Wise Soul magic & Books

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A gazillion books line my book shelves.

Do I read them all? No. But I like them. I like books. A lot.

Ever since I was in nursery school- kindergarten-I quickly outgrew the jungle gymn. Instead, while the other kids played, I perused Mrs Swemmers desk for a book. A big fat one, preferably. To read.

I remember my first one. It was called Chicken-Licken and it must have had an impact on me because I did not want to eat them after that.

I was three years old and while the other kids played, I created my solitary reading sanctuary under a big old tree.

Later, in standard 3 at the age of nine or ten, I was told, that this very book – Chicken-Licken, was  standard 3 reading material. In other words, you needed to be nine or ten years of age to qualify. We had to read it to get a decent grade on our english report.

“But I read it in nursery school,” I thought. “Can’t we please move on from here?”

And that was my main dilemma and frustration with school. The going assumption that you are dumber than you are, treated as though you needed to be taught when you’ve brought all that ancient mystical knowledge and wise soul magic with you, when you incarnate DOWN here.

Anyway, I refused to read Chicken-Licken one more time. Hell no, I said and moved on to more seriously intriguing things.

There was The Magic Faraway Tree, The Hardy boys and Nancy Drew. The Didakoi, a story about a Romanian gypsey family was on my best list and later, Saskatchewan, a Red indian girl emancipated my imagination and later Rumer Godden and her real life stories set in India. And later yet, Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children shocked my socks off. How could anyone write so audaciously, I then thought, while I wept and wept, reading The City of Joy by Dominique Lapierre. Yes, story-telling has immense power to awaken energies of the heart.

There came a time, though, where the only books I could read were ones authored by enlightened ones. Transcripts of dialogues with sages, translations of ancient Vedic wisdom and books on the spiritual side of yoga, now line my shelves.

I inherited a library of books on tantra yoga – the most authentic kind, which has been my Vidya-pura – wisdom city of gems- for understanding consciousness – which is what I came to earth to learn. And crystallise.

Maybe I’ve outgrown books. After all, the only lasting Truth is gained through direct experience.

Even so, when I look back, that most solitary ritual of introversion, reading has opened my mind, awakened the poet in me and catalysed spiritual awakening. Like nothing else. Books turn life into a mighty adventure in consciousness.

And consciousness now offers us the choice of books in tangible or digital. Surely a modern convenience, but I’m definitely in favour of the humble old fashioned words printed on paper and bound with a spine to define. I’m partial to this great invention.

So, did I tell you?

I love books.

AMEN.

 

oh spring. please Ma, last forever

oh spring

don’t flirt with me

don’t be just a fling.

in this realm of impermanence

i want you to last forever.

suns rays cascade

nature wakes from slumber.

birdsong in symphony.

you, spring

please stay forever.

presence of beeezzz in treeezzz

energizing mind with sound.

spring.

please Ma, last forever.

azaleas, pink petalled glory

baby camellias so fragrant

orchids, clivias, proteas

bursting onto the scene.

oh spring!

please. last forever.

two songololos intertwined

aphrodizzy-ac for creatures big and small,

spring, please.

stay forever.

come on, come out, she says.

leave this reclusive winter retreat.

enough of tapas, inward gaze, scrubbing samskaras.

come, be born

anew.

embody my awakening,

walk with my gait.

lightness in shoulders.

root me in your hips.

let me sashay up your spine.

skip in soles of your feet.

with each step.

all my buds and bounty opening

inside of you.

yes, you.

you are cosmic, my dear

(lest you forget)

your body contains this entire splendid universe.

South of the equator

awakening earth for the new.

i am spring.

in the NOW I last forever.

(lest you forget,

I am summer, autumn and winter too.)

 

Pranams to Bhumi Devi. Jai Ma.

 

I have a confession to make..

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Ta-dam! I’m coming out of the closet! Yes, I have a confession to make.
I’m addicted.
What’s the problem? You say.
Well, it’s like this, I say :
Every day, somewhere along the way of morning, afternoon or late evening, the craving starts. It’s an urge. A compulsive force. Luring me.
For what? I hear you say.
You guessed it, I say,
Sunflower seeds!
Well.. what’s wrong with that? You say.
You don’t understand, I retort. I eat them by the spoonful, then the handful, bowlful, sackful. I can’t stop.
There must be something in them that your body needs, you say.
Yes, I say, I believe food is medicine and I make it a sacred task:
First, I buy them, then roast them – ever so lightly – so that their crispness brings out another flavour and it gives my jaw a bit more to crunch. Like life, I seem to need, not just baby-food, but something karmically substantial – to chew on.. Isn’t that how I got here in the first place?
Then I toss crispy seeds into bowl, add pink salt and a sprinkle of nutmeg spice. I religiously sit down in a sunny spot. I try not to forget, meaning, to pray – which you know, is to say Grace – to thank God for this delicious meal. And I should because there are millions who go by without much of a morsel passing their lips. (Why God allows this, I never could understand – after all they’re his children – can’t he teach them perma-culture – or something?!)
Anyway, I say my prayers.  I am grateful and although I’d like to scatter my seeds and share them with those in need, I usually find myself alone. Eating. In the sun.
There’s something wonderful about holding food before you consume. In your hands, I mean, before you place in mouth to eat. Which is to say that the western colonial system of knife and fork are actually an unnecessary hindrance – especially when it comes to sunflower seeds.
So as I cup little crisp seedlings in my hands and pinch some between my fingers, I eat. I chew. I savour. Mind-fully.
And if this seems like a mindless practise – let me tell you – if one is recovering from digestive illness, it is the least mindless task of them all. To eat. Mind-fully.
This is medicine, I say, as I partake of this holy food. These are seeds of a plant that evokes pure poetry in me: I fondly imagine the yellow-yellow valleys of the Overberg in the late winter and before the spring. Those fields are like honey to someone who gets high on colour. They turn the dry lands into paintings – in the middle of nowhere, and, nogal, in the winter.
On one rendez-vous, I pulled my car over to take photos and saw how each and every sunflower head tilted its dark plant-centre-heart, in worship of sun.
And, instantly we bonded because I do too. I love the sun. Without the sun, I wilt, lose my focus, forget my purpose and slowly die. (which happened when I lived in countries far north that were un-acclimatised to me)
So, I am a strong advocate for living in the sun, like in my kind of Africa. The south. Where sun shines. All the time.
If you’re living in the north, reading this – fear not! We love to have visitors here – it makes our land cosmopolitan – and besides, you bring your moola – your hard-earned dollar or pound or euro. And you do. Admit it. You love our sun.
So while telling you this, I ate the whole bowl. The contents, I mean. I ate all the sunflower seeds.
I am addicted. I can’t help it. I love them. And I think they love me.
My body too, seems convinced that they are carriers of super nutrients that are super good for me – right now. I think, though, I’m compelled because they contain rays of sun. All those hours, weeks and months – turning to meet the gold-giving sun – being ripened, so to speak – all this has an amazing, energetic effect on yours truly.
For one thing, I feel more sunny. Gloomy is a thing of yesteryear.
Maybe the root of my addiction is all about the sun, supreme life giving power in the sky – impregnating, warming up every living seed.
Now, while I like to share my direct experience, I prefer not to delve into the psycho-physical complexities of what makes an addictive program function. Its about repetition, isn’t it? And the yearning to feel fulfilled. Its about subject and object and anything that lifts us up. Its about avoiding nothingness and the sound of a one hand clap. Its about God, isn’t it? We’re all just like lost children looking for this way, that way, anyway, to get back that oneness bliss-field we had. When we were one with God.
Yet. Whether you feel my addiction is justifiable or not, I take a stand. For the wholesome, holy and noble sunflower seed.
Sunflower seeds are good for you. Not the new, improved, gmo tampered version. Nor the ones with enhanced round-up fungicidal flavour procured by you know who! No, no. I’m talking the original, pure dna-in-tact sunflower seed, which in my opinion, is a whole super-food.
On the odd occasion, when I push a few seeds into the soil outside and see a green shoot, weeks later, then I feel a gentle stirring delight. The emergent growth of any plant is a miracle and when green sprout later rises to poke her yellow petalled glory above my window sill, then I know…I just know, that all is well in this world.
I’m glad to rub my fingers on her spiralling seedly centre. Glad to play in creation’s garden. Glad for the sun and glad to eat.
Another.
SUN-FLOWER seed.

God has thousands of names…Source, Light, Essence, Brahma, Allah, Supreme giver of Life, I AM –
Substitute whatever works for you.

Forest devi

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Deep in the forest I am

Sun breaks through days of torrential rain.

Her light filters through tree tops

Cascading into the four green walls of my tent.

A wild woman I am

Mud between my toes

Stripping random articles of clothes

As She, the earth, wakes and warms

Clock and calendars far away

Here where I am

Crickets murmur, birdsong

Saturates the air with sweetness.

Here where I am

Air and river water pure,

Body happy

Warmth of sun redeems

All soggy wetness

She rises in the sky.

Majestic

Supreme giver of Life

Sustaining all for another day.

At mid- summer, I left home to enter the forest. In the forest, I found home.

Gathering rocks, I cleared space to pitch my green dome tent. Turning a large one, I found a coiled, gold-brown serpent there. Gently, easing the rock, I let him be.

The night was fresh. I saw a spread of stars above. How small I am, I thought, in relation to this vast infinity.

I flipped the latch on a solar lantern and saw black songololos meandering upon the earth, as I unzipped and crawled into my new nomadic home.

Sleeping in the forest, body close to the earth, restored so many layers upon layers of body-mind, that I awoke fresh to the first rays of a rising sun.

In the afternoon, the call of the fish eagle came, then I saw five eagles circling overhead.. Come, they said.

So, through the forest, I hiked to Salt river.

There she was, the emerald green serpent. It was low tide and so she was a shallow, graceful watery way. Plunging into the salty cool river, I swam to the far bank and back before climbing up the forest path at dusk. Along the way, I gathered pink tufts of flowering fynbos and random feathers which became a Goddess offering at the entrance of the green dome temple tent.

Crickets and frogs ushered in the night.

Visitors came in the morning. A rustle of leaves alerted me. Poking my head out of the green yoga shala, I saw two large baboons scaling tall thin trees, boughed over by their weight. Perhaps the young sapling was juicy up there, for they climbed high to strip the bark.

That same day, I hiked from camp to river mouth, winding my way down forested hill to sandy shore.

On one such day, her splendour embraced me: there she was, full, rippling with undulating currents and her liquid greens changed hues depending on how the light cast her rays. I swam across her breadth. The swell came in successive waves, carrying me downstream, whereI landed on a sandy bank. Then I walked to the crescent shore where the river mouth meets the sea. The beach scattered with knarly wood and seaweeds of all sorts, beckoned. I watched the mouth become fuller and wider as the tide came in, until blankets of white foamy bubbles blew across the surface, turning my beloved liquid green emerald serpent into an ephemeral white, frothy laced queen.

I found a log to lean back on and write. Two black oystercatchers foraged for food, their long coral red beaks poking the sand. As the tide drew back, they flew over the spray to the far rocky shore.

All the while, a symphony of sea: hushing, crashing, hushing, a soothing lullabye.

Within moments, cloud cover rolled in and I smelled the rain.

These were my summer holy days: a time of communion with forest, land, sky and sea. Holy days: where a green serpentine river loved and yielded her ebb and flow mystery with me.

 

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Yes dearie, I’m re- inventing the hair salon

 manya crown chakra

It’s taken me a while to get a haircut.

Life was moving through in ways that made me care less and less about my hair. And even if I do sometimes, try to be presentable, it’s always more about how it feels than how it looks. Maybe this is one of the saving graces of moving into a mature version of one’s former self. The narcissism and vanity of one’s younger years simply fades away. Like dust blowing in the wind.

In spite of feeling ageless and even borderline eternal, I do still have a human body and with it, a head of hair.

Two days ago my once white blond – now subdued gold locks fell down my neck and almost curled on my shoulders. In the summer heat the impulse to tie it back and up, made any languishing concerns about necessity for haircut vanish from my mind.

There’s been so much internal shifting of late ( hellooo! -so what’s new?! ) that I feel like I’m on a trajectory of continuous shedding – like a snake morphing its way into the new. No wonder serpent is my life’s totem – even as a child I had incredulous serpentine dreams.

Anyway, the most recent serpentine shift is one of momentous renewal.

And that’s why I needed a haircut. I realised, as I considered the yearning to have my hair cut off – that it never was about outward appearance, at least not since far earlier times. It’s a ritual of renewal. A rite to re-invent.

I reflected, also, that I am a woman in a far vaster collective of billions of women on planet earth – and from this, I gained fresh insights into her-she-me and her preoccupation with – you guessed it – her hair!

Hair. ( wasn’t there a movie with that name? )

Maybe attending to one’s hair has something to do with acknowledging one’s crowning glory. After all, on more subtle levels of being, it is said, by those who see, that the open crown chakra resembles a crown, like that of royalty. It seems only fitting then, that it should rest on a head of beautiful hair.

Now beauty, as we know, is definitely in the eyes of the beholder. Some “beauties” sport hairdos – like birds, it seems – to attract opposite sex or boost self-esteem. Others couldn’t care less and give the least attention. Others yet, like in my south of Africa, celebrate multi-cultural diversity and the townships are full of make-shift hair saloons.

On many a day, our domestic helper who lives in such a place, arrives with a totally new hair-do. If you didn’t know who she was you might think Farrah Fawcett or Bo Derek or a blond Oprah has just arrived.

I’m now good at bypassing my amusement – I tell her she looks stunning which makes her smile. I’m not pretending either. She is stunning – every time she has the guts to try something new – I applaud her for that!

Now this may become a very long haired tale if I don’t cut to the chase and tell you my story. So here it is:

As the lurking yearning for a new haircut emerged, I weighed out my options. Should I go to the flamboyantly talented gay hairdresser in another town? Or should I opt for convenience and go to the nearest one down the road?

I’ve been experimental in recent years so I was pretty clear on which ones I would avoid.

Since I couldn’t get myself to make an appointment with either, I came up with a novel idea. I know – I said. Scissors! I’ll buy a new pair. After all, why should I pay a small fortune for a frivolous haircut?

So I scouted every shop in town looking for perfect pair of scissors with which I would chop off my locks. No cheap stationary versions, nor anything that resembles office supply. I looked and looked but did not find.

Then one day, I stumbled into just the place. You’ve heard of love at first sight. Funny how you just know at first glance.

Yip, it was a mesmerising pair of scissors. Truly. It had style. The shape and the handles were modern. Artistic. Chic. The dull steel blades shone with precision and super high quality. No made-in-china crap for me, I said. These are made in Germany, or better yet, Sweden . Now that’s more up my alley. The alley of my hair cutting pathway.

So I bought them – the most I had ever paid for scissors – to date. I thought they would serve me well – but the real test would come later – in the final cut.

It was a Sunday morning – relaxed and spacious – when the impulse arrived. I hauled a long wall mirror and a stool outside. The deck was sunny, the breezy air just right.

Propped naked under the trees, I perched on stool looking into the reflective glass and unpacked my state of the art new tools.

And as I snipped away, I realised that I too, am a master cutter. All the years I crafted silk sculptures with a pair of scissors had prepared me well. All the times I had given my head of hair into the hands of flamboyant hairdresser and watched his hands perform their artistry – had been recorded in the banks of memory – for I too, had a knack for his “technique”.

But the gestalt revelation was in how I felt. Seated naked in the sun in my nature retreat – re-inventing my crowning glory – was a ritual of note. I felt relaxed. Natural. Kind of wild.

Then I recalled that sitting in a chair at a hair salon instilled in me a certain level of discomfort, tension and distrust.

I felt kind of awkward, arriving for an intimate ritual in a public space. I felt awkward being at the mercy of hair dresser – however nice. I felt awkward having my scalp massaged by washer woman who was only doing her job. I felt awkward making small talk – you know – chit-chat. I felt awkward suspending my breath because I felt the energetics in the space. I felt awkward because, maybe I’m an introvert and hair salons are not my kind of ritual space.

So, F@*k it, I said on this pivotal sunny Sunday when I created my own outdoor eco-friendly palace for hair. From now on, I’m going to do it MY way, MY way, MY way!

And you know what? It opened in me yet another vista of redirection – I let my wild child out. Besides giving myself a marvellous haircut, I enjoyed every ritual moment.

Alas, it didn’t stop there. I imagined then how different the world could be, if instead of hair salons – we introduced the eco-friendly nature space for ritual of the haircut.

And of course this led me to remember my ancient primitive past when the cutting of hair was a sacred departure from an identity that came before.

Past, present or future, I now know that my inner wild child, will have it no other way, but MY way.

Cleaning the debris was also full of wonder. Onto the dustpan, I swept the old and outworn which had now mingled with twigs, leaves, sticky berries and bird poo. It showed me that I, too, am a creature. A wild one. Of Nature.

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Good girls, bad girls & my large wild soul

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When I paid for my purchases, the guy at the health shop said, “Guess what? Do you know…that good girls go to heaven,” he grinned.….”and where do bad girls go? “
I stared at him blankly.
“Bad girls,” he said, “Go where they want.”
I’m not sure why he told me this – I suspect he hoped I may indulge his bad girl fantasies. So I ignored him.
He had a point, though, I later reflected. In fact, if I had to relive all the experiences of my life again, out of the two options he posed, I would definitely choose the bad girl version.
Why the hell not?
Don’t get me wrong. I’m all in pursuit of Heaven and at times, actually feel the presence of a heavenly realm inside of me.
But when it comes to evaluating good and bad, I feel that bad girls must have a certain brave-heart independence, strong wills, free spirits and a streetwise self-trust that can, if it needs to, say “Don’t f–*k with me.”
Bad girls know how to taste life, feel the flow, enter the passionate present moment and try things. Bad girls are not afraid to experiment. And, sure it may get them into trouble but they will have truly lived. Good girls, on the other hand, may be every man’s ideal marriage candidate but somewhere in his psyche will be the craving for the real deal – the bad girl who undresses his conformity.
And actually, that is what it boils down to for me. It’s a question of conformity.
Don’t we all have flashbacks of times when we were forced to conform? Now that I enter my fifth decade, it surprises me that I uncover remembrances of being disciplined into compliance. “Be a good girl,” said your parents and teachers as though that was the only requirement that would qualify you in life.
I don’t resent my parents and the skewed, albeit well-meaning schooling that succeeded in socializing and conditioning my rebellious untameable spirit into something more palatable. They did their best.
I just wonder why it is that when we incarnated into the human condition, we didn’t get fair warning that our power and light could be seriously jeopardized in so many ways, under the guise of good vs bad.
Or maybe Heaven did show us the contracts. We were just too excited to get here so we didn’t read the fine print. Well, I am now in a time of reviewing all the contracts I took on to be a human being.
In so doing, I have to forgive myself, first of all, for allowing my wild large soul to be tamed into good girl behaviour. I have to forgive the patriarchy for imposing and successfully duping the planets population to adhere to less powerful ways. I have to forgive God, my Higher Self, for not saving me from this human plight.
Instead, I find, it’s all up to me.
To unravel the good-bad stories, to unveil the crap dumped on us, to clear the karmas, purify the samsaras, examine the good girl, bless the bad girl and to recover my virgin status as a divinely enlightened being.
It is all up to me. No one else can do this for me.
But I wouldn’t mind some company. All you have to do is join the renaissance.
Take the risk. Unpack the good girl and the bad one. In solidarity, we’ll uncover the middle way – our authenticity.

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2016: What life am I now to live?

me in surf

Have you ever gone swimming in the ocean when the water is tepid, the sun gold-warm and liquid salt on your skin feels like the reason for which you came to planet earth?

The swell is gentle, the rhythmic waves just right.

It can change, though. The tide shifts. The current changes its course. Suddenly breakers come and if you’re like me, you know that you have more chance of survival if you hold your breath and dive right in. Into the swirling about-to-crash wave before it breaks.

Metaphorically, that’s what this past year has been about for me. I dove in – early 2015 – and only now, am I emerging.

Recently I had a dream that almost exactly painted this picture:  the sea and me diving into the tumbling surf, trusting that I would somehow, God willing, come out for the next in-breath.

Dreamtime is timeless. We’re in real life though and we measure our movements with time. So where did 9-10-11-12 months go?

If I tell, you may not believe me – it depends how real, for you, is this or that reality. Considering that I have now let it all go, I will share with you. After all, we are one cosmic breathing heart beating organism. Not so?

2015 has been for me:

The year that I finally got to the root cause of a long lived illness and found the specifics that my body needed for regeneration and healing. Thank-fully.

The year has been a spiritual immersion. I didn’t plan it this way. My ego would have preferred a way more productive life. Instead I was drawn into deeper states of meditation and stillness. Living in the ideal nature retreat, Life made this relatively easy. Once again, though, my human nature did wonder where I was heading.

The year was a process whereby I shifted. From who I once thought myself to be, to my current less-identified with anything-reality. I awoke to a deeper experience of being free. (Jai Kali Ma)

I reflected a lot. On finishing things of the past, on the present, on my future potential and the sadness of what could be an unlived life I still held inside.

Which led me to the ground shifting question:

What life am I now to live?

With freedom comes response –ability and I realised that it is time for a round of change. And change it has been! You know, in the Antarctica, where big boulders of ice break off and float into the sea…I’ve felt that’s been happening interiorly.

And as they melt into the sea, all the separate fragmented parts of the me-existence dissolved into one more confluent reality.

I’m not sure if this is a side effect of enduring illness or turning fifty? Or a necessary initiation of an earnest quest to awaken. I just know that the life I have lived is done. Over.  There’s a fuller, more fluid momentum calling me.. into the surf.

Maybe I’m being optimistic. Existence could still wipe me out.

Nevertheless, I’m looking forward to be more allowing to myself, to playfully action freshly landing visions and dreams. To give to myself in ways that sing of freedom, freedom, freedom.

From what? You might say. From trivia. From the importance of judgements. From succeeding. From failing. From self-imposed limitations. From compensating for fear of never being enough. From trying so hard to be a human being. From needing to, but never quite fitting in.

So, I give myself permission to be a magnificent misfit: I refuse to fit in to who I once believed I was supposed to be. I refuse to feel guilty for stepping out of that loop. I refuse to be controlled or contained into a small box with an identification label that says, ag shame, this is “me”. I refuse to punish myself. I refuse to be caught in traps of complexity. Or apathy. Or conformity.

In fact, I’ve decided that I’m queen of my world!

That my sovereign king-queendom is my consciousness and I tend to this daily to see that all is well.

I pronounce that in my royal estate, the gardens are flowering, there are fountains of gold. The trees are tall and many. Bird song fills the air. Of course, there are many blank news-print journals lying around everywhere . Bells and drums and colourful things.

There are temples of healing, of sound, halls of learning and oh, so many Yoga books. Malas, prayer rugs, yoga mats and deities that descend. They speak to me. (Remember, I’m fifty now, so I’m allowed to be a little crazy)

They tell me what to do next. I follow their guidance implicitly.  And guess what? Life is smoother (Jai Ganesha!) than it ever was before.

Before, I was still inculcated by my ego, my human misgivings and my in-congruency with Divinity. But now, having found a truer alignment, I’m in deity heaven, while my feet, hopefully, touch the earth.

So how do I support myself? Ah yes, you are so practical to ask. My former business became trickling and sometimes seemed like it was falling away. I did nothing to keep the wheels turning. It just was that way. I’ve always managed, somehow, to bypass insecurities around money – so it felt okay to wait and see. Yes, I know – not a recipe for financial stability – but it works, occasionally, for me. This, too, is now up for change. It’s time to do things differently!

Fortunately, I’ve come to trust that there is always a pivotal turning point in any given situation, which is the precise point of clarity.

It doesn’t come before that time and you can’t delay it either. The point of clarity!

Somewhere in the midst of my abstract meditative zone, the point of clarity dawned. I saw a new life: a simpler freer version and one where my stalled creative life, could now move forward into action.

I’m so happy if you’re still reading. I didn’t mean for this to be all about me. Paradoxically, telling the story of me is just a doorway to a larger universal reality. Maybe you’ll relate or feel inspired to your own review and self-enquiry. .?

As the year draws to a close, I usually go into this scanning back phase. I have learned that bringing completion to certain situations opens the space for a fresh new beginning.

To make a long story short, 2015 was low-key and it was powerful. It was like diving in and emerging from the wet, salty, frothy tumbling surf.

How was it for you?

Offline is Holy Medicine

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Sixteen good things that happened when my computer crashed:

i did not replace it immediately so I re-discovered life: off-line 24/7

i noticed that i am peaceful and my mind tranquil

i’m no longer schizophrenic – online and offline

i remember vividly my dreams

i resumed morning asana practise

sometimes evenings too

i am content staring at a candle flame

i cleared out unwanted belongings

i processed the past and let it go

i chant and meditate for hours

i write, sometimes paint  (for hours)

i tend to my body and walk a lot

i read books. Printed on paper!

i actually re-wired myself – discarded old ways of being and opened space for new

i found true soul alignment

i entered unknown lands of possibility and expanded my range of dreaming

which is the beginning of all creativity

Yes, dear reader, I know that as you read this you are in online mode, but I’m here to tell you that unplugging – particularly from social media – has been like discovering Zen mind for the very first time.

The maya of superfluous information can be a mirage on the horizon of mental distraction. This is not to say that the internet is not a wonderful invention. It has though, initiated us into further choice: online or offline?

I read – somewhere online, of course:  “Being offline is the new luxury.”

Yes, I do agree. As I actioned and lived this, I noticed that the sun still rises. It sets.

I can’t prove it but I’m sure that my breathing is regular and rhythmic, body less tense.

Having said all that,  I’m thankful for the transmission that online provides. When my computer was restored, I embraced the re-connection.

However, I discovered in my eight week retreat, that offline is holy medicine.

In fact, it is a religious experience. It costs nothing. Try it. Drink from the well of silence. Listen to a tree. Have a real life exchange. Create. Write a book. Re-write your life.

Yes, its possible. Its plausible. It is a ticket to pure bliss!

Practical end-note: To drink from this holy medicine, your offline time would ideally be a minimum of a few days. A few weeks, I know, is extreme but it is oh -so- good for the soul!

My offline sojourn was two months. As I do not own a smartphone, I popped in to an internet shop for 10 minutes once a week, sometimes once a fortnight, to be sure I did not miss anything essential. Soon, I realised, very little is essential.

I believe, now, that the calamity of my computer crash was Divine intervention – calling me deeper into my true nature, free of distraction – for a while! And that is what it distills down to – for a while. These periods of unplugging regenerate the soul.

Peace

lama-prayer-flags

There is a plane in consciousness called

The peace that passeth all understanding.

Great sages, yoginis and rishis have attained this.

But, for us, until we get there

Let us understand.

Let us understand that

Peace is a process

Inside each one of us.

Peace asks us to relinquish the need to be right.

Peace asks of us:

To speak with our true voice

Illumine the rebel

Find the path of light.

Peace is not a concept.

It’s a harmonising of the forces tossing and turning inside of us.

Peace does not ask us to suppress the revolutionary.

She asks us to examine our feelings and motives carefully.

Peace is radical for he bows down in forgiveness

At the feet of the enemy.

Peace is the soul awakening

In respect of order and equanimity.

Peace comes

When we refuse to entertain disturbances of the dark.

Peace opens us

From the inside

To accept that life on earth is equal.

Peace is not only a holy descent of Grace.

It is a deeply committed uprising within oneself

To be

Humble

Prayerful

Grateful

Noble.

Peace is purity.

The outside reflects the inside.

Peace, first, on the inside.

Peace is the religion of the Heart.

Om Shanti