tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57949424610673488252024-02-20T07:58:02.603-05:00Rituals of DisEnchantmentWhen the Guru holds us spellbound, how can we ever truly be free?Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger90125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-60103873605176496322013-04-08T19:46:00.003-04:002013-04-08T19:46:35.401-04:00Lucid Chapter Four: Fairy Tales<br />
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I didn't tell Kathleen about Jack. I didn’t want to sully the sanctified atmosphere of the programs with sordid tales from my botched romance. Besides, I hadn't come out to her. Somehow it didn’t feel right to divulge that either. After all, Kathleen was my mom’s friend first. She and I didn’t really have a relationship independent of theirs – or a connection beyond the one all three of us had to the Guru. My personal life wasn’t relevant.</div>
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But I did tell Kathleen about my dream, the one I had about Gurumayi the night after I walked out on Jack. I described the way Gurumayi stood barefoot on my head, levitated above me, and contorted my body. I told her how Gurumayi gave me specific instructions about my breathing, the use of my silver japa ring, and the mantra. I told her about the moment, six months later, when I discovered the image from my dream in a photograph of the guru's feet at the Welcome Gurumayi program.</div>
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As I shared each detail, Kathleen’s expression became fixed. For someone ordinarily in a perpetual state of effusive animation, her reaction to my dream was matter-of-fact.</div>
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“You should write Gurumayi and tell her,” she said flatly after I finished. “She should know.”</div>
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Her suggestion was so immediate and straightforward I didn’t think I should question it.</div>
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Between the second and final week of Gurumayi’s programs, my mom arranged for me to fly me back home to Colorado to attend a family gathering for my Grandmother’s 80th birthday. I’d miss one of the evening programs but still make it back in time for the last two. The day before I left, I sat down and typed up a one-page letter to Gurumayi. Just the contents of my dream and a line that said, “Thank you for letting me share my dream with you.” I unrolled the letter from my typewriter and signed my name at the bottom. Writing to the Guru; this was something new. But for some reason, now that I’d done it, it didn’t feel as out of the ordinary as I’d expected. Maybe reaching out to her like this was the natural next step. Maybe this was what people meant when they said, "This is why we have a living master."</div>
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I creased the letter into precise thirds, sealed it inside a legal size envelope and addressed it just as Kathleen instructed – to Gurumayi Chidvilasanda, care of the address of the Siddha Yoga Ashram in Oakland. I'd never written down Gurumayi’s full name before. It looked so long hand-written out like that. It went right to the edge of the envelope.</div>
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The next morning I walked down to the corner mailbox holding the letter in both hands like a bird I was about to set free. I wasn’t sure how these things worked. I couldn’t imagine my letter would actually reach Gurumayi. But whether it reached her or not didn’t matter. I was following a direction that felt like it needed to be followed. I stopped in front of the mailbox, closed my eyes, took a small breath and dropped the letter in.</div>
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An hour later my cab arrived and off I went to the airport.</div>
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My grandmother's birthday celebrations continued through the weekend in Colorado. Early Monday evening, after we returned to my mom's house from a family dinner, my mom called down the hall to me from the kitchen: “Michael, there’s a message on our machine for you – it’s from Melissa!”</div>
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I panic. Melissa and I never called each other when we were away unless there was an emergency. Something must be wrong.</div>
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I walk into the kitchen, hunch over the machine and press play:</div>
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“Michael, I’m sorry to bother you,” she starts, catching her breath, “But I thought you’d want to know right away. A woman just called from the ashram. She said she’s one of Gurumayi’s secretaries. She said Gurumayi read your letter! Can you believe it? Her name is Yolande. She said she wants to know if you can come meet with her during Tuesday night’s program. She said after you go up to see Gurumayi in darshan, all you need to do is speak with one of the attendants near her chair. She said just introduce yourself and give them her name and they’ll know what to do.”</div>
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I rewind the message and play it back. My mom and I stand there staring at each other with dopey smiles, shaking our heads in disbelief. I don’t know what to think. I feel hyper-aware and exposed, the way I feel right after bowing down to Gurumayi in darshan, like I’ve just received a sudden blast of attention bigger than I can contain. I’m excited, and a little scared. What can this mean?</div>
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When Kathleen prompted me to send my letter I never expected a response. Not something immediate and direct as a call from one of Gurumayi’s secretaries. <i>Gurumayi had secretaries? </i>I guess if everyone was writing just to tell her about their dreams, she needed them.</div>
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I walk in a daze back down the hall to my old room. The room I lived in from the time I was three until I bailed from Colorado just before I turned eighteen. The room that’s now for guests. My uncle Mitchell, who also flew into town for my grandmother’s 80th, is sitting in the over-sized corner chair, his long legs crossed, flipping through my copy of the ashram’s <i>Darshan</i> magazine. I must have left it sitting out on top of my suitcase. He’s smiling.</div>
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In the early 1960s my uncle Mitchell took a trip around the world with my grandparents, and their week in India was a memorable highlight. It’s the week from that trip they often recount tales from during family dinners while reminiscing about their world travels. My grandmother still refers to India as the place she’d return to in a minute, if given the chance. Once, when I asked her why India remained her favorite she said, “Because it’s the one place in the world where you never know what’s coming next – and the men have the most marvelous eyes.” Now, in his work with the government, my uncle Mitchell circles the globe annually, and India is a frequent stop. As he sits sifting through my copy of <i>Darshan</i>, as first I think maybe he’s smiling because he’s recognized something from his travels. Perhaps the image of a Hindu deity he once saw in a temple; maybe a familiar Upanishad quote. But when he notices me standing in the doorway and glances up, I realize his smile is more <i>I’m-your-uncle-and-I-know-better</i> than it is pleased. He fans the pages of the magazine closed with his thumb, looks at me over the tops of his glasses and says, “This is all fairy tales, you know.”</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-88779569026713221022013-03-03T09:40:00.003-05:002013-03-03T09:40:48.344-05:00Robot HousekeepingThose of us who wish to leave a comment on posts here are going to have to perform an extra step, at least for awhile, as I've added word verification to the site. RoD has been plagued by automatically-generated spam comments that are proliferating wildly, and which have overwhelmed the Google spam filter's ability to weed them out. That means that I spend a lot of time hunting spam down and deleting it—yesterday, in fact, I spent close to two hours combing through all the comments pages going back to the beginning of RoD in order to delete some 3,700 spam comments that had either clogged the filters or attached themselves to posts.<br />
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First, let me assure everyone that commenting is still perfectly anonymous, if you choose it to be. When you log in to comment you will now see something like this:<br />
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You can still choose to click on the anonymous button, but you will have to type in the sequence of numbers and letters you see below the comment box. In the case above it would be:<br />
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4164 ionewer<br />
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You don't have to worry about capitalizing the letters in the nonsense word so long as you get the sequence right.<br />
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Occasionally you'll see a number picture that is unclear, or a letter sequence that has been tortured into illegibility. If that happens, just click on the little round arrow right next to the space bar and the combination will change. You can change it as many times as you need to in order to find one that you can read and type back.<br />
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Many of you probably already know how to do this, so apologies if this seems pedantic, but I'm posting it here for those to whom this is all new.<br />
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And yes, this is a pain in the ass, but the alternative to the above is for me to go back to moderating comments--which I'd really rather not do as it is a hassle for everyone to have to wait to see their comment posted, and a waste of time for me.<br />
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Let me know you thoughts and questions and I'll answer them all.<br />
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yours, SeekHer<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-27163322985431597412013-03-02T23:51:00.001-05:002013-03-02T23:52:09.919-05:00Lucid Memorie, Chapter Three: Why<span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br />That morning last October, the morning I walked out on Jack, started out like all our other mornings. He worked late and I had the day off so we hadn’t bothered to set his alarm. He woke first, rolling over to curl his smooth bare limbs around mine. When I opened my eyes he was looking up at me, like he always looked at me, like I was the only other boy in the world. I knew that look was on purpose, but that didn’t lessen its effect.<br /><br />No matter how much we drank, smoked, had sex, or stayed up into the night watching Ingrid Bergman collapse into Cary Grant’s arms in old Hitchcock films, none of it showed on Jack the next day. He always woke up with that face of his, a face right out of an old Hollywood headshot. With his dewy dark eyes, full lips, caramel-colored skin and brylcreemed black hair, Jack looked like Latin version of a young Tony Curtis.<br /><br />Often it seemed he intentionally saved those well-lit, sun-streamed morning close-ups to deliver his most swoon-inducing lines. “Michael,” he sighed on one such occasion, right after we’d woken up and had sex, “You’ve captured me.” Jack was a master of timing. But I was the one being held captive in those moments, and he knew it. All I could do was stare back at him like an awestruck fan.<br /><br />Sometime before noon we finally got out of bed, staggered down the hall and sat side by side at Jack’s retro, Lucy and Ricky-style, aluminum-legged kitchen table. He placed two Lucky Strikes between his lips, lit both and passed me one, then poured inky thick coffee from his press into thin miss-matched porcelain cups. We smoked and sipped and tried to pull ourselves back up out of our mutual hangover. It was always an easier feat for him. Jack was a bit of a Dorian Gray. His abuse of time didn’t show.<br /><br />No matter the time of day, Jack always had music going in the background. He kept the volume low, but the music was always there, as if no scene from his life was complete without just the right soundtrack. He prized his collection of old jazz albums; rare treasures he’d unearthed from forgotten dusty crates in the backs of used record stores. Billie Holiday, Sarah Vaughn, Dinah Washington. That morning he picked Billie.<br /><br />With a lit Lucky Strike jutting out from between his lips, he slipped the record from its faded cardboard jacket, then old paper sleeve, and placed it on the turntable. He lifted up the needle and set it back down along the edge of the outer groove. The record began to spin, the music began to play, and Billie’s wistful, broken voice sang out from underneath the crackles in the thick vinyl:<br /><br />The very thought of you<br />And I forget to do<br />The little ordinary things that everyone ought to do<br />I’m living in a kind of daydream<br />I’m happy as a queen<br />And foolish though it may seem<br />To me that’s everything . . .<br /><br /><br />I felt like shit.<br /><br />I wondered how much longer I could keep this up, keep up with Jack. Before I met him I rarely drank. And never straight whiskey. Three years ago Melissa and I made good on our pact and quit smoking the day we arrived in San Francisco – yet there I was, leaning in as Jack cupped his hands around the end of my cigarette, held my gaze, and offered me another light. Jack made everything that was bad for me seem sexy.<br /><br />“I'm jonesing for a danish,” he said, stubbing his cigarette out in his rectangular mosaic ashtray. “I'll zip down to the corner and come right back. You want anything?”<br /><br />I needed to siphon in a few more cups of coffee before I could think about food.<br /><br />“Go ahead,” I told him. “I'm not going anywhere."<br /><br />He swept a strand of hair from my forehead and tucked it behind my ear. “You want me to trim this for you, babe?” I knew he was teasing. He’d told me many times if I cut my hair it would have to be over his dead body. He pressed his lips to mine, then grabbed his keys, slipped down the hall and out the door, bolting it behind him.<br /><br />Jack’s intentionally placed mid-century modern decor filled every inch of his tiny apartment but without him in it, his place always felt empty. Like the star had left the stage and lights had gone out in the theater. I took another deep drag off my cigarette and sat there alone, just me and Bille, who was now singing an up-tempo, bathtub gin arrangement of “I’m Gonna Lock My Heart and Throw Away the Key”:<br /><br />I’m gonna turn my back on love<br />Snub the moon above<br />Seal all my windows up with tin<br />So the love bug can’t get in . . .<br /><br /><br />I shouldn't have come here last night, I thought. I shouldn't have come back. Those few days away in Colorado, surrounded at my mom’s wedding by family, by people who seemed stable and healthy, people who were living in the real world, made me realize I couldn’t keep this going. Those few days away from Jack helped me to start to put myself back together. <br /><br />As I flew back to San Francisco, I made a plan in my head to confront him, to tell him we couldn’t do this anymore. It was only a matter of time before one of us had to end it; maybe he’d be relieved if I was the one who decided to speak first. That was my plan. But that plan ended in a bottle of Old Crow and sex. No matter how I felt about Jack when I was away from him, no matter what I set my mind to before I saw him next, once I stepped into his apartment, once I was with him, my feelings were never a match for the pull of his attraction. Ever.<br /><br />I stubbed out my cigarette and Billie sang her final verse:<br /><br />I’m gonna park my romance right along the curb<br />Hang a sign upon my heart<br />“Please don’t disturb”<br />And if I never fall in love again<br />That’s soon enough for me<br />I’m gonna lock my heart and throw away the key . . .<br /><br /><br />The song ended and the needle slid into the center groove of the record, then clicked back into place on its stand. Jack’s apartment fell silent, the building too. Everyone else who lived on the third floor had real jobs and had left for work hours earlier.<br /><br />I poked through the stack of Jack’s collected art books piled high to one side on his kitchen table. El Greco, Caravaggio, Kahlo. I pulled “Caravaggio: A Passionate Life” from the middle of the stack and out fell one of Jack’s notebooks.<br /><br />Jack’s pads of paper filled with his unfinished drawings were lying around everywhere. He drew in pencil first then transferred his small sketches onto the large canvases he transformed into his oil paintings of rapturous religious martyrs and male nudes. He always had at least three paintings going at once, propped on makeshift easels, wherever he could make room in the corners of his tiny apartment. The piney scent of oil paints and turpentine always hung in the dank air of his apartment, just beneath the hazy film of cigarette smoke.<br /><br />He’d shown me his preliminary drawings in the past but I hadn't seen this particular notebook before. This one wasn’t like his other art store sketchpads that I'd seen lying around. This was one of those lined composition books with the speckled black-and-white covers, the kind I used to pack around with me to my class in high school. I opened the notebook and turned through the first few pages, running my fingertips over a series of small, pencil-marked torsos, until I came to a page, three pages in, filled not with Jack’s art but his writing.<br /><br />I didn’t know Jack wrote.<br /><br />There's a date at the top: June 7, 1992. Four months ago. I realize this must be a journal entry but it’s too late, my eyes drop in a free fall down onto the first line: “I hate myself for doing this to Michael …”<br /><br />My heart stops. I know what’s coming. Deep down, I’ve known for months.<br /><br />Before I can make a frantic scan of the next the next sentence, I hear Jack's key sliding into the lock. My back snaps straight. The bolt clicks open. I slam the notebook shut and stuff it back into the stack.<br /><br />Jack enters the kitchen, sees me and stops in a slight double-take. "Are you okay?"<br /><br />I grip the sides of my chair beneath the table to keep my hands from shaking. I feel like I'm going to combust, like any sudden movement I make or word I utter will send his kitchen and the two of us up in flames.<br /><br />I'm just tired, I tell him, looking down and away, hoping he'll buy my excuse for not moving or speaking – hoping I’ll buy myself the thirty minutes between now and when he needs to leave for work.<br /><br />He sits beside me, pads my cheek with a small kiss and pours me another cup of coffee, then finishes his pastry. I sit next to him immobilized. Mute with rage.<br /><br />After breakfast I walk him down the dark, narrow hallway of his apartment to the door. He hugs me tight, like he always hugs me when we say goodbye, like we’re standing on some train station platform in a cloud of steam as the violins soar. As he pulls me in for a last kiss, everything inside me stiffens into an internal barricade, trying to keep him out. As he seals his mouth over mine, I feel like he’s blotting my lips with poison. Inside I’m screaming. <br /><br />I open the door and he steps out into the hall. “Stay as long as you like,” he says, as he always does, offering a last smile. I smile back, betraying every emotion I’m feeling, then close the door behind him and bolt the lock. I close my eyes, hold my breath, and press the side of my head to the door, listening until I hear his steps descend the hallway stairs. He’s gone.<br /><br />As I turn to walk back to the kitchen my legs feel heavy, my steps slow and methodical. Now that Jack’s gone I feel oddly sedated. I sit back down at the table, pull the notebook from the stack and stare at its nondescript cover.<br /><br />How long has this book been sitting here? How many mornings have Jack and I sat at this table with this book right here between us, its thin black spine poking out from the stack, daring to be noticed and opened?<br /><br />I open the cover of the book and turn slowly back through Jack’s sketches, back to his writing. It's just one page but the confession is complete. Everything I suspected and worse. I read down through the list of names of all the guys he’s been fucking around with, and I know most of them; down through the list of drugs he’s relapsed back into using; down through the excerpts from the questions I asked him before I stopped asking questions, and down through his carefully crafted answers: “Michael confronted me last night about . . . but I told him . . .” “Michael asked me today if I had ever . . . but of course I lied and said . . .” It goes on and on.<br /><br />As I read each word I feel like I’m swallowing something my body instantly wants to expel. When I reach the bottom of the page my stomach contracts and feel like I’m going to vomit, but I can’t move.<br /><br />What should I do?<br /><br />I glance across the kitchen into the living room and stare at the vintage 1950s lamp I gave Jack for his birthday last June. The base is a glazed porcelain figurine depicting two Chinese boys dressed in traditional gold and red jackets wearing matching conical hats, seated on either end of a canoe; a fiberglass lampshade stretches out above them to form the shape of a sail and conceal the light bulb fixture on the other side. We’d first seen the lamp displayed in an antique shop window on Hayes Street. We passed by it several times and Jack fell in love with it. It did look like something that belonged in his apartment, since everything he collected and prized came from a time long before he was born. Neither of us could afford the lamp, but right before his birthday I sold two grocery bags filled with clothes to a second-hand store and came up with the amount. When Jack unwrapped the lamp he lit up like a five-year old.<br /><br />I stare at that lamp. Should I walk over, pick it up and throw it out his third-story bedroom window?<br /><br />No. It’s too beautiful to destroy.<br /><br />My eyes scan slowly back across the living room, across Jack’s paintings propped on easels, past his shelves of records, past his VHS stacks of old movies, back into the kitchen and down to the table and the pack of Lucky Strikes. Should I light one, drop it on his carpeted living room floor, and walk out?<br /><br />No. Other people live in the building.<br /><br />I decide I don’t need to do anything. I have what I need. I have proof. Proof that every suspicion spinning in my head and gnawing a hole through my gut, was real. I have it confirmed in writing, Jack’s writing. What if I’d never discovered this book? What if hadn’t discovered it for another month, or year? I’ve been dying to have this confession from Jack for months and now I have it. I can walk out knowing I’m not insane. That’s better than any act of revenge.<br /><br />Don’t do anything, the voice inside me says. Just leave.<br /><br />I pick up my wallet and keys and head down the narrow dark hallway to the door. As I place my hand on the lock and unclick the bolt, a last minute second thought stops me. Should I go back and leave Jack’s book out on the kitchen table, open to the page I read of his writing? Leaving that book out, open to that page, that would tell him everything. <br /><br />Again, No. That’s exactly the kind of drama Jack loved. I walk out.<br /><br /><br />Later that night Jack calls five times. I don’t pick up. His messages start by him matter-of-factly asking when I’m coming over. A few calls later, he’s wondering where I am. A few calls after that, he’s drunk and confused. He calls every day, multiple times a day, for a week. His voice sinks further with each message. I’ve vanished and he doesn’t know why. Each message is more incoherent and pitiful than the last. Finally, at the end of the week, he gives up.<br /><br />The night he stops calling, I grab my Walkman, lie down on my bed and cover my ears with my headphones. I can’t listen to scratchy old love songs anymore; I want to hear something new. I need present tense. I couldn’t afford it but treated myself anyway to a cassette recording of the new album by Annie Lennox. It’s her first record as a solo artist since breaking up with her ex-lover and former band mate Dave Stewart. I slide in the tape and press play, close my eyes and curl up inside the melody. This music is exactly what I’m feeling right now. I drop down into the song and, when Annie’s soulful voice turns defiant and sails up over the lush orchestration and into the crescendo, I press rewind, crank the volume and play that final verse over and over:<br /><br />This is the book I never read<br />These are the words I never said<br />This is the path I'll never tread<br />These are the dreams I'll dream instead<br />This is the joy that’s seldom spread<br />These are the tears, the tears we shed<br />This is the fear, this is the dread<br />These are the contents of my head<br />And these are the years that we have spent<br />And this is what they represent<br />And this is how I feel<br />Do you know how I feel?<br />‘Cause I don’t think you know what I feel<br />I don't think you know how I feel<br />You don't know what I feel . . .<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-4973494961505321392013-02-18T10:21:00.002-05:002013-02-18T11:45:32.284-05:00Rentention, not RecruitmentIs Scientology out of the numbers game and now only looking to keep its shrinking donor base on the hook and paying up? This Ad Age <a href="http://adage.com/article/news/scientology-s-ads-aimed-recruitment-retention/239841/" target="_blank">article</a> contains an interesting admission by a former high-level member--that has (no pun intended) 'clear' parallels to SYDA:<br />
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"Former Scientology church member Jefferson Hawkins, who once ran marketing for the
organization and is best known for his 1980s TV ad that featured an
exploding volcano, said the church's strategy when it comes to TV
advertising is mostly reactive. "Their solution when negative stuff
happens is to get high-profile ads out there..."<br />
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Mr. Hawkins, who has been a regular critic of the church since he left
in 2005, believes the (recent Super Bowl) ads are vanity TV buys aimed more at retention
than recruitment:<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>'From my experience, they don't have a real interest
in getting new members," he said. "It costs money to train new members.
There's no immediate profit. They are more interested in keeping current
members and encouraging them to donate.'"
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-1494914142776559682013-02-17T10:32:00.003-05:002013-02-17T10:33:07.581-05:00Lucid Memories, Chapter 2, Part 2<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><br /><br />That evening during her talk, Gurumayi speaks at length about the importance of what she calls “welcoming others.” She tells us that welcoming others is not only the foundation of Baba’s teachings, but also a powerful tradition and spiritual practice found in all cultures.<br /><br />She suggests that one of the ways we can welcome others is by “seeing beyond people’s shortcomings.” She urges us to avoid getting “stuck in our judgments.” She encourages us to always strive to see the highest and presume the best in everyone we encounter.<br /><br />“Treat people,” she says, “as if they were what they ought to be and you help them to become what they are capable of being.”<br /><br />How beautifully put. It makes absolute sense.<br /><br />After her talk and a brief meditation session, the Emcee for this evening’s program, Cosby Show actress Phylicia Rashad, steps up to the mike to make the closing announcements before the aisle monitors dismiss each of our rows for darshan. No fanfare was made earlier about her appearance as tonight’s hostess. None was needed. Everyone knows who she is. She’s just one of several semi-B-list celebrities who dot the crowd throughout Gurumayi’s Oakland visit. One night the former Mod Squad star Peggy Lipton motions me up to Gurmayi’s chair during darshan; I’m too young to remember the show, but Kathleen points her out. She looks thin and pale under the bright stage lights and appears self-conscious about being assigned the very visible role of Darshan Usher. Another night I see actor Gary Busey wandering around the lobby, looking disoriented. When I first notice him I can’t think of his name, but it comes to me later. I wonder if he’s struggling in his career and seeking a new direction. Maybe that’s why he’s here.<br /><br />Projected across the giant jumbotron screen suspended above the stage, Phylicia Rashad's glossy smile is as big as a Cheshire cat's. Her pupils, black billiard balls, roll back and forth in her dewy eyes as she slowly scans the crowd. <br /><br />Everyone in the hall sits there staring up at her, as if stoned in a collective post-meditation stupor. Leaning into the mike and tilting her head to the side she says with a wink, “Now that you’ve tasted an exquisite drop of this nectar, don’t you just want to dive in?"<br /><br />In response to her little flirtation many in the hall laugh, as if in on a joke, and several erupt in applause. But something about her delivery strikes me as over the top.<br /><br />“Take the intensive,” she continues, pausing with intent. “Take the intensive,” she says again, adding another intentional pause. “Take the intensive.”<br /><br />I squirm a little inside each time she repeats her pitch, relieved when she stops at three.<br /><br />The program concludes and the moment our row is dismissed Kathleen perks forward in her chair and grips my hand. “Darshan will be going on for hours – let’s go eat and come back.”<br /><br />As we exit the theater and cross the street to the Amrit, Kathleen loops her arm though mine. She’s strolling along in a post-program reverie but I’ve still got Phylicia Rashad’s refrain stuck in my head – and my mind is trying to stave of her repeated pitch with a mounting list of questions. Why the hard sell? Was that necessary? What goes on in the Intensive? And why would anyone need, or for that matter be able to withstand, more than what’s offered in these programs?<br /><br />I don’t want to offend Kathleen; she’s been a devotee for over a decade. But I’d like some answers and I figure she’s as reliable a resource as I’m apt to find.<br /><br />When I ask her a carefully phrased question about the Intensive and the way it's being promoted at the programs she sighs, “Sometimes the people who would benefit from the Intensive the most also tend to be the people won't attend unless they're specifically told they need to go!"<br /><br />“But,” I ask, “Isn't what takes place in these programs enough?"<br /><br />She sighs again. My sense isn’t that she’s tiring of my questions; my sense is she doesn’t think the answers pertain to us.<br /><br />"Some of these people need to be hit over the head in order to ‘get it,’” she explains. “The Intensive is for them. You’re not like that. I wouldn’t worry about it.”<br /><br />“Trust me,” she adds, smiling up into my eyes, “You’ve already received shaktipat.”<br /><br /><br />After dinner, as we make our way back to our seats, we're halted at the top of our aisle by a brusque woman with shoulder pads and a clipboard whose clear mission is to redirect us.<br /><br />When we explain we’re merely returning to our seats via the exact path by which we left them, her face flattens, as if stunned we’re challenging her. Our aisle is closed, she informs us, and we need to go out and come back in another way. It makes no sense but she’s got a laminated name badge and a clipboard and we don’t. She extends her arm and makes an opened-palmed but firm gesture back in the direction of the lobby doors.<br /><br />As we turn to head back up the aisle, Kathleen quips under her breath, referring to the main message in that night's talk, “Well, I guess she’s practicing welcoming others.” We share a muffled laugh, exit into the lobby and take the long way back to our seats.<br /><br />After we sit down I ask Kathleen, “Why did she speak to us like that?” – given where we are and why we are here, the interaction seemed jarring, so out of place.<br /><br />“Oh,” she says, letting out a deep breath, “Some of these sevites are just so full self-importance.” Sevites, she explains, is the title given to all the devotees I’ve seen doing all the volunteer work over the past few weeks. Seva is the name for the work itself, though it’s not work, she says, it’s service – to the Guru. “You run into them everywhere,” she continues, “In the Amrit, in the Bookstore . . . all you can do is keep your sense of humor. It’s like I always say when I’m signing up for an Intensive: With every registration you get a free lecture!” She giggles at her own joke.<br /><br />I like the fact that Kathleen has been involved in Siddha Yoga for so long, been so close to Gurumayi, and yet still remains un-phased by all the nonsense. I like that she breaks the rules, at least the ones that don’t seem to matter. Maybe Gurumayi is a bit of a rule-breaker too.<br /><br />Later that night, up on the stage during Darshan, just as we're bowing down, Gurumayi draws Phylicia Rashad to her side, as if she needs tell her something. As my forehead touches the carpet I hear Gurumayi say in a voice that's low and monotone, “It should have happened at 7 o’clock.” Her statement is firm, and indisputable. Her displeasure is controlled, but it’s there. Some part of the program hadn't gone as planned. Someone was late.<br /><br />As I back up and away from Gurumayi’s chair, I catch Phylicia’s face looking down in deference. I can tell that although she may not be the person who was late, she's the one Gurumayi's holding responsible.<br /><br />Kathleen and I return to our seats and watch as the tail end of the darshan line files up. Each night we stay after and sit and wait until darshan ends, with the hope that Gurumayi will stay in the hall a bit longer. Sometimes a French magician named Arsene cames out and performs as if he were Gurumayi’s court jester; sometimes there is light banter back and forth between Gurumayi and the swamis; sometimes a chant.<br /><br />One of the last women to step forward kneels down and offers Gurumayi a huge bouquet of flowers. Kathleen leans into me, places her hand over her mouth and shares in a whisper, “When I first started coming to Siddha Yoga I always took Gurumayi flowers. But then one day she told me: ‘Don’t bring flowers, bring money – And tell your friends!’“<br /><br />I laugh along with her at the punch line to her story, though I’m not exactly sure why it’s funny.<br /><br />During these final moments of each evening I can’t take my eyes off of Gurumayi. She’s been sitting with her legs folded up under her in the same lotus position for nearly five hours but looks just as radiant as she did when she arrived. Maybe more so. I don’t pretend to know who she is, but I do know this: no human I know would ever be capable of such a feat. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-45932302407598796672013-02-14T11:16:00.000-05:002013-02-15T14:31:26.930-05:00A Sweet Surprise™ for Valentine's Day!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com42tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-59488993619758464092013-02-13T16:29:00.001-05:002013-02-13T19:12:21.720-05:00Lucid Memories, Chapter Two, Part 1<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I first heard Kathleen’s name early in 1992, not long after my mom and John called to say they were finally going to tie the knot. Having made my sister and I suffer through their unnecessary to us ten-year protracted courtship, they called one night and announced with glee that they were putting a date on the calendar and us out of our misery. Over the years, whenever we tried to press them about sealing the deal, my mom would joke, “Once my relationship with John outlasts the length of my two prior marriages, we’ll make it official – and not a moment before!” When they finally hit that target and made good on their promise my sister I were thrilled.<span style="font-size: large;"> </span>We’d never known two people more meant for each other. We were also relieved. Due to our own need for security, we wanted a concrete guarantee they'd stay together. Now we had it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The year prior, my mom had struck up a friendship with Kathleen through their local Siddha Yoga Center in Colorado. Although they hadn’t known each other long, the moment my mom announced her engagement Kathleen jumped in to help. Overnight she became both wedding planner and personal assistant, managing every last detail leading up to the big day.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I can’t remember the first time my mom told me about Kathleen, but during our phone conversations in the months prior to the wedding, she mentioned her name too many times to count. Clearly my mom was thrilled to have such a devoted, zealous volunteer at her side. “If I hired someone to do all this,” she gushed one night on the phone, “It would cost me a fortune!”</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My mom was one of the most appreciative people I knew, and I understood why she felt so grateful, but to me it sounded like her new best friend was taking over. She began to adopt an almost “Kathleen knows best” attitude. That wasn’t like her. I hadn’t met Kathleen and felt protective. Maybe even a bit suspicious.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Who was this woman?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In October, just before the floor between Jack and I splintered in and collapsed, I flew home to Colorado for the wedding. Upon my arrival I finally met the person I’d been hearing so much about.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Kathleen was petite, attractive, and impeccably groomed. She had small, sparkling brown eyes and a pleasant, diminutive smile. Although Kathleen was a woman in her 40s who was living in the 90s, she still maintained her thick, glossy black hair in an immaculate braid that dangled down below her waist. She had the longest hair I’d ever seen and not a single strand was out of place. I suspected she was known for her hair.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Fall had arrived early in Colorado and Kathleen was ready, dressed on the day we met in an amber-colored cowl-neck sweater, coordinating calf-length skirt and dangly Navajo-style earrings, the kind she might have purchased while lingering at a roadside stand on a trip through in Arizona. She looked like a very put together flower child. Not someone I imagined dancing barefoot in the mud at a Grateful Dead concert, but someone who nonetheless likely wore a strand or two of love beads in her day – the kind she’d strung herself. I could imagine Kathleen bead shopping.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When my mom introduced us, she was chipper and polite, in an official wedding planner sort of way, but it was clear she wasn’t going to let anything, or anyone, divert her focus. Seeing her in action my immediate impression was that Kathleen had a lot of confidence in her work. She struck me as someone who believed she knew exactly what to do, how to do it, and when – the kind of person who, once assigned a specific task, doesn’t require further direction or stop for input. She wasn’t pushy, but she was certain. As the twenty-four hours before the wedding dwindled down, I could see her ticking through her mental list of priorities, checking off each one in her head then moving briskly onto the next.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I tried to dismiss Kathleen’s hyper-professional, somewhat controlling demeanor as expected from a bride’s personal assistant the day before the wedding, but something about her continued to rub me wrong. I couldn’t put my finger on it.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Still, it was obvious she was going way above and beyond – even offering to do my sister’s hair and make-up for the ceremony in addition to my mom’s, on top of having to take care of her own. I had to admit my mom glowed in Kathleen’s attentive care. That’s what’s most important, I thought, that my mom feels taken care of. That’s the only thing that matters.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As the weekend proceeded, I tucked aside my unease about Kathleen and made an effort to warm up to her – after all, her support meant so much to my mom. In the process she opened up and I learned a quite a bit of her story . . .</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In the early 1980s, Kathleen lived for a time in Siddha Yoga’s mother ashram, in Ganeshpuri, India. She was there during Baba Mukantanda’s last years as Guru, there when he died, there when Gurumayi was appointed his successor. A talented seamstress, Kathleen was assigned the highly intimate role of making Gurumayi’s clothes. Prior to her sharing the highlights of her early years in Siddha Yoga, it hadn’t occurred to me that a specific person made Gurumayi’s clothes, but it did make sense. I couldn’t imagine Gurumayi wearing something purchased off a rack. Besides, she didn’t have time to go shopping.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Eventually Kathleen met her husband in Ganeshpuri and Gurumayi married them. In a giant gold-framed photo from their wedding I saw hanging in their house, Kathleen and her husband Alan appeared draped in thick garlands of marigolds, their foreheads glistening in the Indian heat as they lean in near Gurumayi who sits beside them beaming. I somewhat marveled at the photo when I saw it. I hadn’t known that Gurumayi married people. That was also the first time I saw a picture of Gurumayi taken with someone I actually knew. It hadn’t occurred to me that some people had their pictures taken with the Guru, owned copies of those pictures, and hung them in their homes.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I stared at that photo. To be married by the Guru must be the ultimate way to sanctify your relationship, I thought. But Kathleen didn’t mention her husband that weekend and I didn’t meet him – he was away on business.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Kathleen was so involved in the wedding it struck me as odd that her husband couldn’t arrange to be there. Later, when I asked my mom about him, she gave me her classic “Don’t ask” look. The list of people she disliked was short, but that look told me in an instant Alan was on it. While my sister and I were growing up my mom enforced and adhered to a strict “If you can’t say something nice” policy. I’d learned long ago that when she gave me that look we weren’t going to have a conversation. “I tell you about Alan another time,” she said. She didn’t mention him again; neither did I.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The moment for ceremony arrived and my mom floated through her wedding. I had to hand it to Kathleen who herself seemed to thrive in the midst of those final break-neck hours. She and I didn’t stay in touch after my mom’s wedding; there wasn’t any reason to. After I returned to San Francisco I sent her a card, thanking her for the support she gave my mom because it was the polite thing to do. But that was it.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Six months later in April, during the second week of Gurumayi’s programs, Kathleen called me out of the blue and left a message. I was startled to hear her voice on my answering machine but figured she must have contacted my mom and asked for my number. “I’m coming to Oakland Wednesday!” she exclaimed, near-breathless. “Let’s meet at The Paramount!”</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Two days later as I stand waiting for her inside the lobby, I feel bit awkward. Kathleen is my mom’s age and the wrong gender, but for some reason I feel like I’m moments away from a first date – except instead of dinner and a movie we’re meeting for a chant and darshan. I agreed to meet her but now that I’m here it suddenly strikes me as an odd setting in which to spend the evening with someone I hardly know. Up until tonight I’ve been coming alone.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Suddenly I feel my focus yanked from behind. I turn around and see Kathleen, rushing toward me across the lobby. “How are you?!” she bursts, crushing me in a hug, like we’re old friends who’ve been apart too long. I jump inside, startled aback by her over-gregarious greeting.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Isn’t this theater gorgeous?” she beams, looking up at me like a teenage girl out for her first night on the town. “Come on – I saved us some great seats!”</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Inside, as we settle into our chairs, I watch from the corner of my eye as Kathleen employs a bit of artful choreography with her pashmina shawl, draping it over both shoulders, just so, to inconspicuously conceal the small spiral-bound notepad and pen she produces from her purse. As if she’s made this same move a hundred times before, she slips both items underneath her shawl and into her lap while looking around nonchalantly to see if any of the aisle monitors have spotted her.</span></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As I observe her do this, my eyebrows raise a little. At the intro to every program the Emcees are explicit: “No note-taking aloud.” At first the rule strikes me as counterintuitive. Wouldn’t notes give people something concrete to refer to and focus on later when they meditated at home? But then I second-guess myself and try to imagine the potential rationales. Maybe if you’re too focused on writing things down you loose the true essence of what’s being offered. Maybe the process of absorbing the Guru’s teachings is too subtle and too profound to be reduced to a lecturer-audience format. Maybe it’s disrespectful to scribble the guru’s wisdom down into a series of illegible notes.</span></span><br />
<br /></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ok, I get it.</span></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Still, there is one curious phenomenon at these programs that does make the no note-taking rule continue to stick out as odd: despite how captivated everyone seems during Gurumayi’s talks, a common joke afterward is that many people can’t remember a thing she said. Often I see small groups in Amrit giggling over their collective inability to recall any specific part of what she’s said; the overall gist is there but none of the key details. It’s as if once she’s spoken them, Gurumayi’s words become slippery fish.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“What was that hilarious Nasrudin story she told – something about losing a key . . .?”</span></span><br />
<br /></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Given the four-hour combo of chanting, lecture, meditation and darshan, maybe some people are simply too blissed out to repeat anything back in a complete sentence. Like driving under the influence then getting pulled over and asked to repeat “toy boat” ten times, maybe the more you try to wrap your mind around the Guru’s exact phrasing, the harder it becomes.</span></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Regardless, the consensus seems to be that just listening to the Guru is, in and of itself, enough. Her words go in, whether they’re remembered or not. The point is to be with Gurumayi, to be in her presence. That’s the real teaching.</span></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ironically, for whatever the reason, the effect her talks have on my retention is just the opposite. When she speaks I’m hyper-alert. As she sweeps through each passage all the cells in my body attach to her words like a trillion pins gathered up by a magnet. During the first week of programs I raced home with her words and the sound of her voice alive inside me. Her words fueled me past midnight as I typed them down as fast as I could, fearing they’d evaporate. I didn’t want to lose a single one.</span></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When Kathleen notices I’m observing her notepad and pen sleight of hand she looks up at me with a mischievous glint in her eye. As if to alleviate any concern I might have that she’ll get busted for her bit of rule-breaking she leans in and whispers: “The year they instated the ‘no note-taking policy’ was the year I started wearing shawls to the programs!”</span></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As the lights dim several volunteers pad up and down the aisles, scanning the crowd with strained faces, looking for people like Kathleen. They don’t notice her and apparently she could<span style="font-size: large;">n't</span> care less about them.</span></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Knowing Kathleen once worked so closely with Gurumayi, and knowing, as she shared earlier, that she writes to Gurumayi often, I figure it’s safe for me to take my cues from her. I make a mental note to bring my own notepad and pen the next evening.</span></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-59051865178809407522013-02-03T20:11:00.001-05:002013-02-04T22:38:50.386-05:00Lucid Memories, Chapter One, End.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Two days
later I return to The Paramount for the Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday
evening programs. During the chanting and meditation sessions that occur over
the course of those consecutive nights, the mesmeric imagery unfolding in front
of me is as real as anything I’ve seen in my most vivid dreams: </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 16px;">I’m sitting
alone inside a large, old, dilapidated wooden boat, floating in the middle of a
desolate, near-motionless ocean. The horizon is dark and flat. There’s no land
in sight. The massive grey ocean expands out around me in all directions, as
far as I can see, to furthest edges of the earth. My boat floats anchored in
the middle of this vast expanse, creaking in spots as it rocks gently back and
forth, in synch with the vibrations emanating from the tamboura. The sky above
and water below are equally heavy, impenetrable. I’m on the other side of the
world, far from anywhere I know. I’m nowhere. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 16px;">The only
thing keeping this bleak setting from becoming one of irreparable despair is
the steady repetition of the mantra, and the resilient, sustaining sound of
Gurumayi’s deep, honeyed voice. Each time she calls out and each time I call
back the vibrations of her voice fold over into mine, like one caressing
wave folding into another, and together our voices merge with the voices of
everyone else in the hall. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 16px;">I've been
chanting the mantra on my own for years but tonight, here in this distilled
moment with the guru, a window opens and suddenly I understand its true
meaning: The mantra is a call, a call to return home. Not home as in a specific
place, but home as an internal state. Home as a feeling of deep peace not
dependent on anyone or anything. Tonight, in this moment with Gurumayi, the mantra
is calling me to repair that severed cord, to reconnect to that protecting
source, to return to who I am.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 16px;">By the third
night of programs spent rocking back and forth under that abandoned sky,
something inside me releases and my boat begins to glide forward. In time, little by
little, several of the others gathered in the hall begin to join me inside the
boat and we sit side-by-side, chanting and rowing forward in effortless unison.
We’re all heading toward the same destination; we are all going home. As our
momentum builds, our voices fuse and thicken into one unified vibration that
cocoons the entire hall inside the sound of the mantra. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 16px;">When I
glance up again into the foreboding sky the night suddenly comes alive as if
someone’s flipped a switch inside a planetarium and revealed a giant web of
sparkling constellations. The stars flicker then dim as a prehistoric sun burns
a hole in the horizon, then rises up and glazes the sky a brilliant orange.
Looking down over the water, I watch as sunbeams dance out across the once
ominous ocean, transforming its murky surface into ripples of royal blue. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 16px;">Everything inside me lifts and lightens; every cell in my body hums. It’s a new day.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 16px;">As
I sway
back and forth, the images of the ocean fade and I begin to feel my
entire
body filling with sand. Our collective call and response slowly subsides
until only
the lone tamboura plays. I sit immobilized and watch several members of
my
family – none of whom have, or likely will ever bow down to a guru
– appear in my mind, step up onto the stage and approach Gurumayi’s
chair for
darshan. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My
grandfather, my mom’s dad, who is fighting his descent into
Alzheimer’s, steps forward first. He approaches Gurumayi in his
characteristic
dignified manner, dapper as always in his customary suit, silk necktie
and
crisply-pressed pocket square. He extends both his hands and Gurumayi
leans in to cups his with hers. He looks like a Head of State meeting
the Queen of England. Watching
their exchange I smile so broadly I can feel my cheeks pushing up
underneath my
eyes.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 16px;">My
biological father steps up next. Four years ago, just after I moved to San Francisco, he called out of
the blue. First time in a decade. “Michael?” he asked, “Do you know who this
is?” I knew. Ten years, but I’d know his voice anywhere. I didn’t say anything
and hung up the phone. He didn’t call back. Now, as he approaches
Gurumayi’s chair, he appears so small on that stage; tentative, ashamed. He looks around lost,
unsure of what to do. Gurumayi sits waiting, motionless as a mountain. After
another moment’s hesitation he cautiously steps forward, as if he has no other choice, and bows down.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 16px;">One by one,
each member of my family whose impact on my life has been significant comes
before Gurumayi and one by one she welcomes and blesses each of them – just as
I have watched her welcome and bless hundreds and thousands of others, night
after night after night. Gurumayi expresses in these exchanges a respect,
dignity, and unconditional acceptance I’ve never seen anywhere else, from
anyone else. It’s as if in her eyes everyone is worthy of the highest honor,
everyone is royalty. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 16px;">As
the
images from my family processional fade and the hall plunges into
silence, Jack
emerges from beneath a shadow and steps into the center of my mind. He's
alone;
both the stage and the hall are now empty and dark. It’s just him and
me. He turns toward me and presents himself, defenseless. His eyes
say he's
ready; prepared to hear and to take whatever I have to say.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Jack is the
last person I expected to see here, in this setting, at this moment, but I can
tell I’m being given an opportunity – a chance to feel differently about him
and what happened between us. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A voice
inside me asks, “What do you want to do about Jack?” </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">And, without even the effort of a breath the clear answer comes and simply slips out, as clear and
without effort as a drop of water slipping off the edge of a leaf. “I just want to
love him,” I say inside.</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The moment I
hear myself say those words, “I just want to love him,” the spell is broken –
Jack’s image dissolves and is washed away, like sand washed out to sea by a
retreating tide. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16px;">Seeing Jack for who he is – vulnerable, flawed, human – and
realizing what I wanted most from our relationship was something I could never
have, unties the not. It’s that simple. </span>He’s gone, and that infected wound deep inside me I couldn’t
reach to mend feels washed clean. A tiny bell rings, the meditation session ends and I sit
mesmerized watching two 100-foot columns of white light shoot out from the
centers of my upturned palms. I look up, rotate my wrists from side to side,
and trace playful figure eight searchlight patterns across the Paramount’s
ceiling. I know I'm the only one who can see this happening, but it doesn't
matter. It's incredible.</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 16px;">After the
program, I step out into the lobby to search for a pay phone where I can call
my mom. Looking up I notice that the elegant gold Art Deco letters across the inner lobby
marquee have been arranged to spell out Siddha Yoga's central teaching: “See
God in Each Other.” It’s very Ancient-India-meets-Radio-<wbr></wbr>City-Music-Hall. I’m
giddy.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 16px;">I ascend one of the lobby's
winding carpeted staircases to the second floor, spy an ornate gilded phone
booth, call my Mom and gush – about Gurumayi’s talks and funny stories, my
mind-blowing meditations, all of it. </span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 16px;">“But,” I
add, “Amazing as all of this is, I don’t have any desire to take an Intensive.
If an Intensive is more powerful than these programs, I’m not going anywhere
near it!" </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We both laugh. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px;">"And,"
I continue, "I have no desire to go run off and live in the ashram.” </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I mean it.
The experience I’m having right now is more than enough.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">“Wow,” she
says – explaining how so many people have such a longing for the Guru, such a
longing to be close to Gurumayi, such a longing for more<span style="font-style: normal;"> – “You don’t know how lucky you are.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
End of
Chapter One: Lucky</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-25247861526182177942013-01-29T14:54:00.000-05:002013-01-29T15:06:31.714-05:00Lucid Memories, Chapter One, 3<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As I wait in line a tanned, wispy-haired woman wearing
a guaze skirt, chunky turquoise bracelets, silver Roman sandals and a nametag
that says “Urvashi Cohen" dances up and down the line, trying to tempt us
away to the temporary dining hall across the street. "There's plenty of
time!" she assures. "You can come back for Darshan after
dinner!" No one budges.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Five minutes later she twirls past us again, this time
literally singing this evening’s dinner specials. Unlike the pinched-faced
volunteers who scurried me out of the lobby and into the outside darshan line
two hours ago, this woman seems to be genuinely enjoying her assignment. She
stops near me and describes each dish on the evening's menu in mouth-watering
detail, as if any attempt on our part to choose just one of these delectable
items will prove to be exquisite agony. She’s a character. I like her, and
everyone within earshot is engaged by her ardent effort – but not a chance. No
way am I losing my spot. Undeterred, she pirouettes away and tries her luck
again, further down the line.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">At last we are moving, but as the line inches off the
sidewalk and back into the lobby, my mind drifts, out of the theater and back
to the dream I had about Gurumayi last October – the night after I broke up
with Jack . . .<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I’m at my mom’s house in Colorado. A group of her friends
from the local Siddha Yoga center have gathered for an occasion that feels
ceremonious. Since I’m not a member of the center I'm not sure why I’m there,
or what’s going to happen next. I notice, however, that I’m the only one in the
room dressed in what looks like a more formal version of white cotton pajamas.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Everyone assembles quietly into a seated circle then
begins passing around an old, heavy, atlas-sized book. I can't see the cover but
it looks like an ancient text of some sort. The book makes a full circle and
gets handed to me last, open to a page containing an elaborate diagram
illustrating the back of a human head. Looking closely, I notice that traced
over the back of the head are the precise outlines of the bare soles of two
feet. I’m intrigued. I’ve never seen an image like this before. I have no idea
what to make of it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As I study the image, everyone begins speaking in hushed
exchanges. Clearly they consider the image to be powerful, symbolic. When I
close the book and look up, Gurumayi is standing directly in front of me. The
room falls silent. As if it’s an involuntarily automatic response, I
immediately lay my entire body flat, face down on the carpet, and place my head
at her bare feet, pranaming before her. Then, lifting her feet one at a time
off of the carpet, Gurumayi steps delicately up onto the back of my head, and
balances there in place, almost weightless. I can feel the bare soles of her
feet pressing lightly against the back of my scalp. I’m alternately watching
all this happen from a vantage point somewhere high above my body, and
experiencing it internally with my eyes closed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After holding her motionless position for a moment, her
feet slowly lift off the back of my head and she levitates up into the air and
hovers over me, the bare soles of her feet floating a just inches above my
head. Turning slowly in midair, she steps down onto my back, kneels between my
shoulder blades and begins to manipulate and contort each of my limbs through a
series of humanly impossible, though somehow painless, complex and specific
yoga postures. Once she completes this intricate, ritualistic procedure, she
remains seated on my back, kneeling in silence.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After a pause she starts to speak. The deep vibrations of
her voice coat me in a protective balm.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I’m going to tell you some things," she says, her
voice calm and almost monotone, "And I want you to repeat each of these
things back to me, so that I know you've heard them.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She then gives me specific instructions about my
breathing, followed by a description of the true purpose of the silver japa
ring I wear on my wedding finger – a gift from my mom purchased years ago at
the original ashram in India, one of the few possessions I treasure but have
never used for actual mantra repetition.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I repeat everything Gurumayi tells me back to her, word
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Then her voice drops down into a final instruction. <i>“I
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Repeating her words, I reply: <i>“I have no importance
here.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">At that moment the dream ended and my eyes split open – as
if I’d been grabbed by the throat and yanked awake. I kicked off my sheets and
ran down the hall to wake up Melissa. I was bursting to tell her what had just
happened. I had no idea what to make of it. We fixed coffee and took our
conversation back to my room.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As we sat crossed-legged on my bed talking, Melissa
confided something she’d been holding onto for years. Leaning in and smoothing
a stray strand of hair away from my forehead she said, “Michael, I have to tell
you something. I always regretted not going back to the ashram that second
night with you and your mom. Something happened to you that night, and since
then I’ve felt like Gurumayi has always been with you.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The look in her eyes turned more serious.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I think for you to have this dream about Gurumayi, right
now, while you’re going through all this with Jack . . . I just know it must
mean something. Something important.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My mind drifts away from Melissa’s words, and back to
where I’m standing inside The Paramount, in the darshan line that’s finally
made it's way deep into the inner lobby. In front of me now is the temporary
bookstore they’ve set up for the program. My gaze meanders across the sprawling
display of assorted tapes, videos, jewelry, and incense featured along on the
various tables – then slams to a stop when my eyes fall on a picture depicting
the bare soles of the Guru’s feet.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My breath leaves my body.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I can’t believe what I’m seeing. It’s as if someone has
lifted the image directly out of the dream I had last October, placed it inside
this photograph and strategically displayed it in this exact spot, at this
precise moment, just to catch my attention.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Immediately I turn to the older, seasoned-looking devotee
I've been standing next to in line for two hours and barge into her reverie,
hoping she can help. “Excuse me," I ask, pointing toward the photograph,
"Can you tell me why there is a picture of Gurumayi’s bare feet? Is there
some significance?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Oh, yes!” she bursts, not skipping a beat, as if thrilled
I’m soliciting her expertise on this particular matter. “They are <i>very</i>
significant!" Suddenly self-conscious, she lowers her voice, draws me in
and shares in a near whisper, "It is said that <i>all </i>of the guru’s
power travels through the soles their feet.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I’ve passed through the looking glass again . . .<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I can barely focus as she continues and politely points
out because obviously I’m new at this, that the picture I’m referring to is
actually of <i>Baba Muktanada's</i> feet, not Gurumayi’s.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Suddenly, something amusing occurs to her and turning to
her also seasoned-looking female comrade she ponders aloud, “<i>Are</i> there
any pictures of Gurumayi’s feet?” At this musing the two of them erupt in giddy
giggles. Apparently posing such a question, while standing moments away from
bowing down before the real thing, strikes them as laughably superfluous.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">30 minutes later, on stage inside the theater, just a few
feet from her chair, Gurumayi’s eyes lock with mine and never break away. Her
eyes penetrate me, as if in this moment she sees everything I’ve put myself
through in the four years since I saw her last, as if she sees that inside I've
died a brutal emotional death. She holds me suspended in her gaze with the deep
concern of a parent who has been away from their child far too long. Her eyes
implore one clear, direct question: <i>“What has happened to you?”</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">People are bowing down six heads across; several
attendants are perched at Gurumayi’s side – making introductions, taking notes,
whispering messages, distributing gifts, and removing the baskets that continue
to fill with offerings of flowers, coconuts, cards and money. All the while a
small group of musicians play a soft lullaby version of the mantra just a few
feet away. There is a lot going on up here, but Gurumayi’s gaze never leaves
me. As I take her gaze in to the deepest part of me and see all the activity
happening around and between us I think, It can’t be possible, she can’t be
focusing on just me, I must be hallucinating.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I'm motioned to move closer in the line by an attendant and
Gurumayi then directs me with her peacock feathers to step around the group
that's already bowing down and come kneel close beside her, near the edge of
her chair, as if she were going to tuck me up under her shawl. I kneel at the
base of her chair, place my forehead to the carpeted floor of the stage, and
then – <i>Tap! Tap! Tap!</i> – three jolts of static electricity shoot out the
ends of her peacock feathers and zip through me like a current. I hear a
something crackle and a sharp spasm rockets through my chest.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Backing up and away from her chair, I’m trembling. I feel
naked, exposed, too aware of myself, and the crowd. I want to get off this
stage and escape to someplace safe and private as quickly as possible.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I bolt up the aisle, exit the theater and catch the first
BART train home.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As my train pulls away from Oakland and disappears back
inside the tunnel, I sit in my seat unable to move. I’m traveling in some other
zone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Everything is so different, again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com45tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-57152854011716871282013-01-26T14:01:00.002-05:002013-01-29T14:58:01.834-05:00Lucid Memories, Chapter One, 2<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">My BART
train stops at 19th Street in Oakland, a block away from The Paramount Theater.
As I come up out of the station, I’m stunned to see a long line of hundreds,
maybe thousands, snaking out the clogged lobby doors. My eyes follow the line,
all the way down to the corner and around the block. The crowd must be
quadruple the size of the one that attended the Oakland Ashram programs in
1989. Clearly the word had spread.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Heading down
the street and tacking myself on to the end of the line I feel suddenly empty-handed. Almost everyone else is holding something. Many carry tote bags
packed with small cushions, shawls and bottled water. Others clutch bouquets of
flowers or cup whole coconuts in their hands. A few even appear to be prepared
with all of the above. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Once inside
the opulent, Art Deco Paramount, I snag one of the last empty seats along a
back row and sit. I’m early, but apparently lucky to have this spot. Glancing
toward the stage I notice several rows up front are still vacant, blocked off
by white computer printed signs with bold black letters that say RESERVED. I
exchange a small, polite smiles with the older women seated on either side of
me, then sink back into my plush green velvet chair and take the eye-popping
Paramount in. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">An hour
later the program begins. I fidget through a long series of announcements:
Where to register for the upcoming weekend Intensive; information on the new
chanting tape that just became available in the bookstore; directions to the
temporary Amrit Café that’s been set up across the street and will open for
dinner after the program; and, finally, a flight-attendant style walk through
of post-program logistics that informs us how and when the hall monitors will
assist each individual row in exiting the theater prior to darshan. After Gurumayi’s talk we all need to
leave our hard-won spots and then line up again outside before coming back in
to see her.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">This tedious
list of “business items” is followed by several testimonials from well-dressed
devotees whose lives have been transformed in subtle and dramatic ways since
they stepped onto the Siddha path. One woman in a tailored blue dress suit
shares that while deliberating over an important career move, Gurumayi appeared
to her in a dream and said, “Do what you love.” Upon hearing her testimony,
several pockets of the congregation let out long, audible sighs. Next, a bit of
an aw-shucks but still earnest college-age guy steps up to the mike and starts by
sharing that he lives near the Ashram in Oakland. He then recounts how chanting
the mantra saved him from getting mugged at his local Laundromat. He’s sincere,
but his reverent mention of the guru in the context of a story about a
near-crime comes over a bit awkward. He receives a somewhat non-response from
the hall, then sits back down.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Where is
Gurumayi?</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">My mind
wanders. My eyes wander too – along the sensuous carvings of the heavens that
ascend the Paramount’s gilded walls, all the way up to the ceiling, to the Art
Deco angel hovering over the proceedings, his enormous ornate wings
outstretched above us all. When I return my attention to center stage, to
Gurumayi’s elegant, empty chair, I realize: four years later and here I am,
moments away from seeing her again. I have no idea what to expect.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">The MC for
the night steps up to the microphone and makes a final announcement in a low,
devotional hush, “Gurumayi will be joining us soon . . . ” then sits down.
Although I came here alone, I now feel my anticipation pulsing in the air, in
synch with everyone else’s.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">The lights
illuminating The Paramount’s stenciled, cookie-cutter style ceiling, three
balconies up, dim from a brilliant magenta to a soft blue. A musician near
Gurumayi’s empty chair strums his tamboura and the vibrations echo through the
crystalline acoustics of the hall. Another musician joins in on her harmonium,
and a small group of lead chanters begins softly, “Oh-oh-om, Nah-mah,
Shi-va-ah-ah-ah-ah-ayah . . .” </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Little by
little, each one of us lends our voice to this tender call and response, as if
joining in on a cherished refrain. Within a few rounds, I feel the focus of our
collective attention slowly submerge into the sweeping majesty of the mantra. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">“Oh-oh-om,
Nah-mah, Shi-va-ah-ah-ah-ah-ayah . . .” </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">I’ve been
listening to this particular version of the mantra on an old cassette player in
my bedroom for years. Tonight, brought to life by thousands of harmonious
voices and amplified up into the rafters of this grand old theater, it has to
be the most glorious music I’ve ever heard.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Time
suspends. Nothing exists prior to or outside of this moment. Here we are. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">I close my
eyes for a moment and drift. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">When I open
them again I do it just in time to see her, gliding in through the wings
beneath the dim blue lights. The moment feels private, intimate, like it’s just
us. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Everything
about Gurumayi is graceful and delicate. Gliding across the stage, her
billowing silk robes appear to be as thin and soft as rose petals. She seems
almost weightless. As she approaches her chair and turns towards the hall, her
hand floats up in a silent, slow motion wave. Almost on cue, as if my heart has
been punctured by her gesture, I burst into tears. And, just as instantaneously
as when I first saw her four years ago, my tears soon become sobs. It’s as if all
the self-doubt and loathing, all the anxiety and depression, all the emotional
rot I’ve been stuffing away inside since I saw her last is being pumped right
out of me. Feelings I didn’t consciously know I’d buried – regrets, mistakes,
all the times I’d bullied myself over another failure – are being pumped in a fury to the
surface and bailed away. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Gurumayi
pauses before ascending the carpeted steps that lead up to her chair and bows
before the giant floodlit photograph of her teacher, Baba Muktananda, suspended
from the ceiling. She takes her elegant poised position on her armless,
low-backed chair and folds her hands delicately in her lap. Once she is
situated, a young, thin, dark-haired man in a black suit and dress socks inches
in on his knees to adjust the long arm of her microphone, carefully positioning
it near her mouth. As he does all his eyes remain fixed on Gurumayi, who looks
past him as if he’s not there and continues her unbroken gaze toward the hall. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">As the young
man retreats backwards and away from her chair, Gurumayi joins us in the chant.
</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Her voice
adds the quality of longing to our chorus and pierces some untouched place deep
inside me. She chants with us briefly, maybe ten minutes, but those ten minutes
feel expansive and rich. By the time the chant subsides, my sobbing has calmed.
</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">We all sit
together in silence.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">After what
feels like exactly a beat, the young man in the suit and dress socks inches
again back up toward Gurumayi’s chair, this time to place before her a
Plexiglas lectern containing her talk. Gurumayi then sings the opening
invocation – a dedication to her Guru, I think. It’s a sing-songy Sanskrit
tongue-twister of sorts I usually fast-forward through whenever I listen to my
mom’s cassette recordings of Gurumayi’s talks. Most of those seated around me
know the words and join in. I don’t know the words, or even what the song
means. I just want to get to the talk. I sink back again into my green velvet
seat and listen, and wait.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">The
invocation concludes, the final tamboura vibrations dissolve, and for a moment
the entire hall feels held in a state of heightened, alert silence.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Making a
slow sweeping survey of the crowd, Gurumayi seems to take each one of us in
before opening her talk with her familiar and warm, “With great respect and
love, I welcome you all, with all my heart.” </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Her resonant
voice fills the hall; no sound outside it is heard. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">“It’s so
perfect,” she begins, blasting us with the evening’s first blast of her
mile-wide smile, “That we embark on this month of programs here, at The
Paramount. Because, as you know, as Baba always said in all of his talks: The
practice of Meditation <span style="font-style: italic;">is paramount!</span>”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">She laughs,
we laugh, and here we are – reunited with the one who holds a place in our
hearts so dear it feels like it’s exclusively hers. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">I’m so glad
I’m here. I'm so glad I came. It feels so good to be with her like this again.
This is exactly where I’m supposed to be.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Continuing
on, her voice turns tender as she adds, “One of The Paramount’s staff members shared
with us that this theater was built during The Depression. In fact, we learned
that this theater was actually created as a retreat from the sadness that
existed just outside its front doors. And so, as we begin this month together,
what a wonderful reminder The Paramount Theater will provide us that what is inside
is far more magnificent than anything we could ever find out in the world.”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">I feel the
whole hall smile.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Immediately
after Gurumayi’s talk, I’m outside the front doors of the theater again,
shifting my weight back and forth as my legs fall asleep in a darshan line that
won’t budge. Four years ago, during the Oakland Ashram programs, my mom and I
lined up for darshan inside the meditation hall, fifty feet from Gurumayi's
chair. Back then we were whisked through the ceremony in twenty minutes.
Tonight, even though I rush to claim a place in line inside the lobby, it’s all
for naught. Within seconds I’m promptly herded along with the masses by a
small army of efficient women plying clipboards and wearing nametags covered in
color-coded stickers, back out onto the street. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">I can’t
believe how many people are here. But I also can’t imagine why the line isn’t
moving. Maybe after going four years without seeing Gurumayi everyone has a lot
to say. I stand in the same spot for two hours. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-53872652456334951752013-01-19T17:58:00.002-05:002013-02-04T22:42:47.464-05:00Lucid Memories, Chapter One: Lucky<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Way back in May or so of last year I offered to
open RoD up to anyone who wanted to post a memoir about their time in SY. Lucid
bravely raised his hand, and then life intervened and I was away from here for
some months. Well, Lucid has graciously reached out again, and I'm happy to
post the first installment. See you all in the comments section! SeekHer<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> Chapter One: Lucky</span></b><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Six months have passed since my breakup with Jack
but I’m still soaking in a toxic residue I can’t wash away. Inside I’m damaged,
in a place I can’t reach to repair. One night I break down and confess to
roommate Melissa, “For as long as I can remember I’ve felt somehow protected.
Like someone was watching over me. Like an invisible cord connected me to some
sustaining force that kept me safe – and now that cord has been cut.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">What I can’t admit is how ashamed I feel, how
afraid I am that through my relationship with Jack I’ve cut that cord myself.
What I dare not tell her is that through my recklessness I fear I’ve committed
the worst crime imaginable: I’ve severed my connection to God.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">If I don’t say it, maybe it won’t be true.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">The only thing I have to hold onto, which at this
point it doesn’t feel like much, is that my intuition turned out to be right.
Throughout my relationship with Jack nothing I could point to in terms of what
I saw in his behavior ever gave him away, but I learned at the explosive end
he’d deceived me – numerous times, in multiple ways. Jack’s skill at deception,
I discovered, neared genius.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Each time I ate my humiliation, each time I
mustered the nerve to push past my insecurity, carefully express a doubt or try
to directly confront him – often right after we’d ravaged each other in bed –
he’d pull me close, press his chest to mine and search into my eyes with a look
that made me feel like there was no on earth more whose heart he considered
more important.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">“I don’t know how you think I could be here right
now like this with you,” he’d say, his voice low and consoling, “If I had just
been with someone else. What kind of monster would I be to be able to do
something like that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">I’d fallen for Jack and fallen hard. I had no
visible, tangible proof he wasn’t being honest with me. I also didn’t want to
believe what I’d fallen for was a lie. I stayed with Jack because I trusted
what I could see and what he said over the sinking feeling that continued its
relentless gnawing at my core. I stayed, but the volume kept rising on the
voice inside me screaming RUN.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">As it turned out, that voice that gnashed at my
insides during those final tumultuous months was the one I should have listened
to. Instead of listening to that voice, I listened to Jack’s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">So. Lesson learned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">I’m listening to my intuition now, but I’m dead
inside. In fact, I might literally be dying. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Jack and I were never safe. I was so swept away by
my attraction to him that I broke that promise to myself. Now I have no reason
to believe he was ever safe with any of the other dozen or more people he
fucked around with when we were together. Last October, right after our
breakup, the counselor at the clinic told me it was too soon to be tested. If I
wanted to be certain the results of my HIV test were accurate, she said, I had
to wait. I had to come back and be tested in six months. She said that’s how
long the virus could hide in my blood, undetected.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">I’ve spent the days, weeks and months since
receiving my stay of execution in a state of emotional solitary confinement. I
haven’t said a word to anyone. Five weeks left. In five weeks I'll need to
go back to the clinic. When I think about it my breathing stops. It’s March of
1993; I’m 24 years old.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">The previous January, shortly after I learned
Gurumayi would be returning to the bay area for a month of spring programs, I
was laid off from my job. Bad news, financially, the flip side of which clears
my schedule and frees me to plan on attending every talk she delivers –
something a commitment to a full time job wouldn’t have allowed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">When April and the first Sunday of daylight savings
time arrives, I hop on BART alone and make my way to The Paramount Theatre in
Oakland for the “Welcome Gurumayi” program. As the train hums through the
tunnel beneath the bay, my mind churns a series of questions: What will it be
like to see her after all this time? Will any of this still mean anything to
me? Will I realize the experiences I had four years ago when I first met
Gurumayi – and all the synchronicities that followed – had just been
imagined, all in my head?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> ----------------<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Back in June of 1989, as my mother ushered Melissa
and I through the propped doors of the bustling Oakland Ashram, she clutched my
hand and whispered a last-minute request: “Just keep an open mind.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> As we stepped inside, something I wasn’t expecting
or even looking for shifted – energetically. My awareness of that shift stopped
me just long enough to notice it before the three of us were swallowed inside
the excitement of the mobbed ashram lobby.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">That night during Gurumayi’s talk, she explained in
intricate detail the meaning and purpose of her lineage’s mantra, “Om Namah
Shivaya.” She told us the mantra was our Immortal Companion. “The mantra gives
you everything,” she said. Gurumayi peppered her talk with several amusing
anecdotes and even a full blown shaggy dog story, often laughing harder than
anyone else at her own jokes. Her laughter was infectious and spread in giddy
ripples through the crowd.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">A lot of what Gurumayi said that night went right
over my head, but the sound of her voice kept me engaged. Something about her
voice reassured me. It felt almost like a balm. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> At the conclusion of her talk, Gurumayi gently
pressed her hands together in prayer and bowed her head toward us. The hall
went dark and she led us in a long, haunting version of the mantra. As she sang
her voice was high, unusual, and sad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> After the meditation session that followed, my
mother introduced Melissa and me to Gurumayi during darshan – the ceremony, mom
had explained earlier, where people “bow down to Gurumayi as a way of
symbolically bowing down to their own inner divinity.” I wasn’t quite sure what
that meant but it sounded lovely. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">I don’t remember kneeling before Gurumayi that
night, or the brush of blessings from her peacock feather wand, but I do
remember what she said as she leaned in and locked her eyes with mine: <i>“Your
mother has been working very hard.” </i>Her voice was commanding, resonant,
masculine in its power. Her words were pointed, certain – as if this was her
personal message to me, something she’d been planning to say all along. It was
as if she’d been patiently waiting for the day when I would finally come kneel
before her and she’d tell me: <i>“Your mother has been working very hard.”</i>
Her message felt that important.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Within those seven words, Gurumayi captured in a
single astute statement an essential fact about my mother that was true that
night, true about the years preceding that night, and remained true. I took
Gurumayi’s statement as a gentle but still knowing scold – a reminder I must
never take my mother’s role in my life, or anything she’d ever done to make
things easier for me, for granted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Just beneath the surface of Gurumayi’s statement, a
second layer implied my mother had also been doing her own deep spiritual work
in that she had been “working very hard” <i>on herself.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Again: was true, had been true, remained true.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Later, when I shared my first darhsan experience
with Janice – our fast-track family friend who upon being introduced to Siddha
Yoga by my mom in the early 80s promptly moved into the South Fallsburg ashram
and soon became one of Gurumayi’s personal assistants – she further affirmed
the message I’d received me by adding: “You may not know this, but Gurumayi
gave your mother the spiritual name 'Janabai' – and Janabai’s whole life was a
life of service. In fact, Janabai worked so hard she had no time for her own
devotional practices. In the story of her life it is said that the Lord was so
moved by her selflessness he came and sat beside her while she worked –<i> the
Lord came to her.</i>”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">I wasn’t quite sure what to make from this
additional insight from Janice; but it did add another layer of significance to
Gurumayi’s message.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">That night after darshan, as we collected our shoes
from the lobby, I saw a woman standing in front of a TV monitor propped on a
rolling cart, watching a remote video feed of the ceremony still going on
inside. She swayed back and forth, hands clasped over her heart, her eyes
swimming in tears. Despite the commotion and post-program buzz swirling around
her, she was oblivious to anything going on outside of what she saw on that TV
screen. I stood a few feet away and gawked. I couldn’t imagine how anyone could
be so moved by something they were viewing over a remote monitor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Two nights later I returned with my mom to the
Oakland Ashram for another evening program – at the last minute Melissa said
she wasn’t feeling well and told us she thought it would be better if she
stayed behind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"> That evening we began chanting before Gurumayi
arrived – <i>“Jay Jay Vitthala, Jaya Hare Vitthala.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">The melody the musicians played during the intro to
the chant had a haunting, almost funereal quality that drew me right in. As the
rhythm of the chant gradually built in intensity, the lights dimmed and
Gurumayi emerged in silence from behind a thick velvet curtain. The moment I
saw her shadowy blue silhouette I began to weep. I didn’t know what triggered
the sudden wave of emotion, but before long I was sobbing and couldn’t stop. I
wanted to leave, I wanted to run from the hall and escape to someplace private.
But packed so tightly alongside all the other chanters there was no unobtrusive
escape. And, since this was my “first time meeting Gurumayi,” the hall monitor
had seated me just a few rows from her chair – I felt there was no respectful
way to exit. My only consolation was the fact that the chant was dominated
by amplified tablas that helped drown out my bawling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">I cried forever. It was as if the floodgates
holding back every last drop of regret, grief or pain I’d been unconsciously
storing away inside over the years, maybe over lifetimes, finally burst. My
eyes burned. My jaw went numb. As the tingling shot down my neck and into my
shoulders, I remembered the first dream I’d had about Gurumayi, just a month
earlier, in which she held my face in her hands and kissed my forehead – I
remembered that my jaw went numb in my dream too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Doing my best to avoid elbowing my neighbors, I
dislodged myself from my jacket and used its sleeves in lieu of the Kleenex I
didn’t think to stash in my pockets beforehand. I hadn't sobbed like that since
I was a child. Maybe ever. By the end of the chant my jacket was a soaked,
snotty ball. Physically, I felt like a wrung washcloth; my insides were pulp.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">I don’t remember what Gurumayi spoke about that
night; I don’t remember darshan, either. But I do remember what happened as I
walked into the dining hall with my mom afterward: The chattering crowds in the
Amrit engulfed us just as they had after the previous night’s program, but this
time everything was different. As I looked around everyone appeared to be
moving underwater, their gestures liquid, their voices muffled into a low, dull
hum. Amidst all the commotion I felt anchored, calm, completely still, the
chaos around me reduced to a swarm of softly buzzing atoms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">I stood there a moment, dumbstruck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Noticing the shift in my expression my mom leaned
in, took my hand and asked, “Are you okay?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">“Everything is so different,” I said. She
gripped my hand tightly and smiled, “<i>I know</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">I had gone through the looking glass . . .<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">That was 1989. I had just moved to San Francisco.
The experience of meeting Gurumayi just as I was embarking on a new life in a
new city seemed to catapult me into the series of fortunate events – the job
offer that followed my first interview, the groovy apartment Melissa and I landed
near the Haight, the name of the new suitor on my dance card making my heart
race. I was on a high I rode the entire summer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">But that was four years ago. Back then I used to
wake up each beautiful morning with the beautiful feeling everything was going
my way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">What will it be like to see Gurumayi now?</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com46tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-9237753718168756672013-01-17T08:58:00.001-05:002013-01-17T09:22:32.266-05:00Welcome to Siddha Yoga! Please have your lawyer sign here...and here...and here.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://www.siddhayoganyc.org/terms.html" target="_blank">The shoe room is straight ahead.</a></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com40tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-78346943031287847122013-01-13T23:13:00.001-05:002013-01-17T19:22:58.539-05:00I Don't UnderstandWas it always this treacly and meaningless? Or has it finally <a href="http://www.siddhayoga.org/a-sweet-surprise/infinite-blue-heart" target="_blank">devolved to this</a>?<br />
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I remember bringing a newbie, a good friend, to a summer program in Fallsburg in the late 1990's and after Gurumayi's talk he said: <i>"Yes, but everything she said is just feel good common sense."</i> I smiled thinking, ah you poor thing, what you don't understand is that the Guru's Shakti is behind those common words and humble phrases and new-agey ideas and THAT is what will give you the power to actually attain what others only dream about doing.<br />
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Oh, Lord.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-39776029747630618972013-01-10T14:44:00.003-05:002013-01-10T18:00:06.005-05:0040 Ways to Leave Your (Divine) Lover<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">While we've been reminiscing about the long, strange fall from grace that Siddha Yoga has suffered these past ten years, a parallel process may have begun over in Amritananda Mayi land. As reported in <a href="http://guruphiliac.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Guruphiliac</a>, the longtime personal assistant of the hugging saint (as Amritananda is affectionately known) fled her 20-year gig and her Guru's ashram under cover of darkness. After many years spent hiding and in silence, Gail Tredwell found her way to the exAmma Yahoo chat board, joined the site and "came out" to the community a year or so ago with an open letter that details 40 reasons why she left. She is currently writing a book about her experiences.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;">I've excerpted her letter below, which can be read in its entirety on the French website <a href="http://blogdesinfideles.blogspot.com/2012/02/lombre-damma-fait-surface-gayatri-et.html" target="_blank">Le Blog Des Infid</a></span></span><a href="http://blogdesinfideles.blogspot.com/2012/02/lombre-damma-fait-surface-gayatri-et.html" target="_blank">èles</a>. The blog owner has also posted an interview with Gayatri, or Gail, there (in English). And any of you who may miss the <i>"the Guru is an omniscient being who is beyond being judged by the standards of normal human behavior" </i>line of bunk, there is a very long and belabored and <i>nine-kinds-of-crazy</i> example posted by an unhinged individual by the likely name of Ram Das in the comments section of the same blog.<br />
<br />
Lastly, and because no yogic path scandal would be complete without a major magazine exposé! here is a link to the <a href="http://www.rollingstone.com/culture/news/the-hugging-saint-20120816" target="_blank">Rolling Stone article</a> on Amma, which also covers Tredwell's defection.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">-----------------------------------</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;">T</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;">o explain for those who don't know who I am/was. I was Amma's personal attendant for 20 years. I arrived in Jan. 1980 when she was Sudhamani living with her parents and left in Nov. 1999. I was nicknamed 'Amma's shadow' because I was constantly by her side and lived in her quarters. I can speak fluent Malayalam so language was never a barrier to understand what was going on. It would not be an exaggeration to say I know her better than anyone in the world.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;">A few days after I escaped, when I was still in hiding, feeling hunted I sat at </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;">my laptop and wrote down the reasons why I chose to leave. I wrote them as a </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;">reminder in case I ever forgot. After writing it 12 years ago I read it again </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;">for the first time just now. I have not edited it...thought I should leave it in </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;">it's raw state. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;">Hopefully, this will answer some of your questions.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;"><b>Reasons why I left the Ashram</b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;">1. Loss of faith</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;">2. Not happy for years</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;">3. No harmony amongst seniors</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;">4. No manners from the seniors</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;">5. Too much politics between the seniors</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;">6. No love between the seniors</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;">7. I felt extremely unloved</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;">8. And unsupported</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;">9. And untrusted</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;">10. Absolutely worn out on every level</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 21px;">11. Too much stress</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">12. Routine too gruelling</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">13. Never any concern given for physical well being nor emotions which are also</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">a very important part of spirituality</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">14. Partiality shown between the men and women, east and west, rich and poor</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">15. Swamis arrogance, back stabbing, cruelty, hatred, power struggles.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">16. Amma's obvious favouritism towards them</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">17. Giving too much money and gold to her family members and at the same time</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">denied Suneeti private hospitalisation.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">18. Too many secret things going on.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">19. Too much scheming, plotting, planning and suspicion</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">20. No sweet spiritual feeling of love or compassion from amma behind the scenes</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">only anger, gossip, criticism, revenge, suspicion, business, violence or secret</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">meetings with the swamis.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">21. Terrorism - in a subtle sense not with guns or anything.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">22. Violence (mental, emotional, psychological and physical.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">23. Horrible yelling and shrieking like a demon</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">24. Constant accusing me of being a good for nothing and always angry at me</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">which always would make my guts cringe and constantly putting me down.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">25. Not allowed to feel happy, if you do you should be guilty</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">26. Guilt if you rest, laugh, take care of your body</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">27. Money, money, money that is the main aim and you are good if you try and</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">make as much as you can for the ashram even if you squeeze. Amma used to praise</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">people for this</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">28. Lying, cheating</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">29. Copying from other writers and books then using amma's name on them and</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">calling it her teachings. Also none of the speeches which were made at U.N. or</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">Chicago were her own, they were Swamijis from some books or possibly his head</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">that I don't know.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">30. Having to tell untrue miracles in talks, she herself would make them up for</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">us.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">31. Worn out from heat and crowds and the culture of India, also the jail like</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">lifestyle in the Indian ashram</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">32. Suppressed and oppress and even hit and abused constantly by the swamis.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">33. Too many institutions and projects but not enough capable people to run</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">them, therefore endless problems which would then fall on my head.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">34. Never been understood, or acknowledges for any participation which I had in</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">the ashram. Never been considered in any major decisions to be made even if it</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">was which girls should get yellow. Even that swamiji would try and decide,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">until I would put my foot down.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">35. Not enough protection given to girls sent to branches. Just go! Whether they</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">have a place to stay or not no problem, whether they are by themselves in a huge</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">school overnight, no problem.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">36. No questions allowed. Just shut your mouth or you will be considered for</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">treason, betrayal and a cheat, you are unloyal to amma and the ashram.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">37. Scandalous the way the flats have been built, so much money charged, no</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">maintenance even though the people pay the same. D block has been built right</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">in the face of A and B. The buildings were not even finished properly with</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">cracks everywhere and sloppy cement everywhere. Plumbing stinks and leaks all</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">over the steps. Try and maintain and keep clean the existing ones before</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">starting more skyscrapers.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">38. The residents i.e. Indian are not fed properly. They are also overworked.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">Even amma would criticize that some girls were drinking milk, she would tell to</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">sell all the fruit and not to give the residents. I would still give it now and</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">then. They all look so anemic.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">39. Amma's obvious revenge and hatred towards anybody who has left the ashram.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">Getting even with them, not allowing them to move on or get a job `let them</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">suffer for a while' her famous quote. Where is understanding and forgiveness,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">compassion that she teaches so strongly about. Okay, yes she doesn't want to</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">encourage anybody to leave but is keeping them in the ashram by fear of the</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">future or the consequences healthy.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">40. Only Hinduism is any good, narrow minded attitude of the swamis against</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">Christianity. Only your guru is any good.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">I understand that my list of reasons was vague....like I said it was written years ago when I was in a state of trauma. Without going into too much detail I will try to clarify some of your questions. Many of the topics have been covered in detail in my book and will give a clear and rounded understanding with specific details and examples.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">Yours sincerely, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">Gail </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">a.k.a. Gayatri</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-21054394530137588892013-01-06T11:22:00.002-05:002013-01-17T19:24:33.004-05:00The Long Slow Fall of EnchantmentI just discovered Google trends. It's a tool that allows you to track how often people have searched for something on Google, all over the world, since 2004. I confess I mostly use it to feed my schadenfreude—looking up, for instance, how Romney as a search term fell right off the chart just after the last American Presidential election (yes, shocking, I'm petty that way.)<br />
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And then I thought to use it to see how popular Siddha Yoga and Gurumayi are as search terms now versus 2004—which coincidentally happens to be the year G gave her last New Year's message talk before disappearing into semi-retirement. The results can be taken as snapshots of just how much interest in the path has declined over the past nine years.<br />
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Below is a screen shot of the chart for the search term Siddha Yoga, the actual chart can be found <a href="http://www.google.com/trends/explore#q=siddha%20yoga&cmpt=q" target="_blank">here</a>. <br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3uQZwk91o8A/UOmbTDdVEyI/AAAAAAAAALI/toq_1-pPtVo/s1600/Screen+shot+2013-01-06+at+9.47.26+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3uQZwk91o8A/UOmbTDdVEyI/AAAAAAAAALI/toq_1-pPtVo/s1600/Screen+shot+2013-01-06+at+9.47.26+AM.png" /></a></div>
The first thing to note is that the chart is not displaying actual data, i.e. it doesn't graph the number of times people searched for "Siddha Yoga" at each point on the graph. Rather, it shows relative values. The highest point, the one at which the <i>most</i> people searched for the term, is labeled 100%. All the other points are a percentage of that peak search volume. In the above example the highest point is the very first one on the graph. If you hover your cursor over that point on the actual web page it will show this:<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sJ2MnE1ZdYk/UOmqlFq9vDI/AAAAAAAAAMI/zwJ3i7esqGo/s1600/Screen+shot+2013-01-06+at+11.45.51+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sJ2MnE1ZdYk/UOmqlFq9vDI/AAAAAAAAAMI/zwJ3i7esqGo/s1600/Screen+shot+2013-01-06+at+11.45.51+AM.png" /></a></div>
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All the other points represent a percentage of this highwater mark, and they all show a decline in search volume. Looking at recent data, the search volume for "Siddha Yoga" in December 2012 was 25%. That means "Siddha Yoga" was entered as a search term only one-quarter of the number of times last month versus the peak in 2004. The January number is 42% (as of this writing) but likely to drop as it is only based on six days of data this month, and inflated by those faithful looking for this year's "Sweet Surprise" message (Japa Mantra, in case you haven' heard.)<br />
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Now, let's look at how Gurumayi is doing as a search term, again, screen shot of chart below, the actual chart can be found <a href="http://www.google.com/trends/explore#q=gurumayi&cmpt=q" target="_blank">here</a>:<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-k6B-mHvDBEg/UOmeYYSNqfI/AAAAAAAAALo/l8EsS0CWp3g/s1600/Screen+shot+2013-01-06+at+9.47.59+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-k6B-mHvDBEg/UOmeYYSNqfI/AAAAAAAAALo/l8EsS0CWp3g/s1600/Screen+shot+2013-01-06+at+9.47.59+AM.png" /></a></div>
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Here, the peak search volume (or 100% mark) can be found at August 2010, which just happens to be when "Eat, Pray, Love" was released—and when the Salon.com article was published revealing the connection between Gurumayi and the Guru depicted in Gilbert's best-selling book and movie (we all remember that flame war in Salon, don't we? Good times.) If that point in the graph were removed, the chart would show a high-water mark at March 2004, and an erratic but fairly steady decline since (similar to the chart for Siddha Yoga). That spike in Aug 2010, however, shows how badly SYDA bungled the opportunity to use the release of that wildly popular movie starring America's sweetheart to its advantage. By lying to the press and faithful and disavowing any connection between Gurumayi and Gilbert, they lost control of the narrative and were dragged through a hugely messy online battle when Salon put the pieces together for them. How badly disorganized did Siddha Yoga have to be, how completely out of touch (if not out of reach) did G have to be, for them to make such a monumentally foolish decision? The mind boggles.<br />
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The uptick for Gurumayi for January 2013 is at 47% which, again, is only partial data but undoubtedly linked to online registrations for the "Sweet Surprise" message. Oddly, the December 2012 percentage for Gurumayi was only 19%, the <i>second lowest</i> since the 2004 peak volume. This is certainly surprising given that this came during the time when the darshan videos of Gurumayi's holiday program at South Fallsburg were uploaded—and heavily promoted at centers around the world. What that suggests is that the faithful knew where to go and how to type the syda web address into their address bars. New people were not attracted to search online to find for the videos, which speaks to the current state of outreach (non-existent).<br />
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There are other interesting facts to be gleaned from both these charts. If you look at the world map beneath each chart you can see where the searches originated around the globe. The darker the shade of blue, the more searches. Siddha Yoga seems to be most popular in India, followed by Australia, then the US. Gurumayi is also most popular (as a search term) in India, followed by Mexico and the the US. However, Australia isn't even on her map. I guess those Aussie devotees have fully imbibed the "don't use the Guru's name lest you soil it" teaching.<br />
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Also, you can click on any area of the map for a detailed look at how the results play out in that region of the world. <a href="http://www.google.com/trends/explore#q=gurumayi&cmpt=q&geo=IN" target="_blank">Here</a> is what you find if you click on India on the Gurumayi trend map:<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lp5RkjDB8tI/UOmjh3BJdfI/AAAAAAAAAL4/HbB9j0IMmUk/s1600/Screen+shot+2013-01-06+at+11.16.43+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lp5RkjDB8tI/UOmjh3BJdfI/AAAAAAAAAL4/HbB9j0IMmUk/s1600/Screen+shot+2013-01-06+at+11.16.43+AM.png" /></a></div>
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Interesting that Gurumayi was basically off the chart in her home base of India until 2011, with no searches at all. Then we see erratic jumps of interest in the past year or two. Wonder what has been heating up in Ganeshpuri?<br />
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Lastly, who is winning the hearts and minds of Siddha yogis and yoginis everywhere over time? It looks like SYDA's effort to push G to the sidelines and rebrand the rudderless path as simply Siddha Yoga has born fruit. Gurumayi's name has consistently been searched <a href="http://www.google.com/trends/explore#q=Gurumayi,%20siddha%20yoga" target="_blank">less than half as often</a> as the term Siddha Yoga since 2004.<br />
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Even for an ego-less being like Gurumayi, that's gotta sting.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vOeD212xCDY/UOojmikeZHI/AAAAAAAAAMY/-tWkXG9eeV4/s1600/Screen+shot+2013-01-06+at+8.18.11+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vOeD212xCDY/UOojmikeZHI/AAAAAAAAAMY/-tWkXG9eeV4/s1600/Screen+shot+2013-01-06+at+8.18.11+PM.png" /></a></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com94tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-31377524625008854442012-12-30T16:45:00.001-05:002013-01-17T19:25:18.602-05:00Adj. 1. Studied - affected, unnatural - speaking or behaving in an artificial way to make an impression<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I wish I could embed the full scintillation of Gurumayi's Season's Greetings Card™ in this post, but you'll have to visit the SYDA website to see it in all its computer-generated animated <a href="http://www.siddhayoga.org/seasons-greetings" target="_blank">gloriousness</a>. Still, seeing is not fully believing! You'll also need to visit the <a href="http://www.siddhayoga.org/seasons-greetings/study-guide" target="_blank">webpage</a> for the Study Guide to Gurumayi's Season's Greetings Card™.<br />
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A taste of what's in store for you there:<br />
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<i>The card is adorned with international symbols, such as the peace
symbol and the smiley face, as the essence of the truth these symbols
convey is part and parcel of Siddha Yoga philosophy and culture. The
card also shines with words of wisdom in different languages that direct
seekers to follow the path of dharma.</i><br />
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</i><i>Gurumayi wanted to ensure that during the first part of December,
seekers around the world had an opportunity to enjoy the Season’s
Greetings card and that they were able to make time to explore the card,
both on their own and with their friends and family. Now, here is another winter holiday gift from Gurumayi for all of you
who wish to study and reflect further on the elements of the card. The
gift is entitled</i><br />
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<i><b>Study Guide: Exploring Gurumayi’s Season’s Greetings Card</b></i></div>
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</i><i>In this Study Guide, Gurumayi elucidates each and every element of
the Season’s Greetings Card, shedding light on their significance.</i><br />
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</i><i>Have fun with your exploration as you begin a dynamic engagement with
this Study Guide. Believe me, it will lead you to the discovery of
countless hidden treasures!</i><br />
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Comments are open for all to share the treasures that were revealed to them (special credit to anyone who had an epiphany contemplating the meaning of suffixes!) Also, any who care to speculate on what the New Year's 'Sweet Surprise™' might be, I'm sure we're all ears, even if it does ruin the surprise.<br />
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Smiley Face (and a sincere wish for a truly wonderful 2013 to all)<br />
SeekHerUnknownnoreply@blogger.com63tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-5937014365531025232012-11-10T16:45:00.003-05:002013-01-06T19:41:53.668-05:00On Relying on "Our Own Experiences" to Determine the Truth of the PathTurns out,<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SwDU5v98qp0&list=UUoPmNkAsINPgS8Hlxw-VTeQ&index=3&feature=plcp" target="_blank"> Mormons are taught it too.</a><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com114tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-31989088962787330912012-11-04T15:13:00.003-05:002013-01-06T19:45:19.511-05:00The Last to Know!Sometimes life takes a hard left and all you can do is swerve along and try not to go into a tailspin. Such has been my last six months.<br />
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For all those who visited here, and particularly for those who I invited to post to RoD but weren't able (Lucid I'm looking at you!) my sincere apologies.<br />
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Just yesterday I learned that Gurumayi had resurfaced in SMA for her birthday this year, for a videotaped celebration that is still available for viewing on the SY website:<br />
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<a href="http://www.siddhayoga.org/gurumayi-birthday-bliss">http://www.siddhayoga.org/gurumayi-birthday-bliss</a><br />
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(I haven't read through all the comments to my last post in May, but I assume this has been brought up and discussed at length. For those who haven't seen the videos, or who want a new and very belated thread in which to discuss them, please join in. I will be checking here regularly once again, and your comments are still unmoderated.)<br />
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It is hard to say all I felt while watching the videos taken throughout the day of Gurumayi. Certainly, I do feel some real nostalgia for Shree Muktananda Ashram, which was such a huge part of my life for twenty years, and at which I experienced such peace—along with the recognition that those days belong to a past that cannot be resurrected. I thought I would experience the old familiar tug at finally seeing Gurumayi, but that is well and truly vanished. The disenchantment I sought is complete. But, objectively speaking, she doesn't look comfortable, let alone blissful, playing the part anymore either. In the video taken during the 7:30 meditation in the Temple, in fact, she looks downright unhappy to me.<br />
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A friend who still practices, still does regular seva, still gives monthly dakshina, still visits his local ashram, told me of the build up and hype around this event--the worldwide sangham was instructed to visit the website for a surprise the day after Gurumayi's birthday, with the promise that Gurumayi would once again be available to her devotees. When he watched the videos, what he said he experienced was great sadness, realizing that he would most likely never be in Gurumayi's physical presence again. It's hard to square this. Looking at the very small crowd of people at the celebration, how are devotees who sacrificed so much for so many years, and who have remained loyal these last 8 or 9 years, supposed to feel about not even knowing this happened until after the fact, and then being invited to watch from the sidelines? Based on the comments on the SY website, many experience the usual feelings of joy and devotion and bliss, and watch the videos time and again to get their fix of the physical guru.<br />
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The more cynical among us might see this and think: money-making ploy. Post-disenchantment, that is my take. If all it requires is a once-a-year recorded visit by Gurumayi to SMA to keep devotees everywhere plugged in and contributing--well, that is a far easier lift than mounting the big, expensive summers that used to take place there.<br />
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Two perspectives, two sides of the same coin that is now Siddha Yoga. Which face you see depends on whether you're still hanging on, or whether you've made your last pranham long ago and left the hall. <br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-3817060760814709412012-05-13T17:54:00.002-04:002012-05-13T18:36:02.010-04:00Disfunction JunctionHello to all and in particular, Lucid. To say I've been having problems posting here would be a massive understatement. Work has been off the hook busy, <i>and</i> the new gmail account I set up to receive submissions to RoD responds to no password I can remember, <i>and</i> Blogger just instituted one of those periodic "upgrades" that changes all the behind-the-scenes stuff about how this website works, with no explanation on how to navigate. As a result, when I do find a half hour or so to try to get caught up and post the new stories that have come in, I just chase my tail in a circle and nothing gets accomplished.<br />
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It's enuff to make me think all that Reiki that G had her peeps doing to scuttle the New Yorker article didn't go away--it just revolved in that atmosphere looking for a target and finally landed here.<br />
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Please be patient and accept my sincere apologies! SeekHer<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com258tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-34308510166949355582012-04-30T13:04:00.000-04:002012-04-30T13:04:18.497-04:00Prologue/Epilogue<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 21px;"><b>Note to readers:</b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">This is the first installment of Lucid's experiences in Siddha Yoga.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">My mother’s participation in Siddha Yoga preceded my own and began in the 1980s, while I was still in High School. We lived in the southwest, at a safe geographical distance from things like Co-Evolution Quarterly articles, throne succession dramas and banished brothers – in fact, my mom and I remained unaware of all the above until nearly a decade after the fact, not until after we'd both been deeply invested in Siddha Yoga for many years.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">During the early days of her participation, my mom left the door to Siddha Yoga propped open and always welcomed my questions, but to her credit never actively encouraged me to get involved. Back then I was still a teenager who often teased her about such things. When she’d play her rousing cassette recording of “Om Namo Bhagavte Muktanandaya” (which privately I thought had a pretty good beat) I’d quip,<i>“Is this what they play during the Ashram aerobics class?” </i>I figured as long as she could hang onto her sense of humor about Siddha Yoga, I didn’t need to worry. And she always took my teasing in stride.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">By the late 1980s my mom and her local Siddha Yoga Center friends had become regulars at the annual summer retreats in South Fallsburg. She’d go for a week each July and come back with loads of unusual, sometimes astonishing stories. I knew scrubbing tiles on my hands and knees at 8am was not my idea of a vacation, but aside from that I didn’t have any frame of reference for most of what she talked about. I worried a bit when I heard her describe the daily ashram schedule, remark that “even though no one gets any sleep they still have plenty of energy,” and share the (torturous-sounding to me) details the course she took where she had to dress all in white and sit locked in a lotus for an entire day – but she always returned from her Fallsburg adventures refreshed, excited to get back to her life. And, although increasingly something didn’t sit right with me about Siddha Yoga itself, I could always take a step back and say that my mom hadn’t shaved her head and wasn’t dressing all in orange. She was still my mom. Still the most intelligent, loving and beautiful person I’d ever known. Despite my simmering concerns about what really went on at the mysterious far off place in the Catskills, it did seem that as a result of her participation in Siddha Yoga my mom’s life was getting better.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">In June of 1989, I moved to San Francisco just as my mom was completing a sabbatical across the bridge in Berkeley. As it happened, Gurumayi was also Oakland, concluding an extended series of public programs. There I was, having finally arrived in the city that for years I’d dreamed of making my life in. Something about embarking on that big adventure at a time when the three of us – mom, Gurumayi and I – were all in the same place, made the timing seem meant to be. Just prior to moving I’d also had my first dream about Gurumayi. Over the years I’d heard from my mom’s devotee friends that Gurumayi often spoke to them this way. The sensations from that first, brief, REM-state encounter in which Gurumayi held my face in her hands, kissed my forehead and my jaw went numb, were still reverberating in my head. Maybe that dream meant something that would be revealed to me later.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The day after I arrived in San Francisco I told my mom I was finally ready – I wanted to go check Siddha Yoga out for myself. When I made the announcement she contained her excitement, perhaps not wanting to over-hype my expectations, but I could see in her eyes she was elated. “When the student is ready,” she affirmed, “The teacher appears.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I attended two evening programs, met Gurumayi and believed I’d been changed forever.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">In the weeks that followed, my feet barely touched the ground. I was flying on a high I’d never experienced before, a feeling I could only compare to the feeling I had the first time I fell in love. But the feeling was far more vast and deep than that. It was as if a curtain had been drawn back and I’d been welcomed into some private cosmic club, like I’d slipped into an alternate reality, one I could only conclude must be the secret, astonishing, actual reality of the Universe. I felt like I was experiencing life as it really was meant to be experienced – rich with endless, intoxicating wonder and profound meaning. As I walked down the street, I often saw Gurumayi’s gaze beaming out at me from the eyes of the people I passed. I felt recognized by total strangers. I felt seen, accepted, even loved. There was something different about me people noticed and were drawn to, and something different I saw in them too. It was as if somehow, deep down inside, we all knew each other. I felt like I was living in a state of heightened awareness that had always been there just waiting for me to discover it. Somehow, through all the years leading up to that one I'd missed it but now, for lack of a better expression, I felt like I was in on the joke. And the joke was that up to that point my experience of my life had been largely a delusion.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Some fairly uncanny “coincidences” occurred in the months that followed those first two encounters with Gurumayi. I had no context for any of it. Part of me could not wrap my mind around the belief that what was happening was the result of "Guru's grace.” That seemed too outrageous. But another part of me eventually concluded it was the only possible explanation. The feeling was a mixture of awe, humility and fear – fear of a force so powerful it could completely transform my entire experience and understanding of myself and my life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">After Gurumayi left town I didn't go back to the Ashram. I didn't take up what anyone would have called a formal “practice”. I placed a small puja in the corner of my room, just a small dish of sand from the desert, a few shells and a picture of Gurumayi beside a box of Blue Pearl incense and a small stack of my mom’s Darshan Magazines that I thumbed for pictures but never read. I played a tape of the mantra each night, a solo recording of Gurumayi singing the mantra <span> </span>– “I don’t how you can possibly fall asleep to that!” my roommate Melissa groaned – and that was about it. I didn’t feel drawn to pursue things further. I had been walking around mesmerized in the months that followed meeting Gurumayi and those first few doses of Shakti felt like more than enough. Perhaps, just as my mom had done in her early years as a devotee, I was keeping myself at a safe distance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Then, four years later in the fall of 1992, gutted from a devastating romantic betrayal, still reeling from a brutal break-up and feeling dead inside, I had my second dream about Gurumayi. This one was for more elaborate, drenched in potent imagery, mystical symbolism, and specific initiation instructions – none of which I understood. The timing of the dream and its precise, vivid details seized my attention, but I had no idea what any of it meant. I began a quest to find out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">A few months later I learned Gurumayi was returning to Oakland for her first public appearance in the bay area since I’d last seen her in 1989. The announcement felt like yet another sign – personal, significant. I was in a state of emotional and psychological ruin when I heard the news. Learning she was coming back, just when I needed her most, felt like a miracle.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I heard a full month of evening programs were planned. Maybe if I was lucky I could switch a few shifts at work and make it over to Oakland in time attend one or two. Then, shortly before Gurumayi's arrival, I was laid off. My schedule became completely free. I could plan on attending every talk she gave. It was meant to be.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Upon her arrival I attended the Sunday “Welcome Gurumayi” program and over the next three weeks attended all nine of her evening programs, back-to-back each Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday night, with darshan often running until past 11 p.m. (Those were the days!). No experience prior to or since quite compares. During those three weeks I was submerged deep in an inner ocean and believed I'd discovered a multitude of treasures. In retrospect, the experience was so potent it’s a miracle I wasn’t spit from the earth like a watermelon seed!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">As Gurumayi’s ‘93 visit concluded and I stood mere steps from the precipice of tumbling headlong into the life of a card-carrying, full blown devotee, the <i>“Have-you-heard-about-her-<wbr></wbr>brother?” </i>and Co-Evolution Quarterly bombs dropped. That’s a chapter I haven’t written yet. But suffice to say that in retrospect it tells me so much that both those bombs exploded right in my face and my response was to charge straight ahead and become more deeply involved.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">In 2007, when “The Guru Looked Good” was still up as a blog, Marta shared that one of her goals was to write about her Siddha Yoga experience “without all the fairy dust.” Well folks, as a disclaimer may I suggest that before reading my story you strap on your protective glitter goggles? My “Tell All” does contain its fair share of sparkle, but that’s because so do my earliest memories of Gurumayi. To this day I still haven’t fully figured out that “Bibbity-Bobbity-Boo!” factor. But sending myself back, then taking a stab at writing my way through did help.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">This morning, in a moment of warped amusement, I had an idea to draft a “spoiler alert” in preface to this first and only chapter of my Siddha Yoga story. Then I realized there’s no point. RoD readers already know it has a happy ending. Still, the irony is not lost on me: being here at the finale of my exit process, just now posting the overture . . .</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Thank you once again to Marta for inspiring me to write about the adventure; thank you to SeekHer for providing a safe harbor for the travelogue. And thank you to all who have tuned in and contributed, here and elsewhere, for all these years. Somehow, down this long and winding road, we’ve come to know each other – in ways that have made a big difference to me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Lucid</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-85003393624142518082012-04-18T23:21:00.020-04:002012-04-19T14:42:58.763-04:00Tall Tales and Tell AllsI've been reading a lot lately from people who woke up to the falsity of their spiritual path after a lifetime of unquestioning belief. It started when I began looking more deeply into Mormonism in order to better understand America's presumptive Republican nominee. After trying to read the Book of Mormon and quickly realizing that the title was misspelled (one too many m's) I opted for the straight dope offered at exmormon.org. There, I found post after post after post written by Mormons who stumbled onto internet accounts detailing secrets that their church leaders had zealously withheld. Secrets which, once revealed, cratered and then crumbled their faith. Tellingly, the arc of their stories dovetailed nearly exactly with my own, and with many of those shared here at RoD—the initial fear of betraying deeply held spiritual convictions, followed by discovery of the truth and searing self-examination, inevitably leading to the courage to leave falsehood behind, no matter the personal or psychic cost.<br />
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A similar mass apostasy is befalling Scientology, the leaders of which have found their house of cards listing perilously in the winds of the world wide web. It seems both Xenu and Joseph Smith's harem of thirty-four wives are just a Google search away from disenchanting the most devoted of disciples.<br />
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The last example came this past weekend on a visit to my sister, when she passed along a book that friends in her reading circle recommended, "An Unquenchable Thirst: Following Mother Teresa in Search of Love, Service and an Authentic Life," by Mary Johnson. Before committing to its 500+ pages I skipped to the epilogue, where I found what I suspected; the book's purplish title belied its contents—a bare-knuckled account of twenty fraughtful years spent with a 'living saint', written by an ex-nun who had seen it all and survived to tell the tale. I considered borrowing the book for the train ride home, but then remembered I had something better on my Kindle: Marta Szabo's excellent account of her years with our own Nearly Departed One.<br />
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Many here will remember that Marta's book, "The Guru Looked Good," began as a series of posts on her blog of the same name. Back then, I eagerly read each new chapter as soon as it was posted online. I had known Marta from the Manhattan ashram and later, South Fallsburg; we were friendly if not exactly friends in that ashram way, and I felt I could vouch for both her good heart and scrupulous integrity. But even if I hadn't known her personally, I knew that this simple, unadorned account of her years devoted to Gurumayi would have struck a deep chord in me. Her tale was our tale.<br />
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It was the ashram-instigated smear campaign against her that, more than anything, shocked me into the crisis of faith that precipitated my starting Rituals of Disenchantment.<br />
<br />
When her book came out I bought copies, distributed some to friends, and dipped in to reread some of the chapters I had loved online. But for some reason I never read it again all the way through. Now I wanted to, and once I started I found I couldn't put it down. I anxiously turned the pages whenever Madri (Marta) was given an impossible seva to accomplish, and squirmed through ordeals when she was called before Gurumayi to face the music for some ridiculous infraction of the rules or imagined mistake in protocol. But there are achingly beautiful accounts here, too, that capture the fatal allure that held us all captive for so long. The small chapter on her seva spent devoutly washing and dressing the murti of Bade Baba, moving as silently as a shadow among the muted blue lights of his numinous nighttime shrine, is a miracle of evocation. <br />
<br />
There is much here, too, that I don't remember reading online; juicy tidbits of hidden ashram life as well as wonderfully moving anecdotes that parallel tracked her rise in the ranks of Gurumayi's inner circles, and the growth in self-esteem that eventually led her to leave it all behind.<br />
<br />
But it's the quality of Marta's writing that captivated me most. Her prose is limpid, spare and illuminating. Reading it I thought—maybe when we die our life doesn't flash before us, maybe instead we'll be called upon to tell our story ourselves, once for all time. If so, this is the voice I would hope to speak in; clear-eyed, unstinting, invoking neither self-justification nor blame. <br />
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I still don't feel I'm doing "The Guru Looked Good" justice; if you haven't read it I hope you will. <br />
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Some of you have begun posting your own stories in the comments section. I've found them all equally moving. I hope anyone who wants to share their stories will use this forum to do so. Just tell it like it was, and is, for you. All are welcome.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-29089533841220664092012-04-18T20:33:00.000-04:002012-04-18T20:33:35.576-04:00The Last Downward Dog (for now)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5voSkW9Bvzc/T49ZIqAVeeI/AAAAAAAAAKg/2XXBt1VEcuU/s1600/Screen+shot+2012-04-18+at+8.14.29+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5voSkW9Bvzc/T49ZIqAVeeI/AAAAAAAAAKg/2XXBt1VEcuU/s1600/Screen+shot+2012-04-18+at+8.14.29+PM.png" /></a></div><br />
Well, well, as I wrote in the comments thread to the previous post, there's nothing like a good old-fashioned sex scandal to bring all of us Disenchanted folk together for a reunion. If you're jonesing for more on the John Friend/Anusara Yoga implosion, check out the links over there that helpful (and totally well-meaning!) gossips have posted--pssst, don't miss the link to the Daily Beast article on Friend's naughty, all-female Wiccan sex coven. As Friend's complications continue to unfold I'll monitor the sitch to see if any merit a new post. In the meantime, here's a brand new shiny comments thread for Anusara watchers to play in.<br />
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Tucked in among the comments to the last post were a number that shared stories of SY ashram days long past, or recently fled. More to the RoD point, I think—especially as these contain info on the recent whereabouts of our Nearly Departed One. The next post will take up that thread.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-51897050819093518782012-03-13T10:23:00.000-04:002012-03-13T10:23:34.802-04:00WORST. YOGA. PHOTO. EVER.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1-2FzOEg-4I/T19WplpC1DI/AAAAAAAAAKY/9UrWL36tNG8/s1600/john-friend-yogamogul2-nytimes071910.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1-2FzOEg-4I/T19WplpC1DI/AAAAAAAAAKY/9UrWL36tNG8/s320/john-friend-yogamogul2-nytimes071910.jpg" width="257" /></a></div><br />
Yoga Dork's excellent run-down on the accusations against John Friend, as well as links to a timeline of the scandal, can be found <a href="http://www.yogadork.com/news/john-friend-head-of-anusara-wiccan-leader-sexual-deviant-pension-withholding-homewrecker-the-accusations/" target="_blank">here</a>. I'm posting this separately from the Elephant Friend interview (below) as I think the issues of what went down and how he is now handling the fall out in the press merit separate threads for discussion. <br />
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Have at it yogis, yoginis and foregoinis!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com73tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-5674982325123262122012-03-13T09:11:00.007-04:002012-03-13T10:25:54.899-04:00John Friend Invents New Asana (open mouth, insert both feet)Posting the content of the "Elephant" website interview with Friend below. It can be found <a href="http://www.elephantjournal.com/2012/02/my-interview-with-john-friend-regarding-ijfexposedi-accusations/" target="_blank">here</a>, although you must be a member to read any further than the first page, or to access the page more than once.<br />
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From where I sit it looks as if Friend has had the benefit of a good deal of "media training" (read PR coaching) as he certainly seems to be master of the lawerly apology-that-admits-nothing-concrete. What do you all think? <br />
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5 Questions for Anusara Yoga’s John Friend regarding “jfexposed” anonymous accusations.<br />
<br />
You and I go back for a few years. I like and respect you, as many of us do. That said, there’s obviously a situation here that’s serious, in that it affects people and, since that jfexposed exposé web site and then Yogadork’s blog has had much of the yoga world talking.<br />
<br />
I hope you regard the below as tough questions that give you an opportunity to respond as fully as you are able. I acknowledge that there are legal issues that may prevent full answers in some cases, but here are the questions.<br />
<br />
So I’d like to ask you five succinct questions.<br />
<br />
These questions are important beyond the specific circumstances of what that web site alleged, in that this entire situation, it is my hope, can best serve the international yoga community as an example of honesty, transparency, learning from difficult “teaching moments,” and how we as a community can rise above gossip and rumor, and communicate to one another ethically and with sourced facts. This is why, until now, the only thing elephant has reported on is why we’re not reporting on this situation–until we have non-anonymous/agenda-driven public sources. This is what the NY Times’ Public Editor does, for example.<br />
<br />
Reporting gossip and anonymous accusations that hurt real human beings isn’t what we do. This is how we do it: we aspire to deal with difficult situations with patience, guts, transparency, fairness and compassion. We as a community don’t chase gossip. This isn’t fun for anyone, but it can be an opportunity to show the wider world how we deal with crisis and scandal by example.<br />
<br />
One final pre-ramble: elephant is not afraid of controversy, and we do not hold ourselves above any other media out there. We simply are aspiring to do responsible journalism—a craft and tradition I respect and aspire to practice. But in situations like this it’s important.<br />
<br />
You understand I have to ask tough questions, and in so doing will do you and everyone concerned, on all sides, some small favor by giving this situation some air and light. If I’m accused of being a sycophant here, no one will respect a word you offer.<br />
<br />
SITUATION<br />
1. The situation is this: many of your senior teachers—Darren Rhodes, Christina Sell, Elena Brower, Amy Ippoliti, Laura Christensen, have resigned from Anusara over the past few months. We talked about that, you and I, here. Then, on Friday morning, this jfexposed web site, an anonymous web site alleging all sorts of things that we’ll get into here, appeared online. It was quickly passed around the yoga community. When I received it, I was depressed by the material in it, particularly the explicit photos, and asked my friends to stop passing it around. Clearly this was something serious that should be treated as more than gossip or entertainment.<br />
<br />
The web site, which was hosted internationally so it was legally difficult to get taken down, alleged various things:<br />
a) that you’d had various relationships, affairs with married women who in some cases have children.<br />
b) That you had run some sort of corrupt pension scheme, which we detail in some legal context here.<br />
c) that you smoked pot and had it shipped around<br />
d) It showed graphic photos (with no face, so seemingly not adding anything to Mr. or Ms. Anonymous’ accusations, and skype screenshots of your conversations).<br />
<br />
When I saw this I couldn’t help but think of these women’s families.<br />
<br />
FIRST QUESTION<br />
So the first question is, why should anyone care about this interview, when the last time I interviewed you about those teachers leaving, you were not fully honest about why they were leaving?<br />
<br />
~<br />
<br />
John Friend: First of all, thank you, Waylon, for giving me an opportunity to present my truth in the face of these accusations. <br />
<br />
This has been such a painful time for me as I self-reflect on how my personal decisions within my private life have become a source of deep anguish for my friends and community.<br />
<br />
I am so deeply sorry for any harm that my actions have caused anyone.<br />
<br />
I appreciate the opportunity to clear the record today since not all of the accusations were true, and yet they were posted on the internet six days ago without any verification. These are complicated issues about private matters involving many innocent people, and I will be as open and transparent as I can be. So, again, thank you Waylon for being the first person in the media to ask me about the truth in this matter. Thank you for being patient and waiting for the facts, the truth.<br />
<br />
So, to answer your first question, every teacher has their own unique reason for moving on. When you asked me why the teachers left Anusara Yoga in the last few months, I shared with you the official reasons each teacher shared with me. Unequivocally, I can say that none of these teachers told me they were leaving because of these accusations or a problem with my ethical behavior. Every teacher has their own path, and I honor that wholly. I am grateful for the teachers who are standing behind the teachings of Anusara Yoga during this tender moment in time.<br />
<br />
~<br />
<br />
SECOND QUESTION<br />
WTF? I’m not personally concerned with your relationships, or the relationships of the women who were outed on this web site. That’s not my business, or the business of my readers. I’m not very concerned with the wicca/witch/coven/tantra stuff, I personally find religion generally to be full of wonderful and rich myth and tradition. The Bible, for example, has all kinds of fantastic stories and rites or rituals in it.<br />
<br />
But what is our business is ethics, and as a spiritual teacher and leader you are of course held to a higher standard. That said, we’re all adults here and the relationships were consensual, I understand. No one should be put on a pedestal as “perfect” only to be torn down. I don’t worship you, or anyone, and we all need to take responsibility for our own actions. That said, there is a power differential in any kind of intimate relationship between a student and a certified teacher. And while you’re not a medical professional, you have described yourself as a guru.<br />
<br />
We all make mistakes. That said, how do you explain your actions, when obviously they have resulted in confusion, pain, and broken families?<br />
<br />
~<br />
<br />
John Friend: Waylon, first off, I do not use the term “Guru” to describe myself, and work hard to stay away from being so designated. Above all, I am a student of life and yoga, and then a teacher, and the founder of Anusara Yoga.<br />
<br />
Secondly, it’s true. Over the course of my private life I have had consenting sexual relationships with women, some of whom have been my students and also my employees, some of which included married women.<br />
<br />
It’s not fair for me to explain the intimate details of each relationship in a public forum, nor do I want to further violate the privacy of others as has been the case by this malicious attack. The most important thing to say here is I made some mistakes, yet my intent was never to do harm.<br />
<br />
But as the details are spread across the internet, I see clearly where I can rise up as a man, and walk differently in my relationships with women.<br />
<br />
~<br />
<br />
THIRD QUESTION<br />
Why is whomever is behind jfexposed accused you of all of this? Various web sites have been approached by him/her for some time now, s/he’s been trying to get her/his version of the story out there. Why is s/he seeking some sort of revenge? Are you suing her/him? What’s the overall situation?<br />
<br />
~<br />
John Friend: I do not know the motivations behind the viciousness of the attacks. It is clear to me that he has chosen to attack in a malicious, indiscriminate, and likely illegal way, which has been so hurtful and damaging to so many innocent people.<br />
<br />
It should be noted that neither Anusara nor I have ever been in a lawsuit.<br />
<br />
Lastly, I am practicing compassion for this guy, although very difficult, and yet I have no hate. I only pray for peace and healing for all.<br />
<br />
~<br />
<br />
FOURTH QUESTION<br />
Pension? Below our readers will see a legal document exonerating Anusara of accusations of impropriety. But what’s the story with that, from your pov?<br />
<br />
~<br />
<br />
John Friend: As you can see from the following documents and public statements, here is the entire story regarding the pension.<br />
<br />
> Pension Documents here.<br />
<br />
~<br />
<br />
FIFTH AND FINAL QUESTION<br />
Going forward, on a personal level, how are you going to wake up and grow as a human being? Has this situation helped?<br />
<br />
On a professional level—if it’s possible to separate the two as perhaps the world’s most famous and successful yoga teacher—do you have a career left? Will you be teaching? What’s going to happen with your community? Are more senior teachers going to leave? Will you be leading teacher trainings over the next 12 months?<br />
<br />
On a greater community level, how can we all use this as a learning experience for how to rise above gossip and yet still be painfully, bravely transparent both as individuals, as a community, and in elephant’s case, as media?<br />
<br />
~<br />
<br />
John Friend: This is quite the one question!<br />
<br />
…Study and practice is my life, and teaching is my dharma, which brings me the greatest joy.<br />
<br />
I am awake to choices I have made that have opened the door for others to question who I am, and I know this is ultimately a gift. I am committed to being transparent and open, which I have not always been. To this end, I am fully evolving as a man, teacher and friend in the community and on this planet.<br />
<br />
For the community, my deepest hope is this brings us closer together, in a more intimate and honest conversation around life. Some students and teachers will inevitably decide to move on, others will become more involved and take an expanded leadership role within the Anusara organization.<br />
<br />
So, I envision the future of Anusara as including greater cooperation from all of our community.<br />
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We must all remember that any mis-steps by me do not invalidate any of the greatness of the Anusara yoga method.<br />
<br />
I bravely step into the person I am today, and I am becoming in every moment. At once this is both deeply humbling and also a gift.<br />
<br />
~<br />
<br />
My best wishes and compassion to all involved. Thanks, John, for sitting down for these difficult questions.<br />
<br />
I understand this situation is fully within a legal context and expect that you will be somewhat limited in your ability to answer. [editor's note: John and his friends did not ask me to get rid of any questions or say they couldn't answer anything above]. That’s not my concern. My job is to ask the questions thoroughly and fairly. I hope I’ve done that, and offer this interview in service to enlightened society.<br />
<br />
I don’t personally find that exposed site fair, kind or helpful to you, the other persons concerned, or even the accuser. I think any of us could be exposed in such a way, with 80% being true and 20% agenda-driven anonymous stuff poisoning the lot. However, I do hope that site and yogadork’s report, and now this interview, plus your statement and document re: pension exoneration can ultimately be helpful.<br />
<br />
We all need to learn to be more transparent and, as students, less caught up in rockstar syndrome. We can all embrace empowered non-theism as we Buddhists call it, and be kinder to one another as a community.<br />
<br />
Deep breath! And deep bow to all concerned.<br />
<br />
Yours in service as the ultimate smile,<br />
<br />
WaylonUnknownnoreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5794942461067348825.post-5780569717462937522012-03-04T15:33:00.000-05:002012-03-04T15:33:08.036-05:00Friend With BenefitsAs some of you may know, John Friend, founder of Anusara yoga and once a regular hatha yoga fixture at Shree Muktananda ashram, stepped down this past week due to sexual impropriety with students. I'm reproducing the New York Times article in this post below, as it details Baba Muktananda's sexual scandals as evidence of the prevalence of this kind of abuse by gurus and yogic teachers. Friend is not the first Siddha Yoga affiliated figure to follow Baba's lead, of course, we first had to suffer through the extremely oily dealings of George Afif, and subsequently, Ram Butler.<br />
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I'll keep posting news of the Friend scandal as it unfolds. <br />
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Yoga and Sex Scandals: No Surprise Here<br />
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<br />
<span itemprop="creator" itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Person"></span><br />
<div id="articleBody"> <div itemprop="articleBody"> The wholesome image of <a class="meta-classifier" href="http://topics.nytimes.com/top/reference/timestopics/subjects/y/yoga/index.html?inline=nyt-classifier" title="More articles about yoga.">yoga</a> took a hit in the past few weeks as a rising star of the discipline came tumbling back to earth. After accusations of sexual impropriety with female students, <a class="meta-per" href="http://topics.nytimes.com/top/reference/timestopics/people/f/john_friend/index.html?inline=nyt-per" title="More articles about John Friend.">John Friend</a>, the founder of Anusara, one of the world’s fastest-growing styles, told followers that he was stepping down for an indefinite period of “self-reflection, therapy and personal retreat.” </div><div itemprop="articleBody"> Mr. Friend preached a gospel of gentle poses mixed with openness aimed at fostering love and happiness. But Elena Brower, a former confidante, has said that insiders knew of his “penchant for women” and his love of “partying and fun.” </div><div itemprop="articleBody"><br />
</div><div itemprop="articleBody"> Few had any idea about his sexual indiscretions, she added. The apparent hypocrisy has upset many followers. </div><div itemprop="articleBody"><br />
</div><div itemprop="articleBody"> “Those folks are devastated,” Ms. Brower <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/elena-brower/john-friend-controversy_b_1285538.html" title="Read Ms. Brower’s article">wrote</a> in The Huffington Post. “They’re understandably disappointed to hear that he cheated on his girlfriends repeatedly” and “lied to so many.” </div><div itemprop="articleBody"> But this is hardly the first time that yoga’s enlightened facade has been cracked by sexual scandal. Why does yoga produce so many philanderers? And why do the resulting uproars leave so many people shocked and distraught? </div><div itemprop="articleBody"><br />
</div><div itemprop="articleBody"> One factor is ignorance. Yoga teachers and how-to books seldom mention that the discipline began as a sex cult — an omission that leaves many practitioners open to libidinal surprise. </div><div itemprop="articleBody"> Hatha yoga — the parent of the styles now practiced around the globe — began as a branch of Tantra. In medieval India, Tantra devotees sought to fuse the male and female aspects of the cosmos into a blissful state of consciousness. </div><div itemprop="articleBody"><br />
</div><div itemprop="articleBody"> The rites of Tantric cults, while often steeped in symbolism, could also include group and individual sex. One text advised devotees to revere the female sex organ and enjoy vigorous intercourse. Candidates for worship included actresses and prostitutes, as well as the sisters of practitioners. </div><div itemprop="articleBody"> Hatha originated as a way to speed the Tantric agenda. It used poses, <a class="meta-classifier" href="http://health.nytimes.com/health/guides/symptoms/hyperventilation/overview.html?inline=nyt-classifier" title="In-depth reference and news articles about Hyperventilation.">deep breathing</a> and stimulating acts — including intercourse — to hasten rapturous bliss. In time, Tantra and Hatha developed bad reputations. The main charge was that practitioners indulged in sexual debauchery under the pretext of spirituality. </div><div itemprop="articleBody"><br />
</div><div itemprop="articleBody"> Early in the 20th century, the founders of modern yoga worked hard to remove the Tantric stain. They devised a sanitized discipline that played down the old eroticism for a new emphasis on health and fitness. </div><div itemprop="articleBody"><br />
</div><div itemprop="articleBody"> B. K. S. Iyengar, the author of “Light on Yoga,” published in 1965, exemplified the change. His book made no mention of Hatha’s Tantric roots and praised the discipline as a panacea that could cure nearly 100 ailments and diseases. And so modern practitioners have embraced a whitewashed simulacrum of Hatha. </div><div itemprop="articleBody"><br />
</div><div itemprop="articleBody"> But over the decades, many have discovered from personal experience that the practice can fan the sexual flames. Pelvic regions can feel more sensitive and orgasms more intense. </div><div itemprop="articleBody"> Science has begun to clarify the inner mechanisms. In <a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/15495530">Russia</a> and <a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/4435928">India</a>, scientists have measured sharp rises in <a class="meta-classifier" href="http://health.nytimes.com/health/guides/test/testosterone/overview.html?inline=nyt-classifier" title="In-depth reference and news articles about Testosterone.">testosterone</a> — a main hormone of sexual arousal in both men and women. Czech scientists working with electroencephalographs have shown how poses can result in bursts of brainwaves indistinguishable from those of lovers. More recently, scientists at the University of British Columbia have documented how <a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/11898709">fast breathing — done in many yoga classes — can increase blood flow through the genitals</a>. The effect was found to be strong enough to promote sexual arousal not only in healthy individuals but <a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/18343989">among those with diminished libidos</a>. </div><div itemprop="articleBody"> In India, recent clinical studies have shown that <a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/20646186">men and women who take up yoga report wide improvements in their sex lives</a>, including <a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/19912493">enhanced feelings of pleasure and satisfaction</a> as well as emotional closeness with partners. </div><div itemprop="articleBody"><br />
</div><div itemprop="articleBody"> At Rutgers University, scientists are investigating how yoga and related practices can foster autoerotic bliss. It turns out that some individuals can think themselves into states of sexual ecstasy — a phenomenon known clinically as spontaneous orgasm and popularly as “thinking off.” </div><div itemprop="articleBody"> The Rutgers scientists use brain scanners to measure the levels of excitement in women and compare their responses with readings from manual stimulation of the genitals. The results demonstrate that both practices light up the brain in characteristic ways and produce significant rises in <a class="meta-classifier" href="http://health.nytimes.com/health/guides/test/blood-pressure/overview.html?inline=nyt-classifier" title="In-depth reference and news articles about Blood Pressure.">blood pressure</a>, <a class="meta-classifier" href="http://health.nytimes.com/health/guides/test/pulse/overview.html?inline=nyt-classifier" title="In-depth reference and news articles about Pulse.">heart rate</a> and tolerance for pain — what turns out to be a signature of orgasm. </div><div itemprop="articleBody"> Since the baby boomers discovered yoga, the arousal, <a class="meta-classifier" href="http://health.nytimes.com/health/guides/symptoms/sweating/overview.html?inline=nyt-classifier" title="In-depth reference and news articles about Sweating.">sweating</a>, heavy breathing and states of undress that characterize yoga classes have led to predictable results. In 1995, sex between students and teachers became so prevalent that the California Yoga Teachers Association deplored it as immoral and called for high standards. </div><div itemprop="articleBody"><br />
</div><div itemprop="articleBody"> “We wrote the code,” Judith Lasater, the group’s president, told a reporter, “because there were so many violations going on.” </div><div itemprop="articleBody"><br />
</div><div itemprop="articleBody"> If yoga can arouse everyday practitioners, it apparently has similar, if not greater, effects on gurus — often charming extroverts in excellent physical condition, some enthusiastic for veneration. </div><div itemprop="articleBody"> The misanthropes among them offer a bittersweet tribute to yoga’s revitalizing powers. A surprising number, it turns out, were in their 60s and 70s. </div><div itemprop="articleBody"><br />
</div><div itemprop="articleBody"> Swami Muktananda (1908-82) was an Indian man of great charisma who favored dark glasses and gaudy robes. At the height of his fame, around 1980, he attracted many thousands of devotees — including movie stars and political celebrities — and succeeded in setting up a network of hundreds of ashrams and meditation centers around the globe. He kept his main shrines in California and New York. </div><div itemprop="articleBody"> In late 1981, when a senior aide charged that the venerated yogi was in fact a serial philanderer and sexual hypocrite who used threats of violence to hide his duplicity, Mr. Muktananda defended himself as a persecuted saint, and soon died of <a class="meta-classifier" href="http://health.nytimes.com/health/guides/disease/heart-failure/overview.html?inline=nyt-classifier" title="In-depth reference and news articles about Heart failure.">heart failure</a>. </div><div itemprop="articleBody"><br />
</div><div itemprop="articleBody"> Joan Bridges was one of his lovers. At the time, she was 26 and he was 73. Like many other devotees, Ms. Bridges had a difficult time finding fault with a man she regarded as a virtual god beyond law and morality. </div><div itemprop="articleBody"><br />
</div><div itemprop="articleBody"> “I was both thrilled and confused,” she said of their first intimacy in <a href="http://leavingsiddhayoga.net/Radha_story.htm">a Web posting</a>. “He told us to be celibate, so how could this be sexual? I had no answers.” </div><div itemprop="articleBody"><br />
</div><div itemprop="articleBody"> To denounce the philanderers would be to admit years of empty study and devotion. So many women ended up blaming themselves. Sorting out the realities took years and sometimes decades of pain and reflection, counseling and psychotherapy. In time, the victims began to fight back. </div><div itemprop="articleBody"><br />
</div><div itemprop="articleBody"> <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2002/08/21/world/swami-satchidananda-woodstock-s-guru-dies-at-87.html" title="Times obituary">Swami Satchidananda</a> (1914-2002) was a superstar of yoga who gave the invocation at Woodstock. In 1991, protesters waving placards (“Stop the Abuse,” “End the Cover Up”) marched outside a Virginia hotel where he was addressing a symposium. “How can you call yourself a spiritual instructor,” a former devotee shouted from the audience, “when you have molested me and other women?” </div><div itemprop="articleBody"> Another case involved Swami Rama (1925-96), a tall man with a strikingly handsome face. In 1994, one of his victims filed a lawsuit charging that he had initiated abuse at his Pennsylvania ashram when she was 19. In 1997, shortly after his death, a jury awarded the woman nearly $2 million in compensatory and punitive damages. </div><div itemprop="articleBody"><br />
</div><div itemprop="articleBody"> So, too, former devotees at Kripalu, a Berkshires ashram, won more than $2.5 million after its longtime guru — a man who gave impassioned talks on the spiritual value of chastity — confessed to multiple affairs. </div><div itemprop="articleBody"><br />
</div><div itemprop="articleBody"> The drama with Mr. Friend is still unfolding. So far, at least 50 Anusara teachers have resigned, and the fate of his enterprise remains unclear. In his letter to followers, he promised to make “a full public statement that will transparently address the entirety of this situation.”The angst of former Anusara teachers is palpable. “I can no longer support a teacher whose actions have caused irreparable damage to our beloved community,” Sarah Faircloth, a North Carolina instructor, wrote on her Web site. </div><div itemprop="articleBody"> But perhaps — if students and teachers knew more about what Hatha can do, and what it was designed to do — they would find themselves less prone to surprise and unyogalike distress. </div><div class="authorIdentification"> .<br />
</div><div class="articleCorrection"> </div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com43