My “First” Enlightenment

Many, many years ago…

So long ago it seems as if it is a past life. So many chapters in my life have been read, re-read, read again and forgotten. This is one of those chapters in my life that I forgot existed. You might expect that the moment of one’s enlightenment would be never forgotten, but remembering such a moment is contrary that moment’s essence, and its life is lost in the annals of a memory replayed over and over. I had never re-read this chapter in my life (like I have so many others), but I stumbled upon it this morning while doing some preliminary plastering on my home’s exterior.

And so it begins –

I find myself sitting at the feet of a nameless master. But wait, I must step back a bit to explain how I got here.

I have always sought the most serious answers to life’s puzzling questions – serious answers to this joke we call life, and so, before entering college I decided to go to India to seek out those who knew. I travelled the countryside for months. I had meditated and sat satsang with yogis, sages and fakirs. I had seen it all, and yet still had not found what I was looking for.

I spent weeks at an Ashram waiting for Sai Baba to appear, hopeful that this God could answer my questions. When he arrived, I was granted private audience with him. While he explained to me that he was not the one for me, he said the One was calling and that I must go back on the road. I must continue my journey. Before I left, and in the typical nature of wise ones, Sai Baba muttered something so cryptic (I was rather young and naive) to me that had me wondering as I walked out the door, “Is this God bisexual?” This, in and of itself held no import to me whatsoever, as I had met bisexual Gods before, I just never quite understood them. Gods and men all have choices to make, and it is far from me to judge another. I later learned that this God has controversy follow him like flies follow un-showered Frenchmen (of which there are many – flies and un-showered Frenchmen).

I encountered Babaji some weeks later, and he, too, said he was not the one. I had to ask him in reply, “If all are one, how can you  not be the one?”

He smiled some cryptic smile as his sparkling eyes bored deep into my soul and I ended up with the biggest headache I ever had. He told me to go to the Ganges and bath so I would be clean for my meeting with the one True One. I went to the Ganges, high in the foothills of northern India, and bathed in the holiest of earthy waters. I ended up with dysentery.

After this, I continued on my journey, asking many where I might find the one. People would say, “Ahhh, you seek the Silent One! Continue on your path, young man – he awaits you.”

Weeks had passed as the blisters on my feet grew into slathering, oozing , puss-filled monstrosities fusing with the cotton fibers of my socks. Weeks of doubts, wishes to be elsewhere, hunger I had never known, and sights to behold unfolded before me. I knew I would soon be dead if I could not find the One.

One morning I entered a small village ready to give up on my dreams of understanding all there was to be understood. I asked an old man about the One. He pointed. There was a door. I went through the door. My eyes fell upon a not so unusual sight of a man in robes meditating on a cushion. Could this be the One I sought? Could this be the One that awaited me – that One who knew I was coming to see him? I sat down silently before him and waited.

Silence.

Hours pass – he begins to snore.

More hours pass – he stirs.

A little movement under the folds of cloth that covered this wise one, and some low moaning begins. Chanting, or maybe only the response of one whose legs are stiff from having not moved from the typically uncomfortable full-lotus position?

I could take it no longer, and so I spoke as this moaning (chanting?) continued getting louder. I asked expectantly and abruptly, “Are you the One I seek?”

His reply?

“Shhhh…. I am Master Bei Ting.”

I knew I had found the One.

A Stranger in a Strange Land

Recently I found myself planning a trip to the States. I don’t have a personal assistant to do this like some world-travellers do, and taking care of the details was not the easiest thing to do from my location, but thanks to the internet, the job was made somewhat do-able.

For those of you who don’t know, I currently live in France, and while my French is passable enough (barely) in ordinary circumstances, confirming things such as flight and hotel details on the phone is impossible for my limited skills, and sometimes the internet cannot answer all the questions one might have.

So, I opted to book my flight out of England, which was a decision made easier when I saw the prices to fly to the US from Paris – the UK has much better deals, even directly from the airlines. This simply meant that I would take a short flight across the channel and into a land where I am comfortable with the language (at least the written language – the Queen’s English still remains a mystery to me, even though most of the words are the same).

Unfortunately, I could get no decent connection from the UK to the US, so I had to spend the night somewhere around London, preferably close enough to the airport so I could get my first flight out the next morning without stress.

I must qualify that when I have travelled in the past, I have always been a Motel 6 – Travelodge – Ramada Inn kind of guy, but these don’t exist in England, so I did my best. I ended up booking a hotel at more than twice the price of one of these “ordinary” establishments, thinking that prices have gone up in the few years since I travelled, or just plain expensive around Heathrow Airport.

When arriving at the hotel, I thought that it was actually a pretty nice place, and I would probably be getting what I had reluctantly paid for. At reception, the night manager offered me a choice of rooms — I could have the room that was reserved for me, or I could benefit from what was a “quiet” night and take an upgrade to a club/suite at no extra charge. I said, with no question, “Okay.”

It was off to the west-wing and through a set of extra security doors to a land where the carpets are plush. I was to see how the other-half lived, and I wouldn’t be disappointed. Big screen TV in the living room, another TV in the bedroom, and one in the bathtub. Sofas, plush chairs, and even a safe! So… , call me naïve, but a TV in the tub? This place was nicer than any apartment I ever rented! There were a half-dozen fresh cookies by the coffee machine which I quickly went for, and a good-sized refrigerator that I knew was the “mini-bar” —  I avoided this like the plague.

It’s not that I don’t drink, but I was not about to pay double the price for the same thing I could have down at the bar, which was where I was headed anyway for a nice glass of wine (which turned into three). My first glass of wine was accompanied with a request for my room key, and an assurance that this wouldn’t be billed to my room, so I figured “good, I’ll pay cash,” which is how I like things, anyway. The bartender came back with a “Thank you, Sir,” and walked quickly away, so I left a 5 pound note on the bar.

A bit later, I felt like another glass of wine (my second, and usually my limit), so went back to the bar. I noticed my 5 was still on the bar where I left it, and offered it up with my second glass, where it was declined. The bartender told me there would be no charge for the drinks this evening, so I thanked him, and told him to keep it as a tip. This offering was flatly refused with a comment that “everything” was taken care of. I was told, “We don’t like our Club patrons bothered with details.” This is what led to my having a third glass “on the House.” I thought this whole thing was pretty good, and knew I would do it again if I ever got the chance.

It wasn’t until returning to France and telling this story to my wife, that she began to explain the ways of the world to me. Apparently, this is not unusual in the least bit, and she was somehow thoroughly familiar with it. She asked me if I raided the mini-bar, and I said “No, but I ate all the cookies! Why do you ask?” She told me that the mini-bar is ALWAYS free in these situations, stocked not with the usual garbage, but with chilled wine, champagne, and snacks a good step up from Beer-Nuts — all this without any additional room charges. I thought I had been around, but was starting to realize how naïve I really was.

What kind of world is this?

When Your Writing Slumps…

Slumps — this is what a soufflé does when it fails for reasons unknown.

So what do you do when your writing slumps, otherwise known as the dreaded “writer’s block,” also for reasons unknown?

Well, if reasons are unknown, then there is no reason to look for any because there probably aren’t any to be found. This being the case, there is only one thing you can do with this slump, you can write about it. Drop everything you’re supposed to be doing, everything you’re supposed to be writing, and forget about it. Then you just pick up a pad and pen, or just fire up the old machine (which is probably on anyway), and begin writing. Write about how empty, dry and desolate you feel because you are not fulfilling your purpose in life.

Or, begin by writing about how you have absolutely nothing to write about.

Or, begin by documenting the events that led you to this state of being a miserable wretch.

Or, accept all this and just move on. Begin having fun doing what you do best, and that is writing — even if it is not the writing you are supposed to be writing.

Just dive into those words that come to you. Leave these words uncorrupted as they fly through the portal of you imagination into reality. Write as you have forgotten how to write, free and spontaneously,  flowing and going with the words as they pass out of your mind. Go … go … go into that night where there is no light but the light of the written word. Go … go … go with your words as they spin tales of woe and peace. Go with them as a passenger on a mysterious journey without any destination.

Go … go … go write what you will. Go back into your work with a pen in your hand. Go back into your work where your only need is the need to write and the need to share.

Go … go … go where you go without a care in the world. Go away with yourself to a place in your past, a place where you first wrote your name — that place where you first felt the joy of success. Go back to this day, for this is the day when you began to write —

and so begin again today.

To Contract or Not Contract

Contract? Contract what?  

I would have never thought about it.    

I would have never thought about it at all, if it were not for my own taking notice of the way words come out of me. I am, of course, speaking of the written word, for with the spoken word, I do absolutely horrific things. The rest remains to be seen.    

In the now old and classic sci-fi series “Star Trek – the Next Generation,” Data, the fleshbound robot, was completely unable to contract any words whatsoever. He dreamed of being able to do so, for he thought it would indicate a certain level of human-ness within him. It seems he so deeply desired to be human, that he didn’t even realize that his dreamy “desire” is most certainly a human quality.    

Needless to say, he got his wish, and started contracting words. While this was extremely important to him, and fascinating (if not baffling) to him when the first contracted word came out of his mouth, I certainly don’t remember how he obtained this “skill” – but he was now more human, and thrilled about it. Apparently contracting words is specifically a human quality, since snakes and birds do not do this.    

While expansive and contractive vortexes might look alike - they are not. It depends which direction you are going.

 Contraction is not an activity restricted only to vortexes, but we are creating a vortex that compresses our expression each time we do contract a word. I have no preference of compressive over expansive vortexes, but I do have a preference for not contracting my words when I write.  

I do, personally, find a lack of contraction much more powerful in delivery than using contraction (I will not mention the language of text messaging here – for it does seem to have its place). Non-contracted words punch harder with delivery – these are words of a higher octane. 

I must say that I am completely adamant about not contracting my words, ever. This just cannot be done in my little world — it is a matter of style. 

 In fact, at this point in my life, I would gladly say that I have been reborn. In fact, I would gladly (and religiously) say that I’ll never contract another word again. 

The Sound of One Pen Writing

The sound of a pen?

We all know that pens make no sound when they are slip across paper, doing so well what they were designed to do — that is, of course unless it is a hard felt-tip pen, or better yet, a quill. Yes, a quill.

While I do possess a few dip-pens, they are hardly used, but I do dip occasionally. In my world, quill-pens are like UFOs — I have never seen one except in pictures (and videos). You might wonder where this is going…

Well, as I have said before, I still like to write, and compose my writing, with pen and paper — but this activity (the writing with a pen part) will not be addressed here. What I would address is the composing part – the composition part.

Many would define “composition” as something that implies a finished product, such as, “What a beautiful composition!” I must use the term here a little differently, as something of a work in progress, something in the present moment, something I am composing right now.

“What are you up to, Pete?”

“I’m in composition right now!”

Meaning — I’m trying to figure out what this thing is made of (or what it is, or will be composed of) that I am currently writing. Something must always be said — it must have a point, they say. Well, they would also say the point must be considered the passenger, that which is carried by the composition – that being the vehicle.

I would beg to differ again. Is it the destination that is important, or is it the journey? Is it the point, or is it the composition?

“So what is the point, Pete?” you are asking (Yes, once again and parenthetically, I can hear you).

The point is this…

We really must loosen up our definitions if we want to be free.