Elegant Simplicity

“True surrender does not mean to passively put up with whatever situation you find yourself in and to do nothing about it. Nor does it mean to cease making plans or initiating positive action. Surrender is the simple but profound wisdom of yielding to rather than opposing the flow of life. The only place where you can experience the flow of life is in the Now, so to surrender is to accept the present moment unconditionally and without reservation.”
–Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now

“So. You lost your home. You lost your belongings. You lost your lover. Keep losing. . . lose everything. Then move on to the true loss-ego loss. You can be of service. You can fulfill your destiny. But only with a clear mind and a gentle true heart. You do not need inner fireworks exploding. You are not working towards a Big Bang. All you need to do is be present. You are simply opening to who You are. Who You really are. You are a coiled snake, an untapped resource. Don’t lie dormant all your life. Please. This is real. Lose your silly doubts. Lose them. Lose everything, but trust. Remember Satish.”

~ ~ ~

Satish Kumar grew up in India. At the age of eight, despite his mother’s objections, he decided to leave home to join a wandering order of Jain monks. His hair was pulled from his head, one strand at a time. He tied a white cotton mask over his mouth, which was to remain in place the rest of his life, to prevent him from accidentally breathing in an insect, and thus taking a life. He was given a small feather duster, in order to whisk the path before him, to protect the caterpillars, the worms, the ants. The Jain’s vow never to harm a living being, no matter how small. Satish began a life of spiritual devotion, living off of alms, teaching in the communities during the winter, studying and meditating in the monastery during the summer.
The years passed in rigorous devotion. Then one day, at the age of eighteen, he was given a book of teachings by a man named Mahatama Gandhi. Satish was suddenly struck by the revelation that for the last decade of his life, he had been living only half of the equation. Gandhi was offering a complete vision: the path of spirituality merged with the path of action. Here was someone who was truly practicing the principles of Ahimsa, of non-violence, not just by avoiding causing injury, but by actively working for social change.

Soon after this breakthrough, Satish and a friend crept away in the dark of night, leaving behind a pile of clothes under their blankets to make it appear as though they were still asleep in bed. The ruse was discovered and they were captured at the train station. It would be a disgrace to both their families and the monastery, if they were to desert the order. But Satish was determined, and finally he did escape, finding a sanctuary in the ashram of Vinobah Bhave, Gandhi’s greatest disciple.
Satish became a spiritual activist, working to uplift the lives of India’s ever expanding ocean of poor. He joined Vinobah’s land “Boondah,” a vast journey on foot across India, asking land owners to give a small percentage of their land to the untouchables. Over the years, more than twenty-three million acres of land was donated to the landless outcastes.

1953 marked another turning point in Satish’s spiritual journey. After seeing Bertrand Russell on television getting arrested for protesting nuclear weapons, he became inspired to make his own statement against the deadly trajectory of the atomic age. Satish vowed to do a personal pilgrimage to the four nuclear powers, on foot, from India, to Russia, Paris, London, and Washington DC, bringing the wisdom of ‘Ahimsa’ to the leaders who controlled the weapons that could, with a single push of a button, spell the end of life on this sacred earth.
Before he left, Satish stopped in to ask his guru to bless his journey, and offer advice. Vinobah was no stranger to long walks.

“It is a long journey. You’ll need some protection. I want to give you two weapons to protect you,” he said.
“How can non-violent people carry weapons?” Satish asked.
“Non-violent people carry non-violent weapons. The first weapon is that you will remain vegetarian under all circumstances; the second is that you will carry no money, not even a penny.”
“Not even a penny?”
Vinobah explained that money is an obstacle to real contact. “If you have no money, you will be forced to speak to people and ask humbly for hospitality. Secondly, when you are offered hospitality you will say, ‘I am sorry but I eat only vegetables.’ People will ask you why? Then you can tell them about your principles of non-violence and peace.”
Satish and his friend set off on foot, for eighteen months, bringing nothing with them. Nothing, but trust.
~ ~ ~

August, 1999

A month ago, Angela and I drove the just purchased red VW Polo to Devon, in the south of England, where Satish lives in a stone farmhouse. Today he’s the director of Schumacher College, an international hotbed of deep ecology thinkers, as well as the editor of Resurgence magazine. Known as the ‘sage of the deep ecology movement,’ Satish is a vibrant man in his sixties, who recently completed an Indian tradition in which the householder sets off on a pilgrimage, in the years after the children leave home.
“My mother said that if you have not had a pilgrimage by the time you are fifty, it’s time to get going!”
This latest pilgrimage took him to the sacred sites of England: Glastonbury, Canterbury, Lindisfarne, and Iona. Still walking, after all these years.
Satish welcomed us into his home, and began bustling around his old farmhouse, setting an enormous kettle atop an old wood burning stove. As he scooped the tea leaves into the pot he recounted a story from his great walk for peace. When he and Menon, his traveling companion, were passing through Armenia, a woman from a tea factory offered them four packets of tea.
“They are not for you,” she said, “Please give one to our Premier in Moscow, one to the President of France, one to the Prime Minister of England, and one to the President of the United States of America. Tell them that if they get mad in their minds and think of pushing the button to drop nuclear bombs, they should stop for a moment and have a fresh cup of tea from these packets. And remember that the simple people of the world want bread, not bombs, want life not death.”
After walking for eighteen months, from the grave of Mahatma Gandhi to the grave of John F. Kennedy, Satish returned to India. He went to see Vinobah, who was on his eternal walk throughout India. After greeting him warmly, Vinobah said, “You have done well. It is brave and courageous. But ultimately, you need go nowhere to find peace. It is within you. The centre of the earth is here.”

~ ~ ~

I asked Satish if he could think of what I call a ‘Scared Moment,’ a moment of fear, from his life’s journey. He thought for awhile before responding. “The only moment of fear I have known is when you are meditating. With your will and your thought and your concentration you are trying to be one with the world, to see everything as a tapestry, as a web of life. Sometimes you feel that ‘I am thinking. I think therefore I am.’ And this ego scares me, this pride, this separateness, it scares me, because my Jain and Gandhian and Hindu and Indian holistic mind wants to melt with the world and not remain separate. Like a little pool of water separated from the lake, from the river or the ocean. So I want to break the boundaries. But moments come when the boundaries hold on to itself and I’m clinging to my separateness. That clinging to separateness scares me.”

This fear is a final defense mechanism of the ego itself, a resistance to it’s own submergence. In his heart of hearts, beyond that flickering illusion of fear, Satish is fearless.

“I’m not afraid. Fear is not my friend and I don’t travel with fear. Fear is only because we don’t trust the universe mother. You come into this world naked, without any possessions, without any money or house or anything. The moment you take birth, mother’s milk bursts out of her breasts to feed you. Only three percent of creatures upon this earth are humans, ninety-seven percent of them are tigers, snakes, elephants, deer, worms, butterflies and millions of other species. They will be fed, sheltered and everything will be looked after by the principle of the mother earth, and the universal law of the divine presence. And nobody is afraid out of those ninety-seven percent. Only humans are worried, afraid to stiffness. A little bit of fear like salt in the food is alright, but if you put too much salt in the food, food is inedible.

“If you put too much fear in our lives, life is not worth living. So for the future, I have no fear. God, Mother Earth, the Mother Principle will look after everything. So for me trust is the guiding principle, and fear is not the guiding principle. I trust in God and I trust in people and I trust in nature and I trust in universe.”

The Scared Sacred Journey #3

Italy, October, 1999

I find a cyber café and send an e-mail to Angela, updating my list of woes. She writes back:

What is going on! The lost traveler, no possessions, just his inner voice and a second hand I-Ching book. Obviously taking you in a direction you were destined to go.

A second note comes in from my mother. Accustomed to having a son who has always been a bit of a loser (of wallets, passports and keys), she’s not too surprised:

Hi Steve. I forgot happy birthday. I hope that wasn’t the day you were ripped off. ‘Sorrow not if in these days and on this earthly plain things contrary to your wishes have been ordained and manifested by God, for days of blissful joy and heavenly delight are assuredly in store for you.’ Baha’u’llah. Bye take care of yourself, never mind your goods and chattels. Love Mum.

~ ~ ~

There is a growing movement called ‘Voluntary Simplicity,’ in which one deliberately reduces one’s possessions to only that which is truly needed. Some choose to eliminate anything they haven’t used within a year or two. Others cut out unnecessary appliances-weed whackers, electric frying pans, television sets, all the things we think we need, but really just want. Life becomes uncluttered. There’s a sense of liberation. It’s not the same as poverty; it’s a choice. Ironic that the simplicity forced upon the multitudes of poor becomes a radical act of will for the privileged few. A strange form of suffering, drowning in stuff. But suffering it is. And the cause of suffering-the wealth of the first world is only possible through the exploitation of the rest of the world. Voluntary simplicity works, on many levels. Does involuntary simplicity count? How about involuntary humility?

~ ~ ~

“So. You lost your home. You lost your belongings. You lost your lover. Keep losing. . . lose everything. Then move on to the true loss-ego loss. You can be of service. You can fulfill your destiny. But only with a clear mind and a gentle true heart. You do not need inner fireworks exploding. You are not working towards a Big Bang. All you need to do is be present. You are simply opening to who You are. Who You really are. You are a coiled snake, an untapped resource. Don’t lie dormant all your life. Please. This is real. Lose your silly doubts. Lose them. Lose everything, but trust.”

~ ~ ~

I’d wanted to visit Assisi, home of the wonderfully mad Saint Francis, an early practitioner of Voluntary Simplicity, but now I’m fleeing on the next train. Hopefully I won’t continue running from disaster to disaster, from country to country, like a whipped dog. My inner voice exhorts me to trust, but I’m having trouble following that advice.
It’s cold. My sweater and coat are gone. But across the tracks is an extravagant cactus in a cracked lime green pot perched on an ancient wooden pedestal set off against a rich red brick wall with dark green moss in the cracks, creeping ivy studded with purple flowers pouring down from the balustrade above. Wish I had a camera.

I sit by the water, pull out my miniature ‘I Ching’, select three Italian coins, and throw a reading.

Sky Over Thunder

Fidelity
Be True

Rising
An expedition south bodes well.
You will see great people, so do not worry.
Flexibly adapt to the time.
And you will rise.

Rise by truthfulness.
Rise through empty lands.
Rise through the unknown.
Like a tree rises to the sky.

Humility
Be Humble

I know what I’ll be having for dessert today: humble pie.




The Scared Sacred Journey Part 2

1999 – France

It isn’t long before I enter the city of Marseilles. A second wave of sadness hits me, the memory of another loss, just two weeks earlier. It was here that my girlfriend, Angela, had made the decision to leave the project, to return home. I remember the train station, the pictures in the photo booth, kissing away our final moments together. “Am I making a mistake?” she asked. I had said no, because the decision was already made. The plane ticket was bought.

For the last two weeks I’ve been asking myself, again and again: why didn’t I say yes. You are. Don’t go. But I didn’t. Instead, I walked out of the station into the noisy city of Marseilles, searched out a café and ordered a Croque Monsieur. It was horrible. White bread with cheese on top and an ugly slice of ham inside, done in a microwave. Sounded better in French. I forced myself to eat it, then trudged down a long stone staircase, into the little red car and out onto the highway. Alone. A primal moan emerged, wracking my body. My Inner Voice offered it’s usual level minded take on the matter, which irritated me immensely at the time, but eventually I’ve come to realize it’s true: she did have to go. This is my mad journey. We’d failed to make it ours.

Now I’m alone, racing towards the Italian border, the project at risk. I plunge into the darkness of a long tunnel cutting through the French Alps, self-torturing loops of regret orbiting through my brain. My gear’s been stolen. I’m alone. I don’t have enough money. I’m alone. I can’t replace the gear. And did I mention? I’m alone. As I approach the Italian border, a new tension strikes: I’m afraid of customs. I couldn’t afford insurance for the Polo, and I’ve heard that to be caught uninsured in Italy means a large fine, or even imprisonment. I anxiously peer through the wavering headlights, expecting to have to face a customs officer at any moment: “Your papers please?” But I burst out of yet another tunnel, pass by a small sign surrounded by EU stars that reads, ‘Italy,’ and that’s it. I’m in a new country. I pull over at a money changer’s to get some Italian cash. I say, “Bonjour.” The teller replies, “Bonjiorno.”

Tunnel after tunnel through the Italian night. The toll is steep, ten dollars to go about twenty kilometers. But the road is hugging the coast and there are no alternative routes. Eventually I find an exit, readying myself to pay close to one hundred dollars in tolls, only to discover that there’s an open gate. My pulse stutters as I think of my uninsured state of being, but poverty forces me to be daring. I braze on by. Just past the gates, a number of motorcycle policemen in black with baggy pants are at the side of the road, writing up tickets for cars they have pulled over, perhaps for doing what I have just done. I keep glancing at the rear view mirror, anticipating wailing sirens and flashing lights. But no. I’m through and have just saved a hundred bucks that I don’t have. Excellent.

I find myself in Imperia, a groddy town on the Italian Riviera. It’s a bit whorish, a little seedy, not all cleaned up like the French Riveria. I like it already. I pull over to take a break. As I step out of the car I notice a pair of Italian loafers sitting on the curb. They have holes in the bottom, but fit perfectly. I walk down to the seaside, feeling all Italian in my new shoes, the beginnings of a replacement wardrobe. I wish they hadn’t of taken my razor though: my beard is getting itchy.

A meditative statue of Mary faces the ocean, arms outstretched, blessing the sailors. I pause in front of her, breathing deeply, allowing this icon of Mother Love to calm my mind. Out on the pier, men cast fishing lines into the sea with a soothing whizzz.

A young couple are pushing their child along in a wheel chair. His mouth is frozen open, his body paralyzed. Their son. I study his still features as they wheel him along the boardwalk. He probably likes it down here, by the ocean, even if he can’t show it. It puts my problems into perspective. What do I know about suffering? Nothing.

When I come back to the car, there’s a cop writing up a parking ticket. It must be a ‘No Parking Zone.’ I didn’t understand the Italian signage. I watch him from a distance, waiting for him to finish writing up the ticket and leave. He begins meticulously writing notes while talking on a mobile phone. Oh God: he’s probably calling a tow truck. And I can’t stop him, because of my insurance problem. He moves down the street, but remains within sight of the car. I contemplate leaping in and making a getaway, if he would just turn his back for a few minutes. But that would be crazy.

A few minutes later a tow truck arrives. I stand watching as the men get out, lower the jaws from the back of the truck, open them wide, and clamp down viciously onto my innocent vehicle.

Good-bye car. Just let it go. Goodbye the last of my belongings. My small library: ‘God in all Worlds,’ ‘Call of the Dervish,’ ‘Fire Under the Snow’ and ‘Kundalini Yoga for Beginners.’ Gone. A box of special objects collected in each of the Scared and Sacred places that I’ve been to so far. Let it go. Too much collecting, too much attachment. My shoes. Oh. These Italian things are falling apart and no good for hiking. Need shoes. Tent. No more camping. Stove. No more cooking. Oh no: my journal, stored inside my palmtop. I search frantically through my handbag. I have it! And my passport, and my bank card. I even have a pocket-sized I Ching. So it could be much worse.

The drivers climb into the cab of the tow truck, raise my car up into the air, and drag it away. My brain numbs as I watch my little red VW evaporating into the depths of the Italian legal system.

Gone.

I feel light headed, surreal. Estranged in a strange country with little more than the shirt on my back and a pair of shoes with holes in the soles. Which aren’t even mine. Now what?

Involuntary Simplicity

“Voluntary simplicity involves both inner and outer condition. It means singleness of purpose, sincerity and honesty within, as well as avoidance of exterior clutter, of many possessions irrelevant to the chief purpose of life.”
– Richard Gregg, Vhishva Bharati Quarterly, 1936

Southern France, 1999 ~ The Scared Sacred Journey

Five a.m. My body pulls me out of my dreams, anticipating the wake up bell of Plum Village monastery. I rise up in the trembling half light, gradually remembering where I am: on a train tracing the gentle contours of the Cote d’Azur. I yawn, stretch, and pull out a Yoga book I was recently given. Following the illustrated instructions, I fall into a deep Kundalini meditation, concentrating on sending life energy up my body, from lower node to higher node, building force as it climbs the energetic pathway, from node to node, base to center, heart to throat, until the current reaches the epicenter of my forehead, where I let it pool and stay for awhile, before moving it higher still, to the crown. It feels as if the coursing force wants to continue rising, straining to burst out and up. Although it’s a new technique to me, the practice feels intrinsic. Something new, something powerful, is building inside me.

Sudden jolt. Hiss of air brakes. My eyes flash open: the train is at my stop. I grab my pack and lunge for the closing doors. Too late. I get off at the next stop, smiling despite my goof-up, enjoying the opportunity to stand on the platform in the still morning, under a bright moon casting blue shadows. Soon enough another train appears, and I roll back to the little village of Carri-la-Rouet.

My red Volkswagen Polo is still there, waiting near the station, intact, though reeking of rot from a two week old bag of groceries I’d forgotten to bring with me to the meditation retreat. I stop off at a patisserie and pick up a round of fresh Camembert and a baguette, then drive to a quiet spot on the coast. I settle under an ancient grove of wind stunted pine trees that cling to a crag over-looking the ocean, and boil water for tea on a folding alcohol burning stove. I savour the bread and cheese mouth by mindful mouthful, in the slow chewing manner I’ve just learned from Thich Nhat Hahn, at Plum Village. The sun slowly emerges from a flat expanse of steel blue ocean, drenching the Azure Coast blood red. I breathe in the crisp air, content, and stroll down to a shore of time softened white pebbles tinged with morning light. Strewn with plastic bottles, straws, hypodermic needles, styrofoam bits, and unrecognizable modern industrial poly-carbonic detritus.

I mutter to myself, “How pathetic. This could be a perfect spot. Why doesn’t someone just clean it up. Gawd, it wouldn’t take long that, just a little effort and…”
My Self interrupts. “Good idea. Why don’t you?”
“What?”
“Why don’t you?”
“Well, because…” I search for an excuse, “Because it would take too long.”
“A single little beach?”
“But I don’t have a bag!”
“Go get one from the trash can.”
“You really want me too?”
“I’m telling you too.”
My Inner Voice rarely gives orders, so when it does I try to obey. There just so happens to be a bag of garbage bags tucked under the garbage can. I begin the slow process of extracting endless bits of plastic from the smooth stones. I start with the most infuriating – hundreds of tiny stir sticks, intricately interlaced with the pebbles. I transform the tedious into an exercise in plastic archaeology, teasing stories from deep within the garbage. There are tales of seductions from the sea voyaging condoms, mysterious medicine vials stained with the sad residue of drug addicted lives, the inexplicable comedy of a strange sphere of hair. Echoes of the violence inspired by an array of plastic war toys: soldiers, swords, and miniature hand grenades.

After an hour I move onto the big stuff, breaking into a power run, second bag soon bulging. In one corner of the beach I encounter a pile of stinking organic matter, flies buzzing. The sun beats down and sweat streams off my forehead. It all gets to be too much, and I stop to take a few deep breathes. My gaze lands on a rocky alcove at the edge of the beach. Nestled inside is a plastic Mary with her hands clasped together in prayer. Etched on her base are the faded words, “Genuine Lourdes Water.” I smile and try to refill her with ocean water, but she leaks, no doubt the reason for her burial at sea. Despite this imperfection, or because of it, this ‘Garbage Mary’ will go on to circle the globe with me.

After five hours of hard going I’ve filled three garbage bags and the cove is again pristine. I strip off my clothes and dive into the cool water, floating on my back, refreshed. I stretch out naked under the cloudless sky on the hot white rocks. Clean rocks. I pull my clothes back on and wander back up to the car, parked at the edge of the beach.

The door is wide open. My pack. Is gone. Gone! Inside it was the video camera. The microphone. The tape stock. All my gear. A shock of unreality courses through my body. It’s happened. It’s finally happened. Everything. Everything! I jump into the car and start to drive, mindlessly. I slam on the brakes and sit under a leafless tree, trying to calm my mind, but finding it more useful to wail out loud. My frustration propels me up and back into the car. I floor it, heading for the Italian border as fast as a Volkswagen Polo can go, getting the hell out of France.

The Oracle of Remembering

 

“The intuitive life is one in which we feel continually connected to the divine source. It is a life in which we are at one with our true nature as it is in each moment, and a life in which we are in love with ourselves in the deepest possible way. It is a life in which we feel intimate with ourselves, and the divine, and therefore invite the most profound intimacy into our lives”
-Jennifer Posada, ‘The Oracle Within’

 

I am in Delphi, Greece, home of the ancient oracle of Delphi. It is said the God Zeus released two eagles from opposite ends of the earth, and they met here, in Delphi. The ancients considered this sacred place the center of the world, the place where heaven and earth meet. Where spirit meets matter. It was a place of worship of the earth goddess, Ge, or Gaia. In time it also became a place of prophecy, where the Pythia, the Delphic Oracles, would fall into ecstatic trances, pronouncing prophecies.

My journey here was to film for Redvolution:Dare to Disturb the Universe. One of the characters in the film is Jennifer Posada, a modern day Oracle, and author of the book, “The Oracle Within.” The interview we did with Jennifer, with co-director Sera Beak asking the questions, was one of the more powerful interview experiences of my life – and I have spoken to many extraordinary people. We did two interviews, one in which she spoke as an Oracle, allowing the divine feminine to speak through her, and a second where she spoke as Jennifer Posada. A tremendous ecstatic energy filled the room on the evening when she spoke as an Oracle. I could feel a moving presence, which was beyond words, which often moved me to tears. If you do get to see Redvolution one day, you will get a taste of the beauty of this interview.

She spoke of the era we’re in as the time of the Great Remembering, a time when we are called to return to our connection to each other, the planet and the divine. She spoke of the importance of learning to love ourselves, a key to unlocking our greatest powers. This is a realization that Jennifer has had all her life. As a child, she used to write little notes that said, “You love you.” This is not the self centered love of the ego, but the true love of the Self, of seeing and knowing and loving the divine spark within, which in turn allows you to truly love the divinity in others.

According to Jennifer, if we choose, we can all access the Oracle within. We can nurture the ability to deeply listen, to hear the deepest truths the universe is offering us.  

In ‘The Oracle Within’ Jennifer writes, “We do not heal, we remember the healed state.  We do not grow, we remember a different possibility.  We do not change, we remember a new future.  It is all already within us as potentiality, whether past or future, we are simply being called back or forward to our organic nature and remembering its essence.  That nature is the palate of our lives and of our souls, from which masterpieces can be created. Especially once we realize that the brush is in our hands and the colors infinite”. 

 

I have had my own inner voice for many years.  It first came to me when I was still a teenager, a guide that emerged out of a spiritual crisis, and has stayed with me ever since. It has become a dependable source of guidance, my inner muse, my connection to the source, a voice which speaks to me whenever I call Him in.  It is the voice of my authentic self. I call my inner voice Raven, the higher self to my personality self, which sometimes goes by the name Crow. Today He is more and more a continual presence. The spaces of forgetting who I truly am dissolving with divine time.

In Delphi, after most of my filming was done, I spent a day in the sanctuary of the Castilian Spring, meditating and listening in to the power of the place, Remembering.   In particular, I wanted to hear from the earth goddess Gaia, the first to be worshipped here.

For decades, I have been very very aware of the state of crisis this planet is in. Much of my work as a spiritual activist is based around helping to heal the planet, the healing of a divided humanity, and the healing of our divided psyches. A return to wholeness. To holiness. At first the alarm bells we were ringing went largely unheeded. We were a tiny minority who could see what was coming. Today, despite the greater depths of the planetary crisis we are facing, I actually feel much more hopeful – because we are also experiencing an equally greater, widespread awakening of consciousness.

That afternoon in the flower filled sacred glade, entranced by the bubbling spring, I placed a statue of the earth goddess Gaia (which I had just bought in the town of Delphi at a shop owned by the lovely Constanine, a friend of Jennifers) in a little nook in the sanctuary wall, closed my eyes, and invited Her to speak. Much of what I heard and experienced that day was for me personally, alone, but some of it was also meant to be shared, for those who are open to these words. Just who was speaking that day? Was it really Gaia, or it was it just me? Or were there even more voices coming through – the wisdom of Raven, the wisdom of Her, and, in the spirit of inter-being, the wisdom of You.

This is some of what I heard….

Listen carefully
The time has come
To join in the dance
Of stones and stars
Of cells and silence
Of blood and water
Of music and movement
Of justice
Of life

We are here
Together
In this
Dance
The dance
Of interdependence

We are here together
To sing this song
The song
Of independence

Bring these truths
Together
Unity
Diversity
You
Me
Us

And let our many hearts
Beat a rythmn of
Harmony

 

Beauty is the way of this earth
You are of this place
Not seperate

Celebrate
Celebrate!
Not a breath has been wasted
Everything is here before you
For You
For Us
The time is now.
Remember who You are.
It’s never too late to start again.
The time is now.

 

If you look inside, you will discover everything you need. Do not let fear block you. Do not be afraid of those who will not understand you-it has always been so, it will always be so. Love them, as you love yourself. This is no time to be shivering in the shadow of limitation, not now. Cast off those false shackles, they are mere mist, vapor, dust, fog, mirage. They will burn away with the morning sun, when you let your true self shine. Layer upon layer, clear away the illusions, let your true heart free. Let your sun rise.

Take your heart, ruby red and stained by your imaginings of shame, and place it in these healing spring waters, and wash it clean-it is in fact unstained, can never be stained, but wash it nonetheless.

Now feel your roots go deep, deep into the earth, as deep as you can go, into the very core of this planet, until you reach a deep pool of fiery lava-a molten core of passion, of Love, that is bubbling inside this planet, inside your own interior universe, could you but know. Allow this force of fire, of pure unadulterated love, to flow up through your roots, into your being, towards the volcano that is your heart, and let it burst forth, blowing open the gates, letting your love fire burn, bright, bright, brighter still. Let nothing block that love from being released. This world needs you, loves you, loves your love. Don’t let it stay bottled up inside, release it from hiding, and let the healing begin. You are whole, You are healed, you are already perfect, even in your imperfection, especially in your imperfection, your blessed imperfection, you are perfect. It is never too late. Never too late. Never too late to shine.

 

When I opened my eyes, I felt I was being watched. High above me on the cliff walls, a family of inquisitive goats stared down upon me, perhaps a visitation of that mischevious troublemaker, Pan, reminding me that’s it’s okay to have a skip in my step, a twinkle in my eyes, that it’s okay to be sexy, to be funny, to be a rebel for love, to have a merry crisis.

 

The Oracle of Delphi

A Respectful Rebel in an Orthodox Land

Sitting in a cave in Meteora Greece, a few days after Fierce Light has screened at the Thessaloniki Film Festival.  A soft rain has driven me off the purple, yellow white flower speckled mountain trail.   Like Mount Athos, Meteora is a land of towering ancient greek orthodox monasteries. Unlike Athos, women are allowed here, and there is even a convent,  named St. Stefanos.  

Although I am not a Christian (I was raised a Baha’i, used to call myself a sufi buddhist baha’i punk rocker, but now I simply say I’m a divine human, being),  I have a deep sense of respect for all things holy, and the impetus behind the religious calling.  I make a point of trying to cut through the dogma, to the deep devotion that often resonates profoundly in places of worship. I seek the true mystics, the ones who’s hearts are on fire, who have transcended the rigidity of structures to that place beyond concepts where the source of all that is sizzles. 

 But always, irony abounds-for example, the orthodox religion were the ones who invented the word dogma (not to mention the word Orthodox).  And of course, for them,  the word  has a positive connotation: it means to be faithful, and to follow the precise pathway to God -just so.  Dogma is seen as a divine security blanket that keeps us from falling astray.

It is ten years since my previous visit to Athos.  At that time I was wide eyed and innocent, in many ways, a naïve pilgrim embarking on a new journey of discovery.  It was far from the beginning of my spiritual search, but the beginning of my  first hand investigation of the worlds holy places, seeking a path, a system, a doorway into divinity, as I circled the planet, visiting everywhere from the Avebury Stone Circle, Lourdes, Athos, Konya, Jerusalem, Bodh Gaya, holy native sites in North America-a wide journey into the heartland of many of the worlds beliefs systems.   In each of these places, I took time to really steep myself in their wisdom, spending time in spiritual retreats inspired by each of the faiths I encountered.

I left that journey with a clear understanding, articulated in Fierce Light:  it is the essence of the worlds religions that matters to me, not the particular form.  Spirituality is beyond form. Way beyond.

A few days later, I find myself wandering through Meteora, where the monasteries perch high atop pinnacles of rock, safe from invaders.  In the past, the only way to enter the monastery was to be hoisted up by rope.   Perhaps too, the devotees feel closer to God, up in the clouds.  

After hours of winding through the awe inspiring moss covered pinnacles, alongside sparkling glades, I climbed the spiralling staircase to one of the monasteries that clings to the rock steeple, impossible stone acrobatics.

I entered the church, it’s byzantine dome painted with ornate frescos, glittering gold halos and angel wings.  I was greeted by an Orthodox monk dressed from head to toe in black.  I told him I had been to mount athos, an excellent icebreaker in these parts, and asked him to remind me of the greeting: evlogites, which means “bless me!” To which one replies, akirosos (no doubt spelt wrong): I cannot bless but God does, through me.

He showed me around the church, explaining the significance of the many ikons.   I asked why so many figures are dressed in red, and he explained that red is the god colour, and blue is the colour of the earth, except in the case of Mary – then red is the colour for earth and blue is the colour of God.  Interesting for me, as I am shooting a film called Redvolution: Dare to Disturb the Universe.  It is about the path of  what co-director  Sera Beak calls “red” spirituality – becoming your own spiritual authority, being a spiritual outlaw, truly knowing yourself, your authentic Self.  It is about  embodied spirituality-a passionate, sexy, spirituality that isn’t afraid of ecstasty, that celebrates life, being human, that sees God in all things. 

Meanwhile back in the church…

Transfiguration…metamorphisis….extasis…theosopis…greek words were flying about.  My new monk friend explained that to him extasis -ecstasy-was the stuff of other religions, like the eastern religions, and it was an escape.  Much like our induglence in the “sweets” of life, like women.  Yikes. Clearly the orthodoxy was created by men.  

The orthodox path is about transfiguration, he explained, and metamorphosis-through the correct rituals, prayers, divine love and grace, one clears away ones heart and allows God in.  It is about theosopis, not extasis.  Joining with God not escaping into ecstasy.  

I didn’t argue-I never argue with the faithful – but between you and me, I have to beg to differ.  For me, God is also human, God is also creation, God made all of this amazingness, and I have a hunch She wants nothing more than that we celebrate this magnificence. Her magnificence.  With depth, and divinity, for sure, but celebration nonetheless.  And that  celebration can be joyful, it can be ecstatic, and it can be quiet, it can be sober.  It can be both/and.  God doesn’t fit well into boxes of this not that.  God has a bigger palette than that.  God wants us to go for it, to burn bright, to be fully embodied and fully ecstatic, all at the same time, in waves and particles, particles and waves – both/and.   That’s my two cents, just the tip of my tongues worth.  But I kept it there, on the tip.  It’s not for me to argue with a monk, but to listen respectfully, and take what he has to offer, and leave what doesn’t fit behind, in that holy place.  With respect for his calling, his commitment and his sincere love.

As we were leaving, I told him perhaps one day I would return to Mount Athos-it is a beautiful, holy place.
“Yes”, he said, “but the real holy place is right here”. He tapped my heart, “wherever we are.”

I couldn’t agree more.

“Pray for me” he said, as I stepped outside the monastery gate, into the sunshine. 

Now, as I walk through the stone trails, lined with purple flowers, sun glistening, flocks of birds swooping and gliding, I can feel the presence of divinity everywhere.  It is in the very air. As I walk in the midst of the sublime beauty of creation, it is clear that this is my communion.  And that for me, as a spiritual rebel, I will always be a little, and sometimes a lot, unorthodox.

A Pilgrims Progress

Thessaloniki, Greece

Today I introduced Fierce Light at the Thessaloniki International Film Festival, here in Greece. I recounted my last visit to this lovely sea side city, back in 1999, when I was shooting Scared Sacred, the film about my journey to the ground zero’s of the world, searching for stories of transformation in the face of crisis. At the time I was facing my own crisis. First my girlfriend at the time decided to leave the project, and return home. Then my video camera was stolen from my car in France. Then the car itself was taken from me. I was left on the street in Italy, with nothing but the shirt on my back – even my coat was gone. I decided to do what any destitute pilgrim in that part of the world would do: I headed for the Monastic Republic of Mount Athos.

I traveled here, to Thessaloniki, where I was blessed enough to be granted a pilgrims pass on short notice – normally it takes six months, but there had been a cancellation, so I was admitted immediately. Then I went to an internet café, sent an email to a millionare I knew, explaining my situation and asking if she would consider supporting Scared Sacred, and then took the bus and boat to Mount Athos, where I went on one of the most powerful 10 day personal retreats of my life, walking from monastery to monastery along the craggy cliffs, following the directives of my inner voice, meditating constantly, and meeting some truly remarkable mystics, as well as confronting the staunch dogma and structures of Orthodoxy, and the patriarchs. Talk about patriarchy, and power over – this was the birthplace of it! But the journey was truly profound and moving.

When I returned, I received an email from the millionare – yes, she would fund the film. And so the journey continued – with an added passenger. A little black kitten named Hara, who I rescued from being abandoned on the street, rejected from Mount Athos because – she was a girl. I ended up traveling through Greece, Turkey, Israel and India with Hara, finally finding her a home with friends in Bhopal.
In honour of my return to this land, over the next few weeks I am going to share excerpts from my journal from both that journey to mount Athos, and the journey I will undertaking in the coming week, to Meteora and Delphi – home of the ancient oracles, where the entranceway reads, “Know Thyself.”

_____

When we see each other, when we trust each other,
there is no need for ego, no reason for ego,
no possibility for ego.
-Father Archdimandrite Dionysius

Mount Athos, Greece, 1999

The bus winds down a final hillside, arriving at the port town of Ouranopolous. At the far end of a concrete dock an iron freighter awaits. I join the bustling crowd of pilgrims and monks boarding the ship. The monks come in a variety of flavours. Most wear baggy black pants covered in long black cotton dresses, topped out with a decent black coat, or perhaps a well-worn black vest. Headgear is a black hat, tall and rounded, velvet for those well up in the hierarchy, simpler cotton for those in between and sometimes just a black toque for the more independent of the monks. The occasional shaggy character in rough-hewn clothes is most likely one of the hermits, forced from his lair, perhaps for medical reasons.
A sign posted on the dock warns that:

1. Only Those Authorized May Visit Mount Athos.
2. No Women Are Allowed.
3. No Video Cameras Are Allowed.
4. No Religious Items Are To Be Taken Off The Peninsula.
If any of the above laws are not respected, severe penal action will be taken by the legal body of the Monastic Republic of Mount Athos.

Don’t mess with the monks. Legend claims that Mother Mary declared Athos her land, off limits to all other females. There is even an edict barring female animals from the Republic, but that has proven difficult to enforce, wild animals being notoriously disrespectful of laws. There are whispers of ancient scandals in the land, stories of women sneaking in, some disguised as monks, living secretly inside the republic for years.

The captain stands on the wide metal gang plank and inspects our pilgrims’ certificates, full-page parchment, suitable for framing, necessary for travel. Glorious shafts of light cut through the clouds in the direction of Holy Mountain. We pull into Daphne, the one place of free enterprise on the peninsula, a small port town that serves as the nexus point for boats and paths to the monasteries, Sketes and hermitages.

The living arrangements in Athos vary from the large monasteries, in which everyone lives, eats and worships communally, to Sketes, small communities in which each house has their own church. In the houses there are generally several monks and one elder, or sometimes a larger group of monks. Scattered about the peninsula, but particularly at the very tip, are isolated hermits, who live in caves or simple rock huts. The most ascetic of these subsist on a tiny amount of bread and water, sleeping on rough mats on the cold ground, dedicating their lives to prayer, chanting for hours every day.

The gangplank crashes onto the dock and we step into the Byzantine era. It is a crowded soup of monks, all with long beards, hermits with their grizzled faces and walking sticks, dozens of dirty cats meowing sadly, searching for tidbits of food. A group of young monks stand at end of the dock throwing bits of bread to a school of fish. A monk sits on a wall in front of the one restaurant selling hand crocheted black prayer bracelets. The tiny shops are crowded with icons, images of Jesus and Mary, laundry soap, rosaries, and cakes of black incense.

I lean against an ancient stone wall that lines the ocean, watching the bustle on the one dirt main street of town. A portly older man sits down near me. He seems a little lost.
“Is this where one finds the boats that go to the south?” he asks, in a thick English accent.
“I don’t really know-I’m trying to figure out that myself.”

His name is Martin, and he’s searching for a boat to Dionysius Monastery.

“I’ve come to have a look in on my nephew. He just up and became a monk two years ago. Strangest thing! Didn’t speak a word of Greek either. His mother can’t come to look in on him, of course, and there’s no father, so I’m elected. To tell you the truth, our Claude was always one of life’s misfits. Ended up bumming around Europe, playing music on the streets to get by. Just barely getting by. One by one all the strings on his guitar broke, until there he was, playing with only one string. His earnings got too thin, so he wound up at some kind of a center where they would give him food and he would help around their farm. All he had to do was go to church services. And there he found God. Ended up in England, living with a Nun, and then met this Greek Orthodox chap. I think they recruited him. Numbers are down here in the monasteries and they need fresh blood. Hard to keep the place up and funded if there’s no one staying. And of course, the developers are just waiting to hop right in the second the place is vacated-this would be a prime tourist attraction.”

A boat pulls up to the dock and we are able to determine that it goes to Dionysius. I decide to follow Martin – I can begin my walk South from there. Although I don’t have a reservation, I’m hoping that showing up with a monk’s relative will help. We line up, pay our three hundred drachmas on board, and take a seat inside.

“There’s one of the head boys, I’d say.”
Martin points to an older monk with a neatly trimmed gray beard. Trailing along like ducklings is a retinue of ardent young monks, carrying his bags. They sit down at a bench near us, immediately launching into a basket of bread, apples and cheese, chewing with gusto.
“Are you Catholic?”
“Oh no, I’m just a good old prottey. Protestant. Bit of a heretic really. Still, I respect it all well enough. I like to go to churches and cathedrals when I’m traveling. Like in Spain, at the church of Santiago. Although, I have to say, I had my wallet swiped while we were in there.”
“In the church? Is nothing sacred?’
“Yeah, right in the bloody church. The nerve of that bloke. Makes you wonder about human nature really, that someone would stoop so low. So what brings you here?”
“I’m making a documentary called ScaredSacred. I’m traveling to the Scared and Sacred places of the world.”
“What do you mean by Scared?”
“Places like Hiroshima, Auschwitz, Bhopal, Afghanistan and so on.”
“You know, it’s strange, but I’ve been thinking of going to Auschwitz. Not sure why really.”
“It certainly brings it all home. It makes it real. I went before dawn. As the sun came up an old man appeared, with a single rose, which he placed on the gas oven. The whole concentration camp is maintained as a museum. They encourage people to come, because humans are too good at forgetting. And we need to remember.”
“I think I will go. God, what a project. Tell me, what are you searching for in these places?”
“I want to try to understand how it is that some people are able to go through the darkest days of human history, and find a way through to the other side; perhaps even transform the crisis into a breakthrough. I don’t know if you are feeling this, but I have a sense that there are dark days ahead. Maybe all this millennium anxiety is part of it, but I think even without it, there’s pretty good evidence that this little planet is in for a shake up. Going to these places in a way is like time traveling into a possible future we might all be facing. I want to bring back stories of hope, and strategies for creating hope, for transforming the scared into the sacred.”
“And the Sacred places?”
“I want to experience the faiths of the world first hand and try to understand their core, their essence. Perhaps at their holiest places, this will come through with greater clarity. I believe there is a current which runs through them all, and I want to touch that. I want to know, really know, what the sacred is, and see if I can find it, in both the places of light, and the places of darkness.”
“I’ll say it again, God, what a project. Hey, look at that!”

Looming over us is the spectacular monastery of Simone Petra, a stone fortress clinging to the top of a craggy cliff, a thousand feet above. Construction cranes tower even higher above the monastery. The entire peninsula has received a large influx of cash, and many of the monasteries are undergoing re-constructive surgery. We pull in briefly, just long enough for a handful of monks and pilgrims to scurry off. Further along we pass the low-lying monastery of Gregorious, spread out near the coast. It too is surrounded in scaffolding, workers moving here and there with wheelbarrows. Ten minutes later we arrive at Dionysius. The boat bashes into the concrete dock, the gangplank is lowered, and we disembark behind the important looking monk and his retinue.

“Looks like we’re being blessed with a visit from the top dog,” Martin whispers.

The endless sweep of stone steps proves tiring for Martin, who has a bad foot. I convince him to let me take one handle of his extremely heavy bag.
“I don’t know why it’s so heavy, it’s really only clothes.”
The Elder sings a mournful hymn as he leads the procession. Behind him a monk chants a sonorous prayer in Greek, echoed by the group. Another runs ahead to videotape. It’s a major visit, to be sure. We pass under a high stone archway into the monastery complex. Above the entranceway, a painting of Mother Mary welcomes us in, gold leaf halo glittering.

Can Sufi Islam counter the Taleban?

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/7896943.stm

By Barbara Plett
BBC News, Lahore

It’s one o’clock in the morning and the night is pounding with
hypnotic rhythms, the air thick with the smoke of incense.

I’m squeezed into a corner of the upper courtyard at the shrine of
Baba Shah Jamal in Lahore, famous for its Thursday night drumming
sessions.

It’s packed with young men, swaying to the music, and working
themselves into a state of ecstasy.

This isn’t how most Westerners imagine Pakistan, which has a
reputation as a hotspot for Islamist extremism.

Now some in the West have begun asking whether Pakistan’s Sufism could
be mobilised to counter militant Islamist ideology and influence.

Lahore would be the place to start: it’s a city rich in Sufi tradition.

At the shrine of Data Ganj Bakhsh Hajveri, musicians and singers from
across the country also gather weekly, to perform qawwali, or Islamic
devotional singing.

Qawwali is seen as a key part of the journey to the divine, what Sufis
call the continual remembrance of God.

“When you listen to other music, you will listen for a short time, but
the qawwali goes straight inside,” says Ali Raza, a fourth generation
Sufi singer.

“Even if you can’t understand the wording, you can feel the magic of
the qawwali, this is spiritual music which directly touches your soul
and mind as well.”

But Sufism is more than music. At a house in an affluent suburb of
Lahore a group of women gathers weekly to practise the Sufi
disciplines of chanting and meditation, meant to clear the mind and
open the heart to God.

One by one the devotees recount how the sessions have helped them deal
with problems and achieve greater peace and happiness. This more
orthodox Sufism isn’t as widespread as the popular variety, but both
are seen as native to South Asia.

‘Love and harmony’

“Islam came to this part of the world through Sufism,” says Ayeda
Naqvi, a teacher of Islamic mysticism who’s taking part in the
chanting.

“It was Sufis who came and spread the religious message of love and
harmony and beauty, there were no swords, it was very different from
the sharp edged Islam of the Middle East.

“And you can’t separate it from our culture, it’s in our music, it’s
in our folklore, it’s in our architecture. We are a Sufi country, and
yet there’s a struggle in Pakistan right now for the soul of Islam.”

That struggle is between Sufism and hard-line Wahhabism, the strict
form of Sunni Islam followed by members of the Taleban and al-Qaeda.

It has gained ground in the tribal north-west, encouraged initially in
the 1980s by the US and Saudi Arabia to help recruit Islamist warriors
to fight the Soviets in Afghanistan.

But it’s alien to Pakistan’s Sufi heartland in the Punjab and Sindh
provinces, says Sardar Aseff Ali, a cabinet minister and a Sufi.

“Wahhabism is a tribal form of Islam coming from the desert sands of
Saudi Arabia,” he says. “This may be very attractive to the tribes in
the frontier, but it will never find resonance in the established
societies of Pakistan.”

So could Pakistan’s mystic, non-violent Islam be used as a defence
against extremism?

An American think tank, the Rand Corporation, has advocated this,
suggesting support for Sufism as an “open, intellectual interpretation
of Islam”.

There is ample proof that Sufism remains a living tradition.

In the warren of Lahore’s back streets, a shrine is being built to a
modern saint, Hafiz Iqbal, and his mentor, a mystic called Baba Hassan
Din. They attract followers from all classes and walks of life.

‘Atrocities’

The architect is Kamil Khan Mumtaz. He describes in loving detail his
traditional construction techniques and the spiritual principles they
symbolise.

He shakes his head at stories of lovely old mosques and shrines pulled
down and replaced by structures of concrete and glass at the orders of
austere mullahs, and he’s horrified at atrocities committed in the
name of religion by militant Islamists.

But he doubts that Sufism can be marshalled to resist Wahhabi
radicalism, a phenomenon that he insists has political, not religious,
roots.

“The American think tanks should think again,” he says. “What you see
[in Islamic extremism] is a response to what has happened in the
modern world.

“There is a frustration, an anger, a rage against invaders, occupiers.
Muslims ask themselves, what happened?

“We once ruled the world and now we’re enslaved. This is a power
struggle, it is the oppressed who want to become the oppressors, this
has nothing to do with Islam, and least of all to do with Sufism.”

Ayeda Naqvi, on the other hand, believes Sufism could play a political
role to strengthen a tolerant Islamic identity in Pakistan. But she
warns of the dangers of Western support.
“I think if it’s done it has to be done very quietly because a lot of
people here are allergic to the West interfering,” she says.

“So even if it’s something good they’re doing, they need to be
discreet because you don’t want Sufism to be labelled as a movement
which is being pushed by the West to drown out the real puritanical
Islam.”

Back at the Shah Jamal shrine I couldn’t feel further from puritanical
Islam. The frenzied passion around me suggests that Pakistan’s Sufi
shrines won’t be taken over by the Taleban any time soon.

But whether Sufism can be used to actively resist the spread of
extremist Islam, or even whether it should be, is another question.

Story from BBC NEWS:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/2/hi/south_asia/7896943.stm

Published: 2009/02/24 05:55:03 GMT

The Gift of Acknowledgement

One of the simplest, most powerful things we can do in our everyday human interactions, is to acknowledge another person. To see them, to give them the gift of empowerment. Costs you nothing, but can be absolutely transformative for that person. It’s the stellar opposite of that old stand by – judgement, criticism, disapproval. A spiritual activist looks for ways to encourage, to cajole the best of another, to add fuel to their spark, to light their fire by truly seeing them, seeing their gifts, seeing what special something they might have to offer the world, and celebrating that.

In her classic book, ‘The Possible Human’ Jean Houston writes, “The greatest human potential is the potential of each one of us to empower and acknowledge the other. To be acknowledged by another, especially during times of confusion, loss, disorientation, disheartenment, is to be given time and place in the sunshine, and is the solar stimulus for transformation. The process of helaing and growth is immensely quickened when the sun of another’s belief is freely given. This gift can be as simple as “Hot dog! Thou art!” Or it can be as total as “I know you. You are God in hiding.” Or it can be a look that goes straight to the soul and charges it with meaning.”

It’s something I do naturally, and take great pleasure in. In fact, I’m so happy whenever I see a chance to add some ecouragement, some honest acknowledgement, to somebody. It immediately raises energy, and you can see people light up so quickly. It’s not about false praise – that is actually counter productive. It’s not about stoking someone’s ego. And it doesn’t respond well to request – it’s actually hard to acknowledge someone when they are hungry for praise, or needy about it. It works best when sincere, spontaneous and heart felt. It means really seeing the people you encounter, stepping outside yourself, and connecting with who they are, what their special light is in this moment. Oftentimes we aren’t even aware of our own positive qualities, or in this society of epic self worth issues, we focus on our negative sides, and deny our own light. So when someone else steps in and says – hey, way to go! It can be immensely healing.

Much like gratitude can be a simple, but incredibly powerful, tool of transformation, so too can giving the gift of acknowledgement. It’s easy, fun, and free!