grace.

We sit in a circle.  10 teen aged young women plunked down on donated mats, about to check in before our hatha yoga practice in San Francisco’s Juvenile Justice Center.  Behind and above me, the walls are lined with cells, like stark caves carved into a rock wall.  Around us is the buzz of Unit 5; phones ringing, counselors talking, the metallic jangle of handcuffs being placed on a girl off to her court date.  The smell of cheap lunch wafts from the kitchen, leftover from the day’s last meal.

After bowing to each girl, looking them in the eye and saying, “Namaste”, I join them on a faded mat and began the check in.  Check in is a form of meeting and connecting we of The Art of Yoga Project do upon greeting our students at each of the four juvenile hall sites we regularly visit.  As usual, I ask them to say their name and this time I spontaneously add: “tell me about grace”.  A smattering of “what”s? hurled back at me and smiling I agreed- Yes, what is grace?

What is grace? What does grace mean to us?  What does it mean to a child; an incarcerated youth; a victim of abuse; a girl surviving on the streets in between harassments from her pimp; to one who finds a haven of support in a violent gang? What is grace to any of us who is drowning in fear; to one who has no safe place within or outside of them?  Who has time for grace when there is no food, no direction, no freedom, and no true support?

These young women, some still girls, think about it.  A few say that they don’t know, a few followed my prompt and said: “my child”, “laughter”, “my girlfriend”, “love”.  One began to break it down…”well, we say grace before dinner… so: thanks?”

In this very moment the memory fills my heart with smiles.  Despite every circumstance in the book, despite possible a later heckling form the other girls, their bleak surroundings and their limited experiences, they tried.  And this I commend them on every moment of our yoga time together.  Trying.  Reaching.  Striving for a positive existence.

Deep in the written definition grace, the dictionary mentions divine grace.  I give you my favored number one definition:

1.     Seemingly effortless beauty or charm of movement, form, or proportion.

I call upon images of a gracefully soaring hawk, a tree waving in the wind, the grace of a soulful song, or of a beautiful dancer.  And then there is the subtlety of human grace; of falling and getting up again, the grace of admittance, of surrender, of reaching out, of trusting, of everything flowing in and out of a wide, open heart.

How do weave grace into our lives, into our every moment so that we become effortless and elegant in our thoughts, words and actions? Whether it is necessary or not is a personal choice.  For me there is no question that I want to flow with effortlessness, and only yoga has truly shown me the way toward grace.  With no attachment to style or certainty the ancient practice of yoga raises us from the gnarled roots of existence, through the thickness of our physical constraints to branching artfully into the world, into breath, into beauty, to the fruit of our determined actions.

Through yoga I see that freedom is grace, and grace is freedom. Not just material freedom, or, as with the young women of juvenile hall’s Unit 5- freedom from jail.  But freedom from our own tenseness, our own jarring doubt, and halting fear.  Through yoga, I want to share with these kids that their uniqueness is acceptable, that they can fall down and lift themselves back up again, that they can take each breath and use it to breathe life into a new way of being, that they can take one step at a time in a direction that serves them and all of humanity.

All I, all we- can do, is to continue to try.  And in these attempts, may we all find at least a little loving grace.

Swami in My Spare Room

New to this expression, I feel challenged to write.  Swamiji says there is no such thing as challenge. There is confusion and clarity.  To be challenged is to be confused.  And I am, as so much has happened since Swamiji arrived and then again, nothing outwardly remarkable at all.  So I’ll just dive in. He is, by the way, insisting I fulfill my fantasy and lustfully spend my precious moments writing.

With coming of the supermoon, the tsunami, the greatest rain storms that I have ever remembered, so arrived the great Shiva wrapped in the faded orange robes of a swami.  True to what you might imagine of the universe embodying god, his white beard swirls into the clouds, his face as bright as the sun, with eyes, at times, as stormy as the darkest seas.  This being came into my life not for pleasantries, not for a visit, a stopover, or a moment of rest; wielding words as menacing as the trident, he came on a mission to pierce though the confusion, our confusion, and make me face the truth of my life...

Enough embellishment.  Within the first days of being together, Swami Shantanand Saraswati, this Shiva-esque incarnation, had already scolded me for my embellishments.  However I have a feeling that within the realm of this swami’s humanness and arrogance, he won’t mind the aforementioned description.

What do you expect when a swami comes to stay? Especially one you have met through the mystical Facebook? Who is a swami? How did they get there? What do they do? How do they act? How does one act in the presence of a man who has traversed the globe, meditated in deep caves and been schooled by great mystics?

I did meet Swamiji on the internet.  I admit it was Facebook where we first became friends.  Inspired by his deep and inquisitive questions I pursued him online, via You Tube and websites. He initiated me into his FB group, a forum for discussion, self discovery and self definition.  So of course, when one of his posts came up that he was looking for the next stop on his adventure, I happily offered up our spare cottage. And he took me up on it.

I come from a place where the reaction to a swami moving in is a resounding yes, of course! Who wouldn’t want that? Of late I have begun to wonder if I alone reside in that place. Apparently the number of us is dwindling as Swamiji seems to have been booted from just about every place he stays. On one hand he seems to boast about it, the fiery lion in him enjoys the drama he brings out in people, loves to be uncage-able, wild and free. Yet in the quieter moments he asks me with the sweetness of a child, ‘can you tell me with sincere truth, why you don’t want me here anymore? What has changed? What chemistry has been altered?’ And in those moments I love him, those and many more.

***

I have to tell the saga of our first clash. It is Swamiji’s favorite, he is chomping at the bit for me to tell this story and post it for our online Truth Group sangha. I’m not sure exactly why, but I believe that he wants my truth of him to be exposed. Who he is not just to him, or his followers, but who he is to each of us. Or perhaps simply because he loves Drama.

It began with a long walk on a path along the sea. As we strolled further and further from the car I told him that the path stretched northward, for miles, and that he’d have to tell me when he was ready to turn around, because I could go on and on forever.

“Then we’ll do this”, he staked. I didn’t understand and he said, “No no, you said you could walk on and on. So let me see”.
“Ahhh, you are calling my bluff.” After a short explanation of this phrase (and the much more colorful and highly appreciated maxim: I will rip you a new one as he laid into me about my gifted art of nebulous embellishing), he agreed. “Yes, I don’t like this kind of talk. This is not Truth.” However in my mind and heart I knew I wanted to walk forever, on and on into the sunset, just keep walking- far from my own dramas. But we didn’t. Regardless, it was at this moment that I knew: I, of beloved exaggeration and ornamentation and unfocused energy, was in trouble.
After a meditative salute to the sea, we turned and headed back to the car. Most of the time was in sweet silence, soaking up the patterns in the sky as the sun burned low, and the golden wildflowers spilled across the wet green fields, and the sounds of the waves, the birds, the whispering winds (really- invoking Mary Poppins I was trying to understand the wind as it expressed itself in many pitches into my ears. I do have a good imagination). Occasionally I’d try to ask a practical question about swamihood or his life and he’d blow me off: “ask Uma”, or, “ask Elyse”, his two most faithful and resourceful students. Either of these is his default reply for any useless topic for which he has “no energy” to address, shaking off the weight of my expectancy of answer with a simple wave of the hand.

All was well and beautiful until we happened upon a lovely couple. The man comes weekly to my yoga class and his “sweetheart”, as he always refers to his partner, is a woman I had the honor to meet the previous day. Both in their 60’s, I knew them to be grounded, caring, inspiring, generous and humble. I am not even sure I had the fine opportunity to make introductions before Swamiji began. I cannot clearly remember the exact spillage of words that hurled out of his mouth at these unsuspecting folks but it began with something akin to: 'Why are you not on Facebook? Why are you not my FB friend? Why you do not discuss important issues with us on Truth (our FB online sangha group)? What do you believe in? Do you believe in God?' It went on, concluding, a painful 10 minutes later with: 'and don’t forget to tell your husband (who had, by this time, managed to escape) he is disrespectful and a sissy!' I am not 100% sure these are the Exact Adjectives he used, forgive me- for although this time I am not embellishing, I am recovering from a slight bit PTSDed about it all, but I do believe I have got the general feel right.  So much for a long walk to tire and tame the lion. He was On Fire.

Climbing back into the car I could not avoid, did not want to avoid, my rising anger. I breathed. I weighed my options: live in my truth and express my extreme lack of understanding for the outburst; or respect this swami, this Being of Higher Consciousness and decide he knows what he is doing and who am I to know anything? My stubbornness won out.  “Don’t you think you ought to know someone’s situation a little better before laying into them?” To my credit, I said this with relative calm and distance from my anger. Silly me.
“Who do you think you are challenging me this way? No one would ever speak to their elder- a swami this way. In India you would be punished for such talk!” He, on the other hand, was not calm. He even snorted at me.
“But we aren’t in India. We are in America!” Silly, silly me.
“What are you saying?! I have been here for 30 years!! I know the customs in this land. I know what respect is. I am as old as your Father!!! (Dad, this is when you back me up and say, um, dear Swamiji, she would say that to me too.) If you want me to go, tell me. I will go!”
Wow. I sat with it. The nice girl in me wanted to back down. Be respectful, be pleasing. I tried that on. Nope, that’s not my truth. “Then go. I want you to go”.
“Fine. Take me home”. I think he snorted at me again.

Once home, we parted ways. Swamiji into the standalone garage-turned-cottage-turned-temple, our spare room into which he had happily ensconced himself, and I into my home. I allowed for the usual distraction of family life: kids, husband, dinner, cleaning. When the action died down, my family had gone in their different directions, and the house became still, Swamiji appeared. I handed him his dinner known simply as “spinach”, an abundance of veggies sautéed and turned into a dish with a heavy helping of chilies and ketchup. Swamiji bowed down in gratitude for the food I offered. We sat together for a moment in my kitchen, quietly across from each other. Soon he was full of praise, of love and honor. He sweetly began explaining his remorse for shouting at me. He claimed his unlawful arrogance and the way it flies out of him at times. I am not sure that he was retracting what he said to my friends, but he was gracefully admitting that the way he spoke to them and to me was too raw, too forceful. And I understood. I understand that this Shiva-like being, this character of Truth who is so unbound from culture and performance and duty and manners and conduct and appearance and allegiance, simply existed as he was at that breath in time. Without veneer, without polish, without straying from what was real to him. Perfect Truth.

***

One day Swamiji looked at me and said, “now, pretend that you have never met me, that you don’t know me at all. Not from FB, from nowhere. And look at me and tell me what you see. At first I om, then there is silence, then I will om again and then you tell me, in total truth”. Swamiji sang out a long and reverent om with lifted hands, held a silent space for a minute or so, reached his arms overhead, stretched, uncrossed his legs, brought his feet to the ground and his hands together at his heart, opened his eyes and said: ‘om’. And those brown blue eyes that had seen the world, have pierced through veils of ignorance, walls of fear and into the universe looked into mine. There was nowhere to go. “Swamiji, what I see is the universe. What I see is a man made from the earth and molded up towards the heavens. Your legs are rooted deeply into the earth, your skin the color of the beautiful soil in the garden, your beard swirling cloudlike and your eyes full of horizons, depth. And your energy is no different: powerful and magnificent.

***

Swamiji and John, my husband. I am not sure exactly how to describe their relationship in a few fine words. This morning, when I brought Swamiji his sweetened milk-coffee, after the usual effusive gratitude, he said, “Wow John was so good to me he brought me spinach and food last night. I was feeling so self-conscious and guilty that I am burdening him”. I tried to explain but Swamiji was already drawn too deeply back into his Facebook writings to discuss the emotional-psycho state of my husband. That’s the thing with Swamiji, as it should be with all of us- just one thing at a time. If tea, then drink your tea and don’t talk. If eating, no big discussion. If listening, no distractions. But here I go: I am constantly the case in point for what Swamiji says not to do. Back to the topic (“one topic at a time”).

When Swamiji first came he felt free to wander in and out of our small house from his garage-cottage-temple.  When he encountered my children he always engaged them, sometimes a little more strongly than they were used to.  One evening he gathered us into the living room and began telling rather shocking stories about his latest living situations and recent life encounters.  Simone, our 13 year old, slunk away.  Swamiji shouted at her, “come back where do you think you are going do not leave until I give you permission sit there stop wringing your hands and sit up straight! Both of you!” When I reached for Simone’s shoulder in a comforting way Swamiji added, “Stop that! You spoil them both of you! Sending them to that Waldorf School that grandpa pays for.  Send them to the local school and be a strong father, you teach them how to be!” he spat at John.  And in no time he launched into a speech about how he’d rather be a prostitute in America than a monk in India! With glaring stares and of course, punctuating snorts.

After that interaction, John was done with Swamiji.  And it was only Day 2.  Whereas John thinks it was the befuddling prostitute/monk story, I think he is ashamed about the fathering, the schooling and his father paying for it.  It’s funny how we (mis?)diagnose ourselves and pin pain to what we can handle.  The next day when John was ranting about Swamiji, I wouldn’t hear it.  Take it out to him, I dared.  Swamiji’s fierce lion had been let out of his small human FRAME and it was a force not for the weary, misinformed, wishy-washy, or confused.  One must know EXACTLY what they feel, how to communicate in succinct clear truth and be able to stand by it or humble enough to be schooled.  In my world, mind, heart, evolution, this was the most magnificent gift! Someone here, dropped into our mediocre, half assed, remote lives to enforce a campaign of Right Living.  Amen, brother: I am in.
John was not.  And after some confidence mustering- to his dear credit, perhaps it was clarifying, John disappeared out the door and into Swamiji’s den for The Confrontation.  Whereas I wanted to be a fly on the wall, I could guess what was unfolding.  Swamiji has an almost out-of-control bark, but on the other side of that is the sweetest, most humble and gracious respect for the human plight.  More so for the human who can realize and speak their truth, no matter what it is.  Even if Swamiji does not agree, he tends to respect the differences.  “Ok, ok”, he’ll say with a wave of his hand, “you go about your business, I have to do mine. Now get lost. Om”.

***

Swamiji has pointed out the dark corners of my life where Indolence and Confusion lay wait.  He is attempting to shine light and infiltrate such disclarity with simple suggestions that will alter my world and keep me in love and gratitude.

***

This drama is slowly unfolding.  Swamiji, like Yogis I know, refer to these life vignettes, or situations as personal “dramas”.  And it’s true.  Imagine your reality projecting upon a big blank screen, you make certain thoughts, characters, personalities come to life.  We color this life-movie as we see fit; consciously or unconsciously, we cast shadows over some of it, and spotlight others.  Sometimes we forget that it’s all in our own head.  No one sees your life, your movie, your dramas the way you do.  The point for this particular drama, of Swami in my Spare Room, is becoming illuminated.  Until now, I too seriously wondered what the in hell I am doing.  My movie screen is already bursting with life, a little drama but more so with stuff… places to go, kids to pick up, classes to teach, projects to manage, laundry to fold, laundry to fold and more laundry to fold  And now a crazy old man fixed into my spare room.  Yet, I am beginning to see the story behind the images, or the meaning of it all.

Until now, it was trust.  I trust that ‘dramas” happen for a reason, and from everything we can learn a lesson.  The worst moments of my life brought about the most beautiful change and awareness.  And yes, this whole Swamiji Thing sparked my curiosity, ignited my sense of (inner) adventure and lit up my love for service and generosity- but intuitively, I trusted there was something more.  When we kicked Swamiji out and gave him 7 more days (10 days ago), I was overcome with a deep sadness knowing that with his departure, so would an opportunity for great learning be lost.

And in between my daily commute, my comings and goings, my busyness, my chatter; I have seen the gems that Swamiji has dropped.  Little sweet shiny treasures about my meditation, my altar, my practice, my consciousness, my freedom.  Even my marriage. “Don’t fuss about co-dependence, everyone’s co-dependant!  Be lovey-dovey with John, yet strengthen your independence.  Don’t pay attention to his dependence.  I have seen so many marriages, so many couples, and everyone is dependent.  Be more INDEPENDENT and he will learn.”  Swamiji revealed his view on ego this morning.  It was a bit of a rant, this is a topic that, of course, fires him up. “These people (referring to the general population and specifically the people in our online sangha group) don’t understand ego.  ‘I love unconditionally’ he mocked, referring to a recent posting, ‘I am free of ego’.  Don’t these people see? You NEED your ego.  You need to cultivate your ego; you need to use your ego to transcend it.  Through ego one becomes disciplined, learned.”  And I think I know what he means.  Assuming we do house a drop of the universal cosmos, a soul, within us, and it is locked inside, then the only way to let it be free is in recognition of our boundaries: who we are, how high, thick and penetratable are our walls?  We need this house for protection- this is our humanness.  But does it have to be a fortress; can we not let others in, can we not have windows to let the light in, and out?  Where could there be less rigidity? Higher ceilings, more space?  Beautifully written are the words of Tagore in the Gitanjali: He whom I enclose with my name is weeping in this dungeon.  I am ever busy building this wall all around; and as this wall goes up into the sky day by day I lose sight of my true being in its dark shadow.  I take pride in this great wall, and I plaster it with dust and sand lest a least hole should be left in this name; and for all the care I take I lose sight of my true being.
We are human.  No choice there.  But can we unlock ourselves, release ourselves and be more free?  Maybe you feel free.  Maybe your perspective, your movie, your big life drama is an expression of independence, indulgence, empowerment, abandonment, playfulness… To live into these ideas wholeheartedly, you had to define your responsibilities, the parameters of necessity in order to cross the boundaries.  One must cultivate discipline, order, discrimination, health, intelligence, awareness, to know, see, and to understand.  You have to see your house, your ego, to know where the door is.  Or the window.  Personally, I like climbing out the window.  I am me.  This girl, this woman, this being, this Courtney.  This is my house. It’s not quite finished, even a bit cluttered.  Welcome, come over anytime.  I think I found a door, come on in!

Today I performed my morning ritual of bringing Swamiji his coffee.  He was propped up on his bed, sitting cross-legged peering through big glasses at his miniscule Apple computer. “Come in come in” he chanted, “what do you have for me today? What is happening in your world?”  I squatted upon the tiger skin rug and shrugged.  “Too much, Swamiji.  Too much to do.”
“Yes, I see you are not as bright as usual”, he squinted at me. “You must take time for yourself.  You must not put so much energy into the little things”, pinching the air here and there to pontificate, “take time.  Sit in front of your altar, close your eyes. “  And he waxed on, beautifully, but I cannot relay his wisdom because my dear little pea brain- chock full with collecting timecards, hiring yoga teachers, caring for the dog, making lunches for my children, jostling teaching commitments, calls to make, house cleaning plans, writing curriculum , etc etc has sucked up all the free space.  But I know what he is saying.  He and I have had this discussion before.  And I totally get it.  How can we make, see, appreciate, bathe in the beauty of this world when we are so heavily taxed? How can we raise emotionally healthy and robust children, be an excellent friend, turn out acceptable, no: exceptional work, help others when we have become a zombie- a slave to time, to money, to society?  We all know this.  We All know this, yet we slip and become like I am now, under water, being pounded by monstrous waves.  I don’t think I am even breathing.

Even this, this writing is in need for more attention.  There are sentences that could evolve into paragraphs; paragraphs to expand into pages.  But time- how swiftly it moves, dragging me roughly along despite my attempts to DIG IN MY heels and reach back- ‘wait, wait, what was that thought? I need to go back for it!’  Speaking about this mad onslaught of time, a friend assimilated time in terms of the madly churning sea and avowed: ‘ride the wave’.  What?! I have to keep ducking the massive sets boiling down over my head!  How to get On Top of the wave?

Ahhh, yoga.  Yes, of course.  When I practice hatha yoga on my living room floor in the middle of my chaos (and literally amidst the domestic jumble) I ride the wave- I am sailing over and through the pandemonium.  It is an act of letting go.  Hiking too, when I am out in nature, I pretend I am as invisible as the wind, deliciously curling around trees and through wildflowers and freely flying, roaming, coursing over the hills and into the horizons.  There’s Riding the Wave for you.  So, yes, I’ve ridden the wave.  Now, to do that off the mat and out of the forest. And goodlord!, really? 20 years of yoga and I am still not a master at Yoga 101? Not remembering to use the learned skills of awareness, balance, breath, surrender, strength, flow, mindfulness and all that enlightens us when practicing hatha yoga, and take it off the mat?

And so, its time to restore.  I am going to putter for a minute, mindlessly, and let go of everything, for just a bit. The important necessities will rise up and I will swiftly knock them off my list with a swift karate chop action. The bits and pieces of mental debris, I will cast out. I might drop down and flow through some asanas, breathe sweetly and fill my body with life-force. I might sit before my altar, or even stare at a blank wall. I will not worry about the dog, the kids… I will let go of perfection, and fear of failure and attachment to certain accomplishment. And I can guarantee that life, love, happiness, necessity will all unfold with grace, in perfect time.  After all, when teaching yoga I do remind students to have no fear, that for thousands of years yogis have been working at coming back into awareness, back to breath. We are not the first to forget. And if I crash and burn, or to stay with theme, get knocked off the wave, I too will have no fear. If worse comes to worse, I can remember, I am a kick ass swimmer.

***

“Do you meditate daily?” Swamiji peered sideways at me, his eyes expecting to see only honesty expressed in my face and his ears refusing all but the truth.  “No, not sitting, walking meditation? Moving meditation?”, my upward lilt betrayed that I knew this wouldn’t suffice.  “You must sit and meditate 10 minutes at least, daily.  In meditation we face our demons.  With meditation, the demons turn to angels”.

***

Beach days in the Bay Area are unexpected.  It is as if Mother Nature took all of the Summer days into her earthy hands, shook them up and then spilled them across the year's calendar. Where they landed, scattered between rainy and frosty and windy and cold days, no matter what season, is Our Summer.  On these days I cannot pin myself to tasks.  The sun shines down and dazzles me and I forget just about everything.  So, to the beach we went.  Swamiji brought his towel.  Now, here in Half Moon Bay the ocean is gorgeous, vibrant, lively….  The force of the waves, the pull of the undertow and the freezing temperature add up to a purely visual experience for most of us.  But ever since last week when a wave snuck up and kissed Swamiji’s feet, he has wanted to go for a dip.
I took him to Miramar, a beach sheltered from the open sea by the harbor and a spit of land.  This spot is relatively tame, but since Mavericks, the famous big wave spot is just around the corner, you can imagine the swift energy and possible volatility of the waters.  Today was a great example, the tide was high and the rolling waves, large and consistent.  Swamiji decided on an auspicious spot and began to undress.  I set up a branch as a hook for his things since the beach was almost non-existent.  I cautioned him at least a few times but he said, “no no, I’m just going right there”, pointing to where the foamy surf washed the shore. “And take pictures”, he added.  Hell yes I would.  This I wanted to see.

And sure enough, he stripped down to his underwear, danced around in circles to warm himself and drum up courage, and off he went.  My dog Rupa accompanied him a little ways, but even Rupa knows that this ocean is not one to tangle with.  Swamiji chose a deep enough wave and dove in.  He pranced around a bit, splashing and jumping, dipped under again and then emerged, smiling.

After he dried and I played with Rupa, we wandered on.  We spoke freely about yoga, inspiration, beauty, nature, writing, etc.  Swamiji claimed that he realized he is still a bit of a sissy.  When I asked why, he said that he hadn’t gone into the sea as far as he would have liked.  But that he was grateful for having done so.  He would have been agitated if he never was able to fulfill his dipping desire.  Suddenly he added, “I like seeing you play on the beach there, like a child.  You forgot you were a mama, this is important.” And he sang out into the wind, his voice soaring: “You are not just a mama, you are not just a teacher…” and to Rupa, “you are not just a dog…” And we laughed.

***

I find myself protecting the characters in my life not from harm, but from lack of grace.  I realized this yesterday as I found myself finally seeing that the lofty pedestal that I prop those upon is constructed entirely of my own dreamy architecture.  I believe people are amazing and godlike, full of answers and bright awareness.  I cloak friends in the fine gossamer threads of Benefit of the Doubt.  Seeing the good in someone is different than what I have done, pushing them up saying- be the god, come on, you can do it, you are She/ He (and probably even saying: guide me!)  Even one or two steps up there, it’s still a step or two above.

It’s funny when Destiny has decided it is time to finally Get Something and whacks me over the head with it. In my case, it was a few whacks. 
An example of this rapidly-growing-threadbare pattern of mine I will try to untangle here.   Swamiji insists that I relay this drama.  My lack of confidence on being in the right to portray this  tale and protect the protagonist mocks me.  I tried to protect my friend and why? He is a bog boy, he can handle it.  I also find myself torn between believing in Swamiji, and or believeing in me.


This friend I only know from a distance, yet his might is well seen from afar.  He happened by with three children and two dogs.  Swamiji loves children, and dogs, so we all went into his garage-turned-cottage-now-temple for a visit.  To the children Swamiji launched into his speech about how ‘wonderful children are and how much possibility they have, more than idiotic-post-30 year olds because KIDS must let themselves be free of responsibility, develop enthusiasm, and set themselves up for a life of passionate fire’.  He shared Prasad with them, bits of snickers bars, and sent the giggling kids off to play, with an ‘om om om’.

I stayed in Swamiji’s lair with the father of the children.  I stayed perhaps out of sadistic pleasure? Out of childish curiosity? I am not sure, but this would be interesting at the very least.  Swamiji and his x-ray vision and this friend: a writer, world traveler, and one who I saw as attentive to life, but without the larger than life zeal one might imagine from this particularly heroic and accomplished being.  After insisting that his visitor to take a seat, Swamiji began his usual inquiry: ‘who are you and what makes your fire burn bright, what do you do?’ My friend immediately answered that he is a writer and went on to list the impressive journals where he had been published.  Towards the end of his introduction he stated that he is presently not writing and instead working at a corporate job that he liked, but that it was mostly for money and benefits.  And that he is a father.  ‘Yes, a father to beautiful children’, Swamiji agreed.  Thank god/dess that Swamiji chose to orate on the topic of parenting because as I sat before them on the rug, I held my breath in expectation that Swamiji would pick up on the way my friend had affirmed with pride that he was a writer and with less gusto, now a corporate guy.  This is the type of commonness, the sacrificing of one’s gift for mediocrity that ignites Swamiji to grunts, snorts and fire steaming out of his nose and words blazing out of his lungs.  Later, when my friend, my husband and I reflected on the encounter with Swamiji, we resorted to our practically choiceless, middling reality that we are all teetering on edge, trying to find the balance between our passion, purpose, survival and parenting.  Oh, and marriages. I might add.

At the time though, there in the garage-turned-cottage-now-temple, Shantiji filled the space with stories of his father.  Swamiji recounted a time when as a young man he came to his father and lit into him about how disgusted he was that he, his father, was living a life of attachment.  Why work so hard all his life to decline into an old man stuck in this way? Swamiji’s father looked at him in the eye and with evenness, surmised, ‘you are forceful in your questioning of me, are you not?’ Swamiji nodded, yes father, yes!  At this point Swamiji wanted to be sure that my friend and I would get this next point because he practically shouted, ‘my father was exceptional because he asked that if I, a monk, was so free of attachment, why was I attached to how father lived his life?’  Swamiji continued by paraphrasing his father’s words, ‘Would you have such zeal and passionate questioning for any man, or just me?’  Ahhh, a darkness in Swamiji’s beliefs had been lit up with his father’s brilliance.  Swamiji believed he had witnessed my friend not following the story exactly as he wanted.  He stopped now again to ask, is my English clear enough, are you getting this?  At the end of his story, Swamiji insisted: ‘tell me what you heard, you who think that you are so clever.  And then her next!’, he thrust his hand at me.  Crap.  But I had this one, I got it, but still the heat was on (a term I had to explain to Swamiji.  I think he liked it.) My friend launched into his lengthy perceptions of the expectations of his father, of Swamiji; and whereas I know he was going in the right direction, it was the meandering that pissed Swamiji off. How one says something, not with fine words and breathy philosophizing, but in clear succinct, no bullshit speech that is free of ego fluff is what Swamiji wants to hear, more than that- it is how he wants us to live.  So, off went my friend’s head, and Swamiji turned to me for my puppet answer.  But I had played this game, I knew the rules.  And I repeated back what Swamiji had told us.  At the time, hell yes, I repeated back the exact words of Swamiji but now I will paraphrase so that I can imbibe the experience into my own soul: how easily we do not see our own story, our own attachment to not only things, but our perspective.  We become blinded by our Big Beliefs and our language about it.  We are so wound in our own fabric that we blind ourselves from what is right in front of us, within us.  Or we let others coat us their beliefs.  And good or bad, we become affected or attached to THAT.

I tried to save my friend by bragging to Swamiji that he is a big wave surfer, as Swamiji is newly impressed by the energy of the pacific.  Unfortunately that was a crash and burn experience because my friend admitted that whereas he loved it, he rarely had a chance to surf.  Whoops.  Why did I bother? I unwittingly provided another chance for Swamiji to pierce at him and show his lack of following his passion.

So there it is, an experience for my friend, another story for Swamiji, and an awareness for me.   I can stand before and pedestalize Swamiji, believe his every word and hold him up and watch him sparkle in the light and while I suck floorboards, or I can throw up my hands, neither responsible for his actions nor attached to his perspective.  My friends, my teachers, my children, my parents- I can always learn from them, I can hold them in high and sweet esteem, I can love them with my heart and soul.  But I am not lower than them, I am not higher.  We are all on the same damn field, running around practically naked in our humanness.  And that’s ok, go cover and adorn yourself in magnificence, wrap yourself in shining armor, if you wish.  But don’t mind me if I start looking beneath it to reveal or see your truth.  And for godssake, don’t let me tell you what to wear.

Still, as my words tumble onto the page, rather haphazardly; and as my wounds gape, rudely glistening in the light of day; and as I share my life, I feel ashamed.  I feel rotten and wrong.  Why?  Grabbing another cup of coffee, my remedy for any and every dear question big and small, I give myself space for the answer.  Maybe I AM wrong.  Who am I to stake adjectives around friends? Who am I to tell stories and be describing people as I see them? Is what I see worthy and true?  I want to erase myself, not just here but so often.  What has happened to me that I am so insecure in my standing?  Have I no feet?  Yet I look down, and here I am.  I am perching upon a history of learning, experience, witnessing, travel; surrounded by intuition, love, hope, perspective… And it is my perspective.  I don’t have to worry if anyone buys it, actually, it’s not for sale.  Browsing yes: sale- no.  Can I be safely in my perspective without persecution?  Better yet, if I get persecuted, is that mine? Do I need to buy THAT?  This reminds me of the debate Swamiji has been having in one of his many online sanghas.  He has created rules for the group and someone is highly contesting his need for rules.  Swamiji knows that simply, these are his rules and if you don’t want them, that’s cool, get out- make your own group.  And I guess we all can create the same parallel in our own lives- if you can lovingly accept me, as I am within this wealth or lack of experience, let’s be friends. If you think that how I see things is unconstitutional or wrong, then go.  (As an American woman that is hard for me to swallow. Aren’t we supposed to be Perfect? I want to be liked, loved, appreciated and for heaven’s sake: accepted.  Accept me! I have cried to almost everyone, almost indiscriminately.  What for, I counter myself?) Better yet, if I hurt your feelings, if I be me and in doing so step on your toes, will you tell me?  Will you forgive me when I ask for it?  Have we practiced enough forgiveness that it is authentic?  Better yet, can I forgive myself?

***

Once upon a time, at Swamiji’s insistence I began writing. Now, at my own doing, I have become possessed. The other day when a few of us were talking about balancing our passion in our lives, this is exactly what we feared. Here I am, at noon- wait, now 2pm, unbrushed, unwashed, still in pajamas, barely fed, muddy paw prints crisscrossing through the rooms of my house, work unfinished and long overdue. And for what? Do I think this is really going somewhere? Is this massaging of ideas pressed into paper really have a point? Yet I HAVE remained sane enough to do one thing right. A few times now, when I have been huddled over my laptop, my 13 year old daughter has flopped down next to me. Not really interested so much in what i am doing, she was coming to hang. And this I do know: if your 13 year old daughter wants to come share her existence, or words even, then goodlord stop the presses, become available. She, my child who I brought into this world, is the immediate dharma, or duty. And I so I indulge.  And maybe, my being engulfed in this writing passion, dare I claim, has given her the space to blossom as a teen without my hovering. Not that I ever did. Much. But, she has gotten more space. And in my lack of usual clucking, she has sought me out. Today, when she found me holed up in my bedroom, spread out on the floor in patch of sunlight, she was interested in why I was constantly pecking away. I told her I was writing about Swamiji being here. I backed up and explained, actually, I am writing about the only thing I know, which is the way I am experiencing my life, but this part is all about Swamiji. And, no, in fact I hadn’t written anything of any volume before he came. In between my words to her I thought, and why now? Is Swamiji the topic or is it my life?
I have joked that Swamiji is my external Tapas. Tapas is a guideline within the Eight Limbs of yoga. It is imbedded in the Niyamas, or the section of the eight limbs that enlightens us to live a life of conscious self control. Tapas, refers to the accompanying pain, suffering and agony necessary to accomplish a goal. Traditionally, it is the stoking the inner fire; the discipline, energy and the devotion of oneself to complete a task or effort. Swamiji has been this, a force that has driven me to task. A task. Because whether anything comes of this writing, it is the act of creation, birthing, and tending with passion that I am learning. My external tapas. And I bet that is the point of swamis- to kick our asses into awareness, into self possession. I think that the literal translation is guide us to the light, but ass kicking is probably necessary for some of us. And hell yes, I am meaning me.
I think that all this time, all this life, I have been writing in my head.  I am sure of it.  If I watch the way I think, it is in sentences formed for documentation.  Who processes with a Thesaurus in their head to find the best word to exactly describe a thought? Who contemplates in written speeches?  Maybe we all do.  Maybe I should be writing more and speaking less. Actually, come to think of it, once upon a time I was writing.  In the early days of unpredictable computers and hard-drive backup glitches, years of my printed words vanished in the snap of a finger.  Painful.  Handwrite? I cannot read my own chicken scratch.  And I must admit that I have allowed the heavy criticism of my English Major husband to diminish my creativity.  We can’t let anyone stop us from our creativity.  I shall not let anyone stifle my unique expression.  Others have their own demons, strategies, fears, etc through which they might be seeing and then reacting.  I have to be a little more Teflon-like.  So I will again write.  Come hell, high expectations, low opinions, computer crashes, chicken scratches… I will write.
When I started working with at-risk teen girls in the juvenile justice system, my dad suggested that I start writing.  I don’t think he knows that I hold a secret affinity for it, dreaming about it, nor has he ever read anything I (never) wrote.  My Dad has a psychic tendency that wafts in and out of his life.  At times I can capture and use it to my advantage; ‘dad, I lost my car keys.’ I pronounce and suspend with an ellipses and a hyper suggestive tone: ‘Can you see them….?’ And he can, them and the lost bunny, the misplaced book, the vanished ring.  So when he randomly suggested writing instead of the great wealth of possible come-backs to his dear daughter volunteering in a jail, I’m going to listen. And that story is coming.  Soon.

***

Today I ran. I ran for me and for Rupa- we sprinted through town and down to the beach.  The early morning fog was perfect, not freezing and biting like it can be, it was windless, and very sweet and soft out.  Running, like a vinyasa practice, with its flowing movement and rhythmic breathing heals me.  Sometimes, it first dredges up inconsistencies or blips in my sense of self, and then heals.  Like today for example, when amidst the footfalls of mile 3, I broke.  I wasn’t sure of the depth of the sensation, so I pulled off of the path onto the edge of the bluff and squatted down close to the earth to rest.  Up it came.  An energy release, unidentified tears rolled out of my soul.  It’s not like this happens every day, for the most part my runs are joyful, a celebration after which my face is sore from smiling.  Today’s tears, and maybe all tears, reflected the pain of ego exploration.  I think I must have bonked my head on the ceiling of my ego-home when I stood up too fast, without grace or awareness.  Yes, in fact I am sure I did.  It is that loose board of expectation.  Or fear.  I cannot necessarily name its precise source and I did not scour my heart to do so.  It might just be a collection of recent messy behavior from which I am slowly learning.  But I let it out, pouring tears quietly onto the land, making space for the healing, the growing, the remedies, the action, the grace, the awareness so that next time, next time, I will remember to duck.

I wonder if this is what Swamiji means by “doing the dirty work, the chores of the cosmos”. With a mysterious smile he advised me, “If you are not shining brightly, then you must do the dirty work and chores of the entire cosmos”.  Let me work this one out: if I am saddened or stuck, these dark shadows block my auroral spirit from shining brightly and joining the cosmic dance -instead toiling in mucky ‘chores’.  If I am denying the cosmos of my hand in the dance I prevent the cosmos from a full house boogie down session.  We are all needed for a blow out celebration.  And since all of this: you, me, the dishes, love, driving, writing, ego, the spinning of the earth is the cosmos; which do you perceive to be the chores?  Yes, the dishes- but only if they are not performed joyfully- this is the key.  All of it, any of it, could be a chore depending on your relationship to it. Today I dig into my ego as if it is a chore I am face down, grunting, not joyfully at all- with sadness and tears and frustration and maybe even a touch of shame.  So dirty I will get, until completion, missing the dance.  No, wait- clearly, I will not achieve perfect understanding and transcendence of my ego (or the dishes) for several lifetimes to come, so if I carry on from a perspective of hilarity, amusement, or bliss even, maybe, maybe, then I can shine brightly at the ball! I can do this, I mean, I think I can. The risk is non-existent and the bennies could perhaps erase a lifetime or two from my future? And a chance to dance? And you know that I am not shy on that disco floor. So lighter I will be, free of anger, of hopelessness, of despair and depression.  May we all enjoy the ride.

As Swamiji invigorates my writing, I recently found out that what he really is looking for is stories about him.  My re-found passion for written expression dovetails nicely with his desires because not only is a biography being documented about him, but he wants people to really know him by nature and not only how they want to see him: as a magical guru or perfect leader.  It’s too easy to celebrate people and award them illimitable powers, which is the exact opposite of truth; it blows thing out of proportion and into major drama.  We glorify yoga teachers and priests and babas, we look way up high to judges and politicians and even beautiful people.  Tell us how to do it, show us how it’s done, we cry, wanting them to transcend humanity.  Likewise, unreasonable expectations and irrational requests get thrown at Swamiji’s feet.  Well guess what? His humanness is real, let me tell you.

Would you believe that your Divine Being is a lazy mess of a beloved man?  He will be the first to tell you that he might not change his underwear.  He licks his fingers after practically sucking the dinner dish clean.  He spills stuff, loses his glasses.  He erupts into untethered frenzies, he humbly apologizes. Swamiji is a penny pincher and even made me go to Safeway. (And if you know me, this is like asking me to enter hell. And I swear to you, I still think Whole Foods is cheaper.)  I have not-so-much interest in cleaning up after him in the garage-then-studio-now -temple.  Swamiji has pack-ratted the juiciest condiments into his domain, candle wax needs to be chiseled up and the huge, beautiful Tree of Life wall-hanging is shamelessly dangling at half mast. Swami Shantanand Saraswati is a most definitely of the, dare I say, male human species.

But this is what beams through that manhood: a smile that lights up the room; eyes full of laughter; praise and love and gratitude that come pouring out of his heart; wisdom and introspection shared from his soul.  He is fascinated by the world, relationships, by other people.  He stops to adoringly connect with every canine on the path; he bravely purifies his spirit in the freezing Pacific; he will believe your every truthful word, with the freshness of a child.  How many times he as sung my praises, literally, I kid you not: SUNG my praises for the smallest cup of tea or bowl of hummus or computer cut-and-paste tutorial.

He can be insistent; he can be an external dose of burning tapas, yes.  But the simple suggestions and keen observations! Questions of me that consist of a very few precious words, a nod to something and I am off on a great chase of awareness, tracking enlightenment like hummingbird darting into honeysuckle. The Sanskrit word gu-ru translates as someone who destroys the darkness, or one who dispels spiritual darkness with spiritual illumination.  And this he does, not through a touch of his mighty Shiva trident on my shoulder or with a mystical sweep of his ochre cape or even with a well placed sprinkling of pixie dust.  Just by being a regular old wise dude- yet with a caring heart boundlessly overflowing with love, and a soul that clearly has tapped into the cosmos.

***

When Swamiji confined me to writing just about him- he gave me an escape clause.  He said, “You write about me; or your truth.”  Before I comprehended the expansiveness of this commandment, my hackles and authority issues rose up.  What? Obviously, Swamiji himself has inspired a vast amount of explorative material.  So, ok.  But still… And then I realized: truth.  My truth? Is that not everything I see with awareness through my eyes and heart and soul? Is truth not my present experience of everything and anything?  Swamiji has poetically written voluminously about truth.  For the sake of defining my writing parameters, IF I were to so governed, here are words out of the swami’s mouth: As human beings, we deal with three kinds of practical truth: universal, political and individual. Our individual truths are generally so pressing, that most of us never think of political and universal truths. Individual health, addictions, relationships and survival issues come under the domain of individual truth. Education, military, judiciary and national policies come under political truth. Courage, compassion, music and spirituality come under universal truth.

Well, that about covers it.  Free license to print my relationship to just about everything under the sun.  I mean, like I said, IF I were to oblige to Swamiji’s earnest request.  Did I tell you that he himself loves to break the rules?

I can write about my truth, splashing my musings across the pages. I might proclaim my simple curiosities, deepest beliefs, quirky fears, understandings, hope, and joys; and even if I am being as clear as possible, it will be read in a different light than I intended.  Why? Because you, me and every other living being can only see though the way we color life.  Our vision is layered with shadowy mental imprints that distort what we are looking at.  How can any of us clearly communicate?  How can I possibly listen to you if I am sorting through my experience-language to recognize your intentions?

Can we recognize that place between what we see and what we perceive that sigh to be?  A sliver of brain or awareness or hesitation must exist between hearing and naming/recognizing.  Can we locate and exercise that pause?  How objective can we become within our conditioned realm of subjectiveness?  The molding of the mind began at birth.  That’s a lot of years of impressions.  I am chalk full of colorful dreams and shifty shadows. 

I want to listen authentically.  I want to see other’s truth and beauty.  It is for this reason that I love yoga and the guidance of truth seekers like Swami Shantanand.  My life is becoming enriched with hints of clarity as I practice training my mind and awareness to be ever present, ever witnessing, ever seeking truth.  I tap into the higher flow of trust and surrender.  I wrench apart seeing and perceiving to expose all sorts of creepy crawly nightwalkers that I had no idea were manipulating my way of perceiving everything.  Happy or sad to say it, but I’m pretty sure that my childhood savior Prince Charming still lurks alongside them. 

May we can see each other with exquisite and luminous and crystal clear vision. And if not, I hope we find humor and inspiration in sharing and freeing our shadowy mental villains and vibrant hopes. 
Swamiji chastised me for my writing. Usually he smiles and nods and approves in a loving and sweet way. Today, no. He sought me out in the kitchen and with his hands clasped behind his back he spilled paragraphs out of his mouth and onto the floor declaring how my writing was suffering. The list began with an accusation of me ‘belly-dancing around the issues, to not being fiery enough in my story telling, to disinterest in the material’. Yes, I had swayed from him as the primary topic. And he is right; the title so far has been Swami in My Spare Room. How dare I stray. No loopholes of expressing my musings thank you very much. And frankly, I don’t mind his input. I scour my world for those who don’t pander and sissy-footing around me, rattling off BS that they think I want to hear. I cringe at those overdressed niceties and I welcome solid criticism. Not to say I always take it perfectly, ..at first. Through self study, and through others our blind spots get spotlighted and reflected back. Ernest Hemingway once said, “The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places”. I want my weaker parts to be exposed and be strengthened. So whereas some of his criticism might be personal and arrogant, I presume that wonderful points are in there someplace. At the time, I could not further investigate his claims, I had to leave for San Francisco to work with the girls in Juvenile Hall. I promised to write in a more succinct and respectable way upon my return, though I knew not what the topic might be. I assumed I'd figure it out later when I could spend the time with him in his garage-turned-studio-now-temple and get an unmistakable grasp on these wants.

I returned to an enlivened Swami. Seems that a parallel Facebook sangha group lead by Swami Omakarananda went overboard in their negative discussion of Swamiji and his opinionated posts. Big time. And weird, I might add. How do seekers of spiritual truth lay into someone like that? Swamiji looked at me and shook his hands and said, “What do I do? Do I listen to them or me? If I give into them will I be living my truth?” Clearly, Swamiji didn’t attend my junior high school. Welcome to Peer Pressure 101. Do sacrifice our individuality to the bullies, the social crowd, and the Beautiful Kids or do we hold our ground and give them the finger? Right. I am afraid that at one time or another we all stuffed our true selves so far down our throats and acquiesced to the coolest group on campus. Apparently, in my absence and amidst high drama, Swamiji telephoned the culprit and asked what he had done to deserve this trashing. I too was mystified. I had read all of the posts and Swamiji’s side of the street looked sparkly. Well, kind of sparkly. Sure he has His Ways, and if that were to rub you wrong, why walk on his block? Pick another street, for pete’ssake. But what can you do? Everyone has their ego plot that they will protect to the death.

As Swamiji replayed the story to me from his bedside perch, he was animated with the drama. Swamiji found it preposterous that in the heat of the fuss he was blamed; and that his sweetheart FB page potentially labeled as harassing spam and worse, the page taken away.  Soon the two swamis, Swamiji and Swami Om, spoke. And, as the good do win, both came out victorious. Swami Om apologized, back tracked and poured massive love onto the situation and Swamiji patiently listened and graciously accepted his apology without judgment.

The intensity of emotion that one online FB sangha created will not soon be forgotten, less so because he was hell bent on me writing about this event. What I saw was an issue of Truth. Who’s truth wins? What do you do in such a quandary? The answer is simple for one who has mastered humility, and strength, and purpose:  apologize for any wrongdoing, extend a humble bow, stand back up, and expand or affirm the only truth you'll ever truly know. Yours.

And now, now when I take this story that Swamiji commandeered me to scribe, and it is 95% longer than what he has asked and not how he wants it to be written, what do I do? He is right. I do meander. I do play. I do play. But I can't call what I do as belly dancing, no matter how much I embellish.  And I have immeasurable lessons to yet learn. But do I stuff my story, my expression, my truth back down my throat? Well guess what? I didn't. Here it Is and Here I Am.

***

The small man builds cages
for everyone he knows.
While the sage
who has to bend her head when the moon is low,
Keeps dropping keys
all night long
For the beautiful, rowdy prisoners.
~ Hafiz, 13th century

I drove Swamiji to Santa Cruz to visit with the exquisite Sukhmandir Singh.  I have only met this Sikh Yogi and Kundalini teacher through his divine writings where great compassion and loving acceptance clearly rise off of his pages.  Always spectacular, the drive to Santa Cruz unlike any I have seen in the world.  Graced with the winter’s rain, the land is now washed clean; the grasses a lush emerald green; wildflowers so brilliant it is as if the sun had flip flopped and is glowing out of the earth; the sea and sky dueling deep bright blues.  It is the perfect place to soak one’s soul in beauty, mile after mile.  The trip is a commitment- 120 miles there and back to my home in Half Moon bay.  Not like I have this kind of time to fritter away.  Like any good American woman I raise kids and work, I clean my house, I weed our gardens, I commute, I cook, and I am a friend, a wife, a daughter, a dog owner.  I aspire to maintaining my sanity, my health and my yoga practice.  And now, I am a Swami Hostess.  Like any good American I overwork, get stressed, lose sight of my purpose, forget to sleep, forget to be happy, forget to breathe, forget to be fearless… Swamiji was on to this charade from day one.  Why do you do so much? (he asked, while waiting for the vegetables I was cooking for him, and demanding I write about him, and wanting me to take him to the ocean.)  Stop saving the world, be more free, like a teen yet without that whole emotional drama, he (of no children, no schedule, no house) chanted daily.  And truth be told, I do have my fun.  I jumped at the chance to meander down the coast to Santa Cruz.  I’ll skip out for a wandering hike, frolic on the beach with my dog, stare quietly at the waving eucalyptus trees beyond my backyard, cozy up in coffee shops and socialize with friends. But I can’t claim utterly unpinched, unfurrowed-brow -freedom-fun.  So, if I am adept at laying down the load to prance off to play, what’s stopping me from truly enjoying the ride?  Was Swamiji really telling me to walk away from all responsibility?

True oppression rises from something deeper.  Sneaky tentacles have a habit of spiraling around and pinning down our hearts, mind and spirit.  Tendrils of image, ego, possession.  Fear of not making enough money.  Expectations of something more and different and better.  And plain ole’ ignorance- the inability to pierce into dark and dusty thinking, to see past ourselves and our big jobs, our big house, our saving of the world.   We folks have been known to skulk around seeking approval- looking into others eyes imploring: am I loved? am I loveable?  Our people, our friends, our lovers- have roamed the earth this way for as long as we can remember.  Are we smothered in fear? How do we cope? 

I believe that this is the freedom of which Swamiji was referring too.  We purport that we are tied to the larger building blocks of responsibility- they are big and clunky and easy to hide behind.  But truly it is the subtle forces of doubt, appearance, attachment, acceptance that inhibits true freedom.  We are held within boundaries of what’s yours, what’s mine? How to break free from these unnecessary commitments?  Are they necessary?

Thank god for yoga.  Thousands of years ago this practice came into being for the soul (I mean sole, no- soul) purpose of guiding us to freedom.  The graceful practice is embracing me until my own quiet contentment can be revealed. For 20 years I have strengthened my will and character and accepted my humanity to stem the growth of my seeping ego.  Not to say I don’t still get crushed by alternating waves of pride and fear.  Often.  But I am beginning to understand what I am dealing with. I think that I understand where the leak might be.  I have discovered these new islands to hop to: humility, gratefulness, intention, trust.

And so in breezes Swamiji with his be free commandments.  He argued with me when I said I felt free.  And he’s right, from his empirical perspective he recognizes that I am gazing at a beautiful heavenly ceiling painted with brilliant shining stars.  Looks good to me. Yet he wants me to go deeper.  If I am attached to my big ego or dillydallying in distraction, therefore binding my soul to the human frame, then I will never be truly fly free.  This is what he means by offering the idea of a childlike freedom, one where I am not jaded by certain parameters of thought, what I am are told, or fear that it Has To Be, Look, or Seem.  And lay it down I shall. I will keep piercing inward, slaying the encroaching tentacles.. I will not suffocate myself.  Off I will meander to soak my soul in beauty, and as Swamiji daily sings: blissfully shine.

Upon that journey down the exquisite coastline to Santa Cruz, Swamiji turned to me and asked: “what is your fantasy, are you living your fantasy?” I considered my fears, my bills, my shackles, my bliss, my pressures, tropical deserted islands blooming with vanilla flowers, a small gem encrusted palace on the Mediterranean, true love, the bed piled a mile high in laundry, the fence that needs to be painted, that perfect soy latte, the limitations of culture, my body that needs mending, the amount of ignorance that plagues me, the road the risk the path not taken…   “Swamiji, I am living it. I am blessed.”  And it’s true.  I can always hope for more, better, faster.  Maybe I will experience that too. For now, little ‘ole me and my burgeoning awareness that I am ultimately and absolutely free, is what I gots.  Got to love it.

***

Butter pills. What? you ask imagining a mouth full of sticky goo.  I am not sure if Butter Pills are the creation of Swamiji himself or if the term comes from his homeland of India, but butter pills are truthful compliments.  Not margarine, not saccharin, but pure and sweet milky Butter Pills.  Swamiji has a hankering for Butter Pills. He asks for them when I am about to leave his presence, before I go on with my day, a little tidbit to be sure that we are leaving each other with love.  Or at least on a positive note.  When Swamiji first arrived I had to really search… “Um, I like how after you shouted at me and my friends, you humbly apologized?” “Ahhh, I am glad you liked my cooking?” Weak and questionable compliments were returned by a squinty stare and a wave of his hand and a thank you that mirrored my surface gratitude.  But I got better.  Was it because I was getting to know and understand him better or due to the unearthing of my gratefulness?

Was I asking for butter pills? I didn’t have to.  Swamiji showered me with love and gratitude.  Sure, he’d not hesitate at calling me an idiot, but that’s because I have acted like one. Call a spade a spade, this is truthfulness, maybe delivered a little too raptly, but he knows I take it.   More often authentic praise rolls off of his tongue and fills the room with loving, shining light for any little crumb of thoughtfulness.

One day I received a slap of a thought.  A sharp bolt of sudden awareness: why does he have to ask for butter pills? Was I so ungrateful for his sweet gifts that I could not effusively drown him in honey -sweet gratitude? Where is my gratitude? Am I not thankful? What stops me? My heart is full of appreciation, why does it not pass through my throat and out my lips? Is it not good enough?  Its is language I am not used to, an exercise for my lazy tongue?

In hindsight I have caught myself not thanking, bowing, honoring, or bestowing adoration upon my friends and family. I feel it bubbling inside.  Maybe I think that these folks know it.  Regardless, there is no excuse.  Praise should know no limitations.

Wow.  One More Gift straight from the heart of Swami Shantanand Saraswati.  One more life enhancing, spirit raising, joy massaging, love appreciating way to live a life of celebration for ourselves and each other.

Hey Swamiji, hey friends, hey family! have I told you how much I love you today? How’s that Butter Pill go down?

***

I drove Swami Shantanand Saraswati to the airport in the dark of night.  On the ride he asked me what I disliked and what pleased me about him? Now we are friends, he added, alluding to his belief that a friendship can endure both anger and love.  Uh oh.  I was nervous because of Swamiji’s impatience with anything less than succinct speak, and whereas I did not fear verbalizing: I couldn’t drum up any distaste for Swamiji. I was drawing a blank where he wanted to see prose.  Any confusion about him that tickled me had cleared with time.  The frustrations quieted in knowing him better.  Any disheveling angst was saturated with love and acceptance.  Here was an opportunity to vent, to scream, to punish, to howl: look what you have done to my last three weeks! But there was no enduring negativities, no displeasure in that.  I loved having him, yes, difficulties arose, but reflection, empathy, passion, application, empowerment greatly overrode petty adversity.  And so I spoke of gratitude, of appreciation, of growth in the form of nectary butter pills.

In the airport garage I opened up the trunk and pulled out his two enormous and stuffed suitcases.  How a man who couldn’t be bothered with changing his outfit had so many clothes, I do not know.  I wonder if every time his friends encountered ochre colored anything: button downs, socks, sweaters, blankets, towels, underwear, scarves, sweatpants, trousers; they gifted it to him. Anyway, I hauled the cases out and discovered that beneath them was an emergency cache of granola bars.  Knowing that the ingredients contained just the right sweetness for Swamiji, I handed him one.  His face absolutely lit up as if I had presented him a with the golden challis- no, with the most sacred lost text of yoga.  “Thank you thank you thank you”, he sang, “now I will bliss out on my journey”.  And he continued, claiming that when something like this happens- when I unexpectedly find something with which to surprise him, he knows it’s all going to be okay. That god is still with him.  The innocent and spontaneous offering of one measly, rather squished granola bar secured his rightly place in the universe. Granola Bar Faith!

Inside I watched him wind his way through security.  Treated like any other human being, I beheld the officers tear apart his on-flight baggage and him carefully put it back.  With my eyes I followed Swamiji all the way down the airport hallway until he turned left and out of site.  I hope that your long and many flights are smooth sailing, I silently cried out, thank you for coming to visit, dear Swami Shantanand Saraswati. I feel very happy and blessed that you were here.  Bliss out, sweet friend...

***

It is so quiet.  The vacuous silence has sucked the air dry of anticipation. Surrounding me is nothing and I want to fill the space, fill it with anything.  The enveloping atmosphere that had accompanied and governed me has withdrawn and I sit, motionless and alone.  The silence itself is painful and uninvited. It makes me feel small and cold and lost within its vast emptiness.

When Swamiji arrived I likened him to the god Shiva, larger than life and dynamic and animated.  And now his absence leaves a mighty and powerful space.  He packed up my momentary purpose, his certainty of direction, his gifts of praise, his reverence, his deep and invested interest in my world.  He has taken my service, my lessons in humility, smiles rooted in supreme bliss.  With him went an acceptance of me that was so big and beautiful, that I do not know if I can shoulder it on my own.
Do I flee from this emptiness and become a devotee, a follower, a Moonie, per say? Shall I escape my apparent lack of purpose and dedicate my life to Lord Shiva: shave my head, clap cymbals and dance down Main Street?  That would be a seriously vivid distraction.  Do I leave my children and couch surf with Swamiji around the globe, distributing crazy wisdom and shining bliss? No, my own beautiful life goes on, and without Swamiji’s daily encouragement I face my personal, undistracted, day to day struggle. In this sudden and perfect silence, I can truly hear my deepest quiet inner voice.  Into this solitude I dive, glimpsing at the truth embedded within me like a luminescent gem.

I loved having a swami in my spare room and I do bow down deeply to his wisdom, love and luminescence. Is he a guru? Is he my guru?  I cannot say if understand whether that is a commitment beyond allowing oneself to embark on the journey from the dark into the light.  This Swami did not pull any magical guru tricks like levitating on a lotus blossom, or perform feats of woo woo clairvoyance, nor delight me with yoga magic, nor try to sell my some snake oil.  This man exposed a love for me and the world that blew my mind.  If a guru is defined as guiding one from ignorance into the full force of ecstatic love of celebrating life this time around, then guru he is.  An alchemist of positive change.

And on we go.  May I continue to evolve may every breath, every expression of my life be one of generosity towards myself and gratitude to others.  May I honor the place in Swamiji, in you, in which the entire universe dwells, where there is love, light and peace.  When you are in that place and I am in that place, we are one.

Love and Happiness