Learning Oneness

One my earliest memories is my mother reading me a wonderful book called, I'll Be You and You Be Me, by Ruth Krauss.

In the 50 years that have passed since I first saw the book, I have come to learn how perfectly it teaches the Universal Truth: that We Are One.

Here is my favorite page, it says, "She's wide and I'm thin---her hair's short and my hair's long---I hope I widen out as she grows narrowed and my hair should get shorter as hers gets long---we'd be like twins."

Please Pass the Peace

I’m a great believer in passing.
Not passing in the sense of “from this world to the next,” rather, as in “passing the peace.”

Sometimes I like to talk about “please pass the money.” I earn it, I spend it; in other words, someone passes it to me, and I pass it to you. Last week, when I had to change some American dollars into Indian rupees, a friend worried that I hadn’t received a good rate of exchange. “I will spend the money in India, one way or another,” I told her. “If some of it is spent in that shop, so be it.”

What we must guard against is passing hurt or pain to one another. Remember the old story of the man who has a hard day at work and comes home, passing the pain to his wife, who passes it to the children, who kick the dog?

I’ve noticed hurt being passed around me lately, and I’ve even received some. We put out our hands in greeting and friendship, only to find someone has dumped a pile of their pain. It can masquerade as humor or teasing, but nevertheless, the stinger remains.

The temptation is to keep passing it, either back to the bestower (the Game of Gotcha) or any willing receiver. Seeing this practice on a small scale, I am not at all surprised by how proficient nations have become, particularly my own, in waging war…the ultimate passing of pain.

Wrongly, we imagine that if we can just get this pain out of our hands, pain will end. The last bomb will bring peace is the General’s strategy, thinking the target will simply stop the game.

How hard it is to not send a volley forth, to find the grace and compassion to not accept the pain as passed, but simply to lay it down and walk away.

Everyday, we are given opportunities to pass something to the person next to us. To pass pain, peace, money, love, understanding, gossip, good news, bad news, inspiration, contagion, best wishes.

Let’s pledge to pass along only that which creates a peaceful, more loving home, neighborhood and planet. Such a promise is within our control, and worth our while.

Effacing Separation

With Musharaff, the Calcutta tailor.

Looking back, I realize the Big Question I have been meditating on sprang from a Times of India article, "Sever Connections, Overcome Illusions," published Nov. 30, 2007, the day before I arrived in Bangalore this time.

The writer, Dr. Deepak M. Ranade, a consultant neurosurgeon, wrote that our senses, “Trick the brain into believing the separate existence of all that it sees, feels and hears.” He further asserts that out of this misconception, we come to believe in the, “deceptive trilogy of the seer, the seen and the process of seeing.”

With many cultural barriers and social constructs falling away these past few months, I am feeling more and more related to everyone and everything. As I’ve noted in early blog entries, the distinction of stranger is gone. The perception that there is still a Me and a Them has remained, and I have considered it a sign of sanity!

Yet, on the streets of Calcutta this weekend, seeing a solitary tiny girl jumping rope, I clearly experienced her joy, I felt the “I and she” line get blurry. Though January is not a season of precipitation, there had been a cold, relentless rain for more than two days. Getting outside on the wet pavement with a jump rope was a perfect way to celebrate the sun’s return, and I felt, physically, a singing out.

The three part distinction: “1- I… 2-see… 3-something,” has been a consuming image I’ve wanted to shake. Separation has such a falseness about it, like a wall between me and the sun, I want to jump up or look around it, to see and feel the sun.

Later on Jump Rope Morning, I sat inside a white marble Catholic Church and watched a young boy leading the choir, while playing the electric keyboard. Each time he made eye contact with a singer, he grinned broadly. I did, too. The zing of the smile ran through my body. My body? The seer felt what the seen felt?!

Dr. Ranade explained in his deliciously challenging Times of India column that the only way perception can perceive itself is by “effacing itself completely.” In my 55 years, the only time I have ever read the word effacing was in this phrase, “s/he was a self-effacing person.” Effacing or to efface means, “To rub or wipe out, obliterate, erase or do away with.”

While the ego may fear such harsh treatment, the idea of eliminating the distinction the observer and the observed thrills me. To judge or devalue someone or something when we are One seems like the ultimate in self abuse.
~~~
Traveling to Calcutta by plane with my friend Sujata, we had several agendas. One was to meet her son’s choice of a wife and the girl’s extended family. While the marriage is not the traditional arranged one organized by the parents, both sets of parents still have a key role in blessing the union, and agreeing to assist in the various ceremonies, including an engagement party and the formal wedding.

Two, we had some temples we wanted to meditate in, on the Ganges River, the Mother of all Rivers in India. The rain greeted us upon our arrival, and never let up. A friend said after noting this was our fourth city in a month where the rains have met us, that drizzle is a sign, “good people are on a good mission.” What a nice way to regard our wet and muddy pants, jackets, shawls and feet. The third reason for our trip was to meet a great tailor, who we hoped would make us some lovely outfits, including a suit from a sari Suja had given me.

In the first temple of Ramakrishna, we were privileged to spend time in the residence of the late yogi, and to meditate at the foot of his bed. On a sunny day, the crowds would have been overwhelming. Here, we had the room to ourselves.

Seated in the quiet, with the gray shroud pulled over the Ganges and the temple, I found my mind wandering to the Seer, Seeing, Seen tricotomy I have been mulling over. A clear distinction popped up within, “It just the Divine experiencing itself. And All is Divine.”

Aha! The brain might be trying to fool me into believing the Me and Them distinction, but I heard differently. Like a child resisting the directive to share my toys, the first instinct might be selfish, to see my Self as separate. We must Share is the earliest lesson, leading to We are One.

Ramakrishna lived in the 1800s, and there are many wonderful stories of his childhood and life as a living saint in India. As age six, he was eating rice outdoors when watching a black cloud, heavy with rain in the sky. Soon, the whole sky was black with clouds, and a flock of white cranes passed across. Staring intently at this beauty, little Ramakrishna swooned, passed out and fell on the ground, overtaken by beauty.

As a man, Ramakrishna spent 12 years worshipping the Divine in all the religious traditions. He learned about Hindus, Muslims and Christians, and practiced their ways. The little children’s book I got at the temple bookstore, Ramakrishna for Children by Swami Vishwashrayananda, says it so sweetly, “He learned God is One; different religions only call Him by different names and think of Him in different forms. The doctrines and the paths may be different but the goal is the same. There are as many doctrines as there are paths,” but One Truth (I add).
~~~
Meeting Nitya Jain, the bride to be, and her family, was an honor. As the only non family member in present, I saw my hosts had long ago dropped the distinction of Us and Them. Watching Siddu, the groom to be, train his eyes on Nitya wherever she moved, I realized I was part of a very precious moment. Being in the presence of Love, tender new love, is not unlike seeing a smiling baby in the airport. Our hearts lift, our lungs fill, we are One.

Reflecting on the concept of family members approving a marriage, I saw the flaws. Judging a relationship? Evaluating a bride? I knew it wasn’t my job, but was it the duty of the family? Nearly 30 years old, two successful professionals, clearly smitten with one another….what could we add?

John Selby writes in his book, Seven Masters, One Path, about Jesus’ and Buddha’s teachings on judgment. “Jesus and Buddha recommend that we function in judgment mode as little as possible, so as to be fully engaged with the world rather than lost in thought.” Selby reminds us so clearly, “We can’t experience reality and also judge it at the same time!”

So if we know we don’t wish to be in judgment, where are we? In acceptance? And if we wish to move beyond acceptance, where are we? We are Being.
~~~
Saturday morning I was introduced to Musharaff, a 26 year old tailor, who came to the house. He was dressed in a muffler and vest; the outdoors was blustery and wet.

I learned both his parents were dead, and that he was taught the trade by his father. Musharaff cares for his brothers and also his own family.

During our appointment, Siddu (the groom to be) went out into the rain, and was instructed to take an umbrella at the door. Only later did we realize the umbrella Siddu took was Musharaff’s! After being unable to find another umbrella in the house (even the cook had loaned hers out) I handed Musharaff some money and asked him to please buy a good umbrella for himself, it would be my honor to treat him. We looked at each other with delight! What a great solution!

Less than 10 hours later, that new umbrella and Musharaff poked back into the house. He had finished three complicated pieces of clothing for me, in a day! I was so touched and he was so pleased. We beamed at one another. I felt the pleasure of the moment, a mutual experience, within me.

Over and over, Calcutta showed me Oneness, though my brain continued to work hard at fooling me into separateness.
~~~
How many of us like to begin our days with some time of quiet and inspiration? Seated with a cup of coffee, staring out the window? Reading a devotional or having some time of meditation? In our hosts’ home, the matriarch, Sitamani, begins her day reading her prayers. She told me that she has entered her 89th year, and she has had good luck and bad luck. The bad luck is her son died of a heart attack. The good luck, her daughter in law cares for her like a mother, not a mother in law. Again, I saw the folly in labeling or creating distance between us.

Sitamani’s world is small. She told me she walks between the dining room, her bedroom, the bathroom, the puja room (chapel) and living room. Most of her day is spent seated on a couch in her bedroom. I asked her if she would read to me, and she commenced to read a section of her scriptures that listed 1000 names for God. As she read, I heard how much strength she required in her breath to continue the chanting. I wanted her little feet, wrapped in socks with toes, wiggling along with the verses.

Haven’t I seen my husband’s feet do that? My son’s when he was small? Do all feet do that when we are reading something we love? Energy in motion, the Universal Consciousness Dancing to the Song of Celebration?
~~~
A TV commercial on the airplane monitor kept repeating the word, Santush. I learned it means peacefulness, contentment, to be satisfied. Calcutta was a Santush time, despite the rain, and dirt and wearying nature of travel.

At baggage claim in Bangalore late Sunday night, we faced a sea of people searching for their suitcases. Suja was exhausted, dulled by cold medicine. I plunged into the standing room only crowd, in search of our bags.

Within minutes, I was laughing. It was ridiculous! Hilarious! No one could see the conveyor belt, we were packed so tightly. Tired, cranky, all wanting the same thing: “Gimme My Bag so I can get to My House, My Bed, My Family, My Toilet!”

Surely, baggage claim is the ultimate example of Oneness! Santush!

Viva Romance!

Leafing through a friend’s family photo album here in Bangalore today, I burst into tears.

A slim shining bride. A thin earnest groom. A baby in the bath. A family at the beach.

Over and over, I am pierced with awareness of the Universal Human Story. And with the classic emotions associated with the most common milestones.

See the hope and fear in the eyes of the wedding party. In-laws worried they are about to face a change….losing a daughter? Gaining a daughter? Losing a son? Gaining a son?

Young women anxious about this strange new family they are entering…will I be heard? Will they be kind? Will I be happy?

The groom equally concerned, feeling the weight of becoming a provider suddenly come upon his shoulders. Can I manage? Will I succeed?

~~~

Fast forwarding 25 or 30 years, this same couple is now planning the wedding for their 6 foot son who once fit in a grocery store plastic basket.

Again, a ceremony where pictures will be taken of youth and age, joy and fear, possibility and pessimism.

Looking at the lives of people married more years than not, we see so many layers of paint! Many fresh starts, times of redecorating and redesign. Hairstyles change, eyeglass frames expand and contract and clothing sizes go from S to M to L. But beyond the altered packaging, what else has happened?

Gaining weight is easy. Gaining wisdom is not.

Psychology Today reports that 57 percent of first marriages fail, and after 10 years of trying, 60 percent of second marriages also end.

My prayer for my marriage and all other married couples is that we see the precious gift of marriage, as a magnificent and massive opportunity to learn about ourselves, about forgiveness, about expectations and compassion.

Sitting at a wedding on Sunday, everyone present felt the delicious, intangible sense of “love in the air.” Even bitter old couples sat closer together, tickled awake by the young lovers. I ran home and wrote an email to my husband, Thurmond, telling him I liked growing old with him, and especially loved the weathered skin on his neck the top of his hands.

Years ago, after Thurmond finally persuaded me that he honestly doesn’t enjoy travel….an activity I have loved so much, that I actually refer to myself year ‘round as “the curious tourist,” I came to realize one of my most Basic Truths. My husband can’t be everything to me, but I can be everything to myself. Thurmond taught me this, by refusing to accept my bullying. He let me know that he wouldn’t accompany me on any long trips, but at the same time, he encouraged me to spread my wings.

What a gift! To be reminded of my independence, my capacity as a solo traveler. With this awareness, I have enjoyed so many adventures, finding friendships and travel companions wherever I am.
~~~
In 1970, winning a trip to India from my home town of Kalamazoo, Michigan, I lived several months with a family in Indore, MP, India. Both were doctors, living at 4/5 South Tukoganj, Dr. and Dr. Singh. One afternoon in the garden, while teaching daughters Radika and Padmini how to use the American Frisbee, Mrs. Dr. Singh asked me, “What is this divorce?” She pronounced it as DIE-Vorce, and at first, I didn’t know what she meant.

At 18, prior to my own personal experience with two divorces, I hardly knew what to say. With virtually no experience with divorce (38 years ago, it was not a common practice, even in the US) my answer was short.

Mrs. Dr. Singh laughed. “You Americans expect so much out of marriage! You want a lover, a friend, a provider, children, a father for your children, a travel companion, no wonder you fail! All I wanted was children, and I am happy.”

From where I sit today, I see Dr. Singh's wisdom in having realistic expectations. Remembering that the other person, the spouse-to-be, is just another fragile person on his or her own journey of self discovery. No Sleeping Beauty or Prince Charming, but a precious being seeking happiness and meaning. Both parties want attention, to be the center of the Universe for the other.

Frankly, I can remember times I have tired of my own company: why should I expect my husband to always desire time with me?! Looking to him for completion, affirmation, concurrence is foolish and immature. At most, he can hold up the mirror and show me myself. He can encourage me to become. He can remind me that the only permission I need is my own.

After about two years of marriage, I asked Thurmond what it was like to be married to me. Always thoughtful, he sat quietly for a moment. “Like being married to a squad of eight cheerleaders!” he replied, smiling.

“I shall hear that as a compliment,” I said, a bit defensively.

“Oh, that is how I meant it!” he said. And to this day, he has shown me how my encouragement means so much to him. How my greatest gift is to fan the flames of SELF in him, to support his self direction and joy.

Hanging on to disappointment, from simple sarcasm to scarring infidelity, corrodes our inner lining and sours our taste for life. Our challenge is to learn from our pain, to see that it springs only from our fantasies about “what should be.” The healing, the relief from pain, comes solely from seeing, “what is.” Once I see “what is,” its perfection and beauty, I can learn all the lessons spread out before me.

Married to Thurmond W. Knight, Jr. (http://www.violinviolacello.com/) I am blessed with an abundance of lessons, an artesian well bubbling with opportunities to learn about life and myself.

To all those married or contemplating a blessed union, I wish for you what I wish for myself: the grace to see one’s spouse as a Great Teacher, to see marriage as a roadmap to self and Truth. Viva romance!

This essay is dedicated to S and R, on the eve of your 30th anniversary; and to S and N, on the eve of their marriage. And to you-know who, at the dawn of you-know-what.

Life is But a Dream

Walking down a dusty Whitefield road this week to teach Armchair Yoga, I began to think about “what we leave behind.” The scooters and lorries (trucks) leave clouds of choking dust. The man who washes two vehicles every morning up on the bank sends streams into the traffic; there is always a giant mud puddle in front of his home.

What have I left behind? What is in my wake?

For many years, I believe I left wreckage. My inner conflicts were so great; I could only survive by generating a similar level of confusion and noise outside myself. Like the cell membrane that won’t be satisfied until the contents outside the wall are the same as what is inside, I needed equilibrium.

Only when my interior was emptied of the pain and fear did my footprints change. Once I found that peace and contentment I had misplaced within, I could leave it without. I am reminded by the old rule we learned in Girl Scout Troop 249, in Kalamazoo, Michigan, when we would go camping at Merrie Woode: “Always leave the campground cleaner than when you found it.”

~~~
A few mornings ago, I woke with the old nursery rhyme, “Row, row, row your boat,” singing in my head. For the first time, I listened to the lyrics: “Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.”

Wow! Was the author a Buddhist? A yogi? Seeing life as an illusion, as maya, is one of the central teachings of the rishis, the ancient sages of the East. We are taught to not get fooled into thinking that what is projected on the screen is real. Only the screen is real.

So the daily dramas, come and go, in our own lives and in the world at large, and every where in between. Yes, when we know that all of it is a dream, that it is not what or who we are, we can remain merry. I wonder if the original lyrics could have been, “Verily, verily, verily, verily,” as the little verse contains such a Mighty Truth.

“When you are in the flow life ceases to be a struggle. You don’t have to fight for what you want, or defend what you have. When you are in the flow, your every need it met so easily, so completely, so consistently, there’s only one explanation for it. There must be a higher power at work on your behalf.” So writes Steven Lane Taylor in his book Row, Row. Row Your Boat, a Guide for Living Life in the Divine Flow. I found it through a Google search, after my dream. (www.rowrowrow.com)

Lane continues, on his website, “It makes no difference whether you picture this higher power as a very real supreme being or some kind of conscious cosmic energy. The effect is the same. It feels like something infinitely greater than yourself is operating in this world and you are directly benefiting from its existence.”



When you are in the flow, life ceases to be a struggle, and we no longer leave wreckage, dust, debris or dirty water behind us, in our wake. Rather, we join the great river of life, moving with the current, and like the river, there is truly, only, the present.

Like the river, we are constantly changing. The river is not the same as it was this morning, and neither are we.

What I hope I leave behind is no misery or mess.
What I hope I leave behind is the faint scent of roses and sound of laughter.
What I hope I leave behind is a kind word and deed.
What I hope I leave behind is gratitude for all that I have been provided.

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.

You Are Not the Economy, Nor is Your Mood Determined by It

To an American friend:

I am listening to Vermont Public Radio tonight (your morning) and stunned by the fear-based, obsessed coverage of the world stock markets. Reports on "damage around the world, a bad day on the Chinese, Japanese, Indian and other exchanges."

Knowing your world, and who is in it, I am guessing conversations must sound a lot like what I am hearing on the radio....a lot of concern, worry, projection, what-ifs, doomsday talk.

Please hear me now: no matter what happens to the economy, we can and must remain the good people we are, with the same values and commitments, the same compassion and personal relationships and standards. Just like the weather, the economy does not make us who we are. That is a comfort. Many people need lots of $$$ and stuff to maintain their identity. We are not that. In the midst of all the incertainty on the planet, be it our wealth or our health, we can be conforted by knowing that we can handle whatever comes our way. Our essence is unchanged by these variables. Sunsets are still gorgeous, flowers still have fragrance, birds still sing.

Secondly, when there is an up, there is a down. When there is life, there is death. When there is health, there is illness. These poles are reality. Some call them opposites or compliments or partners. I see them as the poles of an issue or subject...the range that some thought or action can move between.

Who ever told us we could expect the economy to only hang at the plus end of the pole? What an insane expectation! Like thinking a car will NEVER get a flat tire, and to do so, would be a sign of a failed vehicle design. In truth, such natural reckonings in the natural or manmade world are always, ultimately, for our higher good. For evidence or proof of this claim, we need only look at our own lives...how we have grown from both the ups and downs.

Because the media is almost exclusively owned by major corporations, whose very life pulse is tied to the stock market, television and radio are fanning the flames of fear. Don't get caught in the blaze! Remain grounded in knowing that what you value and what makes your life meaningful is much more permanent and beautiful.

Of course we must make adjustments when storms come...be they in the skies or on Wall Street. I am reminded by the chant all Sivananda yogis are taught: "Adapt, adjust, accomodate. Be good, do good, be kind, be compassionate." Seems like good advice today.

You will be told this is an unstoppable crisis, a reason for panic and desperation, that nations are in need of rescue. Don't let this anxiety into your mind or body. Hold on to what you believe in, and stock up on positive thinking and words of inspiration. This too shall pass. And you will still be you.

Spiritual Library Opens In Bangalore

Geetha Naresh at the opening of Niranjana

My friend and publisher in India, Geetha Naresh, opened her member-only private spiritual library, Niranjana, here in Whitefield, on January 18. For more than 25 years, Geetha has dreamt of creating such a collection.* She has assembled a tremendous variety of books from every religious and spiritual tradition, as well as modern day self help guides and healing handbooks.

It was my pleasure to be one of the two authors invited to read our work. Missouri writer Paige Bryne Shortal (right) and I shared the program, held in the lovely open air reading space at mid day. Paige read several essays that were written for Catholic publications. Arriving in Whitefield a few weeks ago, Paige brought 50 pounds of books, donated by her friends.

Niranjana, meaning River of Knowledge.

I read from my soon to be published (the first book issued by Niranjana!) book, Armchair Yoga, All the Benefits Without the Floor.

The library is housed at Taralaya, the home of my friends (and landlords) Sujata and Ramana Naidu.

Here I am in reading my manuscript, stored in the laptop.

Playing around with Geetha's name one day when we were on a long drive to Ooty (I will post those pictures separately), I rearranged the letters to spell Green Sheath. Like a sheath, defined as, "an enveloping tubular structure, such as the base of a grass leaf that surrounds the stem," Niranjana is a cozy little comfort station for those of us on a journey of self discovery.

One reader who attended our launch sent these comments:

"This is the first time I've attended a book-reading session, and I wasn't sure what to expect, or what was expected of us....like should we applaud, should we comment etc.... But no sooner did the session begin, than all conscious reactions ceased and we were borne into an enticing world where we could just BE! It began with a blessing ... then, after a very short prelude, Bethany began reading from her yet-to-be published book "Armchair Yoga"....we listened spellbound! When I introduced myself and spoke a bit to her before the reading began, though her sincerity and simplicity impressed me, I did not foresee her book would be so good! It's yoga with a lot of simple, straight humor, which distinguishes it from other such books. You can imagine how rivetting it must have been, if someone with such a short concentration span like me could listen through without wandering away into my own world! If Geetha kept this book in her library, I would NOT borrow it....I'd have bought a copy of my own!Paige then read out her published/ unpublished articles...they were short, to the point and incisive. Now, I do not know why I used that last word...it just came to me as I was typing this, so that must have been my subconscious impression. Both Bethany and Paige have an easy, down-to-earth, simple style, and I was tempted to get into it myself!"

For hours and programs, call 9886657432 in Bangalore. *quoting from Geetha's invitation:

Dear Friends, I am very happy to extend my invitation for the opening of my Spiritual Library. ON A SPIRITUAL QUEST....Bangalore's affair with books is quite a legendary story. With several book haunts, libraries, publishing houses and book-clubs, Bangaloreans will be forgiven for thinking "We've seen it all!" But here's something different and inspirational this new year for the denizens of this book-lover's paradise - a library that will transport you to the depths of your soul and fly you for a communion with the cosmos! Niranjana , an exclusive spiritual library tucked away in the midst of mother nature's beauty on a cozy farm in Whitefield boasts of the most exclusive collection of spiritual books and treatises collected from all corners of the globe.
Initially established from the vast personal collection of book-lover and proprieter, Ms Geetha Naresh, it now has a cornucopia of books, some sourced and some generously donated from as far as the US and Malaysia. But what is more exciting about the place is that it is not simply a library. Niranjana has already planned a line of activities that include book-reading sessions, healing courses by renowned spiritual healers, and creative workshops that promise to take you closer to your inner-child!
With an open-air reading space in the lap of nature and a collection of most of the books impossible to find, the library sure promises to live up to its name – Niranjana (meaning the 'river of knowledge', and the river on the banks of which Buddha received his enlightenment!) The Library is a humble beginning in a small cosy 10X10 room and in a serene residential area. Keeping in mind the surroundings and wanting to safe guard the serenity and offer privacy to patrons , I have consciously taken a decision that the Cars will not be allowed to come beyond the gate . While we take a step foward in the spiritual direction, let us also take a step towards respecting our environment, because spirituality is about living in harmony with your environment. Please try to adopt a car-pool system for the inauguration if possible, park cars on the side roads, and enjoy the small walk through the greeen path,down to the library. Considering that most of the cars are Chauffeur driven and the driver equipped with a Mobile phone, I request your co-operation in this matter. Please do not consider this a matter of inconvenience but as a humble beginning of a store of wisdom . I was personally inspired in this direction by a thought- provoking film, "Global Warning, An Inconvenient Truth", and would like to invite you also for a special screening of the film on 19 January, 2008 at 11.00 A.M. Kindly register at the venue on 18th January 2008 for participation.

Chinni's Wedding!

"Betni" with Chinni, the beautiful bride.

My friend Renuka Dinakaran of Bangalore saw her lovely eldest daughter, Chinni, married this weekend, and I was thrilled to participate in many of the activities.

Friday night we had the traditional menehdy (sounds like "mandi") painted on our hands...the bride had her feet decorated, too. Made from a crushed, dried plant mixed with water (like henna, I think) the artist squirts the paste through a tube, making a fine line design, different for every pair of hands. Freestyle drawing, with traditional patterns. Yes, I had my hands done, too...and the menehdy really shows up on white skin!

Chinni's hand and foot, with the gorgeous mehendy design.

Saturday night was the bangle ceremony, when the uncle of the bride places lots of bracelets on the bride and a few on the groom, then wraps their arms in cloth, which they have to sleep with all night (to not see the bangles.)

Sunday morning we enjoyed a marvelous, meaningful marriage ceremony at Le Meridian Hotel. Conducted by an amazing 76 year old woman, known as a pandit, the event included a live fire, flower petal tossing and the participation of many family members.

Also spelled as pundit, a pandit is officially defined as, "a man in India esteemed for his wisdom or learning: often used as a title of respect." So, this female pandit is even more extraordinary, as she is ahead of a change in the actual accepted definition...a woman!
Read this article about the Pandit S.W. Sharma, who officiated, here.

She was inspiring, speaking straight from the heart about the sacred union, and how to assure it will thrive and flourish.I wish Chinni (real name Archana) and her groom, Ashish, a long and healthy life together, full of love and fun. And I thank their families for including me in the beautiful festivities.

Helping Children in Hyderabad

*Update*: Videos


Mother's home printing business started by CFCA CFCA supports families by helping mothers learn and practice a trade. We visited Grace Printing, and saw how one mother is making beautiful screened business cards, invitations and other announcements with her simple printing process. This video was taken in the family's living room, where Mom's business operates. (added Jan. 24, 2008; finally was able to upload.)


New Combs at Child Haven in Hyderabad.



Original post:

In early January, I visited Child Haven International, an orphanage in Hyderabad. My travel companion was Paige Byrne Shortal of St. Louis, Mo. Many of you have purchased a used sari from me over the past four years, which I have sold to raise funds for CHI, a Canadian nonprofit. See www.childhaven.ca.

I took pictures of the children making a kolam (rangoli) (colored rice powder art on the ground or pavement), flying kits and enjoying the gifts we brought.

As part of our journey to Hyderabad, we also visited some of the projects operated by my most favorite charity, Care Foundation for Children and Aging (CFCA). Learn more at www.cfcausa.com.

I urge you to treat yourself to sponsoring a child, you will change many lives, including your own. Thurmond, my mother and I sponsor both children and elders through CFCA and are thrilled to learn how our monthly contribution makes such a difference.

On Making Sense of Death

My thoughts on death, written for a friend who is sitting at the bedside of a terminally ill family member. (Names are changed.)

I am so sorry, such a hard time for you all, my friend. Yes, I would like to be there and take a walk in the cold and sit in your kitchen and help you make sense of all this.

We have an attachment to WHEN life should END. While many of us resist even a natural, timely death...one that comes after a grand a glorious LONG life, a death like Mindy's is even harder to accept...too soon, too short, too painful. Even the merciful quality of death, after she has been through so much, doesn't seem like enough to take away the sting.

I have learned in my studies and meditation that our suffering comes from what we bring to the situation. The facts are not what cause the suffering, they are simply the truth of This Moment, what IS. The suffering, the pain, the misery is what we do with the situation.

A small example would be a child crying because he can't go to a friend's house, because he has no ride. The fact is, there is no ride. It is just his attachment to going to the friend's house that makes him sad.

On a grander, more mighty scale, our resistance to death causes us massive agony and grief. We don't want to say goodbye, we feel sorry for ourselves and all other survivors, we regret what has been done and also what is left undone. Yet, we owe ourselves this question: why do we think we know better, when death would be ok? Why do we resist or refuse the reality that one's time has come? Can we play the part of the Creator, deciding when it is Mindy's time, Our time, Your time?

Your mother has said so often to me, "Expect nothing, and you won't be disappointed." The older I get, the more profound this wisdom becomes.

We expect a full 80+ years for everyone. We fight against anything less. But again, can we actually think that we should be in charge of such events? I personally would never want to decide Who or When.

All that said, your family's pain at this moment is why I am writing. The pain that comes from our belief, our clinging to a wish that loved ones stay in our presence a little longer.

I have begun to wonder what death would be like if we simply accepted it like all other natural events in our lives...having our baby teeth come in, going into puberty, that first gray hair. Of course, our response to it is all to do with our very sense of the meaning of life. Why are we here? Is this all there is? Will we meet again?

Living in the present moment, appreciating what we have, seems like a more humane and loving way to be with ourselves and others, than grasping for one more day. As I read about the tender moments you are having at Mindy's bedside, I can see that you have made her passing a beautiful time. All the personal attention, the honest conversations, the clearing of the air....these are marvelous ways to use a day. How many of us avoid reality, and then wonder why we feel lonely?

You are living life on its own terms, facing it and death, and finding ways to continue to be loving and kind and make sense of the nonsensical nature of it all.

What an irony we find in death....we spend time finding people to love and learning to love, only to say good bye. Yet, that is the condition of life, that it is finite, that we aren't here forever, in this form.

I read once that our responses to birth and death are backwards. We act so shocked that death arrives, as if we never thought it would. We often fight and resist it, not believing it could possible enter our lives. Yet, its inevitability is all that we can be certain of! We surely cannot expect birth, that is a miracle, indeed.

How funny, we act like birth is a given, ("When is she expecting?") we expect it. What if we were to treat death in the same way? Not careless or casual, just realistic?

When I volunteered as a hospice worker, I heard about a woman dying of cancer who made everyone promise to not tell her young children she was dying. The charade was played out, the two kids (between 8 and 10 years of age) were told "Mommy has the flu," and no matter how much they asked, the answer was the same. One day, they returned from school, to find Mommy dead.

What favor did this mother do, pretending death wasn't coming? How cruel to deny her children a chance to say good bye, to share in some final moments of pure love. And what will they think if they hear someone else "Has the flu"? I would imagine their whole lives will in someway be twisted by this unfairness, this lie.

So, in the midst of your pain, you are being so real, knowing it is time to let go. I salute you. Having conversations about Mindy's preferences for a funeral or memorial service, the music, the minister...this is all so healthy. You are willing to step into her day with her, to live in the present with her. It must be a great relief to her, to have your honest and loving self at her side.

Your family has all grown strong and close through her illness. You have continued to find the good things her final days brought you: long drives to distant hospitals, different family members pitching in, making time for each other. How beautiful it has been to see your son become a caregiver, and such a tender one! I believe the benefits will continue to reveal themselves, long after she is gone.

While I am not suggesting you can avoid or even should avoid the grief and mourning, I am encouraging you, as much as possible, to see it all as a natural and expected part of life. Bringing this attitude of acceptance to the challenge can spare all of you the darkest of moments. Being a realist doesn't mean you don't love her and you won't miss her. It means you also love yourselves, and don't want to slip into paralyzing sadness. Attaching to something that, by its very design, must leave, is not loving yourself.

Celebrate her life, and all the good she has brought to your family! Try and get some rest! And know that many friends, including me, are lifting you all up in prayer, that you will find peace and strength. May her final days be ones of great love and comfort. For all of you. Love, B

p.s. I am including some Words of Comfort; I hope you share them.

Words of Comfort
Compiled by Bethany Knight
Ecclesiastics 3:1-8
To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven;
A time to be born and at time to die;
A time to plant and a time to pluck what is planted;
A time to kill and a time to heal;
A time to break down and a time to build up;
A time to weep and a time to laugh;
A time to mourn and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones and a time to gather stones;
A time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to gain and a time to lose;
A time to keep and a time to throw away;
A time to tear and a time to sew;
A time to keep silence and a time to speak;
A time to love and a time to hate;
A time of war and a time of peace.

~~~
In a little while I will be gone from you, my people, and whither I cannot tell. From nowhere we come, into nowhere we go. What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of the buffalo in the winter time. It is the shadow that runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.
Chief Crowfoot

~~~
Miss Me...But Let Me Go
When I come to the end of the road
And the sun has set for me
I want no rites in a gloom filled room
Why cry for a soul set free?

Miss me a little...but not too long
And not with your head bowed low
Remember the love that we once shared
Miss me, but let me go.

For this is a journey that we all must take
And each must go alone
It's all part of the Master's plan
A step on the road to home.

When you are lonely and sick of heart
Go to the friends we know
And bury your sorrows in doing good deeds
Miss me...but let me go.
Anonymous
~~~
After the Darkness
After the darkness
The daylight shines through
After the showers
The rainbow's in view
After life's heartaches
There comes from above
The peace, the comfort
Of God's healing love.
Anonymous
~~~
Do Not Stand At My Grave
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep
I am the diamond glints on the snow
I am the breezes, whispering low
I am the sunlight on ripened grain
I am the gentle autumn's rain
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight
I am the soft star that shines at night
Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there, I did not die.
Anonymous
~~~
In Memory of Charles
Your memory fills my soul at this solemn hour.
I remember days when you dwelt on earth.
It revives in me thoughts of the love and
friendliness which you bestowed upon me.
You have gone from me, but the bond
which unites our souls can never be severed.
Your image lives within my heart.
May the merciful Father reward you
for the kindness you have shown me.
May He lift up the light of His countenance
upon you and grant you eternal peace.
The body is the temple for the soul
May God keep Charles in his eternal care.
Written by Mrs. Isabel Edwards, in memory of her late husband Charles, who died at the Gill Nursing Home in Ludlow, VT

~~~
My Dear Children Who I Love in Christ
The Lord has closed my eyes on this earth to return me to Eternity. Alleluia. Be consoled. I will always be with you invisibly, believe me.

Pray for me, speak to me and I will answer you and I will console you.

I believe that I will be with your father in the beautiful heaven that God reserved for us. Alleluia.

Please forgive me if I offended you with me impatience. It was not from malice of heart but the workload was so heavy that I lacked the strength. I hid and cried in secret. I was forgiven as God is so good and His Son is so merciful. I am now at Peace with the love of Jesus and Mary whom I love so.

Your father and I wait for you in the Kingdom of Heaven, which we worked so hard to deserve. Alleluia.

Love each other as brothers and sisters in Christ, for that is the love, the peace and joy that I wish for you from my heart.

As you found joy in preparing for my 75th Birthday Party, let us prepare ourselves for the same joy of eternity. GLORY TO GOD...

From your mother who loves you tenderly
Written in October, 1979, and found among the possessions of a resident who died at Rowan Court Nursing Home in Barre, VT.

~~~
Oopick's Death
Grandma Oopick was found dead in her bed...She had reached the very old, old age when dark hairs start to grow in to replace the gray. It was said this happened to the very, very old and that their eyesight also begins to improve after a certain age.

The men placed Oopick in the grave with her few most treasured belongings...tears rolled down granddaughter Nedercook's check. Mother Kiachook said nothing, but put her arm around her daughter for a little while. She knew that some grieving and tears were healthy.

That evening, and for the next six nights, Villagers brought food and gathered in the Big Dance House, to eat and sing. There was some dancing to celebrate Oopick's departure to the spirit world. Kiachook let Nedercook cry without restraining her for the first day, nor did she say anything to stop the sniffling and sobs during the first night. On the afternoon of the second day, as the evening approached, she walked to where Nedercook stood rubbing her red eyes, and placing an arm gently around her should, she said, "You have cried enough. Now it is time to stop, for they say that too many tears will but wet the grave of the departed. She suffers not, but would be saddened to see you so unhappy."

After a brief silence, Kiachook added, "Daughter, where grief comes into you life, try hard to keep doing the things you are used to doing, and eat as you always have. If you don't eat and work, it will want to become a habit and it will be much harder for you later on." Then she looked into her daughter's red eyes as she said, "We will go to the Big Dance House tonight and give our help to the others who are celebrating Oopick's admission to the spirit world."
from Once Upon An Eskimo Time, by Edna Wilder

~~~
Prayer of Remembrance
O Divine Creator,
why does the beautiful blue bird disappear from our view? Where does the world beyond our window go? Only you know.

Lord, we struggle with our good-byes, not understanding why we lose what we love. We are so fragile, wondering why we have been left behind, with only our faith to keep us warm.

We do know that from tribulation, comes patience, from patience, comes experience, and out of experience, comes hope.

In your lovingkindness, you give us hope. Today, in this moment of hope, we recall with fondness those fellow travelers whose journey has taken them past our horizon. We thank you, dear God, for these cherished memories. May they fuel our hearts in the days ahead. Amen.
Bethany Knight
~~~

Prayer
Eternal God, give us now your grace, that as we shrink before the mystery of death
we may see the light of eternity.

To all of our loved ones
whom you have graciously received into your presence,
grant your peace.
Let perpetual light shine upon them;
and help us so to believe where we have not seen,
that your presence may lead us through our years,
and bring us at last with them
into the joy of your home
not made with hands but eternal to the heavens;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

United Methodist Book of Services, abridged

~~~
If a seed
in the black earth
can turn into such beautiful roses
what might not
the heart of man become
in its long journey
towards the stars.
G. K. Chesterton

~~~
Gone From My Sight
I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts fro the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speak of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.
Then someone at my side says: "There, she is gone!"
"Gone where?"
Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.
Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the moment when someone at my side says: "There, she is gone!" there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout: "Here she comes!"
And that is dying.
Anonymous
~~~
Forgive me, Lord
If I have judged the different to be bad because it was strange to me,
Forgive me, Lord.

If I have condemned those who struggle with the new,
If I saw anger or disrespect where there was none,
If I have been harsh toward those whose vision made them
see danger or disrespect where there was none,
Forgive me, Lord .

If I have silenced music,
If I have paralyzed the dance,
If I have slashed the canvas, burned the books,
cleared the stage, choked the laughter,
Forgive me, Lord.

If I have fostered mediocrity for the sake of acceptability,
If I have shunned awe in the presence of the sacred,
If anger or fear has led me to dishonesty or distortion,
Forgive me, Lord.
Elberta Farrar Herrin
~~~
...and think of her as living
in the hearts of those she touched...
for nothing loved is ever lost-
and she was loved so much.

Audrey Young, on the death of her mother, Cordelia Young
~~~
Twenty-Third Psalm - An Indian Version
Father, guardian of earth and the heavens
Along with all things, I am your creation.
You are the tree of life, I am a branch
Flowering, thankful, and contented.

The marvels, the natural elements you have made
I am in awe and reverence about them.
Through your love and guidance, you give me a precious vine to hold on to.
It is the thread of life to follow.
It leads me satisfied among the fragrant meadows and calm waters.
It is you who has provided the fruits of life, and I am happy.

You provide my sustenance, and nourishment
From the land, the waters, and the air.
I am bIessed, I give thanks for all.
I am satisfied, my bowl is plenty.
You arc the Spirit at our center.
With you I am strong, my heart good.

Sometimes it is not easy, this life's road.
Sometimes I fall, tested.
You give me strength and direction to carry on.
To pursue a path of goodness, and to care for others.
Life is but a part of a cycle- a beginning.
As with all things in time, I know I must leave behind this Earthly life
Entering another journey
That I shall travel with no fear, for you are with me Now, Then and Forever.

Bad times come with the good,
But good will prevail.
I speak from the heart.
I have done my best to follow the good path
Ready for the next journey.
I am prepared.

It is then in the great heavenly lodge rejoining my relatives
With pride in a life lived
That I will humbly present myself Spirit Father
In heaven, as on earth, forever.

Emma Henderson, Bagdad, Kentucky
~~~
The Baseball Game
The park has now grown quiet
The fans have all gone home.
But if you listen closely
You can hear the cheers go on.
For fast balls thrown as strikes
And balls hit as home runs.
As we look the field is empty
But we remember all the fun.
Although the game has ended
For Brett its just begun.
Jana Gilbertson, in memory of her son, Brett

~~~
The Rose Beyond the Wall
A rose once grew where all could see,
Sheltered beside a garden wall.
And, as the days passed swiftly by,
It spread its branches, straight and tall.
One day, a beam of light shone through
A crevice that had opened wide—
The rose bent gently toward its warmth
The passed beyond to the other side.
Now, you who deeply feel its loss,
Be comforted, the rose blooms there---
Its beauty even greater now,
Nurtured by God’s own loving care.
Anonymous

~~~
When Tomorrow Starts Without Me
When tomorrow starts without me,
And I'm not there to see,
If the sun should rise and find your eyes
All filled with tears for me;
I wish so much you wouldn't cry
The way you did today,
While thinking of the many things,
We didn't get to say.
I know how much you love me,
As much as I love you,
And each time that you think of me,
I know you'll miss me too;
But when tomorrow starts without me,
Please try to understand,
That an angel came and called my name,
And took me by the hand,
And said my place was ready,
In heaven far above,
And that I'd have to leave behind
All those I dearly love.
But as I turned to walk away,
A tear fell from my eye
For all my life, I'd always thought,
I didn't want to die.
I had so much to live for,
So much left yet to do,
It seemed almost impossible,
That I was leaving you.
I thought of all the yesterdays,
The good ones and the bad,
I thought of all the love we shared,
And all the fun we had.
If I could relive yesterday,
Just even for a while,
I'd say good-bye and kiss you
And maybe see you smile.
But then I fully realized,
That this could never be,
For emptiness and memories,
Would take the place of me.
And when I thought of worldly things
I might miss come tomorrow,
I thought of you, and when I did,
My heart was filled with sorrow.
But when I walked through heaven's gates,
I felt so much at home.
When God looked down and smiled at me,
From His great golden throne,
He said, "This is eternity,
And all I've promised you."
Today your life on earth is past,
But here life starts anew.
I promise no tomorrow,
But today will always last,
And since each day's the same way
There's no longing for the past.
You have been so faithful,
So trusting and so true.
Though there were times
You did some things
You knew you shouldn't do.
But you have been forgiven
And now at last you're free.
So won't you come and take my hand
And share my life with me?
So when tomorrow starts without me,
Don't think we're far apart,
For every time you think of me,
I'm right here, in your heart.
Anonymous
Don’t grieve for me, for now I’m free.
I’m following the path God laid for me,
I took his hand when I heard him call
I truned my back and left it all.
I could not stay another day to laught, to love, to work or play.
Tasks left undone must stay that way.
I found that place at the close of day.
Perhaps my time seemed all too brief.
Don’t lengthn it now with undue grief.
Lift up your heart and share with me.
God wanted me now, he set me free.
Anonymous

~~~
No Vermonters in Heaven

I dreamed that I went to the City of Gold, to Heaven, resplendent and fair,
And after I entered the beautiful fold,
By one in authority there I was told
That not a Vermonter was there.

"Impossible, sir, for from my own town
Many sought this delectable place,
And each must be here with a harp and a crown,
And a conqueror's palm and a clean linen gown, received through unmerited grace."

The angel replied: "All Vermonters come here when first they depart from the earth,
But after a day or a month or a year,
They restless and lonesome and homesick appear, and sigh for the land of their birth."

"They tell of ravines, wild, secluded and deep, and flower-decked, landscapes serene,
Of towering mountains imposing and steep,
Adown which the torrents exultingly leap,
Through forests perennially green."

"We give them the best that the kingdom provides,
They have everything here that they want,
But not a Vermonter in Heaven abides;
A very brief period here he resides,
Then hikes his way back to Vermont."

Ernest Fenwick Johnstone

As You Think

A classic book of timeless wisdom, As You Think, by James Allen (written in 1908) is now available as a FREE DOWNLOAD on www.asamanthinketh.net

You can read it in an hour, and then spend the rest of your life living it! I love the last page:

"In the ocean of life the isles of blessedness are smiling, and the sunny shore of your ideal awaits your coming. Keep your hand firmly upon the helm of thought.
In the ship of your soul reclines the commanding Master---he does but sleep; wake him.
Self control is strength; right thought is mastery; calmness is power.
Say to your heart, "Peace, be still!"

New Year's Eve December 31, 2007

Equality through Equanimity
Prayers to Welcome the New Year
Sujata Naidu and Friends
December 31, 2007


A Vision of Hope
We pray that someday an arrow will be broken,
not in something or someone, but by each of humankind,
to indicate peace, not violence.
Someday, oneness with creation,
rather than domination over creation,
will be the goal to be respected.
Someday fearlessness to love and make a difference
will be experienced by all people.
Then the eagle will carry our prayer for peace and love,
and the people of the red, white, yellow, brown and black communities
can sit in the same circle together to communicate in love
and experience the presence of the Great Mystery in their midst.
Someday can be today for you and me. Amen.
Wanda Lawrence, Chippewa, 20th century

Prayer for All Women
ALL: Invisible God, we pray for all the invisible women of the world, for those
whose wise voices are missing from the ranks of political power, for those who
are ignored by their churches, governments, commerce, for those treated as
non-persons in their own homes. Change the hearts of those who teach and lead
our nations, so that the gifts of women to the world may be seen, recognized and
valued.
BK: Let us now remember aloud one woman whose work has gone unnoted and pray May
God cure our blindness.
[each person names one woman, and we all repeat the prayer May God cure our
blindness.]
ALL: Raise up every girl-child born a sense of her God-given responsibility to
be all that creation has enabled her to be. Raise up in us the will to repent
our sexism so that we may all become more whole. Fill us with your fire, to
speak our truths and thus heal the world. Amen.
Anonymous

Prayer to the Creator of Life
Creator of the East Wind: we give you thanks. In you is each day’s beginning,
the spring of our lives, when we plant for our tomorrows. In you are our dreams
for ourselves, our families and communities, and our sacred earth. In you are
the gifts of early flowers. In you are children are born.

Creator of the South Wind: we give you thanks. In you are the summers of our
lives, the long days of sunlight, and work where we build our homes and our
gardens, where we teach our children what they must know to grow strong and
secure. In you are gifts of warmth and giving, of growing into wholeness.

Creator of the West Wind: we give you thanks. In you are the days of harvest
and the peace of coming home after life’s journeys. In you are the lessons we
have learned, put together with all the gifts of your people, the closing of
days and the coming of night. In you are the glories of sunset and the songs
of evening around the fire that is our heart and our life.

Creator of the North Wind: we give you thanks. In you are the days of winter,
of closing down and coming into our homes, of snow that covers the earth with
sleep. In your keeping are all those who have gone before us, who wait for us
on the road ahead, who teach us through our dreams and visions. In you is our
end, our peace, our eternity.

Creator of the earth, our home: we give you thanks. From your heart comes that
which feeds your people, the gifts of plant and animals, our brothers and
sisters, who walk with us in this journey toward you. By your abundant life, we
are fed; by the living water that springs from deep within your being we drink.

Creator of the sky, the sun and moon of day and night, the stars that guide us
in darkness: we give you thanks. Beneath the broad blanket of your presence we
measure our days and our years. By the warmth of your sun we grow into our
promise and vision; by the darkness at day’s end we rest securely.

Creator of life, we give you thanks: you give us the gift of your people, our
families both of birth and of choice, human love that secures the edges of
life’s blanket, human hands to hold and to teach us, human voices to join ours
in prayer and song. In all life, both here and within your sacred eternal
homeland, we are held in your hands.
Abenaki Mothers’ Blessing (nation living in southern Quebec and northern Vermont)

Three Passions Have Governed My Life

Three passions have governed my life:
The longs for love, the search for knowledge
And unbearable pity for the suffering of humankind.

Love brings ecstasy and relieves loneliness.
In the union of love I have seen
In a mystic miniature the prefiguring vision
Of the heavens that saints and poets have imagined.

With equal passion I have sought knowledge.
I have wished to understand the hearts of people.
I have wished to know why the stars shine.

Love and knowledge led upwards to the heavens,
But always pity brought me back to earth;
Crises of pain reverberated in my heart
Of children in famine, of victims tortured
And of old people left helpless.
I long to alleviate the evil, but I cannot,
And I too suffer.

This has been my life; I found it worth living.

Love doesn’t make the world round;
Love is what makes the ride worthwhile.

Anonymous...found in an upstairs apartment on the farm where I live during the winter in Bangalore

Our Blue Green Orb

Living on this blue green orb of remarkable resources, it is painful to see how unevenly they are often distributed.

Today I massaged a woman introduced as, “Elderly, she nearly died in the summer.”

I could wrap my hand and then some around her ankle. Her legs were less meaty than my arms, and she was in pain. Before going to the hospital, where she spent the month of August, her children thought perhaps she had just lived out her life and they should let her die. She weighs, maybe, 65 pounds.

She is 46 years old.

I am in southern India, the city of Bangalore, this nation’s rapidly growing Silicon Valley. Apartment buildings are rising out of the orange dust on every road, and renting as fast as the final whitewash is applied. The city’s old timers complain about the young, rich techies; how they “don’t give, only take.” How old is this story?

My client, who I will call Nana, is sore in all her joints. My friend Sujata interprets, telling me Nana was hospitalized because she couldn’t walk. Until she retired, she had carried bricks and cement on her head at building sites. She was widowed at 30, and raised two sons. My hand is a little longer than her foot. She has come into the city for a few days, to celebrate a grandson’s second birthday.

I ask whether she goes to bed hungry, self consciously aware of my giant American body. It is quite possible Nana and I spend the same amount of time thinking of food….me trying to avoid it, she hoping for a daily plateful.

At first, she refuses the massage, saying she isn’t worthy. Sujata is persuasive, and I begin systematically to work on Nana’s knees, calves, feet and hands, applying Deep Heat cream. Nana begins to relax and watches my hands. I send Reiki energy into her frail body, which I could draw as a stick figure. I suspect she has arthritis, but she doesn’t know what is wrong; they didn’t tell her at the hospital. As much of her body as she will offer, I massage. I smile and try to catch her eye, but she will have none of that.

I finish. “Does she need to leave?” I ask Sujata, who discovers that Nana has eased into the moment. She wants to sit with me for a while. I am thrilled. “I think this is what real prayer is supposed to be like,” Sujata says. “I bet no one has ever touched her like this.” I am struggling with tears; I don’t need to confuse the situation.

We spend some time together doing Armchair Yoga; she is too weak to stand. I demonstrate asanas and mudras she faithfully mimics. I silently thank Swami Sivananda, for sending his disciple Swami Vishnudevananda to North American in the 1950s to “propagate yoga.” Here I am, returning the favor, bringing yoga full circle back to Mother India. Nana wears a shy smile.

She planned to return to her village tomorrow, but instead agrees to a second massage at 8:30 a.m. with medicated oils, and tells Sujata she thinks she will stay a few more days now. We both are excited about our morning meeting.

After dark, Nana’s son Naveen, our gardener, knocks on my door. He gestures to his one room hut on the grounds, communicating he wants me to come over. This is my second winter here, and I’ve never been invited to his home. I throw on a shawl to thwart the mosquitoes and we head out.

At the house, the birthday party is getting started. About 12 of us pack into a room the size of an airport shuttle bus. Grandbaby Nagesh is ready to blow out his candles. He is two today, and wearing tennis shoes and clothes a Vermont friend donated. Cousins and other kin swarm around the multicolored cake.

“Let me get my camera!” I announce, and head back to my room. Naveen quickly hands me a tray, loaded with fruit and sweets and decorative leaves. I, the overfed American, am receiving a gift at his son’s birthday party, from a man who has two shirts and one pair of pants.

I grab my camera, a pack of 12 pastel plastic combs, buttons with pictures of tigers on them, a few whistles and a small calculator with an attached pen. Thanks to friends in Vermont, Michigan and Maryland, I have bounty to share. Chris and Nancy and Pat and Linda and Kay and Rog filled a suitcase, and gave me money to use when opportunities arise.

Back at the house, Naveen and his wife Narini insist I sit in the only seat, a broken folding chair. I prefer the floor but they prevail. Nana is on the floor across from me, and we briefly catch each other’s eye and smile. My digital camera affords everyone a chance for instant celebrity…such fun to see the captured moment, one moment later. I hand out the small gifts, looking for Narini’s younger sister.

Thirteen years old, she went on a hunger strike last June when her father said she had to quit school and earn money for the family. A strong willed girl, she won the battle this time, and is still in school. “Where is the student?” I ask, pointing at her. I hand her the calculator, in a black and silver case. “For your studies,” I tell her, looking into her wide and sparkling eyes.

Narini’s other sister, Nagu, is not at the party. Seventeen, she is back at the village with her husband and new baby. She called today and said she was coming for a visit later this month. I learned she is feeling good and nursing her six month old daughter. I told her I had lots of beautiful baby clothes with me. When Sujata spoke with her, Nagu said she had been dreaming of us.

Now, in my upstairs bedroom, I write to make sense of it all. Outside, joining the sounds of traffic, planes, hammering, electric saws, dogs and cowbells, I hear little boys blowing whistles. Maybe I will dream of them tonight.

Bethany Knight
Bangalore, India
December 11, 2007

Addendum:
I learned her name is Gangama, after India’s most holy and famous Ganges River.

For 50 minutes, she experienced medicated sesame oil rubbed into her limbs, hands and feet. I applied coconut oil to her neck and face.

Afterwards, I took a trip to the apothecary and got her a three months supply of cod liver oil (the best anti-inflammatory there is, according to my husband, Dr. Thurmond Knight) more tubes of pain relieving gel and jars of Hoorlick’s. Hoorlick’s is a popular malt powder milk supplement taken to build up one’s strength and stamina.

Suja saw Gangama later and said, “Bethany, she looks so much better! She is smiling and looking at people. Her face looks better.”

Music to a masseuse’s ears, proof of the healing power of touch. I thank God and my teacher, Dr. Nedungadi V. Haridas of Chennai, for the opportunity to serve with my hands.

Accepting the Impermanence of Life

I Choose Dharma* over Drama
Accepting that life is impermanent, and all things change, is easier when talking about the weather than, let’s say, your finances or your bowels.

When facing one’s own mortality or the finite lives of loved ones, living this central Buddhist truth is even tougher. Death is a condition of life; that’s a big, sad hurdle, making life seem hard, silly, or even a cruel joke. Why try when death is the reward, no matter what?

Yet, this core belief in impermanence, or anicca, is at the heart of Vipassana meditation, and what I had to embrace if my 10 day Vipassana silent retreat was to have value.

After a two hour ride across the city, I was dropped at 3:30 p.m. on December 15 at the Bangalore (India) Vipassana Paphulla. Gyan escorted me to the women’s dormitory, where 25 some beds lined two walls. Aluminum dividers separated us into tiny stalls. The beds were stone slabs about 2 feet off the ground with thin futons. Navy blue curtains enclosed the fourth side and the 5 by 9 foot space our own.

Common bathrooms were at one end of the building, with hot water promised at 6:30 every morning, after a small brush fire heated the outdoor tank. A dining area completed the other end of the building, with plastic lawn chairs facing a shallow shelf that framed three sides of the room. We would sit facing the walls to eat a small breakfast at 6:30, a full meal at 11 a.m. and lime water at 5 p.m.

Within three hours, its was dark and 45 to 50 men and women from Bangalore, other parts of India and the world had arrived to begin 10.5 hours of daily meditation and instruction. We promised to read and write nothing, eat no food except what was served, do no religious practices, only walk in a designated area during breaks and of course, follow the daily schedule and observe Noble Silence.

From the moment the soft gong sounded at 4 a.m., rung by the serene and shy young man named Gyan from northern India, to lights out at 9:30 p.m., we agreed to trust this ancient teaching and surrender to the routine. On a practical level, we were not allowed to make eye contact with anyone (our teacher spoke with closed eyes), stand and enjoy sunlight or moonlight or nature, such as the roses blooming in front of the meditation hall. Our attention and focus was on the single task of meditation, to wrestle our restless minds to the ground. Removing outer stimulation and distractions, we hoped to discover and develop powerful inner mind-body-breath connections.

Described as a step by step scientific process, Vipassana meditation provides tools to still and purify the mind, cued by regular respiration and bodily sensations. Depending on where you spend most of your time, in the interior or exterior worlds, using these simple tools to access the body’s truth can be an exciting adventure or utter struggle.

Utter struggle quickly presents itself as screaming back aches, hip and knee pain. The practice is done seated in lotus position on futon pillows on a cement floor for hours and hours and hours day after day. Students who can’t sit cross legged can arrange to sit on a stone slab leaning against a cinder block wall or in a plastic lawn chair, but that only takes out the utter, not the struggle.

Why Do People Do This? Why Did I?
Before more detail is shared, the reader is surely wondering who takes a Vipassana course and why.

Learning only about my fellow travelers when Noble Silence was broken around 10:30 a.m. on the last day, I can only answer for myself. This was actually my second Vipassana course at the Bangalore center; I did my first 10 days last March. At that time, a giant hole was being excavated next door by two backhoes and two dump trucks, 12 hours a day, 6 days a week. When the diesel engines fired up at 7 a.m. that second day I was desperately working to feel the sensation of an exhale on my upper lip. I wondered if anyone had ever gone crazy at a Vipassana course. How could I inhale dust for the next 10 days? I did. And came back for more.

Nine months later, the machines were now small diesel powered cement mixers, and the hole now supported a big, unfinished meditation hall. Several families, from toddlers to mothers and fathers, made and poured cement the same hours the heavy equipment and shovels had operated. Women in colorful saris laughed together as they sifted sand through screens or carried baskets of rocks on their heads. The dust was finer, the noise lighter. I wasn’t worried about going crazy.

We were still in the temporary meditation hall with the blue tarp roof. On the other side of the walled compound we could hear sheep and a cow. The only sheep I’ve spent time with are the sweet baaing lambs at Kristin and Neil Urie’s Farm in East Craftsbury.

I believe this bleating Over the Wall Gang were aging fellows, whiny and depressed, rather Woody Allen-ish. The cow was an interesting gal, announcing herself as “Maaa,” never a “Moo” passing her lips.

But back to who and why. I have meditated since 1990, when my friend Regis Cummings in Montpelier, Vermont, gave me some basic instruction in a technique taught by the late Benedictine John Main, founder of the World Community for Christian Mediation (www.wccm.org). Using a repeated word (mantra) from the Old Testament, a Christian meditator quiets the mind by offering it this bit to chew on, like a crying baby settles on a pacifier.

More than 10 years later, I was given a personal meditation mantra by Swami Mahadev at the Sivananda Ashram in Val Morin, Quebec. (www.sivananda.org). An ancient Sanskrit verse, the phrase is repeatedly mentally until the mind becomes still.

All mediation roads are taken to quiet the mind, find peace and clarity and be able to live life with less anxiety and hair trigger reactions.

But in the various traditions of meditation I have studied, the mind is basically thrown a bone to busy it. Vipassana makes a greater demand of the meditator. We are told no words or thoughts or images can be used to find stillness. Rather, focusing on the sensation of the breath and sensations within the body, the Vipassana meditator quiets the mind by starving it. (To learn more, sign up for a course, at www.Dhamma.org.)

Why did I chase this method? Because Vipassana also promises something beyond a quiet mind. It is grounded in principles taught by the Buddha, which call for us to live our Dharma… moral lives, in harmony with the laws of nature. Dharma is our natural design, how we help ourselves and others simultaneously.

Vipassana promises that if we live our truth, our dharma, we will be freed from our misery. It promises to free us from cravings, clinging and aversions, our life of reacting to likes and dislikes. I could relate to that pattern. At age 55, I seem to spend more and more time hoeing old ground or stirring up coals, looking for regrets or mistakes. Or, I stare into the future, wondering what I should do next and will it make a difference or be needed. I think about the inevitable aging of people I love, though no amount of thinking will ever change that reality. Avoiding this senseless pattern of thought appealed to me. Like my yoga practice, a strong meditation practice is about self care.

(As an aside, I also respect Vipassana, India’s ancient nonsectarian, secular meditation system, because it is practiced by people of all faiths. We need not divide one another!)

Raised by a mother who is an active peace marcher, I long to find and share peace with the world. I sought this meditation practice to keep me rooted in creation, not reaction. I know I am the author of my own life, and therefore, my own misery. But how to not write misery? How to be happy?

My first 10 day course was largely focused on survival of the elements. Lots of gassy ladies full of Indian food and too much sitting, sleeping like stacked cord wood together. Sweating in the near 100 degree sun. Mosquitos. No toilet paper. The backhoes. Having completed that course, I thought I had mastered the environment, and during my second 10 day course I could leave the outer world and journey into my body and mind.

Known for ideal temperatures of low 80s during the day and 60s at night, December in Bangalore seemed ideal for a second 10 day course, and a chance to have a truly Silent Night a holy experience. Waking and walking from the dorm to the meditation hall on Christmas morn, I saw ice on the grass and my breath in the night sky. Who would have guessed India would experience its coldest temperatures for this week in 124 years! So much for an easy route to my inner world.

Lessons on the Pillow
After a few days, the first heightened sense I noticed was SMELL. Such awareness became a great chance to avoid slipping into reaction or aversion, as virtually every smell was unpleasant.

My bare feet while seated. They reminded me of the Frito smell of dog’s paws. My pants: using my hand for wiping instead of squeezing the Charmin left a faint trail of Eau De Urine. Sorry.

Lunch began to smell a lot like the bathroom in the morning. And the heavy blankets we wrapped in to meditate or sleep gave off a lanolin-petroleum odor. The label said “50 percent wool,” the remaining 50 percent written in Hindi. I tried to imagine what material could be so heavy? A metal alloy? Wood? At night, it felt like the mattress was on top of me, but given the temperatures, I was not reacting in aversion.

Dozens of bodies wrapped in this woolen armor returned me to South Junior High’s locker room, stuffed with girls unwashed gym uniforms. Walking into the meditation hall after two or three days of cold rain called to mind wet stinky long haired mutts coming in to dry off.

Plus the regular inhaling of sheep scat.

TASTE was my next hyper-sense. Our teacher was excited when I mentioned these changes, noting my mind was getting sharper and sharper, an essential requirement of the practice. My tongue was scummy, no amount of cleaning or brushing would help. I took to sucking on toothpaste, as it allowed me to taste something else and comply with the no snacking rule.

I won’t pick on the poor volunteer cook, who was dealing with nearly 50 different alimentary canals and independent systems of elimination, all with their own special requirements. The tumblers of barley water tasted like that white paste we used in grade school, rumored to be made of dead horses. I stayed with boiled vegetables and white rice, but my tongue grew furrier. (The first 10 day course cook was so wonderful, I gave her my watch. In reaction, I would not give this pot-walloper the time of day. Wait! Even the cooks taught the lessons of craving and aversion, of creating likes and dislikes in the kitchen. I released thoughts of food, learning to make what Vipassana meditators call a choiceless observation.)

SOUND struck next, as the ticking of clocks, snoring of dorm mates and cracking of finger and toe knuckles amplified themselves by the hour. One neighbor was unable to observe Noble Silence at night, rambling loudly in her sleep. The gong between sessions made my fillings ache. Something (I was hoping crickets) was living in the space between the tarp and sheets hung above our heads. It sounded a bit like a whirring ceiling fan. Was this what living with an alert mind was like? Let me put my head in a bucket! (Actually, this was the only way to bathe or wash hair, in the early morning air, during that 15 minute moment when hot water was available. Drinking hot breakfast milk too slowly meant all the hot water was taken, some for washing sarees.)

I also began to hear my heart beat. That was great. Taught in daily discourses to neither react nor attach to subtle, pleasant sensations, but to simply observe, I had to fall out of love with my heart beat.

The numbers of sick students grew for the first half of the course, as sneezing and coughing crescendoed by Day Five. I continued to see myself in perfect health. An American woman I never got to meet, who sat on my right, disappeared on Day Five, her bronchitis dragging her off the pillow. Days later, a lone pair of unclaimed underwear remained hanging on the indoor line that ran the length of our sleeping quarters. I realized they must be hers, removed and folded them on the blanket table.

TOUCH was last, showing up in a princess-and-the pea kind of discomfort over whatever lay under my meditation pillow or mattress. I couldn’t even have a corner of the full metal comforter under one edge, as I felt I was tipping way off balance.

Walking on the stony ground for a few minutes between my bucket bath and 8 am group meditation, I was aware of the earth’s unevenness. Eyes downcast, I saw a cavalry of ants carrying off dirt to hills a foot high, a miniature version of the concrete moving families. Dark skinned creatures in constant motion, moving many times their own weight, building giant creations of sand and sweat.

The sense gate of VISION compensated for all the over stimulation with closed eyes. I found myself brushing my teeth, eating and even dressing sightless. Somehow, it was easier to get around without seeing. I did use my shadow to check my cowlick after morning shampoos, and it was a very faithful reporter.

Yet within this scene, with all my sense gates wide open and wide awake, my mind and I were forging an agreement: no need to react. Just observe. Observe with a calm and quiet mind. An alert and attentive mind. A balanced an equanimous mind. I was getting it.

Day Five Storms
The 4:30 to 6:30 a.m. sitting of the fifth day, smack dab in the middle of the course, my food began to follow the teacher’s instruction about thoughts: “everything is arising and passing away.” I have never belched, and have been quite intolerant of my (belching) husband, who often slaps himself on the chest while coughing out, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why….” I have no patience for his uncouth and, I deem, unnecessary habit. In other words, I had a major aversion towards belching and belchers.

Until Day Five, when I joined their ranks. That morning, having not eaten since 11 a.m. the previous day, I began to belch. A deep rumbling began somewhere low; my descending colon? Suddenly, like the thunder rolling in and rattling our overhead tarps, a gastric gust would bubble within my chest and escape my lips. It had a mind of its own, as if the disgruntled mind said, “OK. Ignore me. See if I keep you socialized and well mannered. Watch all hell break loose.”

I never fully regained control of my digestive system. Five days later, when we were allowed to speak, I asked a woman (whose head I had inadvertently groped in the dark one night looking for a light switch) if she had any antacids. Within 30 minutes of gobbling her papaya pills, my stomach began to relax and settle. I had observed unpleasant sensations and now pleasant ones, but neither had great meaning. They simply were. I could remain happy, whether my stomach was or not. What a concept!
Upset stomachs are not half as challenging as churning memories brought up from nowhere. People I haven’t seen in 40 years would suddenly send a message, taunting me with a dare, “Can you ignore me? Didn’t you hate me? Didn’t I hurt you?” Teachers, the mothers of friends, former colleagues, and neighbors paraded past, igniting feelings of angry, hatred, jealousy, depression and fear. But I was now aware something was different. It was My Choice, 100 percent my choice, whether to invite them to stay for a review and regurgitation. I could let them go without reaction, wishing us all well.

The past is the past, only accessed by my choice. It can never be returned to, the visits are only mental memories I carry; to beat myself up, make sense of nonsense, grieve, regret, prevent beginnings or rewrite endings. Far from escapist, Vipassana meditation requires a realistic view of the moment and then demands we make a conscious decision.

Old classrooms, bedrooms, camp cabins; the changing scenery I carry within generated instant and overwhelming misery. Our teacher said that while a few unkind words were heard a minute or so in real time, we give them years and years of after life.

An angry man once came to yell at the Buddha. Fed up with tales of the Buddha’s influence, this man wanted to bring him down a peg. The Buddha heard the man’s accusations and said, with a genuine smile on his face, “I understand you are bringing me something, a gift. This is the gift of your anger, and I don’t accept it. No thank you, Sir.” I immediately decided to fully incorporate this awareness into my life, to not invite other people’s problems into my life. Yes, I have the power and ability to choose what I take or refuse. I am the author of my own misery. I wrote a friend that I have come to regard such moments as just waves coming into sight, catching our attention and then crashing on the beach, to disappear forever.

Another friend wrote asking, “Did the time sitting seem long? Did you wonder when lunch would be served? Were you able to sleep on that futon?”

Sometimes.
No.
Yes.

Future Forecasting
During question and answer periods twice a day, we were allowed to speak somewhat privately to the teacher. Somewhat, because it was a whispered conversation at the front of the hall. As I had been assigned seat one, I couldn’t avoid hearing, unless the student spoke Hindi. I heard more than one student ask for help on how to deal with a mind that took forays into the future, worrying a son would run away, a daughter take her life, a job be lost.

I felt compassion for my fellow classmates, sitting in their own misery, their own self made versions of hell on earth.

As the days drew to a close, my strength of mind and determination grew exponentially. I was unmoved and unstopped by x degree weather (a rather stunning fact, as I came to India this winter to avoid Vermont’s cold!) and other daily dramas of potential disappointment or temporary highs. One afternoon I felt my “sense of urgency” leave my body. This anticipatory sense has run for decades like a motor in my psyche, making me jump to refill a guest’s tea cup, wrap gifts long after I want to go to bed and feel uncomfortable with silences. Saying good bye was a grand moment.

When the phones wouldn’t work for Christmas Day calls to the US, I observed myself and saw that in less than 30 minutes, I let that scene go and decided in 10 hours I would be near working phones, and it would still be Christmas in the US. Happily, Meera, a generous fellow student offered her phone up, so my family and I heard each other’s laughter and love, ever so briefly, ever so joyously. Meera reminded me that it was OK to have a desire and work to achieve it (such as “phone home, Elliot!’) as long as one doesn’t let it become a craving, which will lead to misery. Right! I got it!

Learning that virtually nothing merits a dramatic reaction from me, since all things are changing, changing changing was clearly the upside of impermanence. Endings are a condition of beginnings, and I found the freedom within this truth.

Breaking the Noble Silence, many remarked on how much lighter and energetic their bodies felt. I am not surprised by this sensation; it mirrors what I experience after a good yoga class or massage. Our body lets go of heavy burdens, we relax. I also noticed though that, after just two hours of talking and listening, exhaustion hit hard. I skipped group sharing and went back to my little cell for a 30 minute nap.

The end result of Vipassana meditation is not just liberation from our personal misery, but world liberation from misery. We see that not only do we cause our own misery, but the misery of all those around us. Likewise, we can be a source of great happiness and light, simply by being. The Vipassana meditation courses being taught in prisons is producing great peace of mind.

The highlight of course for me was learning the Metta Meditation, sending out of love and compassion to all. Once we can clean up our own insides, releasing all negativities and defilements, we are privileged to share this purity with others. Without creating a craving, I can safely say, I was so very happy to have the opportunity to be taught such a loving, healing meditation by such a loving teacher. I recommend a 10 day course. And, if my friends in India decide to take a 10 day course before I return to the US this spring, I’ll go. Vipassana is taught all over the world. For free. And that means it’s priceless.

Hala, a lovely English girl of Egyptian descent, on a one year spiritual sojourn in India, was completing her third or fourth 10 day class. She shared with me this Metta meditation blessing.

Metta Blessing
To all beings, great or small, near or far, visible or invisible, those that are human those that are not human, those who dwell on earth, water, air, sky:

May they be free from mental defilements.
May they be free from physical defilements.
May they be free from suffering.
May they be free from danger.
May they look after themselves happily.
May they share in my Dhamma.
May they be happy.
May all beings be happy.

To all of those who have hurt me, intentionally or unintentionally, knowingly or unknowingly, to all those I have hurt, intentionally or unintentionally, knowingly or unknowingly, may I be more mindful next time:

May they be free from mental defilements.
May they be free from physical defilements.
May they be free from suffering.
May they be free from danger.
May they look after themselves happily.
May they share in my Dhamma.
May they be happy.
May all beings be happy.

To my family, friends, relatives, to everyone I have met, have yet to meet, and will never meet:

May they be free from mental defilements.
May they be free from physical defilements.
May they be free from suffering.
May they be free from danger.
May they look after themselves happily.
May they share in my Dhamma.
May they be happy.
May all beings be happy.

And might I add:
To all those reading this essay,
May you be free from mental defilements.
May you be free from physical defilements.
May you be free from suffering.
May you be free from danger.
May you look after yourselves happily.
May you share in my Dhamma.
May you be happy.
May all beings be happy.

Bethany Knight Bangalore December 26, 2007

* Dharma is sometimes written as Dhamma
note: I am taking my third 10 day Vipassana course April 1-12 with some friends, at the Hyderabad Vipassana Center. Sign up at www.dhamma.org and join us!