see from the above picture, there comes a moment when, as you inch past the big rock near the shore, that you are precariously suspended over deep swift water. Any firmness or steadiness you may have felt that previously existed in the bamboo is now completely eliminated. With my thighs already trembling from the recent descent I could feel myself, almost as though I was being loaded into a springy catapult. Looking down into the rolling water I was almost certain I was about to be immanently launched into the air and then plunge head first into the abyss. Somehow this didn't happen, and the workman from the site nearby, graciously helped me over the final few steps.

Once ashore I gathered up what remained of my tattered courage and manhood and picked my way over the rocks to the camp a short way off.

The great piles of broken rock made it clear that it was some kind of stone quarry. No hieroglyphs, no bones, or any pottery shards. It was simply a team of men cutting stone. Mustering up my reporter skills, and not trying to interrupt a crew obviously busily at work, I asked who ran the place. Yaman introduced himself as the boss of the site and told me that he had been working here for something like 20 years.

An average day he told us lasts from 7 in the morning until 5 o'clock, 9 hours. The crew was made up of various family members of his. He told us that they cut, on average, 150 heavy stone blocks a day. They are used in all kinds of local construction. It is a noisy and dangerous job but he and his crew were eager to share with us how it was done. There seemed to be no measuring whatsoever. Everything seemed to be done by instinct and routine.

Yaman seemed very happy to talk about his work here. He pointed to each of his workers and they were all some sort of family member. It is a hard job, yet one he seems eager to do, even though for his efforts he makes about $23 dollars a day. His crew made a little less than $10. He told us he and his crew only take one day off a week.

Grudgingly, as fate would have it, it all was turning out to be an unexpected and excellent hike.

Every afternoon the finished blocks are hauled by hand, in small numbers to the rim of the cliff high above.

The trip back across the river was even more cause for prayer and trepidation. The climb back up to the rim was much easier than the descent. Once safely back at the top, my legs and wits still trembling, I tell Padyatra that some day I would thank him for this adventure. Now, finally seems like as good a time as any.

Click below to play interview with Yaman, the stone cutter.

The outer adventure
Makes us happy.
The inner adventure
Makes us perfect.

Sri Chinmoy, Twenty-Seven Thousand Aspiration-Plants, Part 144, Agni Press, 1991.

Denpasar Market

2011-04-01T19:33:00.000-07:00

I have never claimed to be much of a tourist. Laying on a beach for me is simply not my idea of good time. In fact I would prefer to head in the complete opposite direction if someone mentions typical vacation activities.

One day while in Bali I was invited to drive into Denpasar and visit the night market. Now for me that qualifies as perfect adventure. We parked on a little road not far away and already you could sense the gathering energy of the shops and people who sell and make the necessary staples of Balinese life.

But it is people and how they mix and flow together that really interest me. So much was going on my friend Padyatra and I were almost invisible...almost. We could take shots without hesitation and breathe in the rich and vibrant atmosphere.

The market was crowded and yet everything here worked and moved smoothly. The simplest way to carry your goods is to place it on your head.

It is hard to say what was the most sought after goods in the market. But at this time of day those who sold food seemed perhaps most busy. Sorting cabbage.

Without knowing any of the language at all it is puzzling when I look back now at what must have been the thoughts of those who so willingly smiled and posed.

Many times we were unnoticed by our subjects. We were secret observers a world much different from our own and yet it somehow felt so natural to be a part of it all.

Sometimes I saw private quiet moments in which there was not much happening at all.

Sometimes the images were so rich with culture it was hard to believe it really happened.

For most however there is often little time to pause. Baskets are nearly always heavy and there is much to be done.

Carrying goods on your head is something one learns at an early age.

It isn't always about learning how to work hard though. In the flower market a little girl just sits.

The flower market is a grand and colorful place. Here the ingredients of the offering baskets can be purchased.

There are a few whose specialty is to actually make the tiny platter that the offering rest upon.

There came a moment when I became just too marketed out. Just too many sights and people moving everywhere.

Maybe it has to do with feeling self conscious when people around you are working so hard and you can begin to feel out of place. No mater how sensitive you might be.

Click below to hear a monologue of the market.

Then, just as I was on the verge of overdosing on the market, Padyatra and I met the kids. They could have been the children of parents working nearby or maybe they were just hanging out.

They seemed as much interested in us and our strange equipment as we were in the simple life they lived.

They were as eager to pose as they were to play. Padyatra very patiently showed them the wonders of a very expensive camera that didn't might the little fingers touch and little eyes peering.

And yes, eventually I found myself caught up in it all as well.

IN THE WILD CONFUSION-MARKET

Suddenly he slipped away
From home
To embrace the life of solitude
And see the Face of God.
He saw God.
Where?
In the wild confusion-market
Of village-ignorance.

Sri Chinmoy, My Promise To God, Agni Press, 1975.

Steps

2011-04-01T17:41:00.000-07:00

I was there and yet somehow I wasn't. A quick early morning inventory of all my various bits and pieces provided me with sufficient proof however that the sum total of my being was theoretically still intact. A look in the mirror while shaving verified that the grizzled apparition looking out was definitely still me. Yet I couldn't shrug off the nagging suspicion that something was definitely amiss deep inside the inner workings of my little world, Utpaldom.

It was easy to come to grips with the striking realization that I had woken up in a distant land, far far from home. Gentle palms swayed in a sultry tropical breeze outside my hotel window. It had taken me 26 hours and I had traversed many thousands of miles to get here. I was now, in point in fact, clear across on the far side of our lovely planet.

The view from my window at home has always been just a notch above subterranean. While there, I had become a prisoner to winter, with crusty snow piling up. Nearly obliterating my miniscule view of the outside, which I cannot see much of even at the best of times. But that particular reality, of home, of New York, of ice and snow was quickly fading, like a cloud skittering away from the face of the bright sun.

My regular past, which I had recently fled from, just a day ago, was being swept away by all the sunbright optimism which is Bali. My existence now was poised in a place which fit snugly into my personal conception of heaven on earth. I could clearly recall how I got here, to this place of incredible natural splendor. Yet somehow, in a strange contradiction, I could not quite get over the notion that everything within me had not settled somehow back into a natural order. Truth to tell, I wasn't exactly sure how to put the scrambled elements of my being back together again in harmony.

It happens to all of us I suppose. Perhaps each and every time one takes a long and arduous International trip. There comes a Humpty Dumpty moment when it feels as though you have fallen off the wall, and a malingering foolish doubt lingers, that just maybe you can't get all the pieces to fit quite all back together again.

I am not sure what does it exactly. You get in an airplane and and head at high speed either east or west. Just when you think you can't stand, another bag of pretzels, or a bump against your seat, and you are crying to stand on firm grand and suck a breath of real oxygen into your lungs you land at an obscure airport. Despite spending many relentless hours imprisoned in the belly of a metal beast you want to flee from it instantly and dash away as soon as you can remove your tethers and tear yourself out of the seat.

Then, when just as the feeling of normality of begins to percolate up through your feet and past your knees, you have to once again enter another identical metal snake and zoom skywards into a stratospheric hell. For me this interminable international journey has only but briefly paused. A momentary respite, barely past half way in Korea, and then on and on again. The torture resumes with more plastic trays, unnecessary trips to toilets. For many there gradually comes an ever growing gnaw, swelling in your guts, that some might call a desperate prayer, for it all just to end.

This is familiar to all who have traveled to far off places. Multiple time zones tumble under your wings until you loose track of where you really are. Certainly you have no idea of what time it really is despite access to a seat back tv that can show you a clear cartoon image of your plane drifting across an infinite expanse of blue.

Somewhere out over the dark pacific you cross an invisible line. On maps it seems jagged and yet very real. It zips and squiggles across and down from the north pole. It traverses the spooky regions of the Pacific until it can go no further. The international dateline seems like a practical and useful invention if we are to believe and accept the idiosyncrasies of time itself. But when you are hurtling through the skies it is an invisible bandit that snatches away in a blink an entire day of your life. If you are lucky enough to return the same way it seems a fair and generous offer to somehow have all this time miraculously returned to you, like some great department store layaway plan. Borrowed as it were, for the length of your stay in some foreign destination. Yet this theft of time is not so simply snatched from us, nor can it be returned without some bumbling and jumbling of the innards of our own inner temperamental time pieces.

For me, the first morning in heaven would be a daze. To observe beauty and remain just a little distant and separate from it. A participant, and yet not be sufficiently immersed to feel oneness with this tropical world I adore so much. The solution for me, and it is a simple one, was simply to go out for a walk and explore. Trek the streets of Sanur and hope to catch my bearings. There was no goal other than to simply walk. Feel the heat of an equatorial sun on my back and breathe in the sweet air spilling off from the clear ocean waters nearby.

What became clear and self evident, as it usually does in my life, is that walking or running for that mater, is the cure of most of the ills in my life. The simple act of taking steps and moving forward has been a prescription that has struck down most of the mental mountains and maladies in my makeup. The cure is not instantaneous, and it is not measurable. One simply has to be patient and allow a rhythm and pace well out from within. There is no magic distance, no clear goal, other than to keep moving until you have gone far enough.

After a couple of miles of heading straight down the main artery of Sanur I swung back towards my hotel. I took to a smaller path that clung to the edge of the beach. Each step now began to feel like one more small medicinal drop of my self cure. There was nothing to analyze, my meandering movement forward simply felt right. After a while I could feel a gentle shift in the breeze. The wind was changing and when I glanced back over my shoulder I could see a great dark ominous thunder cloud rolling up behind me.

I felt no sense of urgency though I was most certainly aware of what was soon about to happen. The air carried a sharp scent of electric energy, there was a growing heaviness to the atmosphere. It was certainly going to rain and to rain hard. Almost in an instant there was a crack of lighting and a canon roar of thunder. A cascade of rain spilled out of the sky and I was immediately immersed in a deluge. For a moment I made a faint hearted leap for safety under a palm. A quick evaluation of my odds for retaining dry comfort came up without equivocation. My odds at staying dry, zero. My only solution was to simply keep walking back to the hotel.

Unless you have experienced a tropical downpour you cannot really describe it. It is like swimming, while striding erect, in water so thick it is sometimes difficult to find a gasp of oxygen between the relentless torrent of raindrops. My shirt became a saturated sponge and pressed down against my chest with such damp authority I had to hold it away from myself in order to catch my breath. My sandals which had seemed so cool and comfortable, now envigorated by the rain, began to chafe and gauge at every fraction of skin the straps could rub up against. In a last ditch attempt to keep the skin on my feet intact I resorted to taking them off and walking barefoot. The path was littered with small stones which provided their own private torture to the souls of my feet, and yet there seemed to be no alternative. The rain seemed in no hurry to stop, and I was so utterly and thoroughly wet there seemed to be no other option than to keep trudging onwards.

Yet it was in this final last soaking mile of my miserable march back to the hotel that I at last found myself coming fully and comprehensively together. The tectonic plates of my being had at last come to rest. My mind felt a bulb of awareness switch on to full brightness. I was at peace within myself. I had once more become a complete intact entity. I had at last arrived.

The answer for me was simply not to question, but to do. To walk, to move, to act with faith that I would reach my goal. Give no time or moment for hesitation and doubt. Let the world unfold as it does best. My only task was to willingly participate in one of its infinite mysteries, and not wait for miracles to come uninvited, but to step forward as best I can and let them find me as they always do.

My Lord,
Do give me the capacity
To come to You step by step.
I am asking You to bless me
With tiny steps,
Not giant steps,
For tiny steps are safe.

Sri Chinmoy, Seventy-Seven Thousand Service-Trees, Part 33, Agni Press, 2003.

Huron County Museum

2011-01-04T18:53:00.000-08:00

How we view the world is very much shaped and formed by the company we keep. Our close family members in particular can have a profound impact in how we perceive and comprehend the world around us. When it comes to learning something new there can be no better teacher than someone who is part of your own family. There is an instant rapport and familiarity that automatically enhances the learning process.

Recently my brother and I had a chance to visit the Huron County museum tucked away in a quiet corner of Goderich. Our brother in law Gary was our enthusiastic guide. For a few hours, on a lazy day between Christmas and New Years, he managed to open a door for me to a part of the country I knew nothing about.

He himself is a recent resident to Goderich, but in just a couple of years has become more and more impressed and familiar with this new world that he and my sister now inhabit. It is hard to say which came first. His hunger to understand better this quiet corner of Ontario, so very different from the chaotic big city swirl of Toronto, or just perhaps because by fate he wandered one day into a truly excellent museum.

It is hard to say when the realization came, that this just might just be a great place for a recent retiree to learn more about his new home while also offering assistance as well. Whatever the case he now enjoys his volunteering there and finds time several times a week, to take school kids, and those a great deal older, on informative trips down its many tidy hallways into splendid display rooms bursting with interesting artifacts and history.

Some Thoughts on the Importance of Museums

When we peer back over our shoulders at our lives, our past can often appear as a vast hazy blur of unconnected events. Though always happening in a linear time-line they all eventually tumble into a great well of our own personal histories. Our minds have no particular need to Catalog or keep records of each and every one of our experiences in any particular order. Great and significant events end up mingling with the mundane. We have profound moments of sparkling clarity, either illuminated by the glow of achievement or cast by the shadow of undistinguished failure.

We can recall things spoken in both love and in anger and times when we wished we could pull back and erase events and others in which we wish could linger again and again.

Our own personal histories can either be judged by the world as insignificant or in but a few rare cases, momentous contributions. Regardless every act and every moment leaves its imprint upon the world stage. In turn as much as we touch the world it too shapes the life that we have now. In each new ever evolving moment a new history is conceived that blends and is bound into the fabric of our lives.

For most of us the world cares little about the minutiae of our lives. We can never correct or alter what has happened in our lives and yet our past is the foundation of what we can and must yet accomplish with our lives yet to come.

In the grand scheme of things the past of just one individual may not mean much to the world or even one small community. The collective events and experiences of many lives clustered in a small region however is quite another matter.

History’s ability to document and understand the past is always a great and significant undertaking. If we cannot see importance in our own lives than often what happens to the greater world around us can take on greater significance and importance. When the scope of our lives extends beyond our skin, beyond our immediate family and the boundaries that we so often set, and dares to include the greater world than we open ourselves to a much greater life experience.

A museum is a place where the collective past can be carefully researched and shared. History is no longer some indecipherable vast formless maze. The past is laid out clearly. Each new artifact, and each carefully annotated display allows the viewer to gather another fragment about the past. To build a better and clearer understanding about a place and its people. To see what great moments they had to endure and also to celebrate. Hopefully as one browses the compacted landscape of a museum, one can collect a more complete understanding of what took place and how it has somehow shaped the larger current world. Also perhaps, even glimpse in some small way, the dreams and aspirations of where they are all going.

Back to the Tour

“The Museum is not meant either for the wanderer to see by accident or for the pilgrim to see with awe. It is meant for the mere slave of a routine of self-education to stuff himself with every sort of incongruous intellectual food in one indigestible meal.” GK Chesterton

The Huron county museum as my brother in law Gary Bennie tells me, “is probably the best museum west of Toronto, in Ontario. There is just nothing like it.” On a dreary day, between Christmas and New Years he offered my brother and I a personal tour of the place in which he has been volunteering over the past year. It turned out to be a hearty meal, that was nutritious intellectually, and left me both better informed about the region and very much satisfied.

Gary takes his commitment to the place seriously and it becomes readily apparent even before you step through the doors that many selfless individuals over the years have worked hard at creating and maintaining the museum.

Principally of course the most significant contributor, and perhaps the one from whose vision the museum was able to come into existence at all, is J.H.Neill who was a lifelong collector of artifacts from the region. It was due to his passion and diligent collecting that the museum was able to open in 1950 in the Goderich’s old central public school building.

Prior to locating in a permanent structure he first stored his collection in a mobile trailer. Which was described by the London Free Press in 1940 as, “Herbie Nell, 63 year old jack of all trades has just finished the wildest whim of his versatile imagination, museum on wheels. If there is anything like it elsewhere in Canada it is doubtful.

He had something like 4,000 artifacts. When the school closed in 1950 he was allowed to establish and act as curator for the next 15 years. Since than it has expanded substantially and a larger new structure is fitted in and around the old school.

The presence of Neill can be felt and experienced almost at every turn. Not just an ardent collector he was very much an artist and inventor of sorts as well. One humble display contains the first item he ever collected, a tallow candle holder.

Over time many others in the region have also passionately dedicated themselves and their own personal collections to the gradual expansion of the museum.

The museum itself attempts to show how, from being in the 1830’s, as Pierre Burton once described the country, “a green jungle.” To eventually become a thriving community. One in which salt and shipping still play an important role.

"I believe profoundly in the importance of museums; I would go as far as to say that you can judge a society by the quality of its museums. "

— Richard Fortey a Palaeontologist at the Natural History museum in London.

As if to demonstrate how dedication and passion continues to help the museum thrive we just happened to come across Eugene McGee on the second floor. He was eagerly examining his own collection of World War 2 memorabilia that he donated and is now on display in the military section of the museum.

As a young man living in Port Albert he was profoundly impressed with the air navigation school that quickly sprang up there after an RAF facility in Wales was destroyed by German bombers. He has meticulously collected uniforms and insignia and as many bits of the life of the base at the time that he has managed to get a hold of.

The years that included World War 2 were just a brief moment in the grand scheme of time for this part of Canada. But for a 10 year old boy living on a small Ontario farm in 1940, it impressed upon him not just the grand dimensions of the world beyond Port Albert. But also how a small rural Ontario community can be shaped by events on the other side of the globe. At the same time his Port Albert air base would play a pivotal role in the history of the world at large.

He tells us that he has much more to his collection but like many ardent collectors knows the museum can never be able to house all the marvelous bits and pieces of history collected in peoples front rooms and sheds. Yet the walls of even the biggest and best museum can only store and display just so much. The Huron county museum is the little museum that accomplishes a lot.

For the historical enthusiast you can dredge a seamless timeline that stretches back 200 years of Huron county history. Understand the development of a part of the country, that though unique in many ways, mirrored how much of the Canadian wilderness became tamed and developed. See how great events like storms and wars touched the lives of those who lived through them or were consumed in a flash. Yet also see how life prevails nonetheless and no moment is inescapable from change.

Walking through the Huron County Museum one sees that there is something there for everyone. It is not so vast that one becomes overwhelmed and yet not so small one hungers for more.

It is well maintained and if tours are regularly conducted as by my brother in law Gary they are informative and entertaining both. I ask him if there is one thing that most people do more than anything else when visiting the museum. At the time we are in the large hall were a full size steam locomotive dominates the space with its sheer black steely mass.

He tells me that when school trips come the kids just love ringing the train’s bell. Eager to take part in one of the museum’s favorite activities I climb the steep black steel steps of the engine. I look back down at him to make sure that it is okay. He nods with warm brotherly approval. With one firm pull of the rope a most satisfying ring of the bell bellows, with the delicious volume of a resounding full bodied fire alarm.

I picture the sound rolling across the quiet green fields of the country side as it must have done for many years. The steam engine chugging and billowing puffs of smoke into boundless sky while all the while rolling on a rusty trail of steel not far off. I feel an unavoidable child like smile spreading across my face. I look down and see that he is smiling as well. He has not yet grown too tired of those who love to ring its bell and help those who want to take a trip through time.

A Man on a Horse

2010-01-29T18:18:00.000-08:00

It is a city of narrow cool streets and high stone walls. It is a place built upon a long history, both full of darkness and touched by light. Today Cartagena is of course many things, and for a two short weeks it has become my vacation home.

Everywhere within the old walls there are sites to inspire and amaze. It is a world heritage site for good reason. Every twist and turn of the narrow street leads you to some new splendor. The modern city has of course spilled far out, many miles beyond the confines of the ancient walls.

If you cannot be bothered to read its history, you must at least learn something from the faces of those who live here now. The Spanish of course left their mark but hundreds of years of slave trading shows that the face of Africa is everywhere here as well.

And if nothing else is true, it is abundantly evident, to even a casual observer, that coffee is an important aspect of the Columbian culture. Not just that it is grown here in abundance, but also, not all of the harvest is transported away on in sacks laden on the backs of donkeys, led by pseudo Juan Valdezs. It is also consumed at regular intervals throughout the day by most if not all Columbians is an unavoidable dark savory reality.

Possibly a priest walking with a coffee and what looks like a Grammy award.

Click on any picture to make larger.

It is on a sultry day, within the cool confines of one of many of old Cartagena's plazas that I at last begin to feel the pulse and flow of the life of those who live here.
I must foolishly confess that in the many hours I spent here I never learned the name of the plaza nor understood what great hero sat upon his bronze horse. He who has stared benignly down from his superb vantage point for centuries observing not just me but all the folk who came here for coffee and coolness and good times.
It is only some time later that I learn that the statue is of none other than the great liberator himself, Simon Bolivar.
Today however I am interested only in the living. Those whose lives, at least for the part of each day, take place beneath the grand sweep of his metal gaze.
Children purchase small bags of corn to feed to pigeons. With swift feet they also run around the statue again and again. Never tiring, rounding each corner they always discover something fresh and new.

Young couples are interested in nothing much else than each other. Sitting in the statues shade and drinking coffee.

There is no Starbucks here. No Dunkin Donuts. It is just a man with a thermos and plastic cups and hot black coffee for a few pesos.

Chess in the lanes around the square seems to be a popular diversion for young and old alike.

For the old men who come each day they find challenge and battle beneath their swiftly shifting fingers.

The warfare is sometimes ferocious. The casualties at worst a bruised ego. All live to fight another day. To come back once again to the square in which it is always summer and there is always shade and there is always a man on a horse watching over you.

If Colombian coffee runs hot so to it seems is the blood of those who live here. A sidewalk preacher finds a willing audience for his boisterous message of salvation. With fervor he checks his bible to ensure his message is accurate. Though I certainly do not know even a fragment of what it was, I enjoyed it just the same. .

I was much surprised, when late in the afternoon, a troop of young dancers showed up.
The air was filled with a thunder of drums, the slap of bare feet, and the yips and cries of the dancers performing the traditional Mapalee dance.

Tonight the moon shines full and bright down upon the little square, upon the sprawling city of Cartagena, and all the world around us. It does not care, or take interest, in any of the little dances nor in any of the grand dramas playing out beneath its brilliant glow. I look up however and cannot help but be inspired by its journey. As it moves bright and silent across the night sky and on and on through my dreams.
Desire-Sun makes me tremble.

Aspiration Moon makes me dream.

O Desire-Sun, in you

I have my silent death.

O Aspiration Moon, with you

I have my endless Life.

Excerpt from The Dance Of Life, Part 1 by Sri Chinmoy.

Golden Willow

2009-12-10T19:11:00.001-08:00

I call it my tree but I have no real right to say this. It is a audacious declaration that most of us spout when we try and make claim to something that is essentially divine.

In fairness we may have some justification for claiming dominance over simple material things like bank accounts and shoes, but certainly not to things that exist outside of ourselves in the timeless natural universe.

For a brief time, as I carried it home from the garden center, and it poked its meager foliage outside the confines of my trunk, it was all mine. To the drivers, who spotted the wisp of fluttering greenery, moving sedately along the Van Wyck expressway they could say, "heh, there goes a guy taking his puny tree home from Costco." I had after all, just dished out 35 bucks for a pot of dirt and a slender twig, with about the same height, but none of the sturdy dimensions of hockey stick.

15 years ago when I moved into my small room in Queens I had big plans. I had forsaken what I had identified as the wild natural splendor of Canada, for the urban wasteland which is New York city. On my block there were but a handful of nice big trees. Ones, that if you really looked up at them you could exclaim without hesitation, "Wow."Most of the newer trees appeared to be not much more than runts and looked as though they had a tenuous hold on surviving for another season, let alone grow tall and strong for decades more.

There was scant evidence that the street, not too many years earlier, had once displayed in summer a proud and grand canopy of green. The best and greatest tree on the street, was a stately ancient maple. The grand reach of its limbs was impressive. Its gentle shade spread over innumerable cars and homes over many hot summer days. It succumbed quickly in the aftermath of negligent sidewalk repairs in my first year on the block.

When I dumped the golden willow by the curb, my bubbling expectations for the little tree soared well beyond stellar. In retrospect they seemed to far exceed the capacity of the slender twig in a plastic pot, and perhaps indeed, all the grand plans of nature itself. Regardless, I was pretty sure that it would eventually make a green grand eternal statement, not just for 160th street, but for the entire neighborhood in which there were for me, a surprising absence of fellow willow trees.

Before I had pierced the earth with my shovel the old Greek man from across the street was by my side. He was thin, a little feeble, and seemed to know almost no English but his eyes were bright with enthusiasm as he saw what I was about to do. He coached each shovel full of dirt as the hole grew wider and deeper. I don't know how many trees he had planted, for there were none in front of his home, but he acted as though he had somehow previously planted a forest, in a long Greek lifetime. I of course had planted lots of trees in my own rights as a landscaper but it seemed right keep my thoughts to myself and to comprehend all the bits of his halting counsel.

After I had patted down the last shovel around its trunk I then brought out 2 sturdy stakes to help support it. When I tried to put one on the east and one on the west side his face suddenly grew dark like a swift storm cloud moving across the sun. He took them out of my hands and put the two of them instead to the north and to the south. All the time speaking in stern Greek and gesturing wildly with his hands as though he was going to conjure something out of thin air. I thought it prudent to accept in silence his willow tree planting wisdom. He had lived on the block much longer than I.

Over the years the little willow has discarded any description of itself that could be equated with puny. It has quickly grown grand green and voluminous. During hot summers I have tried to water it so that it might somehow believe it grew by a cool babbling brook. I have also come to understand in a clear tangible way why there are no other similar willows lining the byways of New York city. The cascade of slender golden limbs would simply cease to allow most vehicular traffic to move forward at all.

This happenstance occurred very early on in the trees early years. It required of me a vigilant recognizance of what was happening street side and then a vigorous almost biweekly pruning. That the city itself did not come by and offer up a more devastating permanent solution is a testament, to either the tree's seeming good fortune, a miraculous out shot of the city's "million tree plan," or the simple fact that the coffers of the city did not allow a more vigorous tree management program.

Ultimately it grew so big and so fast that when the parks department finally did come along and prune it they systematically cleared all the branches from its base to almost 30 feet upwards. The crown of the tree was still magnificent and untouched. It has meant that in the last two years I have hardly had to do any pruning at all to ensure the flow of pedestrian and vehicular traffic.

Also at this time, my rights of ownership were made clear to me by a friend who worked for the parks department. He had given me an advance heads up as to when a parks crew would be imminently working on my block. When I expressed some concerns about what would happen to 'my' willow Chris asked me simply, "does it grow between the sidewalk and the curb?" When I had to admit "yes," he informed me without hesitation, "it is no longer your tree. If it grows in that area it is the city's tree." It was for me a final acknowledgment that it was a timely moment to surrender all claims of ownership and simply accept that the golden willow was now on it's own. It's fate and destiny no longer in my hands.

Like all willows it is the first tree to throw out green leaves in the chilly spring. In fall, just as these pictures demonstrate, it is also grudging in shucking them off. It is a slow measured process, which also includes a surprising quantity of extraneous branches. Some of which are almost big enough to match the dimensions of the original tree.

To be honest I am not sure how my immediate neighbors or the neighborhood itself view the tree. The old Greek man is now no longer with us but his son has on more than one occasion communicated measurable disdain for the leaves that fall and are blown onto his property. I have also tried to keep the flow of people and cars unencumbered but somehow I am not always vigilant enough. From time to time I have discovered ripped and stripped branches scattered sadly on the road and sidewalk. There are however a multitude of others to make up for any such injury now.

As I jot down these thoughts it is while the mean frigid days of fall are marching inexorably forward towards the harsh winter ahead. All the other trees have long since shed their finery and now look quite naked and plain compared to the lingering finery still cloaking the Golden Willow. Soon enough it will make a full retreat from its summer grandeur and join its naked woody brethren. Because it still tenaciously clings to its beauty it inspires me. Though I cannot imagine what practical biological function the lingering leaves could still perform in weather so severe.

Soon enough the leafy golden splendor will once again return to the cascading branches of the willow in front of my home. I confidently imagine of course, that this grand play of nature will go on for many years if not decades to come. Much longer no doubt than I will be there to give it care and admiration.

With each new spring, passerby's and neighbors will marvel at its ever expanding natural magnificence. That something becomes more beautiful with age is an observation that is duly and rightfully deserved by great trees. It is an endearing observation that we aging gardeners, and other mere mortals, are unlikely to see subscribed to ourselves.

"Be like a tree. The tree gives shade even to him who cuts off its boughs."

Sri Chaitanya

O Ignorance! I want to be the tree of compassion.

O Man! I want to be the tree of forgiveness.

O Skies! I want to be the tree of aspiration.

O Earth! I want to be the tree of Patience.

Excerpt from Meditations: Food For The Soul by Sri Chinmoy.

Three Men in the Park

2009-04-10T14:29:00.001-07:00

It was not one your typical meetings in a small public park in Queens. Goose pond, at this time of year sees lots of winged wildlife flying in and out through its ragged stand of trees throughout most of the day. The geese presumably are taking a brief break on their way north. Three middle aged gentlemen from the UK marching around to the Hokie Cokie is a much rarer sight.

I am not too surprised at the antics I am watching. I have known the three of them for the better part of 4 decades. They have, as well as myself, have been known to cavort in public places in much more peculiar ways than this. What is actually taking place is a serious practice for a funny performance that will take place in just 2 days time.

Charana, the leader and mastermind of the little group is under the gun. The group he is working with now are life long friends and the core of a much larger performance ensemble that will be composed of other friends from around the world. He does not work from any script but is intimately familiar with each step and maneuver that will take place when it is performed.

There is a lot of seriousness and concentration in their expressions. The hillside they are marching too and fro on is uneven as well. It does provide at least enough space in which to test out the elaborate choreography, which involves at one point walking like penguins.

Sanjaya is holding an mp3 player which is attached to a couple of small speakers. I believe it is running out of power because I cannot hear any music at all and I am sitting on a stump nearby. I am told the music playing on it is the Hokie Cokie which I am familiar with. I have to use my imagination as they march back and forth and spin around in unusual and unexpected ways.

I am trying to not be intrusive with my camera, because the 3 of them are focusing on a technically difficult set of maneuvers. They practice relentless for at least an hour and progress, in getting the steps worked out just right, proceeds grudgingly. The easy part of performing will be many more hours of rehearsal away.

Charana has been staging a circus act like this for years. It has been more than a year since he has done one, but it is easy to tell that he has spent a lot of time working out every detail of the choreography. It will be the highlight of the circus which will take place in just 2 days. In the meantime he will be working with the rest of the cast who will be dressed in bright elaborate costumes. Besides the Hokie Cokie there will be a lots of other music squeezed into the 10 minute performance.

I cannot imagine what a passerby might think if they looked over into the park and expected to see some wild geese and instead saw 3 Englishmen marching around to the Hokie Cokie. If they have been Queens residents for any length of time, probably nothing happening in the park or the neighborhood would be a surprise.

In a few days time all the effort will have been worth it. The performance will delight several hundred people. Humor is my only savior.

God's divine Circus
Has run short of clowns.
Therefore
Today I am asking my mind
To go and accept the job.

Excerpt from Twenty-Seven Thousand Aspiration-Plants, Part 104 by Sri Chinmoy.

2009-03-09T16:12:00.000-07:00

Sri Chinmoy often gave as much significance to the outer life as he did to the inner. A lifelong sportsman he found numerous ways to inspire his students to transcend their perceived limitations in athletics. In so doing he knew that if they set challenging goals for themselves it would also inspire them to make inner progress as well.

In the late 70s he took up the sport of distance running with intense dedication. The running boom was just taking off in America and Sri Chinmoy, at age 47, when most would think of retiring, trained himself to run the most difficult distance of all, the marathon.

On March 3 1979, he completed his first Marathon in Chico California. His time was 4:31 and just 3 weeks later he would run one again. Now on this 30th anniversary of that event, his students honor him by running the 26 mile distance. They do this not just in Jamaica Queens where he lived, but in centers around the world.

Click on the above picture to go to the movie

My Love of Flowers

2009-02-08T20:42:00.001-08:00

It seems to me now as though I have always loved flowers. Some of my earliest memories go back to my very early childhood and the experiences I had in and around fresh flowers. It did not matter whether or not they grew wild and free in fields or under the tender care of my grandmothers and their little gardens.

Most importantly I remember how my Mother reacted when the first spring flowers blossomed. How much she enjoyed picking tulips and the aroma they gave off when sitting in little glass vases in our home.

If there is anything that is naturally beautiful in the world around us it has to be flowers. My spiritual name, 'Utpal', means Heart Lotus. When my spiritual teacher gave me this name to me many years ago, it seemed to me to be just perfect name for me. I realized within and without that I was a flower and I had a deep inner connection to Beauty itself.

Flowers never have to explain their beauty, it just is. Sometimes for just a few hours and sometimes the hardy ones can be beautiful and fragrant and share their glories for weeks at a time.

There may be some deep and useful significance to their radiant colors and charm but often it seems as though they exist soley to inspire us and give us joy.

Today is my Mother's birthday and I wanted to do something special for her even though I am 10,000 miles away. It is not easy to call from so far and even harder to send a gift. Therefore I thought she might like an offering of Balinese flowers. It seems that I have spent a lot of time over the past 2 weeks being a journalist but there should always be time for a son to do something significant for his Mother, especially when it is her birthday.
I started collecting flower pictures from the moment I started shooting here. I will never be able to capture images of all the incredible variety of flowers that grow here, but before you know it you can see lots and lots.

O Silence-flowers, smile;

My inner eyes are ready.

O Silence-stars, dance;

My inner heart is ready.

O Silence-sky, come;

My inner body is ready.

Excerpt from The Wings Of Light, Part 17 by Sri Chinmoy.

As I was collecting these many flower pictures to share with my Mother I realized of course, that as many beautiful things there are in the world, we will only ever have one Mother. I know how much love she felt for her own Mother and I hope she knows just how much I love her as well.

The master photo journalist had limited success with his uncooperative monkey subjects. They were reluctant most of the time to be cute or just look right for the camera. Never once did a flower have an attitude. They were always beautiful, no matter how grand or small they were.

Some flowers, like the hibiscus, are very familiar to my northern eyes. I even try and grow them myself but they will never look as sweet as the ones that grow wild and free here. Even the ones past their prime still look wonderful. I am past my prime and I wish I was this charming.

Do not allow

Your heart's beauty-flowers to dry.

These flowers will grant you

Divinity's liberation-breath.

Excerpt from Twenty-Seven Thousand Aspiration-Plants, Part 103 by Sri Chinmoy.
My parents have traveled to many parts of Asia. As I walk through the temple gardens and parks I imagine sometimes that they have walked here as well. Even if they have not, I still believe in the heart's capacity for oneness. That we can always share positive uplifting and beautiful experiences through our heart's oneness.

Only if peace-heart-flowers

Blossom everywhere

Will perfection be possible

On earthly soil.

Excerpt from Peace-Blossom-Fragrance, Part 2 by Sri Chinmoy.

The lotus flower of course is my favorite. I am not certain what my Mother's favorite flower is but I will always remember her wearing fresh sweet pea flowers in her hair in summer when she would visit her own Mother in the small country village where she lived.

MOTHER

The human mother tells the child,

"Look up! There is the truth."

The divine Mother tells the child,

"Look within! There alone

Is the beauty of truth."

Excerpt from Silence-Seed And Sound-Fruit by Sri Chinmoy.

Surely there is never enough of what one can do for their Mothers. Is there any way to repay all the care and love they have given their children over the years, and even now continue to give and give? The answer is no never

I am offering her some humble pictures of flowers. My words will never be strong enough, my images never as beautiful as all the love she has selflessly and has continuously offered to me.

Life-flower quickly fades.

Friend-bond quickly breaks.

God-Love quickly dawns.

Ecstasy all-where pervades.

Excerpt from From The Source To The Source by Sri Chinmoy.

Bamboo Gamelon Players

2009-02-08T17:14:00.000-08:00

Late one night, I was walking down a small street in Ubud. The rains that had been falling earlier had just cleared and the air was fresh and sweet. As I moved forward I heard the distinct plunk plunk sounds of a Bamboo Gamelan orchestra playing. I was puzzled as it was well past the time most public performances took place.

I came at last to the Balai Banjar or local community hall. From the top floor the music drifted out sweetly into the still night.
It is a very public place so I had no reason to pause as I went up the stairs. There I found these men happily practicing. The music not just for themselves but also, because there were no walls, shared equally with the community around.

I left my shoes at the top of the stairs and waded into the enchanting melody and rythmn that filled the room. The men noticed us but paid little attention to us as the music swelled and flowed.

The group is called a Sekaha. Clearly it was led by the man in the black t shirt who seemed to clearly understand how the music should flow. Others are allowed to improvise because the Balinese have a very free approach to music. Gamelan orchestras here are constantly changing their music. They believe that music should grow and change. It is only the most sacred songs that carry on untouched.

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The instruments they are playing on belong not to the individual musicians but to the community as a whole. I have crept into a rehearsal and not a performance. Yet still the music enchants. I imagine I am listening to the timeless sweetness of the ancient Balinese Heart. I suspect that future generations wandering into open community halls late at night will also be enthralled. Captivated by music very hauntingly familiar and always able to stir the soul's life breath.

The Dance of Life

2009-02-06T21:41:00.000-08:00

There are never any small stories told through dance in Bali. Each production is an epic. Each performance tells a great mythical story, in which life and death, good and evil must and do eternal battle.

Men and Women dance with elegant beauty and precision on small stages often open to the skies. Mortals through most of the day they become Gods and Goddesses once they enter the stage with their beautiful makeup and costumes. These are eternal stories and have been performed just so for centuries. Each step and move is unchanged. A performer has to become the dance itself in order to perform.

THE DANCE OF LIFE

Doubt

Is the prose of the mind.

Faith

Is the poetry of the heart.

Aspiration

Is the song of the soul.

Realisation

Is the dance of life.

Excerpt from Europe-Blossoms by Sri Chinmoy.

Every person in Bali is familiar with all the ancient stories of the Hindu religion. The names of Krishna and Arjuna and all their renowned deeds are known by heart. The performance this night is of the Mahabrata. The Ancak Saji Ubud Palace court yard where it has been staged has been in use for more than 500 years.

Unless your heart

Is a dance of hope,

How can your life

Be a song of peace?

Excerpt from Ten Thousand Flower-Flames, Part 78 by Sri Chinmoy.

On another night I went to a Kecak dance, known in the west as the Monkey Dance. In this story Rama looses his wife Sita to an evil being named Rahwana. He has used enchantment to turn her. She believes her husband is dead and looses all hope

A Priest invokes a sacred blessing before each performance.

The rain is falling heavily when we arrive. The outdoor venue is closed so we move to a covered space nearby. There is some time before the performance and we are sitting in plastic chairs when Warsa approaches. He tells us that he is part of the 100 man Kecak chorus and has been doing this for 15 years. He is paid nothing for his work. Any money raised by the group helps support his temple. He is a photographer by trade and is happy to talk about cameras with my friends and I. He is happy to pose for a photo but I have to encourage him to smile. He tells me, "My teeth are not good."

There are no lights other than the burning candles on a stand in the middle of the room. The men chant and swing. It is hypnotic. I find myself being lost in their sound and movement.

Hanuman is the monkey God. His life is all about total surrender and service to Lord Rama.

HEAVEN-DUTY, EARTH-SERVICE

To me

Heaven-duty is self-imposed torture.

To me

Earth-service is God-ordained rapture.

Duty enervates me.

Service immortalises me.

Excerpt from When I Left God In Heaven by Sri Chinmoy.

Rama also enters the battle with his dear brother Lakshmana.

The outcome is foregone. Goodness is victorious over evil, and yet we who are not on the battlefield watch in wonder and trepidation nonetheless.

Will Sita be rescued will evil be vanquished from the earth plane once and for all.

THE BATTLE OF LIFE

The body is scared to death

When it enters into the battlefield.

The vital often enjoys

The battle.

The mind is often withdrawn

From the actual fight.

The human heart dies

Before the fight begins.

The divine heart surrenders

To the Will of the Pilot Supreme.

The soul-bird flies away

From the battlefield

At God's choice Hour.

Excerpt from Europe-Blossoms by Sri Chinmoy.

Near the end of the performance and Sita has been rescued by Lord Rama a unique event takes place. A large pile of coconut husks are place in the middle of the floor and set on fire.

The chanting of the men's Kechak chorus grows stronger.
When the heat from the flames is most intense a man in trance emerges and dances around the hot coals to the rhythm of the chanting men.
He runs through them scattering them everywhere. The crowd cries out in amazement. Near me 3 Japanese girls in the front row screeched with a mixture of delight and fear. The pile is put back together again by men with long rakes. The man, dressed in his hobby horse costume runs through it again and again until the hot coals are no more. He lies upon the ground afterward where moments earlier he danced in ecstasy.
His feet are now black beyond recognition. It is said that his act of devotion brings good fortune to the entire community. He appears in a daze. People place small bills in front of him on the ground. His breath comes deep and slow.

My inner being

Shall dance and dance

If ever my outer life

Becomes a blade of humility-grass.

Excerpt from Twenty-Seven Thousand Aspiration-Plants, Part 162 by Sri Chinmoy.

A Walk Down a Small Road in Bali

2009-02-05T17:41:00.000-08:00

There are many roads to follow in Bali both large and small. One day while in Ubud my two friends and I decided to hike out of town on a small road. It had rained a lot and we went out during a brief dry spell. The evidence of the rainy season was everywhere. From the top of damp stone walls water cascaded down. The road itself was slippery and we did not know where our journey would eventually take us.

On every road there is always something to see. You can observe and enjoy the large and grand but sometimes the less obvious and subtle can please both the eye and the spirit more.

Just outside the Sacred Monkey forest I met Bapak Sudra who was sitting by his small shop that had no customers and few things to sell. Bapak introduced me to his fighting cock that he kept in a small wicker cage. He then took me into the back of his house to show me the wood carving he was working on.

It was of a large orangutan that he said he would finish in about 2 weeks. He seemed happy to have a visit even though I bought nothing. He wrote his name very carefully in my book. He asked where my friends and I were going and I said, "we are just walking." He smiled and laughed and said, "Oh, jalung, jalung, .....walking walking." He wrote it as well in my book beside his name. I used it all day long when people with taxis came by and wanted to drive us. There were a lot of them, it helped a lot.

I never saw Bapak carve but I have seen many artists do much fine wood work. This man was using a heavy chainsaw to cut a log into pieces to be carved later. You could tell that the section he was cutting would someday become a large Budha. It was hard work and he told me so. It is so hot that practically any job is difficult here.

This young boy was watching his father carve near by. He is learning early what may well one day by his profession.

It is easy to forget sometimes what hard long work goes into making things of beauty.

Any road out of Ubud has to take you eventually beside the lush green rice paddies. I have never seen a more beautiful shade of green anywhere. Young plants appear so full of life they look as though they could glow in the dark.
It is all planted by hand and tended to by people who will work all day out in the hot sun. This man owns these paddies.

I pointed in one direction after another asking him if he owned the rice paddies. He kept saying yes. He was sweating heavily, it was close to noon and the sun was particularly hot in the cloudless sky. He never stopped. He walked here and there and bent over often to adjust and straighten the small plants. At one point a heron had landed in one of his paddies and he took a stick and smacked it loudly with another. The noise scared the bird away. I was slower to leave.
In Bali you will find rice paddies in all stages of growth. Whether it be just planted or almost ready to be cut.

Most of the harvested rice follows a humble path before it ends up on a dinner plate. Once it has been separated from the stalk it is spread out on quiet roads and lanes to dry.

In the rainy season one keeps a close watch on the sky. The hot sun dries everything quickly when its rays can touch the ground directly. Chickens however have to be soshed away

I am reminded how really fortunate I am to be not working on this hot Bali Road. We meet so many on our walk who have no time to just wander.

The mind has only one road:

The division-road.

The heart has many roads:

Soulfulness-road,

Fruitfulness-road

And oneness-road.

Excerpt from Ten Thousand Flower-Flames, Part 13 by Sri Chinmoy.

For an unaspiring man,

Work is punishment,

Work is torture.

For an aspiring man,

Work is a blessing,

Work is a joy.

Excerpt from Ten Thousand Flower-Flames, Part 89 by Sri Chinmoy

God always wants His heart-children

To study at

His simplicity-purity-school.

Excerpt from Twenty-Seven Thousand Aspiration-Plants, Part 213 by Sri Chinmoy.

We cross many bridges on our little journey. Some precarious and some grand.

Even on the remotest roads in Bali the trinket sellers can find you and try and sell you something you do not want no matter how cheap the price.

What is more fascinating for me is just people going about their lives. No hour passes when it seems a sacred offering is being made. Always patiently and always with devotion. When it is repeated so often over many days and years it cannot help but add to the inner beauty of the place that is already so enchantingly beautiful outside.

I feel most often that I am both openly and secretly watching this world around me. No matter how much you look there is always more to see. Maybe just maybe, it is more than enough to just look within.

The human mother tells the child,

"Look up! There is the truth."

The divine Mother tells the child,

"Look within! There alone

Is the beauty of truth."

Excerpt from Silence-Seed And Sound-Fruit by Sri Chinmoy.

We walked down a small road in Bali. We felt the sun above us and felt its earth beneath our feet. We saw people of every description and stopped often to learn about their world. Did we make any progress on our journey? We did after all return from where we had begun. Perhaps there is never any return to a starting point. Beauty entices us to go forward. God pushes us ever onward towards our goal.

I Hate Monkeys

2009-02-05T04:38:00.000-08:00

I have to say it up front, many times over the years I have voiced out loud, "I hate Monkeys." I must confess however that no monkey has ever caused me either any lasting psychological harm or personal injury of any kind but I have seen enough monkeys jumping on people's backs and scampering off with jewelry and head wear to not ever trust them. You only have to be hissed at by a large male with barred fangs once to know that you are not dealing with Curious George when it comes to a showdown with a monkey.

I have come with two friends to the Sacred Monkey forest in Ubud. The last time I was here 5 years ago the screeching and fighting of the long tailed macaques, of which something like 340 live there caused me not to even enter the gate.

On my first morning I had run by the forest very early and seen monkeys clambering everywhere on buildings in the nearby neighborhood.

We have come early and the monkeys do not seem overly aggressive. As I wander here and there I am tempted to start thinking of them as cute, if not uncooperative photo subjects. You have to be fast to catch a good monkey shot.

Monkey, my monkey,

Your restlessness-life

Has won a transformation-face.

What a miracle!

Yesterday you belonged

To God's unconditional Grace.

Today you belong

To God's Aspiration-race.

Excerpt from Animal Kingdom by Sri Chinmoy.

There are many interesting sites in the forest besides monkeys. There are statues and temples that have been in use for a long time. The stone used is soft and volcanic. It ages quickly and the almost daily rain means moss grows everywhere.

The mind has

Its monkey-tricks.

The heart has

Its deer-speed.

xcerpt from Twenty-Seven Thousand Aspiration-Plants, Part 253 by Sri Chinmoy.

The more time I spend in the forest the more I grow comfortable with the monkeys. I have no food for them so they are not much interested in me.

It didn't take too long before I became obsessed on pursuing the monkeys with my camera. If my friends had not pushed on out of the forest I might have been still there, up in the crook of a mossy tree.

The mind-monkey

Quite often climbs up and sits

On the indifference-tree

Excerpt from Twenty-Seven Thousand Aspiration-Plants, Part 88 by Sri Chinmoy.

An impatience-monkey-mind

Shall remain always afraid of

My silence-tranquillity-heart.

Excerpt from Seventy-Seven Thousand Service-Trees, Part 14 by Sri Chinmoy.

There are a lot of rules you should follow when you enter the Sacred Monkey forest. More importantly you should consider that you are outnumbered by the various monkey troops by something like several hundred to one. And if you ever get delusional enough to consider the possibility of actually petting a monkey and being its friend you are plain out of your mind. After this visit however I have decided that hate is too strong an experience to have with a creature that looks a lot like me. Albeit a hairier and cuter version of myself.

Daily

Everybody has to capture

And tame

His monkey-mind and vital-horse.

Excerpt from Twenty-Seven Thousand Aspiration-Plants, Part 165 by Sri Chinmoy.

We All Live in the Market

2009-02-04T04:05:00.000-08:00

We all live in a marketplace. Truth be told human life has very few if any bargains save and except one precious exception. We have within us our Soul's Divine reality. What a bargain. From God we came into existence. Into God we will once again eventually return.

The human mind is no better

Than a marketplace

Of uncomely thoughts.

xcerpt from Twenty-Seven Thousand Aspiration-Plants, Part 87 by Sri Chinmoy.

We sometime think we are paying a great price for our life on earth. In truth we pay nothing and do nothing. This happens only when we simply allow God to play in and through us. We allow ourselves to become mere instruments in his own Divine transaction.

It is so easy for the material world to be everywhere and everything for us. The price is too expensive however, the purchase not worth the cost, no matter how low.

The unaspiring heart

And

The desiring mind

Are in no way better

Than a marketplace.

Excerpt from Twenty-Seven Thousand Aspiration-Plants, Part 247 by Sri Chinmoy.

There are so many tempting twists and turns in the marketplace. The real bargains just out of reach of our desirous minds. But easily within reach of our aspiring hearts.

Your unsearching mind

And your unaspiring heart

Will definitely take you

To the marketplace of sorrow.

Excerpt from Two God-Amusement-Rivals: My Heart-Song-Beauty And My Life-Dance-Fragrance, Part 6 by Sri Chinmoy.

It will take humanity a long time to learn how to be a Divine shopper. How to seek the value of things within and not be distracted by those external things that just end up cluttering our lives.

Only my purity-heart

Can and will silence

The market-noise of my mind.

Excerpt from Ten Thousand Flower-Flames, Part 54 by Sri Chinmoy.

I have to confess that I am a shopper like everyone else. In this shop(Kerajinan Kayu) I spent a long time and probably too much money. I needed gifts for home and I had been here once before. the owner Wayan Mas talked and talked and I looked and looked and felt I was in the right place but could not decide what I wanted. Then I saw what I thought my family would like and we bargained and bargained. I turned to go and she called me back. More bargaining ensued.

But perhaps the real bargain was in meeting Wayan's family which consisted of #1 daughter Nanah and #2 daughter Apong. Maybe we became closer to being friends. She has had her little Rattan shop here for 30 years. Maybe I will come this way one day again, to the little market place in Ubud.

A surrender-heart

Gets everything free of charge

From God's world-satisfaction-market.

Excerpt from Twenty-Seven Thousand Aspiration-Plants, Part 153 by Sri Chinmoy.

Young Dancers of Ubud

2009-01-31T04:25:00.000-08:00

It is a slow drive up to Ubud from the steamy shores of the Bali coast. From the wide sandy beaches the narrow road winds up into the hills to the magical town nestled amidst the rich green rice paddies. It is a journey that takes you from the practical world of man by the sea to an almost fantastical realm of enchantment in the hills above.

True enough man is here as he is almost everywhere on this small island, but it is in Ubud that the mystical spirit that is uniquely Balinese seems to permeate every aspect of the landscape. It is almost as though God is not just remotely viewing his creation here but in some way the creator himself exists consciously in the rich fragrance and resplendent beauty of nature itself in and around Ubud.

And it is not just the land. It is also in the sweet smile and disposition of its people. In the crafts, in the music, and the dance which you find everywhere here. Stages and stores full of richness and spirit have sprouted up on almost every small road and lane. You can easily envision that this place is a Heaven on earth.

I came one day to watch some young dancers learn the intricacies of Balinese dance. These little girls had giggled and snacked on treats waiting for the teacher to come. Yet once the class started the kids were transformed. One moment carefree children at play and in the next they became bright flower buds. Ones who would one day, in time, blossom into the dancing mystical Goddesses they would become on stage.

No music played and yet they moved with poise and charm. The teachers were patient and attentive to their students and the long artistic and inner journey that lay before them. It was one they themselves had taken long ago. One whose destination was not self expression but to become one with Balinese dance unchanged in centuries of tradition.

Before the youngest dancers the teachers demonstrated intricate moves and steps. Every bit of their bodies was engaged. Fingers, eyes, and feet moved precisely. If you looked at one small bit it appeared awkward, but from a distance the beauty became apparent, even though the meaning of each separate portion of the gesture, step and move, remained a mystery.

From behind the teacher corrected the older dancers. A tilt of the head just so, an errant finger returned to perfect symmetry, a correct bend of the waist, and eyes, that moved with the same precision as the feet.

The teacher shares lessons unchanged for generations. She looks to no book or diagram to teach. Her own deep memories are her source and her inspiration. She calls upon tradition, upon history, upon the very spirit of the mystical Balinese dance.

There is little chance for either fame or fortune for these young dancers of Ubud. Perhaps it is a parents insistent voice that draws them out at first to practice. Or perhaps it is the spirit of dance itself which may be impossible to escape from here, and they must allow it to enrich and fill their spirit. So that one day when their blossoming beauty starts to fade they will help other young bright flowers to unfold.

No music plays and yet they dance. No audience watches and yet they are seen by many eyes. A story is told that bypasses the mind and is embraced by the heart. God watches and God dances within.

THE DANCER

Yesterday

I danced with Life.

Life does not know how to dance well.

Today

I am dancing with Death.

Death is a hopeless dancer.

Tomorrow

I shall dance with God.

We both will be able

To teach each other.

Excerpt from Sound Becomes, Silence Is by Sri Chinmoy.

The Silent Theater Meets Nature's Play

2009-01-29T06:15:00.000-08:00

I had been following the path for some time, the one that ran west and skirted the black sand beach. The only sound I could hear on that silent morning was the gentle crash of the sea spilling up across the sand and then swirling back out once again into the Java Sea.

And then it just ended. Stopping abruptly at a small river which flowed thick and brown from the rains that had fallen heavily during the past night.

Then I followed a smaller dirt trail that pushed and meandered its way into the tangle and green of a Balinese forest. I hoped to find a bridge that could help me continue my journey westward but instead my path led me to the silent theater.

At least I could only assume it had once been a grand and wonderous place. There had obviously once been a great stage but now its floor boards were long gone. It was nature's hand that filled the gap left by man. Vines crept over the space were once young dancers feet had gracefully moved to the haunting melody and rythmn of Balinese Gamalung.

There was no one else there except me and the forest and the haunting memories of those who had once come here and found joy and life.

Nature had nearly reclaimed this place that for me had no name and no history. The beauty of the theater was a sad and distant one at best. Nature in its place was providing its own enchantment in the flowers that fell across the space.

Today there was an audience of one lone runner. Nature's performance I will continue to applaud for some time to come.

The foolish mind

Quite often performs

In the illusion-theatre.

Excerpt from Twenty-Seven Thousand Aspiration-Plants, Part 130 by Sri Chinmoy.

When I emerged from the forest I came upon a small temple where People where making offerings. Each temple no matter how small in Bali seems to thrive with constantly with life. He had placed his flowers on the platform that perched just out of reach of the splashing sea.

At the same time the dawn fisherman where coming in off the sea with their small catches of fish. Each would help the other drag the boats up across the sand to safe spot just past the reach of the sea.

None of the boats seemed to have caught much. A meager harvest at best for the 3 men who had been out with casting nets long before the sun had brought its brightness to the sea. Still all seemed content in their own way.

Like all fisherman the work is hard. Just to pull the boat up across the unforgiving sand is not easy.

And yet the customers come. Pulling out the fish they want and placing them in small plastic bags. No fresher breakfast can be found, the catch almost still alive with the scent of the sea upon it and the toil of the fisherman right before your eyes.

And so this is a fragment of life on a Bali beach. And also a glimpse at the mystery I found in the silent forest, where memories sill linger and nature gradually reclaims what once belonged solely to it.

A man makes an offering to God and the sea offers something back to man

Chickens, Stone Carvers and the Grumpy Priest

2009-01-28T05:00:00.000-08:00

It was a typical day in Bali. Just me, 100 golf balls, 200 unforgiving meters of grass, and some chickens. Who clucked and scratched and must have seen the meadow covered with its gathering collection of ersatz eggs as a kind of hen heaven. Safe for the most part, with just a slight potential for an occasional errant arcing missile that could almost instantly, if it made unfortunate contact, dispatch them from the verdant green playing field to the less pleasurable destination of someones dinner plate nearby.

Though the chickens were never once threatened by any of my soaring white projectiles the neighbors in their humble tin roofed shacks to my right nearby were certainly less fortunate. On my first outing I had sent such a relentless fusillade of projectiles in their direction that it seemed to my ears, as the balls fell with aching repetitiveness over the fence with such a cacophony of clanging and banging that any of the inhabitants there could easily have pictured themselves on the receiving end of a stormy biblical plague from a hostile sky.

I humbly hope, as my outings continue, and I genuinely strive and seek improvement, to both prove myself to be a better golfer and to treat the locals next door with the quiet respect they deserve.

I walked back to the hotel slowly. It was hot and sticky and my pace was leisurely. I felt the exotic peace and pleasure of the place with each shallow stride.

I came upon some stone carvers who were working on an elaborate entrance to
a building that could either have been a home or a temple. It is hard to tell sometimes here.

Everywhere you look there are statues and carvings and delicate offerings to the spirits, to the Gods, to the peace that resides within.

Not everyone here is an artisan but everyone here is part and parcel of a gentle mystical Balinese spirit that is present everywhere you walk or look.

The carvers seemed to enjoy my presence on their job site. What they create here now will remain for centuries. But the moment of creation is swift, transitory, and is over in an instant compared with how long the stone statues themselves will stand and stare out onto the busy street.

Some of the faces of the statues can often look frightening. I wonder if they are there to protect or frighten off more terrifying spirits?

There is nothing to fear however in the sweet and gentle faces of the carvers. Who work there steel tools with delicate strokes into the soft stone.

I do not know how long they have been working here or when their labor will be finished. I can only imagine that it will last for ages and perhaps I was the only one to record the magic they have wrought here.

No stroke is repeated. Each move unique and what they will leave behind will bestow infinite pleasure to those who come near, look close, and see the beauty within.

For every new face to emerge under the hands of a carver there are the countless ones that have been crafted for generations.

Close nearby was a small sweet temple that seemed to have no one inside. Fresh flowers adorned the statues so I knew it was not a neglected place.

Once inside the gates the noise and clatter of the road outside disappeared. The green rich grass under my feet was soothing and inviting. My torment with errant golf balls was replaced with solitude and peace.

I sat quietly for a moment and felt each breath return peace to my being replacing any thoughts or agitations that may have vexed me moments earlier.

After a while I saw a lone Priest walking around the grounds caring a basket of offerings. Here and there he walked slowly and gently placed small palm leaf baskets filled with fresh flowers.

I followed him on his rounds for a short while. When he spotted me I bowed in respect. He paid little attention to me but willingly accepted my request to take his picture. I do not think I added to his unhappiness. I was certainly content. I hoped he would feel better, when a short while later, I slipped quietly away, back out onto the noisy street from whence I came.

Peace in stone statues

Has inspired and helped the world

Infinitely more

Than the present-day

Self-acclaimed peace-possessors.

Excerpt from Peace: God'S Fragrance-Heart, Part 2 by Sri Chinmoy.

Chinese New Year in Bali

2009-01-26T22:01:00.001-08:00

Mario was adamant that the Chinese New Year in Bali would be significant,and worth checking out. Having seen this celebration take place in traditional Chinese cultures in many places I knew it could be interesting and moving. But I thought to myself, "this is a Hindu Muslim culture, how could they possibly have room in their population to celebrate a Confucian Buddhist religious experience as well.

With a little research we found that there was a Chinese temple nearby called Tana Kilap. A taxi dropped us of on a busy highway and the driver pointed us down a quiet lane that did not look too promising. But after 50 meters, the unmistakable sweet scent of incense greeted us and we could see bright red lanterns bobbing in the breeze.

The temple seemed small, but that may have been because there was a steady stream of worshipers. Our group was respectful and the locals who were making a circuit of the complex seemed not to mind our presence on this auspicious day.

We were given ribbons to wrap around our waist. You could choose either yellow for prosperity or red for good life. The large bundles of incense we were handed were difficult to light but once so, the smoke and sweetness enveloped you like some mystical barrier.

The stations in the temple were clearly marked and if you missed one a helpful smiling attendant would point you in the right direction. Most worshipers lifted the burning incense above their heads and bowed at each place, leaving some sticks in a container now thick with ash.

At the end of the circuit the priest gave her blessings to one and all.

A prayer said, holy water splashed on head and hands and a small amount drunk. Also a yellow paste was applied to the forehead.

For most this last ritual seemed the most significant.

I had been asking if anyone spoke English when quite magically we met the very helpful Iketut Winarta who is an architect. He also wanted me to know that his Chinese name was Liem Tian Xin. His ancestors came to Bali in the 19th century he proudly told me. This temple he explained was a mix of Confucianism and Taoism. Meaning a mix of Buddha from India and Confuscious from China. That like the mix of races that had come together over the centuries in Bali, that also religions as well found ways to mix. I mentioned that the new US president knew something about mixing and he laughed.

It is the year of the ox. Meaning one in which steady conscious effort is needed in order to succeed.

A young boy told me that all the fireworks were used the night before. Today some kids kept busy by folding paper that would later be burned in a big open oven by the worshipers.

The statues around the temple seemed quite old but well cared for. Each one carried a unique experience in the ritual circling of the grounds.

It did not seem out of place for kids to play with electronic games during the time that parents made the slow and thoughtful rounds.

I do not know how long the temple's members would come and pray. A day later the sweet scent of incense still lingers on my clothes and the ash is embedded in parts of my sandals.

The young faces of Bali. On one day I saw people praying to Shiva with the rising sun. Today I see those celebrating in a sky without a moon that yet signals a new year.

May the beauty of the New Year

Beautify my heart.

May the purity of the New Year

Purify my mind.

May the simplicity of the New Year

Simplify my vital.

May the intensity of the New Year

Intensify my body.

May the responsibility of the New Year

Glorify my life.

May only the divinity of the New Year

Fully satisfy me.

Excerpt from My Sweet Father-Lord, Where Are You? by Sri Chinmoy.

Sunday Morning in Bali

2009-01-24T17:52:00.000-08:00

My first night in Bali had for me been a long, dark, and restless one. Not untypical of what happens to most, who journey 10,000 miles and then find themselves disgorged from an airplane on a distant side of the planet.

I was thankful to be away from the cold and bustle of my New York world but I still had some distance to travel within my own psyche to catch on to the soft rhythm and flow of the life on this tranquil green island.

From my hotel window, high above the beach, I had restlessly looked out often through the night. I could see a few small beams of light from flashlights playing across the shallow waters, from fisherman casting small nets in the dark.
I would drift back and forth from the sweet bliss of this world to the equally inviting embrace of sleep. But soon enough, even long before the restless sun had brimmed the horizon I could stand it no longer and made my way out of the confines of the hotel to wander on the little road that rimmed the shore.

The voices that had reached me at times through the unsettling night were now gathering strength as I made my way along the road that meandered by the beach. I saw small crowds of smartly dressed young men walking together arm and arm in front of me. They were clearly not the dregs of late Saturday night revelers but people out to gather and celebrate for some special purpose I knew not what.

I asked to take the boys pictures and they happily agreed. I also asked them why they had come out so early and they smiled and laughed. Smiling with the pleasure of each others company and laughing with a gentle mock at me and my obvious limitations. I was after all a stranger to their familiar world who could not speak even one word of their language. Still we could share the universal language of smiles and looks of celebration but I was none the wiser to the purpose of their early pilgrimage.

Somehow though, through a a series of gestures and a well placed knowing wink I realized that they were gathering in anticipation of the imminent sunrise, which was now just beginning to brighten the horizon to the east. I mistakenly thought that the purpose of this gathering was just for young men and soon enough I realized that the gathering crowd was made up of most of the small village nestled in and around the Bali Beach hotel.

Even before the sun rose some were praying and making offerings towards the east. Like this young couple all were dressed in what looked to be their finest clothes.

Some families were celebrating in less formal ways but many burned incense and in the quiet dark said prayers and watched that small children did not wander far.

Some wandered out into the shallow water and you could feel the energy and spirits of the gathering crowd gradually rise as the glowing brightness in the sky gathered strength.

I wandered almost aimlessly here and there amidst the people. I could see no other foreigner and yet I felt welcome to be there and amongst them all. I realized that whatever was happening was not so sacred and private that a stranger could not wander into their midst and take some small part.

I always asked permission before I took pictures and everyone seemed delighted to participate. It felt as though I was helping them in some small way capture the sweetness and gentleness that pervaded the entire beachfront.

After taking a picture I would then invariably share it with those I had just taken. They seemed delighted that this special moment was being recorded and that I would take the trouble to be here and humbly walk amongst them.

It was the sweet innocent look of these small children that reminded me of my own puzzlement. I had no idea what was really going on but it did not take away in any measure in my own delight in just being able to be here. To be spontaneously caught up in a sweet Balinese moment.

For the children the excitement was mixed with equal parts mystery and part fatigue. Clearly some had been up for hours.

I thought that once the sun had crested the wet horizon something bigger would collectively take place. That the mystery of this great predawn pilgrimage would become obvious.

Yet as the brightness in the east gradually became a ball of red in the sky nothing really changed.

Some wandered into the still ocean waters and some never left the repose of their spots on shore.
The littlest ones were accompanied by Dads and Moms and enjoyed the coolness of the ocean. The morning air was already gathering the thick heat of the equatorial sun.

Some small children just played the games that children do in any beach in any part of the world. Discovering treasure in a sunken piece of coral or splashing a brother who had come to close.

The tide was out this day so it was not easy to wander very far in the shallow rocky waters.

And as it grew brighter more cameras came out. At times I felt myself to be some kind of celebrity as people came up to have their pictures taken with me as I would so often take and share pictures with them.

A small fishing boat came to shore to sell its small catch of fish. I suddenly realized that I had not seen anyone eating at any time during the morning. That now I had been wandering amongst them for a couple of hours. Lost in picture taking and the delightful mystery of what was taking place.

Some continued to stay in their spots on the beach and offer up prayers in silent worship, or at least that is what it seemed.

Here and there were countless small banana leaf offering baskets brought and left in the sand by the celebrants.

But as the crowd gradually became more restless as the sun rose higher and higher they became trampled and strewn.

A spontaneous game of soccer started between a group of young boys who used a couple of plastic sandals as goal posts. The ball whizzed here and there. At one moment soaring into the ocean and landing with a splash and then just as suddenly zip through the legs of this small boy.

My hotel from this vantage seemed so close and yet so radically distant from the simple joy that permeated the local people on the beach on this clearly sacred Sunday morning. For them joy was just to come here and sit on a dark beach and wait patiently for the sun to rise.

I would learn, much later in the day, that I had chanced to come upon the Hindu celebration of Shivatri that comes twice a year when the moon is new. Most people had spent the previous day fasting and had stayed up the entire night. All would end with the rising of the dawn sun. By doing this devotedly the pilgrims could gain good karma and perhaps release the burden of the cycle of life and death. For one such as me from a place far off it was a sweet introduction to a place that many consider a gentle paradise.

God's Presence

Blesses our hearts

With paradise-beauty,

Paradise-splendour,

Paradise-delight

And

Paradise-God-fragrance.

Excerpt from Seventy-Seven Thousand Service-Trees, Part 12 by Sri Chinmoy.

Smiles and Tears

2009-01-20T14:16:00.000-08:00

This morning dawned cold, bright and full of promise. Most people, not just in America, but also around the world have looked forward with tremendous anticipation to this January 20th inauguration day. For many it was collectively seen as a defining moment of change and transformation. That where there had previously been despair and disappointment in humanity's fading dreams. Now would emerge afresh and anew an extraordinary budding hope in all people's hearts and lives. That perhaps the world was at last now on track for a long awaited more fulfilling future.

Of course on any great day of joy in the world there will always be somewhere stories of quite a different nature. At every minute in one place somebody is celebrating with a smile and in some other place a tragedy will unfold that cannot help but bring forth tears. My own little world of Jamaica Queens was rocked this morning with the sad news that a good friend of mine Sudhir had passed this morning after a lengthy illness.

It was not unexpected. All his near and dear ones had seen him gradually fading over the last few years and more rapidly over the past few months. In one of the more remarkable small miracles of life he, who loved travel, made one last trip to Thailand on his own. His return home though, less than a month ago, was a mighty challenge for both his waning energy and usually buoyant spirits.

I took this picture in Rangoon some years ago. We had just spent the gentle dusk hours circling the Schwedegon pagoda. It was a time of sweet incense, tinkling bells, and all embracing sense of peace.

His name Sudhir, given to him by our spiritual teacher Sri Chinmoy, means 'Inner Poise.' For me this time together in Burma was a unique and defining moment with a true brother-friend. Yet I know many others who also found in him a similar deep and inner bond with this stalwart son of Scotland. He thrived on hard work and yet for me he consistently possessed a unique knack of piercing even my darkest moods and with a bright quip or bemused look make me laugh. His capacity for humor was second to none. His ability to perform comedy is now legendary, first with his friend Ian (Harsha) Prior, and then with the Swanson brother troupe.
Later on that same Burma trip we toured the plains of Bagan with its almost countless temples dedicated to Lord Buddha.

There have been many times in my life when visitors to New York would mistake me for him and call me by his name. I took this as a Supreme compliment because in him I saw more wit and humor on a daily basis than I could muster in a life time. I have had this picture on my refrigerator for years. In the coming days and weeks it cannot help but remind me that I have lost a true friend and spiritual brother.

The following is a question he once asked Sri Chinmoy

Sudhir: What is your favourite joke from India?

Sri Chinmoy: My favourite Indian joke is what happened the first day I came down from the highest type of samadhi. I forgot my name. I was trying to think of my name, but I couldn't remember it. Then it came to my mind that one of my school notebooks had my name on it. So I looked at the cover of the notebook and found my name. When I came down from that consciousness the second and third time, I had to ask my friends what my name was. My friends were my greatest admirers. They knew my realisation, so they didn't cut jokes with me.

Excerpt from Smile Of The Beyond by Sri Chinmoy.

He had many friends and loved ones. Though a private person by nature he had a gentle and caring way, of taking a sincere interest in the trials and tribulations of others. His astonishing capacity at recitation never ceased to amaze me. I often asked him to recite from Shakespeare's Henry the 5th and other poets.

He was not one to over sentimentalize though at the same time he was not reluctant to empathize with others. For me Sudhir was, for the more than 30 years I knew him, a man of incredible self discipline and dedication to work and sport. When his knees failed him in his favourite sport running he instead took up the challenge of cycling and swimming.

White sands picture by Unmesh

All those who knew and loved Sudhir will miss him in the upcoming weeks and months. If there is any consolation in his passing is that we can take some small measure of comfort that his suffering has now been released and exchanged for peace. Today the world both gained and lost something significant. There is perhaps a transformational new President in Washington but in Queens we have lost a treasured loved one.

The journey lying before America and the world today has never looked brighter. For all who believe in the soul's reality and its sacred divine promise, Sudhir has returned home once again. His private journey guided by the creator who loves all in his creation equally, no matter whether they Smile or Cry.

Each day is a new day.

Each new day is a new way

To see the Vision-Eye

And sit at the Compassion-Feet

Of your Lord Supreme.

Excerpt from Twenty-Seven Thousand Aspiration-Plants, Part 192 by Sri Chinmoy.

The Saints of Jamaica ave

2009-01-16T13:35:00.001-08:00

We are the Saints of Jamaica ave. True we may have far far to go on our earthbound journey but God himself is our eventual goal. And do not forget, all who walk or sit or run are part and parcel of God's creation.

ARE YOU A SAINT?

Are you a saint?

Then paint my life with your purity-paint.

Are you a fake?

Then touch me not,

Wake me not, wake.

Excerpt from A Soulful Cry Versus A Fruitful Smile by Sri Chinmoy.

Everyone who travels on the road searching for Heaven's freedom knows that God's justice is everywhere. But we also believe in God's grace and God's compassion

Compassion and justice

Need each other.

Compassion needs justice

For newness-light.

Justice needs compassion

For oneness-delight.

Excerpt from Ten Thousand Flower-Flames, Part 84 by Sri Chinmoy.

Each and every Saint will one day complete their Godward journey. No matter the weather, no matter the season, no matter which and wherever the road they walk.

A JOURNEY TO NO END

A journey to no end

Was my animal life's destruction-journey.

A journey to no end

Is my human life's desire-journey.

A journey to no end

Shall be my divine life's aspiration-journey.

A journey to no end

Shall be my God-life's manifestation-journey.

Excerpt from Europe-Blossoms by Sri Chinmoy.

No one can ever say that this road we walk is easy. Yet no matter how difficult it is we still all must do it. We must please God, we must please the God in us, we must serve the God in everyone.

Easy to cry,

Easy to fly.

Easy to fear,

Easy to spear.

Easy to sow,

Easy to grow.

Easy to think,

Easy to sink.

Excerpt from From The Source To The Source by Sri Chinmoy.

Are you a Saint as well? Of course you are. We are all Saints. Some have walked very very far and others have just begun their journey. It helps to know, it helps more to try.

TRY NOT TO PROVE

Try not to prove.

Try to improve.

Try not to grow.

Try to glow.

Excerpt from Sound Becomes, Silence Is by Sri Chinmoy.

I am still learning what are the important things in my life. The material world sometimes seems so very real to me. I also know however that my very own divine world is just within reach on the road I walk. It is by becoming one with my divinity that I will at last find my true freedom and my true Joy.

What is true joy? True joy is man's knowledge of God and God's love for man combined.

Excerpt from Meditations: Food For The Soul by Sri Chinmoy.

The Hour is getting late it is time to awake. Come and walk with us. Come and walk towards God. Celebrate at every moment that God is not just your goal but also that he walks each and every step in and through you.

Wherever I go,

God's Compassion

Walks ahead of me

And His Protection

Walks side by side with me.

Excerpt from My Christmas-New Year-Vacation Aspiration-Prayers, Part 8 by Sri Chinmoy.

Encountering Beauty

2009-01-12T16:26:00.000-08:00

It was the kind of morning in which the soft dawn light makes just about everything a vision of beauty. I had headed out for an early run but was at first disappointed that I was leaving the house so late. I had made it just a few blocks when I came upon this tree and I somehow felt that I just had to stop.

It seemed to me almost as though this tree was asking me to take its picture. I resisted in my silly way. I thought there are much more beautiful trees than you, and besides, you have this wire strung in front. But somehow just the act of getting out my camera made me more keenly observe everything with just a little more patience and gratitude.

By the time I got to Goose Pond park I knew that my early morning run was about to become something quite different than I had anticipated. It became apparent very quickly that today was going to be more about observing from within and not covering distances on foot. That sometimes we have to learn to accept those special here and now moments, when fate places them in front of us.

I doubt that any photograph of mine can rightly convey the almost overwhelming sense of beauty I experienced over the course of just a brief time wandering in the park.

Recently someone had written to me that they were a school teacher at the nearby high school and that they enjoyed meditating there when they weren't teaching.

The experience I had this morning was a deep and heart felt one and I felt grateful to be able to have this all too short and precious time. It did however remind me of an experience I had when I was very young and spent my summers on my Uncle's farm.

He was a simple and down to earth man who yet had a sharp wit and was able to find humor even when his work seemed repetitive, long, hard and boring.

I somehow had the notion that I was more sophisticated because I came from a small city and he lived in the country. I am pretty certain that he didn't pay much attention to such things because he had more than enough wisdom and patience.

I remember one evening in the farm kitchen so clearly. The chores were done for the day and he was sitting at his chair by the table and looking out the window and there was a tremendous smile on his face. It looked as though he had just seen something incredible and called me over to be beside him and look out as well.

The window looked westward and he put his arm around my shoulder and pointed his freehand out the window at the setting sun. "Isn't that somethin," he said. "Boy what a sight." At the time I was confused by this as he probably saw the sun setting from that same seat practically every night of the year.

But as time went on I began to learn what he really meant by that affectionate arm around my shoulder and the finger pointing westward. I believe it was the first time I ever really and truly appreciated a sunset.

In a short while I will start to head out of the park when suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I see a flash of powerful sinewy white heading in my direction at a great and threatening speed. It is a pit bull and I am invoking as swiftly as I can hurried prayers for protection as he thunders in my direction.

In a moment I spot his owner calling to him affectionately and also trying to remove the fear that is clearly visible in my wobbling knees. He tells the dog to sit right in front of me and I am pretending not to act scared. In a moment I am introduced to "Slate." I can't quite make out the name so the owner Paulo who is Guyanese spells it out for me, letter by letter.

Much much later after my nerves have settled I look more closely at Slate's picture and think there really isn't much meanness in his face. I do however appreciate for now seeing him much more in a photograph than sitting next to my toes.

God's Dog

A dog is faithfulness.

If someone wants to be God's most faithful dog,

God tells him that He is his slave.

Excerpt from Rainbow-Flowers, Part 1 by Sri Chinmoy.

After the Snow

2009-01-11T11:07:00.001-08:00

It is now a bright new day after last nights snow. For most on this icy morning it is less a matter of shoveling than it is of scraping. A freezing mist came late in the night and coats everything with a slippery and unforgiving layer of ice.

This Dad is chipping at his steps so that his two daughters can go out and play. But they will find even the sidewalk treacherous.

The roads are slippery too but some folks still have to drive. It takes a while to clean windshields both front and back.

The morning is warming up though and the ice is melting fast. In the gutters little streams are starting to flow, gathering strength on their way.

But it will take a lot of sun to make all paths clear.

No matter how hard you scrape it may than still come down to just having to add salt to make the pathway clear.

It is still only Sunday morning and some perform this job of ice scraping with peace and patience.

Some go it alone and some work as a team.

Eventually everyone will come inside once again and get warm. Except for those who never pay much attention to summer and winter's ways.

Do you know

Who man actually is?

Man is God's climbing monkey.

Do you know

Who God actually is?

God is man's descending dove.

Excerpt from Ten Thousand Flower-Flames, Part 25 by Sri Chinmoy.

When it Snows

2009-01-11T09:54:00.001-08:00

They were calling it the first snowstorm of 2009. The New York city forecasters spoke with some menace about how severe the weather would get on Saturday night. Numbers added up, expectations rose with them and people looked outside anticipating the worst.

But soon enough we got much less than promised. Life proceeded without catastrophe or calamity nipping at out heels. The night instead offered up something quite different though perhaps not unexpected. For one night the city-world outside was transformed. Nature swept over the material realm and covered everything with its own fleeting beauty.

Of course there were people about but their sounds and activity were dim and muffled under cool delicate layers of white. I had to be out on this night but I was on foot and the rapturous splendor of it all reminded me of my first visit to New York.

It was in February of 1974 and I have a powerful memory of walking on the roads one evening, and the snow was falling, and it was magical. I had just discovered an inner direction for my life. I also felt as though not only was the destination of my journey clear but I also that I had someone in my life who would eternally guide me on this path of my heart.

I live here now of course and have seen many cold snowy days. But whenever it snows at night, about this time of winter, it never fails to take my thoughts back to the time of my first walk on a snowy night here. All the enthusiasm and freshness of that trans formative journey rushes into me and I feel as well renewed hope for the walks and journeys that still lie ahead.

Eventually I will go inside where the visions that sparkled so briefly before my eyes will vanish. But perhaps my heart will be a little richer with the wonder of the journey I have made on this snowy night. And perhaps, I can march forward on my life's path with a little more confidence, for whatever the number of days and nights that are still in front of me to travel.

If I can become

A snow-white seeker,

Then God is bound to meet me

Before long.

Excerpt from Seventy-Seven Thousand Service-Trees, Part 25 by Sri Chinmoy.

Goose Pond in Winter

2009-01-08T16:51:00.000-08:00

I went out to Goose Pond park early this morning and found it to be a quiet and almost forlorn place at this time of the winter. There are certainly no Geese or ducks here because the surface of the pond is frozen. The only animals you see here now are people walking their dogs. I even saw the pitbull who I videoed chasing geese last spring. He ran back and forth like he was in some kind of frantic one dog olympics. I couldn't imagine what he must be like inside his home with so much energy. I just wished I could have gotten a little closer to take his picture.

With the dawn sun glistening so bright it is hard not to find some beauty. Jamaica High school always seems so inspiring. It looks so beautiful to me from the outside though I have never been inspired to see what it is like inside. I prefer most schools from a safe distance.

There is an apartment building at the edge of the park that always reflects so beautifully the rising sun. I wonder what it mus be like to live there and be greeted just a little earlier by its radiance than those who live in dark homes below. I suppose the people on the other side of the building may be just as glad to see it set. Which side of the building would you choose?

I have seen this tree with its funny shaped branch so many times. Yet each time I come across it I am surprised. It takes me a while to realize how odd it is, that a big limb of a tree grows out straight then tilts down and then up again. I realize that even if I go again to the park tomorrow I will still be pleasantly surprised. Maybe I like to be eternally surprised by nature's wonders.

There is no mistaking that the ice of the pond is too thin to walk on. The parks people are really good about signs. But it doesn't take much imagination to picture the kids in the neighborhood hoping and praying it keeps cold enough so that they can slide out into the middle where only the Geese can go.
At this time of a cold morning most people walk pretty quickly through the park. All on their way to someplace important and certainly warmer than ice cold goose pond park.

The only exception was Solomon and his Dad who was playing in the playground. I asked Mathew if he came here often, and he told me, "Solomon and I come most every day." I thought they must have a pretty good thermostat in their bodies because it was just around freezing and neither had any gloves on. I was glad that somebody was enjoying the park this morning, even if it was a Goose free zone. Solomon's Dad told me to, "Have a blessed day." I told them, "amen to that," as I walked away.

THE POND, THE RIVER, THE SEA

The pond cries

For the Power of the sea.

The river runs

For the Light of the sea.

The sea sighs

For the Light within.

Excerpt from The Wings Of Light, Part 5 by Sri Chinmoy.

A Walk in the Woods

2009-01-07T13:59:00.000-08:00

It was New Years day and my brother Herb had a rare day off. He has been operating his own restaurant for nearly 3 years now and the Parkhouse seems at times to occupy almost every minute of every day of his life. Despite the challenge of the work it does seem to be a perfect fit for him, at least in my eyes.

It seemed special to me therefore that on that singular day off he suggested we go for a walk, not indicating where we were going. He asked if I had brought boots with me. When I showed him my shoes he gave me a mischievous smile and suggested, "they might not be good enough for where we are going."

Of course we brought his dog Moose who settled comfortably on his lap during the drive out of town. I wasn't sure where we were going but quite frankly I didn't care. We hadn't spent much quiet time together during my visit and it seemed like a great opportunity to be out in nature for a while, something I rarely get to do in Queens where I live.

He parked the car near a snow bank, created by a plow on a quiet country road. It was a place where the driver decided he needed to go no further, because no one lived beyond that point. I wasn't sure how the young dog Moose would handle the snow and from the non verbal sounds of Herb after we had not gone too far I began to have a growing concern for him as well.

He told me we were going to a cabin on a small river about a mile down the unploughed road. The hike wasn't that difficult for me, who runs most days, but it became clear pretty quick that Moose was no sled pulling Husky and would from time to time need to be carried. This of course we took turns with but it is surprising how quickly a little dog in your arms starts to feel bigger and bigger by each snowy step.

What catches your attention so quickly on a walk like this is how the absolute stillness of the bare fields and stands of snow dusted evergreens can remind you of of the absolute power of nature. We did not talk much but I remember Herb saying, "Boy it is really still out here." Other than fallow wheat fields and a few lonely fence posts there was little sign of civilization whatsoever.

For a guy from New York city it was heaven. Truth be told you could not call the day beautiful. There was a heavy gray dullness in the sky and the air though calm was bitter cold. But for me the walk brought back long and deeply treasured memories. Of going fishing with Herb during our young summers back on the farm. Of crossing the fresh cut hay fields and entering the quiet canopy of summer trees. Of the coolness there and our steps rushing forward with Laddy, the frisky farm dog and continually diving deeper and deeper into the fragrant forest. Of heading so far into the wild and ancient growth until, just as we began to loose our nerve, we heard the first sweet murmur of the trout stream. With that, our spirits and confidence swelled, until as we rushed forward, we could at last see the crystalline inviting babbling waters.

Truth be told we did not cover too much ground on this little cold tramp. Maybe a mile at best and yet it seemed much longer in some ways. Herb was not used to exercise such as this and Moose had not the energy or spirit of a farm dog. But it was fun, it was relaxing, and the presence of my brother at my side stirred up tender thoughts inside my heart. I found myself peering into the deep and very personal side of our relationship. It made me ponder in part the mystery of the unshakable and timeless bonds of family life itself. It was to me just so unmistakable how strong our connection was. I clearly saw how deep my feelings and love for my only brother really went. And it made me wonder as well about the unfathomable reality that breathes and binds in timeless fascination perhaps all families. That no matter how little we share of our lives these days there is still nonetheless a deep inner connection that yet is still so sweet and dear.

We eventually got to the camp perched on the lip of a precipice overlooking the swirling icy river. My brother and Moose stayed up above in a little woodshed and I was compelled to climb down steep iron stares and see the water, like some gigantic slushy, slurping swiftly down towards Lake Huron.

The walk back to the car was now just a little easier. Our previous footsteps in the snow made the footing more certain . Moose also perhaps sensed that a warm car was not too far off and was inspired to walk more on his own. The walk back seemed to take not tim e at all.

Later I will question Herb about what he felt about our walk. He tells me what impressed him most he said was, "the stillness." He will not mention that he was tired or reveal any personal thoughts about the walk might have meant to him. But in his eyes I saw it clearly just the same. We are Brothers bound for life, not just on short snowy paths, but also all the way, on the great journey of our Souls existence.

Physical brothers

Appear and disappear,

But spiritual brothers

Follow the path

Of eternal friends.

Excerpt from Twenty-Seven Thousand Aspiration-Plants, Part 240 by Sri Chinmoy.

The Square

2009-01-06T17:12:00.000-08:00

The planners who laid out the town of Goderich in the early 19th century made a brilliant decision. Before any houses were built and could thus confuse its development they laid out a large square, with 8 roads radiating out from it. Now, no matter where you are, in and about the town, you can easily find the center of Goderich by following practically any road back to its very heart.

The discovery of salt at about that same time ensured that there would be a lasting economic engine for the community. They used to get it out in numerous ways but not until 1950 did they start to mine it. Even now they are hiring more people and digging out more salt from underneath the lake.

Big ships come in to the little harbor to load not only salt but wheat as well.

At this time of year not a lot is going on in the square. On a very cold morning between Christmas and New Year I seemed to be the only one wandering about.

Right now there are lots of Christmas decorations and lights on all sides of the Square. Some look as though they have seen a lot of holidays and of course this year they have already experienced a whole lot more of winter than most years at this same time.

The Huron county court house has always been in the middle of the square. The original one burned down and they replaced it with this imposing stone one. It is not a place most folks would like to visit I suspect. But maybe once you have been inside and came out again and saw all the statues and color you would feel just a little bit better.

Over the past number of years they have been installing these folk art pieces.

Last summer on a hot July afternoon I saw an enormous man with a great dark beard using a chain saw to create the Scotish piper above. His belly swelled out against a sweaty dark t shirt. He spent hours and hours working on it. He took his time and was not in a rush. I did not see him looking at any plan. He just fired up the saw from time to time and chips would fly. People would watch him for a short while from a distance and then cover their ears and run away.
The stars of the Square right now are of course the Christmas Holiday ones. It strikes me as such a wondrous thing that though they do not move they can so often move us.
Who knows how many winters they have sat here. How many spirits they have lifted, and perhaps how glad most people are to finally see them go and that Spring might take their place.

There is even a manger scene on one side of the square. There are probably by number more elves and Santas and snow men in and about the Square but the nativity is at least not forgotten. I am not sure if this is a shepherd or a wise man now. I believe he held a lamp so perhaps he was a wise shepherd. I took a picture of a camel covered with snow but it didn't come out very well. He also seemed to me to be a little out of place amidst all the cold.

There is of course a cenotaph here. The wreaths were laid back in November and as I took this picture I wondered how much longer they would remain. The Square of course is plenty big enough for all the holiday characters who stand bright and cheery in the snow. The mood changes so much though from one small patch to the next. So many sites and yet so so much cold

After a while the cold began to creep deeper into me. My feet were getting cold and colder. Fingers were finding it hard to work the camera and I wondered if I could really show what it was like in the Goderich Square on a cold December morning. It was just me and a hesitant sun and lights that still burned in the middle of the day.

It occurred to me that at this time of year most folks see these same sites as me, with my snow covered shoes, from their cars as they drive by. They smile and point and children laugh when the decorations are first put up and then it just blends into the great festivity of Christmas. Because it is in the heart of town nobody can miss it and probably most look forward to the color and brightness when so much of the winter is without it. No matter the darkness there is always light.

Home Away From Home

2009-01-05T18:01:00.000-08:00

It has become my home away from home, and though I do not get there too often, the Parkhouse in Goderich is a place in which my heart often seeks refuge from time to time. My body and mind may be firmly planted in the hectic urban terrain which is New York city, but up there, in the quiet frozen expanse which is Canada, my brother's house seems to often draw my thoughts, though my visits come less often.

Of course this is the frozen month of December, when even the great bustling expanse of New York has its share of ice and snow. But maybe the folks, huddled on the eastern shore of Lake Huron understand the winter just a little more. The winds blow across the lake almost tirelessly and for those on its edge the winter is generously abundant with its gifts.

I am far from the first to call the Park House a Home away from Home. It has seen a long history of those who have taken off their hats and rested temporarily under its roof. It has been around since the 1830's and has been known as the grand residence of town, and then a bank, and then became an inn. Now beside being a home to my brother and his wife it is a popular restaurant.

For those who did not stay under its roof perhaps they looked forward to pitching a tent out back.

But why most came of course was to be embraced by the joys of summer. To sit upon the beach and stare out across what had to appear as a limitless expanse of Lake that hinted, but could not reveal Michigan just over the horizon.

There is no mistake who is the current owner and proprietor these days. But perhaps the real King of the homestead is its newest resident. A 15 pound hairy bundle called Moose.

Right now nature is very much at rest around the grounds of the house.

It wasnt too long ago that there was a prize winning garden that seemed to match the cheer and warmth of those who lived and worked inside.

There is still charm to be found of course. You just have to look a little harder. Keep warm, tread cautiously but always look close. Do not just see the ice and snow, look at what lies beneath as well.

It is a place though in which things can quickly change. A cold December morning can in an instant become a snowy bitter day. One in which retreat inside, is the only answer. Find escape from winter's wrath and seek shelter within.

A HOME FAR AWAY

Fear is a home

Far away from God.

Love is a home

Far away from man.

Realisation is a home

Far away from Heaven.

Perfection is a home

Far away from earth.

Excerpt from The Wings Of Light, Part 16 by Sri Chinmoy.

The Last Leaf

2008-11-09T10:52:00.001-08:00

This is a common site for me at this time of year. In New York city the peak of the leaf viewing season has come and gone and for a man who makes a living in lawn maintenance a scene like this represents only the harsh reality of more hard work ahead. I had been at this yard just yesterday, fully armed with noisy blowers, rakes and bags.

In front of us here, is the exquisite Japanese Maple from which these leaves have just fallen. I can say categorically just fallen, because when I left yesterday the lawn was green and a deep and fragrant harvest of leaves had been fully dispatched.

It looks now as though I had never come at all. Yet I am familiar with nature's whims and ways by now to know, that even if I were to mount an attack once more with rakes and tools, this pretty yard, in just a few hours more would be cloaked just as this again. The cool winds would blow and even in the still of a dark night they would continue to fall and fall.

I have come back today because of a friend who passed by me yesterday whilst I was raising billowing clouds of leaves using one of mankind's nosiest and most obnoxious of machines. He asked me to put my tools down and come out with him on the street and look up to the street sign still hiding behind a bright canopy of leaves. He said, "man this is just so beautiful." I had to agree of course and felt a nudge of the poet within step up and once again grow conscious and at last recognize the beauty spilling in every direction all around us.

The sign says Normal but of course this scene only lasts for a few fragile days.

Today I resist the gardener who wants to come back with a rake and push these leaves into oblivion. But today my tool is a camera and instead I just wait and look and breathe the fresh rich air. There is a child within me who pops out from time to time and gives the leaves a playful kick. I even tossed some in the air and watched them twirl about in the light breeze.

The whims of nature of course are unaccountable. On a thick rich bed of red, how did one lone yellow one find its way here.

They lay so still and peaceful on the ground. One can be easily tempted to look upon this as death but of course we would be wrong. The tree is still very much alive and yearns for the winter to come so that it can rest and rebuild strength for the year yet to come. For now the leaves on the ground too have not been touched by frost and cold. There are no winter scars to blight their beauty. The gardener has to rake them up of course but the child can be enriched and made joyous by these precious moments of beauty.

There is a tree next door which has already made its transition into winter's slumber. It appears so stark and dull in comparison. But of course this is just because my eye has been swayed and caressed by the tree next door.

And from next door, when it is framed by the brilliant red and the glint of the sun it too gains some of the same sweet charm. Its beauty not so blatant perhaps but still there to be seen if one looks beyond the surface.

I have been with the tree some time when the critic begins to emerge. I give a silent complaint to myself that I should have come earlier to take pictures. That a day or two earlier the tree would have been even more perfect and beautiful. But of course I think how silly. What a useless observation. There is more beauty and delight here than I can ever fully realize. I should be just happy to appreciate what I have in this moment now. Forget yesterday and certainly not worry about tomorrow.

When the charm of fall has long past there will still be beauty here. Deep within the dark stark branches there will be slowly building a fiery show for the springtime yet to come. And if our imagination is dim and our senses grow weary, we have only to look up to the sky itself with its constant show of whimsical clouds racing across the sky.

There is an appearance of frailness to all this beauty. It is a perception not really built on fact. It would take some force to pull these leaves from the stem right now. They have after all withstood the onslaught of a long season. There have been winds and heavy rain and they have been oblivious as they wagged and waved about for days and weeks and many months.

Yet no matter our wishes or expectations soon enough there will be some microscopic twitch and nature's call will be felt. A infinitesimal shudder perhaps and then a fall to earth that will be measured in fleeting seconds. A journey that can be taken just once.

I really don't know how long I spent here. Climbing up and crouching low and listening and pondering and just giving myself a chance to take in as much beauty as I could. I asked my eyes to look and yet my heart received so much more.

"He is now ready to achieve

The life of perfection-delight

Because his human life has become

A dead leaf on the desire-tree."

Excerpt from Ten Thousand Flower-Flames, Part 85 by Sri Chinmoy.

Ed's World

2008-10-18T18:52:00.000-07:00

Each and every one practically cries out to be held and hugged. The place Ed and myself are currently roaming is wall to wall full of nothing but wonderful plush toys. There are creatures and creations in all shapes, sizes and colors. For children who walk in here, it has to be as though they have entered wonderland itself but to an old guy from Queens I just think of it as a visit to F A O Schwartz, the best toy store in New York city.

The store occupies a particularly trendy location on 5th ave and visitors from all over the world love to come here to gawk and shop or perhaps just feel the inner child in their hearts run loose and free once again. I am accompanying Ed Silverton from Bristol England on this August afternoon and he has told me that he tries to come here every time he visits New York. I can easily understand why as I watch him picking up toys with such utter delight and joy. He looks to me as though he is in heaven and it is because of his infectious enthusiasm that I slowly feel the rusty door of my own heart inexorably begin to creak open.

There is a very practical ho hum side to Ed's visit here. He is a talented artist who seems to be constantly designing and creating unusual and child like projects. Surrounded by the best toys seems to give him inspiration for whatever he is working on himself. But as he shakes a puppy to see how its ears wiggle or simply holds a toy up to his face to feel what it is like against his cheek there is also just some old fashioned child like fun taking place here as well. He may have just turned 40 but he is one of the most youthful 40 year old you are ever likely to meet.

He has never really pursued a career using his prodigious skills and creativity. His art has always seemed to be a personal part of his make up that would suffer in someway if exposed to the crass and commercial world. Up until just a week ago he had been a technician in enamels for an Art College but as he talks about it now it is clear that the business side of art just has no appeal to his gentle heart. He seems grateful to have turned that page of his life, even though as we speak now, it is not clear what will come next.

He tells me that he needs to, "love his work." When he speaks about toys he says that people just stop what they are doing when they see them. So it follows when he adds, "I don't get joy from representing the real world. I like to depict what you can't see, what's beyond." Later as I look over a portfolio of his work I am impressed with how everything he makes has a beauty and simplicity and sweetness that seems far, far removed from this materialistic and practical world that so demands our attention. I certainly will not be the first to describe it so, but many others have also identified, that in everything he creates it comes from its own special place, that somehow is simply and best described as, Ed's World.

I am not sure how long we spent in the store but it feels as though we have gone down every aisle and peered into each shelf. He has made a few small purchases that he will take back to England. I am not entirely sure if they are for himself or for his niece and nephew.

It is the kind of place. that one moment you can become the gentlest of Roman centurions or find a backpack that brings out the inner Hulk.

I am surprised at how little was spent during our time here considering the amount of toy examination that took place.

We go to a nearby Dunkin Donuts where the cashier is fascinated by Ed's purchases. A Japanese toy which can be decorated with different faces interests her the most.

Over some hot chocolate Ed tells me more about himself at this juncture in his life. At one point he jokes about his current situation and says, "I have reached a cross roads and just turned around." As for his interest in toys he tells me how as a young child his Mother hand made for him a toy called Bag Puss. It was a popular English Children's character and she made one from scratch. He also, at a very young age became interested in bicycles and tells me he now owns a fleet of them. He still keeps a keen interest in the sport and competes in road, cycle-cross, and time trial races.

He attended the University of the West of England where he learned a lot technically and got a chance to experiment with many forms of creative expression. Sometimes a project starts off with rough hard tools in order to transform something into a thing of exquisite beauty. He had some of his things shown at a small craft shop and reluctantly discovered, as he says, "as an entrepreneur I am hopeless. I am not into commercial success."

This elephant fountain was the piece he built as his senior project. It demonstrates a whimsy and simple elegance that is part and parcel of all his work.

It was while attending University that he first became aware of his late Spiritual teacher Sri Chinmoy. He was deeply inspired by him in all aspects of his creativity and the many forms he took for manifestation of his inner divinity. He was seriously involved in ceramics at the time and thought he would try and capture his divinity and his profound humility. It was while sketching the piece that he says simply that he, "went somewhere else." It was displayed for a time in the Victoria and Albert museum in 2000.
He says that after he had made the piece he said, "Wow, my God, what happened there." This he says doesn't happen very often. Of his work he says, "I have a vision of how it should be. I don't see it always, but I feel it." It was so personal for him that early on he just gave it away. Now no more are available whatsoever as the mold has been broken. He says of this, "it has forced me to move on. "

Some of his more current work are called bongys. He says that they are a response to kids drawing something very simple. That they should be quick and spontaneous. The name apparently came about as a response from a young niece of his named Lydia. Who when she saw what he was making gave them that name.

His art all demonstrates a purity and sweetness. He says that before he works, "I meditate before hand, keeping my mind as quiet as possible and my expectations too."

The piece on the left he calls the Spanish vase. On the right is a representation of his Patron Saint, St. Edward the confessor. He was the only English King to be named a Christian saint.

It was while working on his Edward piece that he got interested in making horses.

It was as a young student of Sri Chinmoy that he designed a simple pull toy. His teacher was deeply involved with weight lifting at the time. One pulled a string and the figure of Sri Chinmoy would then lift a dumbbell. Sri Chinmoy was so delighted with it that he got copies made to distribute to his students. He said of his face in the figure Ed created, "you captured my smile perfectly." Ed was not available when they were distributed. Sri Chinmoy however sent one to him via a friend. Printed on the chest of the small figure he had enscribed this message, "Ed, My Blessings and My Gratitude,Guru."

Ed also is a very good illustrator. Some of his work has been used in various internet websites. He calls such work his devotional work. He tells me that before he starts his art, "I meditate before I work and offer it to Guru."

http://www.srichinmoysongs.com/

http://www.edsilverton.com/

After Ed had made the small pull toy he felt fr0m then on that he had made a special inner connection to Sri Chinmoy's weightlifting. Last October therefore, when Sri Chinmoy passed away his tribute to his teacher was a white floral bouquet in the shape of a dumbbell.

Currently Ed can be found pouring coffee in Reykjavik and enjoying Iceland thoroughly. He is presently without a bicycle but seems to have definately made his way well past his personal cross road.

And, if there are some out there, who might like to know one of Ed's creative secrets he tells me, "when I'm working, especially late at night, I like eating sweet things like cookies and chocolate. Not just to keep me awake, but the childlike joy I get from them really helps bring out a sweetness in the work I feel."