Satsang with Swami Z
"What is prayer, Swami?" Michael asked, as if he had never thought of
that before.
Swami took a sip of cocoa and put his mug down precisely. "Prayer is
what is left over after all the prayer words have been said," answered
Swami. "You can sweep up the prayer words and leave a nice empty
space for a miracle.
Me and Swami Z MP3
Swami Z Live
Note: This was recorded during a downpour.
The background noise is rain ;)
Summer with Swami Z-Reprise
Part IV
Little Bunny Feet
Spiritual Honesty
Feeding Ruin
Quickening
Snit City
In A Rut
A Turn for the Worse
Where We Are Joined To God
The Bic Guru
O Holey Knight
A Visit From Saint Swami on Christmas Eve
Trailer Park Christmas
Through the Eye of the Needle
Sitting Ducks
Last Call
Riding for a Fall
Summer with Swami Z
Sea Change
Part III
Larry's Turn
Attracted to Shiny Objects
Hunger
Just A Piece of Fiction
Frustration
Inside Out and Upside Down
Through "Think and Thin
More in Love
Wind Horse
Stick Horse Wisdom
Larry and Ruin
Gurus Are Out
Swami's Kindness
On Having No Head
Sundays with Swami
Snit
All for Love
Ruin
Part II
"Satsnag"
Stick Pony Drill
Nuisance
Kicking Back
Initiation into Now
The Price of Admission
The Truth is Neither Here nor There
Opening The Door
Prayerful
Part I
The Guru Walk of Fame
The Sixty-Four Dollar Question
Breakdown
Nothing Ever Changes
Getting Down to Business
Vicki's Satsang
Everything Means Everything
Surrender To The Impossible
Satsang with Swami Z
"Swami Z makes a shambles where shambala used to be.""I'm beginning to become quite fond of the Magi of Macy's Mattress Department." Michael Rawls, N-Spire.com.
Satsang With Swami ZThe doorbell rang before I had opened both eyes. It was the Home Depot man. I let him in and we sat down at the kitchen table. "I want to build an addition on the back of the house," I said. "Big enough to have drop-in satsang." He looked at me like I had just spilled some brains out of my head and he was going to have to pick them up.
"You know--drop-in satsang. Kick off your shoes and stay awhile satsang."
He decided to let that comment go...to let it fly over his head. "How big do you want it to be?"
"Big enough for the universe and small enough so it won't be overwhelming. Swami usually manages to pull this off. Surely you can do the same."
Unfortunately Swami wandered in at that point, pulling his ratty red cardigan closed. He had a notebook in his hand. "Look what I found, Vicki," he said, "my satsang notes from the seventies."
I considered changing my mind about the whole deal. I groaned, grimaced and got the picture. Swami would be doing his reverse-Swami thing on a regular basis. Let's listen in...'
"I'm not a spiritual teacher," intoned Swami in a mock-serious way. "I'm no one in particular. I just happen to (and here his voice grew very conspiratorial).... know." He assumed a mock importance and offered his hand to me as he said, "This is one of my star students."What could I do but keep the charade going. "Yes, dear Swami, I reverence your wisdom and your ability to keep your schtick in place no matter what." The Home Depot man couldn't have cared less. He obviously knew loonies when he saw them. "Okay, I'll draw up a plan and get back to you."
"Good, good," I said, ushering him to the door. When it closed behind him, I began to cry. "Swami, I can't do it. I've aleady changed my mind. I'm writing us back the way we used to be."
He looked almost real as he said softly, "Would that were possible. Would that were possible." But he didn't say that. I deleted that sentence and chose to have him say this, "Cheer up, kiddo, I'm about to make some cookies."
"I am in the universe and the universe is in me. This is complicated." Swami Z
Swami and I are safe from satsangers at the moment. The new room still smells like paint and looks like no one lives in it. But next month we are going to have satsang with Swami here and have invited anybody and everybody. Swami won't tell me what he thinks will happen. He knows and is keeping me in suspense. (Translation: Vicki doesn't have a clue.)
"Let's practice," I begged Swami, hoping that something would click with me that I could write about."
"Okey dokey," said Swami at his most affable. "You pretend that you have come here to seek my guidance."I assumed a pleading posture and sat down across from Swami at his table. "Swami, what is surrender and how can it be done?"
"You chucklehead," said Swami, in what I thought was a condescending manner. He went on, "That question is as old as the hills. I need some smart, cool, groovy questions. The way he said "groovy" reminded me of Mike Myers.
I tried again. "Swami, baby, I dig the universe but I don't want to surrender to it. I want to keep on being me." I ran my hand over my hair in a cool manner.
Swami looked irritable and put on an inscrutable Zen master expression. He sneered and then said loudly, "Go! Next devotee, who's next?"
I assumed the guise of devotee number two. "Swami, I just want to experience your teachings and your.....wisdom. Let me bask in your presence."
"Don't you see the sign? No basking allowed. Well, between the hours of eight and two, anyway," he said a bit apologetically.
"Just give me your grace and I will leave a happy devotee," I said.
Swami looked at me, momentarily forgetting that this was just a drill, and gave it to me.
You should be so lucky.
Everything Means EverythingGrace is a given when someone meets Swami. He is the very manifestation of it. Keep in mind that he is not real; you are not real and all will flow in the direction of your immense joy. Joy should be all-consuming, don't you think?
Here Swami comes now. He is entering in the style of Elvis, Aloha from Hawaii. The satsang crowd roars and I usher them to their seat in infinity. Swami opens with a bow and pow! the tiger roars. I am appalled. Three people are sitting here for the first satsang and they are all women, older woman. This is gonna get ugly.
Swami, as will be his wont, asks for questions. Doris wants to know if wanting material goods is a bad thing. Poor Swami--up to his eyeballs in what he does best. This is like shooting fish in a barrel. Only in this case, Swami surprises me.
The things of the spirit have their place and you must honor that. But when the kitchen timer goes off, priorities must change. He got up to take a fresh batch of cookies from the oven. Even satsang took a backseat to cookie-baking. When you understand the rules, you can break them. The devotees sat quietly. I knew, however, that soon someone would throw a spitball. Probably at me. I hated this--I really did.
He never came back. I had to explain to Doris and the others in the room that Swami just wasn't in the mood for satsang today. I ushered them out the door and raced to the kitchen to confront Swami. He refused to discuss the matter. Does it matter?
You see, I am out of ideas for this sudden turn of events. How do you write a satsang when the one giving it leaves. I am just a typist. Frankly I am hoping that Swami will realize how few people really want the truth. He will let me get out of this graciously and we can return to how things used to be. Fat chance.
Vicki's Satsang"Vicki," said Swami with his usual expectation of me letting him down, "do you think you could give satsang for me today? I've got a headache."
Well, in the first place, Swami absolutely, positively never has headaches. And in the second place, he has just stepped on my last nerve.
"Not a chance," I said, reiterating it in hopes that he would get the message. "Not a chance."
Of course the universe knows better and I found myself facing about half a dozen people in the new satsang room later that afternoon. The first question to be answered of course, was "Where's Swami Z?"
Just for meanness, I said that he was in the shower and I expected him to be out momentarily. (I knew that he was behind the door listening.) I passed around a tin of scrumptious cookies that Swami had spent all morning baking. There is nothing like a batch of warm cookies when one is facing a herd of hyenas. They were as happy as an Oprah audience who has just been given a bagful of freebies. I smiled, showing my teeth in fear. "Who has a question....just until Swami gets here," I said placatingly.Wilma wanted to know if God was inside or outside of her. I knew that Swami Z was up on this question and that he would give her the answer in a nanosecond. Not me. I temporarily forgot who I was and God knows, that was key. Or was it? Apparently not. I glibly said that God was both inside and outside and that she was the same. Note to myself: Did we really want Wilma everywhere? Maybe she could start just being somewhere rather than everywhere. See, I am not the real deal. Only Swami is.
The flop sweat on my forehead grew. Fred (no relation to Wilma except on God's side of the family), asked me if Swami could levitate. That was easy. "Oh, yes, I said, "in fact, he levitates without yeast. I once found him stuck in the tree out in the backyard. He got just so far off the ground and then a breeze flew him into the fork of the tree." Swami, standing behind the door, winced; whether at the memory or at my answer, I do not know.
I let the rest of the satsang group grill me until I was done. Stick a fork in me--I'm enlightened. There was only one question that interested me. Where in the heck was Swami Z? The group of devotees was about to turn on me when Swami strolled in. He said not a word but went straight to his work, Santa Claus guru that he is. He reached into his sack and produced a baker's dozen of his finest--chocolate chip with pecans.
Everyone in the room bonded with Swami. They quacked around the room after him like they were baby ducks being imprinted. I knew something that they didn't know. He was feeding them with the essence of himself and they would never, ever be disappointed in what he gave them. Call it enlightenment, call it unconditional love. You feel it as you read my words. That is the power of my little Swami.
Getting Down to BusinessSwami and I are beginning to enjoy the satsang routine. We are getting a roomful of devotees who come to play with Swami. He always brings warm cookies and we keep the kettle on. Some days he speaks for a brief period and on others he takes questions. Here is a recent one:
"Swami, do you think that enlightenment is possible for people who really want it?"
Swami heaved a sigh. This was familiar ground. He was no different than any other wise man; he lived the questions and the answers. Until you are ready to do that, nothing will change. But he met each questioner at his or her point of readiness.
Today none of us was ready.
"Satsang is nothing other than mountains meeting with mountains." Pamela Wilson
Swami's satsangs were slowly but surely taking off. Some days we had a dozen people huddled around him in the small addition to our house. Some ladies had sewn soft cushions to put on the metal folding chairs. The men were not so creative but were happy to do a little repair if something necessitated it.
Today Swami asked for questions and it was a man who raised his hand first.
"Yes, Jim," said Swami, recognizing him.
"I need to have a question answered that has been bothering me all of my life. Why aren't I happy? Spiritual teachers say that our true nature is bliss, but I don't experience that." He looked genuinely hopeful that Swami was going to give him an answer. It is ever thus. Swami is no different than any other teacher; he cannot satisfy the mind.
Swami looked softly into the devotee's eyes. Jim was a thin man dressed in polyester pants and an unoffensive shirt. He allowed himself to return the gaze. Swami sighed, encouraging Jim to sigh as well. I caught myself doing the same thing. Poor Jim.
The silence began to grow. If you were allowing yourself to receive it, you knew that it was not silence but the bliss of the Self. Mountains meeting their mountain nature for the first time often sob softly. Jim was not about to do that, but I did it for him. I reached in my pocket for a tissue and blew my nose. Jim, however, was a different man when Swami passed out the butter cookies a little while later. I knew he was because I had changed a little more myself. Swami may be ludicrous but he gets the job done.
Later that night I asked Swami how Jim was able to get it so quickly.
He almost spit the answer from his mouth like watermelon seeds. "How do you know he did?"
"I could see it; I could feel it. I know that the silence brought him back to himself like words can never do."
Swami sighed. "If you could see it and feel it, why can't you live it?" I had no answer for that question.
Swami and I sat in the sun waiting for the first satsang attendee to show. I cried softly. Someone that I knew was quite ill and if I didn't let the sorrow out, I wouldn't have room for healing space in my heart. Swami knew that.
He started to speak to me, but then Jim and Rose wandered in together and they were clearly in a happy mood. Swami patted the top of my head, saying softly, "It's gonna be okay."
Michael, Sam and Larry sat down and a few others....then Swami began to speak. It was not at all what I expected to hear.
"Listen, you people," shouted Swami at the top of his lungs. "Whoever told you that satsang is something you attend. Satsang is what you are!" With one body we all cringed. Swami thundered on.
"I am sick and tired of you people coming here to receive my darshan, my cookies, my, my....he sputtered in what appeared to be anger....my time!"
"All I ever wanted was to embody the truth....and I get this! This crowd of cookie-eating, self-satisfied, waiting-for-the-punch-line spiritual......wannabes!" I knew that this was the worst epithet that Swami could come up with.
He continued, "Your adoration of me will be cold comfort when your time comes...when the stuff hits the fan for you!"
Jim was wincing and Rose was cowering. They missed the fact that this was not the reaction that Swami was looking for.
Apparently none of us had it.
That night Swami came over to where I sat huddled under an afghan on the couch and handed me a mug of tea.
"Still miserable, huh?" said Swami.
"I guess you could say that," I said. "My best friend may be dying. Nothing anyone can do."
Swami looked at his hands. He looked beyond me into the night. “Why do you think I came to live with you. To help you through the good times?" He looked old, pained and fragile as hell.
"There are some sorrows that even you cannot lift," I said, hoping that he would correct me as usual.
"Quite right," said Swami. "God is into heavy lifting, not me." He looked at me and gave me a crooked grin.
"Swami, why did you yell at everyone who came to satsang today?"
"Did I," said Swami, I thought I was inviting them to go higher, go deeper. I forget that they prefer to see me through shallow eyes."
"It's not that," I said, in defense of those who loved Swami like I did, "it's just that you attacked them without warning."
"Just like life. I came at them just like life. Raw, hard-hitting and true."
The next satsang went as usual. The air had been cleared. Swami was running the satsang straight down the road and all of its occupants were on board. My friend, however, was still ill. For that friend, I dedicate this satsang.
Q. What makes us progress?
A. Silence is the main factor. In peace and silence you grow. Sri Nisargadatta MaharajJust in case you are feeling sad because things have changed at our house, nothing ever changes, not really. Just this morning the Swami-meister and I were going a few rounds. It began innocently enough.
Swami, don't you think we should think long and hard before we let just anyone come to your satsangs?
He screwed up his face as if he were lost in thought and said, Judgment be damned. Full speed ahead. That afternoon six new people came and Swami had to experience the grace of the Self with a random assortment of nut cases (at least that is how they seemed to me).
Some wanted grace, some wanted cookies and two wanted to know if he believed in reincarnation. Sure do," snapped Swami. "There are too many jackasses around not to believe in it." I need to up his dosage of antacids.
The satsangs were getting to him; that much I knew. He is not the type to snap rudely at people, but people take their stupid pills before they come. They take their seats and wave good-bye to their brains. Not that enlightenment is mental, but one must at least show respect to the satsang. I encouraged silence as the people came in and took their seats. The big hair people are asked to sit in the back and chewing gum is a no no.
Sam raised his hand and asked Swami if there was any value in observing silence on a regular basis. I knew that was the basis of his teachings. We moved in a sea of silence punctuated by our little crafts of sea-going words. Swami's words were usually only indicators; nothing more. His finger had been pointing at the moon for so long that it was gnarled.
"So, Sam," he said now, with a little weariness, "what's your real question?"
Of course Sam was non-plussed. Wasn't that his real question? Of course not; Swami knew that. He really wanted to know if Swami knew all about him and loved him anyway.
Sam never came up with an answer but Swami made sure that he "got it." How he did this I will never know; it is beyond me.
Naptime
Swami and I nap between one and two every day; that is how we stay young. The world may be going to hell in a handbasket during that time, but we are blissfully unaware. Save your hell for after two p.m. and you will be able to handle it better.
Swami is, after all, the Sleeping Teacher. I called him that in the beginning to let you know that he was a funny character that I had dreamed up. Was I ever wrong. When I conjured up Swami, I was summoning the Inner Teacher and he arrived wearing a bedsheet and looking ridiculous. That is how love is disguised.
But back to naptime....
The zzzzz's are heard as Swami quickly drops off to sleep. In the other room I am thinking of what to have for dinner and what day I should go to the grocery. My mind takes its usual route to sleep and I tag along until it finally gives up and gives me an hour's peace. When we meet in the kitchen for tea, we are ready to face the remainder of the day. With cookies washed down with tea. Enlightenment is a by-product.
The Sixty-Four Dollar Question"All this love is making me sick." Swami Z.
There is a sixty-four dollar question that Swami is able to answer better than anyone I have ever met. The question is always and only this: "Does God love me?" Swami dispenses love as he breathes it in and out. He wafts it in waves all around you. Swami is just an activator of your inner teacher. You dial him up and get your own thing going. Without leaving you arrive.
Sometimes though, he just looks like a little old man you would see at the market. To see him push a grocery cart around is hilarious. He steers it into fat rumps and skinny legs. If you ever spot him there, run for your life. When he reaches the checkout counter, he is apt to have bought butter, bread and banana peppers topped off with cream cheese, Cheese Whiz and Cheese Doodles. He favors soft toilet tissue and plenty of paper towels in the kitchen. Cookie-making is a messy thing. I swear we have sugar rings in the bathtub.
"Swami," I hollered at him as he was about to go out the kitchen door. "Remember, satsang is at three o'clock."
Swami groaned. "All this love is making me sick." Lately the love vibes are becoming stronger and stronger. People who never heard of Swami now go around quoting him. I can't stand this. Swami has yet to say the first quotable thing. I know that for a fact. I am the one who follows him around as he says things like "Snuff, mrpghh and gralruntmph." Even this translates into love. One woman writes his word of the day on a sticky pad and reads it at regular intervals. It wouldn't be so bad except she reports back to the satsang and we have to listen.
"Swamiji said: "Be kind...here she squinted at the yellow sticky and pronounced slowly and triumphantly...be kind..derzma!" We all knelt at his feet intoning "Derzma!" Poor Swami. He got up and went to the kitchen, returning with some good hot prasad to distribute. Derzma indeed!Junk
"You are attracted to shiny objects." Swami Z.
Swami and I sat at the kitchen table. He was drinking tea and I was cleaning out the junk drawer. There were rubber bands, thread-bare potholders, matchbooks, a little steel ruler, twine, etc. I picked out an ancient red jelly bean and popped it into my mouth.
"Ah, the red bean has landed," said Swami with an air of superiority.
Swami brought the second drawer and dumped it out on the table. There were more match books, rolls of tape, instruction booklets for household appliances, a black jelly bean. Swami popped it into his mouth triumphantly. "Checkmate," he said. There's just no winning with Swami Z. He will go down in history as the guru who will stop at nothing to stay one up on a disciple. I couldn't wait to bring the third drawer over to the table. I knew something that he didn't. There was Ex-lax in there.
"Swamiji, put your feet up and rest today," I said to him gently.
"Ah, Vicki, I think I will. I need to fall back and regroup." He looked tired.
"You're no spring chicken," I said to him, patting the top of his head.
"The satsangs are going extremely well," he said, going to the counter to put his mug in the sink. "Just shows to go you that the heart knows what is best. I have to thank you for that, Vicki."
I looked at Swami in surprise. He was thanking me....impossible. I had seen his wonder-working up close and personal for a couple of weeks now. People entered our little home looking frazzled and fussy. They left carrying homemade cookies and looking like angels.
What was he doing to these people? It was no use asking him, because he would just mumble something dumb. Believe it or not, I, too was succumbing to the "Swami said" tendency. When I went to the market and found myself in line behind an irate customer, I said to myself inwardly, "Swami says....no problem. Read some magazines. Pick out a new flavor of gum...whatever."
Swami ambled on down the hall to his room and I began unloading the cabinets so that I could wash them and put in new shelf paper. Something crossed my mind like a shadow. What if Swami got so popular that he left me? What would I do then? My abandonment issues were alive and well.
Swami popped his head around the corner and winked at me. He said three little words, "Not to worry." I pulled him into the kitchen and enveloped him in a hug. I would have done the dance of joy, but Swami was gone before I could begin. He might be a little senile at times, but he was clearly still a heart throb.
Swami is getting a star on the Guru Walk of Fame. To that end, he has rented a tuxedo and I have sprung for a long, slinky red gown. We are somethin'! Swami doesn't look a day over fifty and me, well....let's just say I look terrif! If I hadn't pushed Swami into having satsang, we would not have been having this studly event for him. This is how it happened.
One fine day a limo pulled up in front of our modest home. Out hops an up and coming Hollywood starlet. She was draped on the arm of a movie mogul. Seems she got wind of Swami Z when she was in our little town making a low-budget movie. Swami was an extra on the day they needed "small, unassuming men." He fit the part, Lord knows.
I seated the two of them for satsang and she asked a leading question, "Does God exist or are we making him up?" I winked broadly at Swami, hoping that he would put her in her place. He didn't. Not only that, he was positively smitten. He did a tiny little dance of joy that you could hardly see and said, "Now, that's a fine question!"
He just stood there looking stupid. I finally cleared my throat until he came out of his revery. "Are we making God up?" he repeated the question as if in a trance. Then he said loudly, "Well, what if we are?" There was a brief silence and then people began to clap. His performance was Oscar-worthy. "What if we are..." He said it as if it were a pronouncement for the ages. People looked downright happy, as if they had been bitten by the "what if we are" bug. Darned if they hadn't been snookered by the best.
Love conquers all, however. I am loathe to admit this, but when said starlet called and said she wanted to put Swami on the Guru Walk of Fame, I heartily agreed. I also knew that I didn't want him wearing his Dr. Scholl's sandals. But one thing at a time.
Swami has gone Hollywood, or at least "TV." He is now calling the satsang attendees his "peeps." And I don't mean Easter chickens. To make it worse, Rose is going along with it and encouraging him to do lunch and take meetings. Ruin has to take a number and Jim has been counseled to "lose the polyester." If it gets any worse, I may have to eliminate satsang altogether.
I am afraid he may speak to Entertainment Tonight about my housekeeping habits. Not only that, he will have them falling in love with my dust bunnies and feeding them carrots. I would jerk a knot in his tail, but he is running around the house jabbering. He's playing air guitar and chatting up Neil Young. I am in a quandary, a snit and all points in between. I am so mad at him I am serving canned soup for supper. That will show him. Mister Big Shot the Guru. When did he ever enlighten anyone?
PrayerfulSwami and I have a prayer together every morning; it is for our own centering that we pray. Swami feels that being off-center is a bigger sin than almost anything else. He insists that we sit on folding chairs with our backs straight and our head bowed. We let our hands hang loose in our laps.
Silence is the centering mechanism for both of us. It is like putting a level on a crooked picture. The silence levels the inner life right up because what is off-bubble is screaming for your attention. It feels like a brown shoe in a white shoe world. We look at the brown shoe and with focused energy on it, we breathe it out and let it go. We continue breathing until there are only white shoes left. Don't take this too literally; since Swami usually wears slippers.
As we sit in silence together, I feel the love that Swami exudes with every breath he takes. This tiny man has the biggest heart of anyone I know. How I drew him to me is the biggest mystery of all.
The silence extends into the other rooms of the house. Our bedrooms, the hall, kitchen and living room are touched by the soundlessness arising from within our hearts. My heart is not as big as Swami's but it is beating in harmony with his. That gives me hope and the knowledge that for everything there is a season. Swami's silliness over celebrity is just another game for the old man. He knows how radically all who love him are changed. It is nothing that he does, of course. You know this by now. It is what he is that changes people.
When we stand up, we hear our bodies creaking. Swami is the first to break the silence. "Well, Vicki," he says with vim, vigor and vitality, "let's eat!" I head for the kitchen, knowing that the cinnamon rolls are begging to be buttered. I can hardly wait.
P.S. For those of you who don't know or keep forgetting, Swami is a fictional character and I take no responsibility for what he does when I am off duty. If he gets under your skin or into your heart, don't tell me. Tell him. Talk about a guru throwing you back on yourself...
Opening the DoorSwami has been asked this question before and perhaps now is as good a time as any to answer it. The question is this, "Why did you pick Vicki?"
Swami thinks for a split second before breaking into a wide-mouthed jug of a grin. "Because she opened the door!" He pronounced this with all the energy of a three year-old who has reached the top of a tree. "Vicki opened the door to a scrawny little man she had never laid eyes on before. Without hesitation, she let me into her heart and things started cooking."
He continued, "I came to look after her. I make her cookies!"
Vicki has wandered into the satsang room where she realizes Swami has begun satsang without her. A dozen people, many of them chubby, are listening to Swami hold forth while they are holding cookies. There are many fat grams in Swami's satsangs.
"Vicki, sit down, sit down," said Swami heartily. "I am giving satsang and someone asked why I picked you to live with."
I looked around at the munching devotees who were only half-listening. Ka-boom! Kundalini alert. Kundalini alert. Did no one sense the power of Swami Z. If they did, they would put down those cookies and listen.
"Vicki is so open that she lets just anyone come into her heart...and that is why she is so closed at the same time. Vicki is a revolving door. But me, I am a saint. I let anyone come to satsang and stay until they are full."
"Vicki and I live together and we would have started this much sooner if she had not been so filled with suffering. I had to get a dumpster to come in and haul away a goodly portion of it. Now she knows how to work around it."
A devotee raises his hand tentatively. "Swami, I have a time-share. Would you come and stay with me for two weeks in March?"
"Absolutely not," said Swami. "It's all or nothing and Vicki knows that. She's up for the bitter and the sweet. I am changing her faster than the law allows. That is where grace comes in."
Grace was wafting through the satsang room and in and out of some listening ears. It has ever been thus.
Swami's GraceSwami has not changed one iota since he moved in with me. He still bakes at odd hours, dresses funny and is imperiously outspoken. What is it about this little guy that defies indifference? After all, he's a made-up dude.
It's because truth is meant to be a consuming fire and that is exactly what he is. He loves unequivocally and with no apology. He deals truth like a gambler in Las Vegas and the odds are against your winning. He has you hook, line and sinker. As Ramesh Balsekar says, "your head is in the tiger's mouth." Grrrr.
Those who are open to Swami's teachings feel the unmistakeable love that he has for them. He doesn't just give it out in dribs and drabs; he slathers it on and turns the oven to four hunded degrees. He wants you nice and roasted.
Skillfully, he peels away your facade and leaves himself nothing but the essence of you to be loved, loved, loved. Then he stands back and says proudly, "Look, what a loving disciple I have baked." He has thrown the scraps of your ego away and left the world with the best you that you could be. He should be on the Iron Chef. Alas, he is only a cookie maker.
The Truth is Neither Here nor There
"The truth is what you make it and so are cookies."
Swami's satsang crowd is eating well these days; whether or not they are absorbing the truth is another matter. I imagine that their collective cholesterol count is staggering.
Today the topic was about spontaneity. Swami gave a brief talk about hanging loose. He wore a Hawaaian shirt and flipflops to drive his points home. Rose raised her hand with a question and sadly, it was key to everything. I say sadly because she never got it answered. It happened like this...
Rose put her pocketbook down and whipped out her notepad and pen. She was about to take Swami on. Little did she know how he worked. She tried to pin Swami down about being spontaneous and he was able to deftly avoid each question as it fell from pursed lips. Each time she raised a point, Swami parried and thrusted until she was exhausted. I rarely saw Swami mad, but believe me, Rose was testing his patience.
"So, Swami," she ended up as if she were a skilled lawyer wrapping up her case, "hanging loose is something that you recommend?" Swami sat there picking at a loose thread on his lime green shirt. He finished and looked up at the ceiling.
"I have to follow the rules when I bake," Swami said. "Even though I can improvise on the recipes, I have to follow the rules when it comes to temperature and all that. The thing is, the cookies taste better when I make them in a surrendered state of mind. "
Rose frowned. Clearly she was not comfortable with spontaneity, truth and Hawaaian shirts. Did Swami care? I looked at him as he arose and went to put an arm around Rose. I think I heard her inviting him over for pot roast. I looked around and everyone had gone back to their own reality. I was left with Swami and a roomful of empty chairs.
Slice and Bake Enlightenment
"Sleep fast. We need the pillows." Old Yiddish proverb.
Swami began satsang with a statement, "I am here and you are there." He grinned and said, "You are there and I am here. Now that I have established that, it gets very confusing, for you often believe that you are other than here. When you think that you are here, it is then that you want to be there. And when you are there, it is then that you want to be here."
Rose looked bored if not irritated. She raised her hand.
"Yes, Rose, what is it?" said Swami.
"Why is it that you always end up acting silly? I know that I am here and you are there; do you have to act so silly about it?"
Swami said grumpily, "So, Rose, you are free to leave here and go there."
Rose was a Type A; she just had to be accomplishing something. She went at understanding Swami like a bat out of hell. She was bent on taking him literally and at full throttle. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. Swami was having none of it.
"Once when I was younger," said Swami, "I, too, pursued realization like it was the bullet train and I had just missed it. I put down my briefcase and ran like the devil. I finally caught it and it took me nowhere but there. It didn't stop here."
"Well, Swami, I have had quite enough of your stupid "heres and theres. I have heard of a better spiritual teacher that gives satsang quicker and faster.""Yeah, slice and bake enlightenment. Doesn't taste so good, Rose. Got an artificial something or other ...can't quite put my finger on it." He reached over and handed Rose a chocolate chip cookie. She took it and ended up eating the whole thing. By then, all of us were on Swami's side except Rose. Had she just come here for the cookies?
*****
Truth is stunningly simple. It is. Take it or leave it; it remains. Bend it and twist it; it returns to its original shape. What is so complicated about this?
Truth is above the human mind and emotions. It lies beyond our reach...on the top shelf. It is safe from our mishandling.
Truth would have us come to it on its terms and not on our own. Why is this so hard?
Truth wants to free us from complexity; why is this beyond our grasp? Because it is supposed to be. Grasping is not how we come to truth.
Swami Z teaches littles classes and people do not want to listen. He doesn't care; he knows what he is about. Forget complexity and come to class. It is not about the cookies (or is it.....)
The Price of AdmissionSwami Z sat behind his desk and waited for the few students that he had to settle down. He was obviously tired of this satsang business. He tried to jazz things up, but no one was buying it. "Stodgy old students," he thought, "wanting me to give them enlightenment so they can go out and brag about it."
Just last week the meter man had been in the sideyard and Swami Z had asked him in for tea and cookies. He asked Swami no questions but he got infinity right there in our little kitchen. Imagine that.
Saturday Night
Saturday night was just like old times with Swami and me before he began giving satsang. We sat in the living room in front of the fire. Although spring was obviously in the offing, tonight was nippy and we drank cocoa and stared into the flames.
I remembered the early days when Swami first came to live with me--how we fought and knocked heads and I loved every minute of it. Discipline has evolved gradually as I have come to respect him more as time goes by.
Of course, time doesn't go by; it just seems that way. Swami looked unusually peaceful and I had nothing to say to him that counted. I watched his abdomen rise and fall as he breathed. The fire crackled and I sighed deeply. If this was the simple life, I had achieved it.
No, wait a minute. That doesn't sound right. Perhaps Swami had achieved it. But what was "it" and who was "I" to possess it. Swami was having his effect on the students who came to hang out with him in the satsang room. They knew nothing of his personal life and they didn't have to. What they wanted and needed was his being and that was extraordinary. It transcended age, sex and political opinions. It was rooted in the reality of being ordinary. As far as I know, Swami was affiliated with nothing....which is everything.
The evening drew to a close and we each knew that all was well. Tomorrow, satsang would be held again and those who came would benefit from this evening. They would sit and listen to him speak, absorbing the atmosphere of this simple holy man. Cookies be darned....he alone was worth the price of admission.
The GameSwami has been hanging out at Macy's again. I hate to tell you this, but having satsang at home has only increased his reputation with the ladies. They can't get enough of a Swami with a two-hundred and fifty thread count and a large Sharpie. Go figure.
They meet him at Macy's and if he likes them, he invites them to our house for satsang. Sometimes women argue over which folding chair affords the better view of Swami. Whether they are after his power or his money is beyond me. He looks after each devotee in whatever way their karma demands.
He offers Rose prasad of pimento cheese sandwiches with the crust cut off. For Jim, it's creamed tuna on toast. Needless to say, I have to wash up after these fatsos have gone. I am running low on pot scrubbers and elbow grease. Swami has little time to bake cookies, what with pot roast for Larry and twice-baked potatoes for Sam. The thing is...and I hope you don't think I am complaining...these satsangs are getting expensive. No one ever offers to wash dishes, either.
Today Larry wanted Swami to explain how grace trumps karma. I felt like getting out the poker chips and some cold ones. Swami had the perfect answer, though. He said that hearts beat grace. That went right over Larry's head.
Last night I was so tired I was falling head first into the dishwater. Swami sat at the kitchen table swigging hot tea and holding his poor little head. "Got a headache?" I asked him.
He nodded wearily. "It's Larry's headache. He gave it to me when he told me good-bye...that sly little devil. If it isn't gone by morning, I'm giving it back and raising him a neckache." Even Swami can be pushed too hard at times.
Initiation into NowSwami entered the satsang room with an air of importance. He took his seat behind the desk and surveyed his listeners--all six of them. "Today," he intoned, "I am going to initiate you into now." He waited for a response. All he got was a dull thud. Rose had dropped her pocketbook. After she retrieved it and we were all satisfied that nothing else was going to happen, Swami went on.
"Now has everything that you need....like Rose's pocketbook. He ventured a half-smile, one of which Thich Nhat Hanh would have approved. In the now is what you need to get through the day. And it may seem to last forever. He looked at his watch. "Sometimes today lasts well into tomorrow." He sighed and looked out the window. "Maybe it just seems that way when I have satsang with you people."
"You people" were not about to get their feet wet in the living moment, even with Swami noodging them into it. Rose took out a roll of candy and peeled one off and popped it into her mouth. She passed it to the person next to her in a conspiratorial fashion. She thought she was at the movies. I winced for what would come next.
Swami made one more stab at his not-so-gentle initiation into now. He rose suddenly, causing Rose to swallow her candy. I hoped someone knew the Heimlich maneuver, because Swami had left the building. He probably wanted to get a breath of fresh now. I couldn't blame him.
I stayed long enough to see that the candy was dislodged, thanks to Marvin's Heimliching of Rose--and then I passed out the cookies which were in the prasad basket. No one seemed to have noticed that Swami had disappeared. Is that what happened to now? It just left unnoticed, only to be replaced by something more exciting. We were in big trouble. Swami's presence had not even been missed. Out in the yard he was giving satsang to the big oak tree...or was it the other way around?
Kicking BackSwami and I are kicking back tonight. We ordered pizza and swigged Coke in front of the fire. Spring is here and I am thinking of taking everyone in satsang on a field trip. When I broached the subject with Swami, he wanted to take us to Macy's.
"Vicki, I think we should go to the Sleep Department at Macy"s. You could watch me work my magic up close and personal." I wondered at his open support of himself. Surely he didn't expect us to watch him autograph bed sheets while we sat on stacks of carpet and took notes. He continued.
"Just last week I was wandering through new stock and saw a devotee who had met me there last month. She wanted to know if peach sheets would work with a lavender duvet. I was dubious but intrigued."
Swami knew he was getting on my nerves. I quickly began typing him into a corner. The only place he had to go was up....so he took the escalator. Darn. Just when I had him where I wanted him.
*****
Swami Z has two left feet. I know because he has been dancing around the house, touched by the spring warmth. Flowering trees are in bloom and Swami is growing younger. He has the radio on and is jammin' but not very gracefully. I don't think he knows the difference between his two feet. Ah, well...
Today in satsang we had a quiet, rather boring group. My spirit guide Larry dropped in and I was humiliated. He sat in the back row and chewed Juicy Fruit. His mullet was oily and his plaid shirt was downright ugly. I was embarrassed for him. And wouldn't you know it, he raised his hand.
When Swami called on him, this is what he said--more or less. "Swami, is Vicki going to be enlightened or should she just pack it up now. I mean, she has been hanging around you for a loooong time."
The clock ticked loudly while Larry waited for his answer. Finally Swami started singing "Get on the love train....dah dah dah, get on the love train, dah dah dah."
I winced, Larry left and the disciples danced. A good time was had by all.
NuisanceLarry was becoming a nuisance. Not being known for nuances, he telegraphed his stupidity long before he had to. For instance, if I found myself humming music from the eighties, Larry would soon be making an appearance. I guess it's like people with migraines having auras beforehand. Larry has one, too. I can be well on my way to nirvana and wham! Larry, right in the old storyline. Here he comes now.
I heard a knock at the door. I knew it was Larry. He always uses the shave and a haircut knock. I let him in, albeit grudgingly. He was early for satsang, expecting cookies before class. What a dolt. Of course, I had conjured him up at a weak moment long before I had met Swami. Little did I know that Swami knew all about him.
Larry sits in the back row so he can watch the door. When Swami is at full tilt, discussing samadhi, nirvana and the bliss of the Self, Larry is apt to raise his paw.
"Got a question," said Larry, this Monday morning. "Do you believe that we choose our destiny?"
Swami looked blank. He pulled at a thread on his plaid shirt. (He and Larry both favored plaid, I hate to admit this). "Don't know and don't care," said Swami. "Got to deal with what is. That is destiny."Larry couldn't leave well enough alone. He raised his hand a second time. This time Swami looked stern and let Larry wave his hand like a second grader before he bit off the words, "Yes, Larry."
"What if you don't like what is?"
"It probably doesn't like you, either," said Swami as if he knew something. "What say we move along." But he had lost the class. They were busy hating Larry. I knew where they were coming from.
*****
Be of good hope in the face of death. Believe in this one truth for certain, that no evil can befall a good man either in life or death, and that his fate is not a matter of indifference to the gods. Larry never meant to cause any trouble. The Larrys of this world never do. They are born in utero with Swamis and persist until full enlighenment. I don't know this, for I am making it up like everything else. There is a good twin and an evil twin. I had no idea that Larry would be poking his ugly old head in at satsang and keeping me up nights. No idea...Socrates (B.C. 469-399)
Swami loves Larry even though he is a giant aggravation. He beams at Larry just as he beams at poor, hapless Rose. Today Rose had an anchovie sandwich in her bottomless handbag. Swami would be right in the middle of something key to waking up and get a whiff of anchovies.
"Listen up, you people," said Swami stentoriously, "every day is the last day...it could be....sniff sniff. What the heck is that awful smell?" Rose said nothing. Swami continued, trying not to gag. "Death is here now; just as life with a small 'l.' Life is above the opposites....what the heck is stinking up satsang?"
Rose finally admitted guilt and was not forgiven until she had passed the sandwich around and let us all sniff indignantly. She ate it in full waking consciousness in the presence of life and death. Satsang over.
Stick Pony DrillThis morning I heard a knock at the door. When I opened it, there stood Larry holding Ruin, his stick pony.
"Vicki," he said with his usual hubris, "I want to start a stick pony drill team."
"I don't own a stick pony," I said, (with profound relief).
"Oh, I know you don't. That'll come later. For now, just use a broom. I want us to learn how to march together. We're meeting at Starbucks. That's a good idea...maybe we can call ourselves the Starbuckeroos." He looked inordinately proud of himself. He was wearing a white cowboy hat and a polyester plaid shirt.
"Larry," I improvised, meanwhile sending up a prayer to heaven, "let me think about it. I mean, you are my spirit guide and all, but I have a lot of things to do today. I have to do my taxes and soak my head." I knew he wasn't listening and he proved it by total nonreaction to the headsoaking comment.
"How many people are you guiding, Larry? And have any of them gotten where you want them to be?" I knew the answer to this before I asked. I was the only one and I didn't even have a stick pony. Larry was living large in his own mind.
Larry hemmed and hawed and couldn't come up with an appropriate answer. He just unhitched Ruin from my mailbox and rode off into the sunset, which was hard since it was before noon. Later I saw him at Dunkin Donuts eating coconut cake donuts and drinking coffee from a paper cup.
****
"Swami," I said as I lay on the floor in front of the fireplace, "what do you think about stopping satsang. I mean....no one is even close to getting it.""So," said Swami with an unusually provocative inflection. "Have you gotten it?"
That is what you call a rhetorical question since he obviously knew the answer. Why he stayed on here was beyond me. I was so rooted and grounded in his love that I took it for granted these days. He was a frail old man who forgot things. "If he left you for good," said my mind, "what would you do?"
I hoped that Swami was not reading my thoughts. He must not have been, for he looked up and said the following, "Beloved Vicki, who took me in and gave me use of her stove, I have no intention of stopping satsang. Anyone who comes here is free to take what I have to give....and eat cookies while I am giving it." Thanks to Swami, the Girl Scouts no longer sold many boxes of cookies on our street. They couldn't top Swami's.
"Satsnag"Yesterday Larry had been at satsang again. He had the nerve to ask a question with a toothpick hanging out of his mouth. "Swam," he said, dropping the "i" in a familiar way, "once we get it, can we keep it?"
"Of course you can, Larry," said Swami generously, "and I shall give you a paper bag to carry it home in." Rose tittered. She was actually coming along nicely. Never underestimate the power of a woman who uses breath mints on the hour. She is apt to be meticulous in the dharma as well.
"Rose," said Swami patiently, "would you please tell us what it is that I am trying to give you?"
"Satsang,"said Rose simply.
I would have thought she was just another ditsy old broad, but who knows? She was definitely ahead of Larry.
*****
Some days satsang never gets off the ground. We are only human, including Swami Z. Today was one of those days your mama told you about. Swami was wearing a shirt that made him itch; Rose had a cough and I was just generally morose. I wanted Swami back all to myself. These wannabee chelas were getting on my nerves. I was overeating and whining to Swami about it every chance I got.
It was a beautiful day. Why were we so contrary and unappreciative of the world's cutest swami? He sat there with his hand at the back of his neck looking like a five-year-old. I couldn't remember if I had any calomine lotion or not. If I did, I would make him put some on.
He talked about service to the guru and how important it was in purifying our hearts. (Was it because I was behind in doing his laundry?) "Vicki is the perfect disciple," I heard him saying. "She writes down everything I say." Well, now he was being ironic, bordering on sarcastic.
Larry chose that moment to ask if he could be excused. "Larry," said Swami sternly, "you should go to the bathroom before satsang begins." I squirmed. Larry sighed and slumped in his folding chair. Why did he keep coming to satsang. Didn't he have enough to do being a fake spiritual guide to idiots like me?
If you are wondering why Swami and I put up with Larry, it is simple. He is in the script. The script is that thing we all have to follow whether we want to or not. Usually our lines are not ideal and we read them with far too much identification. Swami calls this "chewing the scenery instead of the cookies."
Larry sulked the rest of satsang. Rose went to sleep. John asked a stupid question and Swami just kept scratching. Thankfully, he aborted the whole satsang well before the usual time and we all exited stage left. Off-stage I put calomine on Swami's neck and told myself repeatedly that he was just a piece of fiction. Love lies beyond the printed page.
RuinRuin is a wonderful horse. He emanates compassion and can be wiped clean with a wet cloth. I can't say that much for his owner. Larry needs a better haircut. It is so easy to look down on Larry, especially when you are in an SUV and he is riding Ruin during rush hour.
Some days you can't get there from here and then Larry rides up on Ruin, putting the whole traffic jam thing into perspective. Who cares about that when Larry's mullet is blowing in the wind? He is a piece of work.
I have yet to take a ride on Ruin, although Larry has offered. He claims that Ruin is the grandson of Devastation, one of the finer stick ponies ever manufactured. He has pictures of him in his wallet, but I haven't pressed the issue. Larry can be vulnerable. What if it is just a picture clipped from some antique magazine?
"Larry," I said, when we met up at Dunkin Donuts for a cup of coffee, "Have you ever considered breeding Ruin?"
"No, and I don't plan to," said Larry, with parental concern. "He has a slight defect in his mane and it could be genetic, I don't know. Anyway, old Ruin and I are happy and complete just as we are."
I looked at Larry sitting at the molded table there in Dunkin Donuts and nodded my head in agreement. Love bears all. I tried to feed Ruin a buttermilk donut but he didn't seem hungry.
Satsang began exactly on time. Swami pulled out a sheaf of old papers and begin reading....non sequiturs! I quickly grew embarrassed.
"So," said Swami, clearing his throat and reaching for a glass of water, "who has a question?"
John raised his hand. "Swami, could you explain what you mean when you said that time is money and should be kept in an old sock?"
Swami appeared to be losing his mind. I slumped down in my chair, hoping that the others would not see me. Ye gads. How was he going to get out of this one?
"Where would you keep it--in your shoe?" Swami looked irritated.
"Time does not exist and neither does money. Put it where you like it, John. Put it in your glove compartment. Put it up your nose."
John grinned. He looked into Swami's eyes, which were aswim with such profound love. What were words in the presence of the Presence?
I cannot imagine anyone coming to Swami's satsang with the idea of learning anything new. It is not about that. It is about the privilege of sitting with yourself in the company of Love. I used to think that Swami was just a crazy character I dreamed up. I let him come into the kitchen and he began making cookies. I built him a satsang room and let him say crazy things. All for love. All for love. And the cookies.
*****
For the love of Mike
Swami needs to see the doctor. He is going around acting like somebody just stepped on his last nerve. He is yelling at students to speak louder, say less and yes, last week he was heard to say, "bite me."
Often Swami watches too much TV; hence the expression "bite me"and "yada yada yada." Once he was expounding on the Gita and he just said "yada yada yada." If it doesn't sound funny now, you just had to be there. Swami has also taken to eating nachos and cheese dip. I am seriously concerned about this particular habit. If Larry sees Swami eating the cheese dip, the next thing you know......Ruin is covered in it.
Swami borrowed Ruin yesteday to ride to the Quick Mart. With his bedsheet blowing in the wind, he was a handsome sight, if I do say so. When they got home, he thanked Larry for the loan and apologized for letting Ruin have a Slurpee. Ruin now has a purple mouth and everyone in satsang is wanting to take him home and clean him up.
Satsang attendees are learning how to do chores around our house. Before class, some of them troop into the kitchen and dust baseboard-- things like that. Jim sprayed the house for roaches last week and Rose dusted us all down with lavender sachet. Cleanliness is next to godliness and smelling purty, well, that's priceless.
SnitI have been in a snit lately. You see, everybody loves Swami and no one gives a fig about me. When Swami came to live with me, I was oh, so generous with the little Napoleonic figure. I let him wear my bedsheets; I washed up after his cookie messes and let him have the run of the house.
He would sweep out the door on his way to Macy's, come home and sit down to my delicious dinners and fall asleep in front of the fire or the TV. I was Cinderella by my own hearth. I took it all in stride. But since Swami is holding satsang, I have become a wee bit resentful. Swami knows it and is playing me like a fiddle.
"Vicki's mad and I am glad and I know what will please her. A bottle of ink to make her stink and Swami Z to squeeze her." He danced around me wildly and I was tempted to pull the plug on my computer. It would be that easy. Rose, Jim, Larry... all the attendees would just up and disappear. No more cookies, no more Swami. Ah, I was contemplating the power when Swami stepped on my foot.
"You just stepped on my last nerve!" I yelled. Swami looked gratified and horrifed at the same time. I began to cry and like all little boys, Swami didn't know what to do. He stood there transfixed as tears rolled down my face. Finally he gave me a hug and said, "I'm sorry. I promise to let you watch anything you want on TV tonight." He went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. And here I am at the computer, begging for your love, just as I might be on American Idol. Only I am old enough to know better.
Paradise is always where love dwells.
Richter (1763-1825)
Swami sat with a newspaper underneath his feet clipping his toenails. "Swami!" I yelled. "Stop it! I will not write you any further into this piece until you stop." Swami calmly completed his left foot, folded the paper and put it in the wastebasket. Again I yelled. "For the love of Mike!" He was hopeless. But I began typing and we went on from there.
You may think it is odd that Swami has life both as a character and when he is not. But this is no different than how people behave. It is exactly how they behave.
Swami, of course, knows that he is just a dream that I am having. "Look out the window," said Swami. "Here come Michael, Rose and Jim. They are all just stick figures to me."
"Then where does the love you feel for them come from, Swami?"
"From within, of course. Vicki, it is time to fire up the satsang." He grabbed his glass of water and we entered the addition. We looked out over Swami's groupies and I sat down. Having a front row seat to Swami is "like buttah."
The topic was being real. Swami tended to be lazy about his satsangs and so he just pulled that topic to him because it was the closest.
"None of us are real," said Swami, glancing over at me typing him into the computer. "Here is where it gets complicated." (One of Swami's favorite throw-away lines.) Rose scooped it up and put it in her purse.
"Just last night, I was baking cookies and someone knocked at the door. It was a reader from Kansas who just had to have some of my cookies and receive my darshan. As far as I know, we are fresh out of darshan. I gave her some cookies and because she believes in me, she had no trouble digesting them. And she will never, ever gain any weight!" I hope Weight Watchers nevers gets a whiff of Swami or they will buy him, turn him into a product and weigh his fat grams.
By now, the satsang attendees are thinking instead of listening. They are trying to figure out how they can come to satsang and lose weight at the same time. Can't be done--unless the fat isn't real, either. This satsang could turn out to be a gold mine.
Swami is a giggle. Even when he is lowering the boom, he comes across as warm. Go figure. The satsang attendees often come through the door looking a tad human--to put it nicely. Swami can take their weariness and dip it into a jar of bubble solution.
"What's that, Rose? You're feeling your age today?" Swami dips his awareness into the bubbles and blows good energy to Rose.
Rose, being the pefect example of taking things literally, stands up and catches his energy, holding it gently on her palm. We all look at it with wonder, especially me, who is making this up as I go along. I stopped typing long enough to look at the bubbles in Rose's hand, then continued typing.
Swami feigned exasperation, "Now, Rose, don't take everything I say so literally. Put my energy down and pay attention."
Rose sat up straighter in her chair. Larry came in late, propped Ruin against the wall and took a back seat. Swami feigned even more irritation. "Larry, you and that darned fool pony are late!"
Larry hung his head and Ruin looked unworried. After satsang was over, Swami gave him some sugar cubes and Rose a hug. Beats me if anyone learned anything today.
*****
I hope that none of you are taking Swami literally. That is to miss the essence of the teachings, which is your unreality. If Swami let her, Rose would climb into his lap and hand-feed him his lines. She always records what he says verbatim and that is verboten.
Last week he was speaking and she asked him to repeat something that he said too fast. "Eh, er...uh....I was, uh..." but Swami had lost the point. He made do with another point, but I don't remember what it was.
All of a sudden Swami roared, "What am I, a lightning bug? Am I something that you can catch, squash and wear as a ring?" Rose took this literally. Satsang ended with Rose chasing Swami around with a large butterfly net. She wanted his body, but not for the usual reasons.
On Having No Head--This appeared in Nonduality Highlights in March, 2004.
There has been a terrible accident. Larry and Ruin were heading home after satsang. From what the police can tell us, a blue Ford Mustang rear-ended Larry. No one was hurt, but Ruin's head came off, leaving Larry only a stick to ride. Those of us who love Ruin were devastated. We were not sure what to do. We couldn't send him get well cards because he couldn't read. We couldn't send casseroles because his digestive system had been disconnected from his mouth.
How do you let a stick know that you love it? I thought about Douglas Harding's briliant book "On Having No Head." I could visit Ruin and Larry and read aloud from it. I lost no time in finding the book and hightailing it over to Larry's.
Larry lived, where else, in a trailer park. It was a lovely one with little Toto-like dogs waiting to be blown away. Red geraniums spilled from goose planters and wagon wheels were growing out of the dirt like fine landscaping materials.
Larry's trailer was an old Airstream. I knocked at the door and Larry let me in. He had obviously been crying. The accident had shaken him up, but more than that, his best friend lay in two parts on the sagging corduroy couch.
Silently I approached the motionless horse. Tears were welling up in Larry's eyes as he said, "He's not long for this world." I thought to myself that he wasn't long, period. He had never been more than two hands high and without his head, he was definitely a miniature pony. His head lay on one cushion and his body further on down the couch. I sat between the two Ruins and wished I had gone to veterinary school, or at the very least--to a doll hospital.
Larry said, "Guess he's not good for anything but the glue factory."
That was it! I asked Larry if he had some wood glue and he did. We operated on Ruin right away. Without rubber gloves or sterilization, we put Ruin's head and his body on the kitchen table and performed crude surgery. Re-attaching the head to the body was a risky procedure, we knew that. However dangerous it was, it had to be done. Otherwise, Ruin would have no quality of life at all--not to mention Larry.
Hours later, Larry and I came to. (We had fallen asleep after the re-attachment was complete.) We raced into the kitchen, where Ruin still lay on the kitchen table. Would he be able to ride again? I put my hand on his neck and the glue held. I turned to Larry and said with emotion, "Would you like to ride him around the room...but carefully?"
Larry lifted Ruin off the table and took the reins in his hand. I, overcome with emotion, could only watch as they galloped around the green ottoman. It had all been worth it. I guess I wouldn't be reading from Douglas Harding after all.
"Can you breathe in and out? Can you be kind?" - Lama Yeshe
Swami's kindness is beyond understanding. On a day when you think he is going to kick someone out of satsang, he lowers the bar so that someone like Larry can jump across.
Larry had come in late, wagging Ruin along as usual. Swami had let it be known that he loved Ruin like a brother, which really confused us. Stick ponies are not generally that loveable.
Larry propped Ruin carefully by his chair and looked up at Swami. Swami said, with a hint of irritation, "Larry, I was right in the middle of transcending karma and you come in late. Now I have lost my train of thought."
Rose waggled her hand like a school girl. "I remember," she said, "you were saying (and here she consulted her notes), that karma is something that rises and turns into ...." she frowned. "Oh, that is my recipe for angel biscuits," she said. Swami smiled softly.
Wanting to be stern with Larry, though, he wiped the smile off and addressed Larry's lateness. "Larry, I can no longer put up with your coming to satsang late. You cannot attend tomorrow. You must remember that time is to be used for waking up. What if I ring the dharma bell and you are not here?"
Larry didn't seem to understand what Swami was getting at, and Swami, in his innate kindness, let the moment pass. After satsang, he reached down and patted Ruin gently on his little brown head. Anyone who owns a stick pony named Ruin can't be all bad.
Witnessing the Chaos
If we can witness the chaos within without trying to interfere, it will die down of itself. This is one of the root truths of all spiritual teachings. Christ said, "Resist not evil," and many masters have restated this key principle. We resist receiving it!
Gurdjieff taught that "man cannot do." There are some who call his teachings coldly intellectual; however, they have stood the test of time. Just try and do anything about your pain and sorrow. You will find out how little power you have.
The silence of our inner self is a bulwark against the noise of life. Although ever-present, it must be entered with the wish to transcend the clamor of our everyday consciousness.
*****
Swami is threatening to pull the plug on satsang. I keep telling him that we have a lot invested in the new addition to the house; he won't listen. Seems he is just sick and tired of people not changing.
Yesterday a man named Samuel attended for the first time and thought he knew everything there was to know about the path. He was old and well-read. Unfortunately, he was emotionally childish. He kept interrupting Swami to raise questions. That has never gone over well with Swami.
The subject that Swami had chosen to speak about was suffering...about how we all suffer and think it is unique to us. We really don't give a fig about the sufferings of other people. "For instance," said Swami, "I am suffering in the moment because none of you are listening to me fully. You are too busy suffering. You think I have nothing new to say about the topic. You think you know better. You think...and that's the problem."
That day was a watershed day for both Swami and me and I can't figure out why. I only know that humor (the law of levity) was replaced by gravity and some people fell down and got hurt.
Swami was nowhere to be seen in the satsang room. The chair behind his desk was empty. I watched the attendees file in and take their seats, a bit nervous about not seeing him up there as usual.
I wasn't sure what to do. I had no protocol for this; nothing in my notes to prepare me. Of course, he gets cantankerous at times....even a bit testy, but he was flat gone! Rose, of course, was the first to speak. "Where's Swami, Vicki?"
"I have no idea, Rose," I said. "Surely he'll walk in at any minute. But he didn't. Jim and a couple of the men went out back to see if they saw him there. He was lying in the hammock sound asleep. All they heard was the familar "zzzzzzzz." Jim poked him gently on the shoulder a couple of times and Swami opened his eyes. "No satsang today," he said, rather sadly. "Gurus are out."
Larry had wandered into the backyard about that time. He parked Ruin by the hammock and said, "What do you mean, gurus are out?" Like he should care. Anyone who wears a mullet and rides a stick pony couldn't care less about the in and out list of spiritual wannabees.
"Gurus are out," repeated Swami. "I read it....somewhere. Anyway, all of you can go home. When gurus come back in, I'll let you know." Rose clasped her bosom in disbelief. "Let me know....let me know," she said with surprising indignance. "I may be dead by then!"
Swami got up out of the hammock with Larry's help and took time to stroke Ruin. "If gurus are out, well then, I'm so out I'm in."
"That's the ticket," said Jim, wiping his hands on his polyster shirt. Come to think of it, not many people who came to Swami's satsang cared whether they were in or out about anything. Airstream trailers, polyster shirts and crocheted tissue covers were held in high esteem by these spiritual students. It was one of those days that ended well. Swami gave a talk about loving what is and topped it off with double-chocolate chip cookies. Ruin loved being outdoors and frankly, so did the rest of us.
Note to those who say gurus are not in. Get out! And Ruin had this to say, "Bite me!"
The True Guru
Swami has proclaimed Ruin to be the true guru. He now pranaams to Ruin whenever he seems him. Ruin, simple being that he is, never takes it into himself, but remains unperturbed.
Today we held satsang in the garden, among the flowers and random weeds. Jim was eager to raise a question about the nature of reality.
"Swami," he asked earnestly, "am I real?"
Swami turned to Ruin and gently inclined his head. "Is Ruin real?"
"Of course not."
"Yet would you not say that Ruin is relatively real? To Larry, he is realer than real."
Larry turned in Swami’s direction. He had fallen asleep, truth to tell, and only roused himself when he heard his name.
"Ruin....did you say Ruin? Where is he?"
Larry has developed a deep fear of losing Ruin. We think it is an old abandonment issue, but he is in denial.
"We were saying that Ruin is real to you, Is he not?"
Larry beamed with pride as he looked toward the love of his life. "He is the real deal. I am going to put him up on eBay!"
Oh, my God. Say it's not so. Is Larry this shallow, egotistical and self-serving?
Swami blanched. "You can't mean this, Larry. You would sell the Self that you are? You would trade the Real for cash?"
"No," said Larry. "I am using Paypal."
I couldn't listen to anymore. If Ruin can be bought and sold, maybe I can sell Swami for a song.
Larry and Ruin have taken up yoga. It is not enough that Larry is attending satsang. Oh, no, now I have to write him into a yoga class. Until you have seen Larry salute the sun wearing chaps, you haven't lived.
He rides Ruin to class and I jog along with them, wishing that I could ride Ruin myself. But Larry is selfish, as you all know. Lest you dislike Larry, let me hurry to remind you that he lets Ruin get in bed with him when it storms.
But I digress. Larry is going to yoga because I do. He has no inner sense of what is good for him. He eats Doritos for breakfast and forgets to brush his teeth. He lets his hair grow so long the mullet becomes as flat as a flounder and his pores are much too large. His nose is beaky and he wears boots.
Ruin, however, is a sleek wooden pony that rides like the wind. He knows that Larry needs him and yet he never throws this in his face. Even when Larry forgets to feed him, he is forgiving.
Today Larry is having trouble doing the lion. You have to stick your tongue out as far as you can and make a ferocius face. He can only look so ferocious. I glanced over at Ruin and saw his everlasting look of peace. His expression never changes. Ah, to be so enlightened.
Stick Horse Wisdom
Learning to Ride like the Wind"You have to go through Larry to get to Ruin."
I wanted to see Ruin last week and Larry wouldn't let me. What happened was this...
I had a very bad week, one in which the sky had fallen on me in sharp jagged pieces. I was cut by cumulus and nicked by nimbus. Only Ruin could heal me. I stopped by the Airstream and knocked on the door. Larry answered."What's up?" said Larry in his usual laconic manner.
"I want to take Ruin for a ride," I said, knowing full well that Larry never let Ruin go out alone. He claimed that Ruin needed him. What a joke. Larry clung to Ruin like a cheap suit. The only reason Ruin lived with him was that he was choiceless in the matter. If he had had legs, he would have run away from Larry a long time ago. No, that is not exactly true. I am just being bitter and self-serving. Ruin loves Larry and lives with him because it is the right thing to do. But I needed a stick pony to ride this morning. I sent up a silent prayer....that I could ride Ruin around the trailer park at the very least. I needed to feel the wind in my hair and the gravel under my tennies.
Larry gave in. On one condition. I had to take the two of them out to dinner. The all-you-can-eat fish fry. Okay. I took Ruin from the corner and spoke gently into his ear. The words were right from the heart and Ruin seemed to know just what I needed. We galloped joyfully around Airstreams and geranium pots. I waved at snaggle-toothed kids and old men sitting in worn lawn chairs. My head was beginning to clear and my wounds were beginning to heal. No wonder Larry liked to keep Ruin to himself. This was better than sex.
That night, as we plowed our way through catfish and hushpuppies, I knew the answer to the secret of life. But like Larry, I am loathe to share.
Wind HorseRuin has run away. I have never seen Larry so upset. When I tried to get him to open up about it, he just turned his face to the wall. He was on his cot at the time.
"Larry, if you don't tell me what happened, how will I be able to find Ruin?"
Larry looked frigheningly bad. His mullet clung to his head and his breath was fetid. There were empty Cheetos bags littering the floor.
I persisted. "When did he run?"
"Last night. We had come home from Walmart and I had put him on the counter with the stuff I had bought. I meant to put him in the corner like I always do, but I forgot. When I came back, he was gone."
I was deeply disturbed. What if Ruin had fallen into the hands of evil? Into the hands of someone who wouldn't cherish him like Larry did? Just yesteday they had attended satsang together. Swami had patted Ruin on his little brown head and received his darshan. I dreaded telling Swami.
I decided to look around the trailer, just in case Larry had overlooked a clue as to why Ruin would have run. It didn't take me long to solve the case of the missing stick. He was on the closet shelf where Larry kept his extra toilet paper. The toilet paper was in the corner where Ruin was usually tethered.
"Larry, Larry," I yelled. "It's okay. You got confused and put Ruin on the shelf."
Larry said, "Why would I do that?"
"It really doesn't matter," I sighed. "The important thing is that you still have Ruin. And enough toilet paper to last you for a month. Do you mind if I borrow a few rolls?"
Larry didn't hear me. He was doing things to Ruin that embarassed me to see. He was kissing him in the mouth and Ruin looked positively panicked. I hoped he didn't try to run tonight. There's always a first time for everything.
Satsang began with a question from Jim, who wanted to know about near-death experiences. Swami showed a lop-sided grin. "Jim,"he said, "you haven't even had a near-life experience." It was true. Beside the word meek in the dictionary was a picture of Jim.
Jim didn't take the bait. He said quite seriously, "What is a near-life experience?"
Swami swallowed. "It's when you almost come alive. Once or twice I thought you were going to have one, but then you went back into your shell. Oh, well. Anybody else got a question?"
Rose raised her hand, showing delicately polished nails. "Swami, are you talking about rebirth?"
"I am talking about the birth of spring in a winter mind," said Swami.
"I am talking about leaping off the cliff without a peanut butter sandwich in your hand."
"The way is not for sissies," snorted Swami. "Neither is it for disembodied minds like most of you are. I look out and see big fat heads on wimpy little spirit bodies. Humph! My spirit body is the size of a hundred-year-old oak. And...it has squirrels!"
I knew that Swami always spoke the truth and I couldn't wait to count his rings.
Jim raised his hand and tried to steer the conversation in another direction. "Swami, I had a near-life experience once. I was dating a girl and was right on the verge of asking her to marry me. I got cold feet....went right back to my usual life. I've been a bachelor for fifteen years."
"There you have it" said Swami, "a case-study of the perfect near-life experience." Jim looked pleased to have been singled out and Swami pretended not to see. Instead he raised his head to look at the old oak tree. Swami might be squirrelly, but more importantly he is really alive where it counts.
"Sometimes," said Swami, "life is not so much about what you make it as about what it makes of you." He said these words on a fine spring morning when the pear trees were bearing white shawls of blossoms on their slender shoulders.
Swami looked very fine himself. Although he was an old man, he was wiry and electrically ecstatic. Where did he get this immediacy with all of life?
I raised my hand on an impulse. "Yes, Vicki?"
"Swami, who is the true guru? I know that the question itself is a cliche, but I still want to know."
"Your guru is the one who changes you in spite of yourself, the one who awakens love in you....the one who forces you to abandon all that is not love. In other words, the guru is everywhere."
Everyone in the satsang room was watching Swami intently. There was something different about his energy field today that was extraordinary. When he moved, he moved in a field of white light. The hair on my head was standing up.
"And if I am everywhere, then so are you. If I am love, then so are you. If I have power, then so do you."
I swear that Jim would have given his power back if he could have. He squirmed in his folding chair. "Jim," said Swami, with precognitive insight, "keep your power."
Jim said nothing but when he rose to leave the satsang room, Swami walked over to him and gave a slight bow. "Thou art that, Jim," he said, "and all the tea in china won't take it back."
Now why did the rest of us fall even more deeply in love with Swami?
The next satsang featured singing birds, as we all trooped outside on a beautiful warm afternoon. Swami sat on a bench connected to the picnic table and the others were in lawn chairs. A pitcher of lemonade and a plate of cookies awaited us.
Swami seemed bent on continuing the theme of the true guru. He lobbed this comment into the small crowd, "Is the true guru going to stay with you through think and then...." Swami loved word play as much as I did.
"Do you mean through thick and thin," said Rose, ever the literal-minded.
"No, I meant through think and then," said Swami, beginning to get irked with Rose.
"Thinking about God won't cut the mustard," said Swami. "Talking about Him isn't much better. Being God, now that's the ticket!" he proclaimed.
Jim, of course, turned beet-red and slumped down in his chair.
"Swami Jim," said Swami loudly, "what is the nature of reality?"
"Be real!" thundered Swami, rising up off the wooden bench. "Be a man!" Right then, as if on cue, a squirrel ran down the tree and scampered into the yard. We all looked at it, as if it might somehow rescue Jim.
"You know why you can't respond, Jim?" asked Swami. "Because you are too modest to be God. If I needed God in you, you wouldn't be able to summon Him. How about you, Rose, got God today?"
Rose clutched her handbag defensively. "What?" was all she could manage to say.
I was growing protective of the other disciples. Swami was being unfair. No one can summon God on cue. Didn't Swami know that?
A silence fell over the satsang assembled in the backyard. Who would be able to segue into another subject. We didn't have to wait long to find out. Swami stood up and said that satsang was over for today. He passed among us with the plate of cookies and everyone took at least two. I'm not sure that counts as being hungry for God, but who knows?
The subject these days is God-consciousness. Swami seems bound and determined to give it to us and there are no takers. Seems the loss of suffering is tantamount to losing one's separate self. Swami is taking his sweet time, but I am growing antsy for my self-realization, with sugar on top.
Last night we sat at the kitchen table and talked about the satsangs. More and more people were flocking to hear Swami speak. It doesn't matter what he says; what matters is that he says it. He cannot help but help; it is his nature. Of course, as his student, I find myself growing more and more morose. (That is my nature).
"I'm down in the dumps," I said, hoping for a hug or just the right combination of words, like pepperonis placed on a pizza.
"You!" said Swami, with disbelief. "I'm the one selling river water at the river. I'm getting downright wet." He shook his head as he licked the spatula and walked it to the sink. Plunging it under hot running water, he continued his diatribe.
"Jim wants his enlightenment at a steady seventy degrees and Rose...well, Rose has no earthly idea about any of it. She has a clean purse and an empty brain and she is not, and he stressed the word "not", not about to give either one up.
"What about Larry?" I said timidly. "Don't you think Larry is making progress?"
"Larry is Larry. While I wish him well, Ruin will realize himself before Larry. By the way, I see that the sale of stick ponies is up since you have been writing about Ruin. Makes me want to get one myself."
"Now, Swami," I said, standing up and pushing back from the table. "That horse won't hunt. Let's have some tea and turn on television." That night I dream I was riding Ruin across the range. Larry and Swami were running along behind me in hot pursuit. I had made off with an entire batch of chocolate chip cookies. When I woke up, I was starving.
Inside Out and Upside DownI am wondering why anyone bothers to attend satsang anymore. It is turning out to be inside out and upside down. Swami is making Jim read excerpts from Gurdjieff's All and Everything and Larry has to--get this--read the recipes in Rose's recipe box outloud. Swami commandeered it last month and Rose was stupidly happy to let him borrow it. So now we are up to our eyeballs in The Work and ground beef. Go figure.
Gurdjieff and Rose are not compatible; leastwise I don't think so. The whole kit and caboodle of us are undergoing conscious suffering on a mass basis. While we are not many in number, our bodies are heavy-weights. As far as understanding the words of Mr. G., I had rather make a cassoulet blindfolded.
Today Larry is reading from "Meatball Stroganoff" and Jim is deep into Mr. G. I would quote that for you, but hey, get it off the internet. It is complex enough out in the backyard. I don't want to have to transcribe it for your reading pleasure. It might be good with more sour cream; I have no idea. The Work and the recipes are both time-consuming and altogether frustrating. I am used to Swami doing the cooking.
Larry favors peanut butter and has no idea why he has been chosen to read recipes. He is admitting (finally) to being obsessed with Ruin. We adore Ruin and this makes for complicated issues. For you can't have one without the other. Rose had Ruin for the weekend and returned him in better shape than he had been in for years. She fed him dog biscuits and rubbed him down with lanoline. He loved the attention.
But back to the reading of Gurdjieff and the recipe cards. While Rose's recipes are loaded with calories, Mr. G is loaded with unpronounceable words. Jim is becoming both fat and tongue-tied. Swami loves to create confusion and so he is in his element. He stated with religious fervor that food is meant to be eaten first in the mind's eye and that Mr. G. was the best he had ever tasted. It is time for me to remind you, the reader, that Swami is senile and that I am running out of ideas for this satsang. Y'all come back now, ya hear?
"All you people want from me are words and cookies." Swami looked genuinely sad. Could it be possible that we were using him up like a box of pop-up tissues and that one day he would be empty?
Swami shook his head as if to clear it and then said, "You people are wordly. I don't mean worldly. I mean wordly. What have I ever said to you that changed you? We sat there. "Anybody?" he said with an air of unfeigned sorrow. "I'm taking my words back. I can put them to better use somewhere else." He meant it. He didn't really take his words back; he just forced us to listen to the meaning behind the silence that he gave us instead.
When the silent satsang ended, we played around in the kitchen like children who had not yet learned to talk. We ate cookies and smiled warmly at each other. Larry spoke the words that broke the silence, but I don't remember what they were. Just as well.
That night the old house sat containing two people with nothing but silence in between them. Swami and I were embodying the Self like we were going out of style--and we were. People these days are looking for the quick fix, like instant pudding. Swami's wisdom is assimilated slowly--sipped rather than gulped. Most of his "regulars" realize this. They were destined to learn from the master and are choiceless in the matter. Others come and go like so many fads.
Whoever turns to truth for consolation generally doesn't find it. Consolation is available on the human level but not on the spiritual one. On the higher level, self-disappearance is the only consolation given.
I sat in the kitchen feeling every nerve. Swami was mixing up a batch of dough and I watched him with irritation. Suddenly he turned and said, "Vicki, you are making me jumpy. What are you thinking?"
I heaved a sigh. What had I been thinking? It had already slipped away. Something about disappointment. That I had not been given a better, more worthy guru. I know, I know. Swami is beloved to many of you by now. To me he has become just a piece of fiction.
His clear brown eyes never looked any older to me. Right now they settled on my inner being and wouldn't let go. He wanted my full attention. After he had put the cookies in the oven and set the timer, he came and sat with me. Taking my hands in his two clean ones, he said, "Tell me what you were thinking."
"That I wanted a more powerful teacher, a more exalted life than the one I have been given. Sitting here in the kitchen with you is a.....a drag." He looked pained. Suddenly I felt Swami rather than saw him. He was sorrowful. Shocked by this new awareness I said nothing. The clock ticked loudly and the cookies scented the air.
"You always get the teacher you deserve....and the grace you have earned."
"I thought grace wasn't earned," I whined.
"Paradox, Vicki, think paradox. Can't you lift your life above your feelings and see it?"
What I saw was Swami. What I felt was sorrow. Was this all there would ever be?
The timer buzzed so loudly that I jumped. Swami obediently turned it off and took the cookie sheet from the oven. His newest batch was butterscotch chip. As depressed as I was, I ate three before they cooled off.
I sighed as I washed up the bowls and utensils. Swami had gone outside to sit in the swing. I had let him down.
The next thing I knew I heard laughter. Larry and Ruin had come over. Ruin was propped against the lawn swing and Larry and Swami were having a light-hearted conversation. I was jealous. Should I join them or just go to my room? This bit of a karmic dilemma was resolved a little later. Swami poked his head into the living room and said , "Vicki, Larry is here and wants you to join us."
I walked into the backyard to find Larry, Ruin and Swami playing croquet. Larry was using Ruin for his mallet and suddenly I didn't feel so stupid.
HungerSwami looked into the pantry, saying that he was hungry. "How could you be hungry," I asked in disbelief. He had eaten a breast of chicken, mashed potatoes, two biscuits and some green beans. "I want....I want....some..." he trailed off miserably. This was not like the Swami I knew.
He walked around the room like a tiger pacing. He glanced up and down, peering into another cabinet from time to time. I offered him popcorn, doughnuts and warm milk. "No," he said emphatically. "There is nothing here to satisfy."
That night as I lay in bed, fear overcame me. Was Swami telling me good-bye? Because if he was, I would be out of business. If he was pulling the plug on me, where would I go?
Swami, who knows everything about me and loves me anyway, has resisted trying to change me. My truculent nature when opposed he has left to circumstance and consciousness to correct. But when I told him that I feared losing him, he let me have it. A right jab to my fear and a left one to my doubt. I was kayoed by a skinny little guy in a sheet. Ouch. The mouse he gave to my consciousness required a steak to be placed over it.
"I will never leave you, Vicki, because you are in my heart and I am in yours. Never doubt that. Never." I looked at him with such longing that he almost wept. I know it. But he picked up the toaster and shook it, freeing it of crumbs and debris before wiping it down with a paper towel.
I went into the sunroom and sat down, wondering why I had never allowed myself to be fully loved by Swami until now. Death is the last enemy to be overcome and he was assuring me that even that would not separate us. We spiritual students are funny creatures, clinging and pushing away at the same time. We do not understand that everything is a mirror and that love itself is indivisible. We are utterly, utterly safe, loved and held. And some of us are fed by Swami, what a deal.
Attracted to Shiny ObjectsSwami Z: "If I'm a device, then you're a.....gizmo!
Swami and I sat at the kitchen table. He was drinking tea and I was cleaning out the junk drawer. There were rubber bands, thread-bare potholders, matchbooks, a little steel ruler, twine, etc. We regarded the mess stoicly. I picked out an ancient red jelly bean and popped it into my mouth.
Thinking that he hadn't seen me, I realized that Swami had found the perfect way to rag on me. "Got the red one at last, huh?" he said. "That jelly bean has been ruler of the junk drawer for years now and you have eaten it. Who will lead the other junk. Who will be in charge?"
"I have assimilated it," I said stiffly. "It has become a part of me. My inner junk is jumping for joy. At last, the red bean has landed."
Swami said, "Not so fast. He stood up and brought the drawer beside the one I had just cleaned out. He dumped it out on the table. There were more match books, rolls of tape, instruction booklets for household appliances, a black jelly bean. Swami popped it into his mouth triumphantly. "Checkmate," he said.
There's just no winning with Swami Z. He will go down in history as the guru who will stop at nothing to stay one up on a disciple. I couldn't wait to bring the third drawer over to the table. I knew something that he didn't. There was Ex-lax in there.
Larry's TurnI ran into Larry last night and asked him point blank why he had skipped satsang. He sniffed and said that any satsang that would accept a grown man riding a stick pony was beneath him. "Larry, that joke is an old chestnut," I said, but Larry wasn't joking; he was sulking.
I reported back to Swami what Larry had said about not being good enough for satsang. "He could learn a lot from Ruin," said Swami. "Just look at him. He has mastered the art of resting in the still point better than anyone else."
"That's it!" I said. "That's what's wrong with Larry. It's not that he is having a hard time accepting himself; he's jealous of Ruin. And so am I!" I threw my arms around Swami and wondered at his skills not only as a guru but as a therapist.
I called Larry the next morning and asked him to meet me at Dunkin Donuts. Even though he brought Ruin along, I gave Larry my undivided attention. I usually let Ruin drink out of my coffee cup, but today I offered him nothing. Some things may not be apparent except to the trained observer, but Ruin has a thing or two to learn about hogging center stage. Today is Larry's turn and that is that.
Larry's jealousy of Ruin is persisting. I asked him why he couldn't let Ruin be what he was.....a stick pony. "It's 'Ruin this and Ruin that,' said Larry, obsessively. "Everybody loves Ruin and I am nothing without him."
"Well, Larry," I offered, "Nothing is the name of the game that we are playing, after all." I thought this very wise of me. I looked around to see if anyone else was regarding me with newfound appreciation. All I saw was donut snarfing. Oh, well.
Larry stirred his coffee and took a bite out of his chocolate cake donut. Ruin regarded him wisely. Undaunted by the jealousy, he sat there with his wisdom-eye wide open. (It was painted on). Oh, to possess such aplomb in the midst of the cruel divisiveness of the mind. I wanted stick pony wisdom for my very own.
Sea ChangeWhen Swami Z came into my consciousness, a sea change began to occur. We hear that life is but a dream and that we are only dreamed characters. How true. The paradoxical irony (if there is such a thing) is that the little swami leads me directly to the Real. I am unable to do anything about it but continue to write him. He does the rest. As Maharaji said, "God does everything."
Whatever we are doing in the kitchen is the right thing for us at the time. I never second-guess love. That would be tantamount to breaking an egg before it is laid. Swami is the chef and I am just his assistant. Yes, I did give him a place to stay, but he, being unreal, had to stay where I wrote him. As he says, "Stick with me. This is getting complicated."
Even Christ followed a predestined script. Gurdjieff taught that man cannot do and with this I heartily agree. We are helpless puppets in the play of life. The saints and sages urge us to wake up, see the unreal and come to Reality. We are playthings of the divine, mere toys in the cosmic schoolroom. The lessons are about love.
"You live that you may learn to love. You love that you may learn to live. No other lesson is required of man."
Mikhail Naimy, The Book of Mirdad
So Swami Z is nothing but a figment of my imagination and when I let Vicki be in the script, I began to love her, too. In fact, that is the direct path to love for me. Loving the script and the characters. Swami has now wandered into the computer and is looking over my shoulder. I know that you are anxious to hear what he has to say.....
"Come to satsang.....the company of the wise." He could have ended it like that and elevated me to guru status. But no, he had to come back in and say, "in our case, the company of the weisenheimers." Darned killjoy. Ruin is the real guru anyway.
Summer with Swami ZSwami is getting ready for a long, hot summer with the usual suspects. To that end, he has gone to the mall and bought us an inflatable swimming pool. It is not very big, but he suggests that we sit in a circle and put our feet in it while he speaks. Of course, this means that the talks will be outdoors and I will have to make the lemonade.
Larry is already here in hopes of getting the primo spot. According to him, Ruin is afraid of the water and will have to stay in the house. That takes all the fun out of satsang. Ruin carries the spirit of surrender and without that, we might as well be at a health fair. Rose and Jim are on the way and I am making the lemonade as fast as I can.
"Vicki," Swami says all of a sudden, "if you don't mind, I think you should stay in here and keep Ruin company." I looked at Swami and then at Ruin. Ruin was giving nothing away. If he was really afraid of the water, he was not going to admit it.
"But I don't want to," I whined. "Ruin can just get over his fear of the water. All he has to do is put his feet in...." Now I saw the problem clearly. Ruin had no feet. How could I ask him to do something that was impossible. I felt a brief burst of compassion arise in my hard little heart.
"Okay," I said magnanimously, "Ruin and I will stay in the den and watch a movie." Swami patted me on the head and left the room. I looked over at Ruin and just had to add, "You do have EYES, don't you?" I was badly in need of satsang; no one needed it more than me. Ruin did not take the bait.
I looked closely at Ruin, propped against the couch cushion. I felt a mean streak arising that was not going away. So I gave in to it. "Ruin," I said coldly, "would you like a popsicle?" Without waiting for him to reply, I went to the fridge and found a grape one. Taking off the paper, I held it in front of him. He didn't bat an eye.
I ate it slowly while I watched Seabiscuit. Even though Ruin got no popsicle that day, he remained the champ, just like in the movie. When the others came in from the backyard, all sweaty and with wet feet, I couldn't wait to hear what I had missed. But no one paid me the slightest bit of attention. It was all given to Ruin, the horse with no feet and no mouth to speak of. That's just not fair.
Swami hand-fed him tiny bits of butterscotch-chip cookies and Rose held a straw to his mouth while he sipped some strawberry milk. "Nuts," I thought to myself, "nobody wants a whiner when a whinnier will do!" I was bested by a wooden stick with a stupid cloth head. Not only that, but he belonged to Larry.
Larry and Ruin rode off into the distance about an hour later and Swami and I were left alone in the kitchen. Wearily, I glanced over at him. He arched his eyebrows and said that he wasn't pleased with my behavior.
Swami knew that I was jealous of Ruin and that is why he made me stay with him. I got to experience how isolating it is to be just a stick pony among men. But instead of compassion, I had felt nothing but petty negativity--a desire to come out on top. Ruin was too kind to ever let me know that, but Swami was not above taking me in hand.
"I'm sorry," I said. "Next week I will stay inside with him again."
"Yes," said Swami, "and I hope you have learned your lesson. Be kind to your stick-footed friends." This sounded a little stupid, but then I am the one making this up as I go along. Once I remembered that, I gave Swami a milk mustache and sent him to bed early. Ha!
Riding for a FallAlthough it is almost summer, Larry is riding for a fall. So help me Santa Claus, he rode into satsang today with a plastic raft around his waist and Ruin beneath him. Well, he has always been beneath Ruin, but that's another matter. Try and picture this...a geek on a stick with a duckie raft around his waist. Swami snickered until we all broke into helpless laughter. Rose blew milk through her nose. Of course, Larry didn't get it.
"What?" he said. "What is it with you guys. I'm taking Ruin in the pool and this duckie deal here will calm him down." He must have known this was a useless ploy. Ruin had already been parked kitchen counter-side and Larry was reaching for the plate of cookies.
Swami said with a straight face, "I think Ruin needs to go in the pool with everybody else." Of course I couldn't help but chime in. "We just put our feet in the pool, remember?"
"Yes, Vicki, I am aware of that. But Ruin can just plant his little pole in there with the rest of you. It won't kill him."
"No," I snapped. "He's already dead. Just a stick, a toy, a thing!"
Now the mob turned on me. Rose said with great and surprising venom, "Vicki, you of all people should know that Ruin is the real guru."
Ruin had no reply. He was gazing sweetly at whatever stick ponies see.
"Well, if he's the real guru, why can't he wake us all up? Even Swami can't do that."
Now it was Swami's turn to look pained. He just didn't look as serene as Ruin.
"Can't wake you up, my hind foot!" he hollered. "You don't know the difference between bedrest and satsang. May as well be talking to a sack of sloths."
Larry continued to eat nonstop. He had lost the thread of the conversation three cookies back. Let it be said that Jim had been quiet the whole time. Now it was his turn.
"I think the lot of you are cuckoo," he said with a vehemence unknown to the gentle Jim. "Berserk, stark raving mad, nobody home at anyone's house. Me, I'm goin' in the pool." He took off his socks and shoes and stomped out the door, although quietly.
If you think this escapade is gonna end by making sense, you haven't read enough Swami Z pieces. Come back next time and I will enlighten you about that.
Last CallSwami Z has been disconsolate over receiving no requests for him to continue giving satsang. Me, I'm just mad! The old poop needs some reason to live and if he isn't giving satsang, there is no telling what he will do. More than likely he will be having me trim his nosehairs and dictate long, complaining letters to merchants he feel have bilked him. Oh, yes, he is a particular little son-of-a-gun. He brooks no inferior products in his life. His life-long sensitivity does not bode well for those who sell him shoddy goods. And never put a rock in his Dr. Pepper.
So....Larry is ready to pack up and ride off into the sunset. He will more than likely just make a large circle around his trailer and lay low for a while. I actually look forward to that. I can sneak in after he goes to sleep and give prasad to Ruin.
Jim and Rose, well, they can always find another group. Jim is so totally handsome and polite that he is welcome anywhere and everywhere. Rose and her pocketbook are not that particular, either. I shall not miss her squashed pimento cheese sandwiches, truth to tell.
Well, Swami has just ankled into the kitchen and is ready for something to eat. I am going to have to break it to him gently that his days of usefulness are numbered. He may go to India....who knows.
Here is where you can vote "stay" or "go" to Swami. Vicki
Sitting DucksOutdoor satsang is terrific. Swami seems to be in his element. Of course, there is a picket fence around it and we are gathered around a vinyl swimming pool, but still....nature is close at hand. Yesterday we played under the sprinkler, which I remembered doing in my childhood. We ate cherry and banana popsicles and shrieked as the cool water hit our bare legs.
Swami's talk was definitely for the few, because there are only six of us, counting Swami himself. He kept bringing home the point that there is only the Self in all beings. The Self chitters down at us from a tree. The Self picks up the garbage. The Self wears polyester....and really shouldn't. I looked accusingly at Jim, but he is so sweetly unfashionable that it hurts. He was wearing a short-sleeved white dress shirt and a clip-on tie.
Larry was the Self with a mullet. Ruin was the Self elevated to cult status, at least in our small group. We were fatuous in our fondness for him of the non-mulleted mane. He gazed into the depths of our tiny vinyl pool as if he liked it. He didn't. Only Swami could have persuaded him to try it just this once. Now his little stick was wet at the bottom, but his inner look was imperturbable.
Knowing the Self is tricky; to be the Self that you know you are is even harder. In my case, the Self is a pig. I had my eye on the jumbo peanut butter cookies still warm from the oven. A fly briefly settled on one and I forgot that to swat him would be violating the principle of ahimsa. I waved my hand wildly over the cookies and Swami said, "Yes, Vicki, what is it?"
"There's a fly on one of the cookies," I said sharply.
"So," he snapped back.
"I guess we better go ahead and eat them before they are contaminated," I said.
"Self-contamination, that's the problem," Swami said with surprising sweetness. "Only Vicki can stop contaminating Vicki." Larry couldn't contain his delight at my moment of reproof. "She does it to me all the time!" he said triumphantly.
"You can beat her at her own game," Swami said with a broad grin. "Pluck the fly off your own cookie."
Not knowing what else to do, I yelled, "Food fight!" I began to hurl peanut butter cookies at Larry. He lobbed them back until Rose broke into tears. "Now you've gone and contaminated mine!" Turns out the Self in peanut butter cookies is on the endangered species list....at least in our backyard. Before I knew it, satsang was over and everyone was in a snit. Stay tuned for what goes on after dark...
Through the Eye of the NeedleTeaching the truth to the half-baked is no easy task. Just ask Swami Z. He has the unenviable job of putting people through the eye of the needle who just think they want to go. About half-way through, they change their minds, but by then it is too late. Kicking and screaming, waving pudgy arms in the air, they yell to Swami to save them. He does what he can, which is to butter them up a little so they go through more easily. At least that is how it appears to me. But what do I know; I am just a gizmo. A basting needle that helps Swami infuse people with the juiciness of surrender.
Larry is a good case in point. As always, he rides Ruin to satsang, brings him in and often holds him on his lap. Once Swami fell so in love with Ruin that he forgot his point altogether. It was rather like samadhi-on-a-stick.
Larry is reluctant to let go of his attachments. In his Bible, a good mullet and a good stick pony beat a pair of aces every time. He is something of a gloater. He rides into Dunkin Donuts, enters with Ruin and leaves with crumbs (and I exclude myself from that category). He thinks he is doing people a favor just by showing up. I disagree. Larry is my spirit guide, but I wouldn't be caught dead with him at a pig roast. We see each other at satsang, Dunkin Donuts and that's about it. Call me crazy, but Larry is a loser.
Swami and I were sitting outside in the swing. As we watched nature unfold, I asked him to tell me about patience. He said glibly, "Patience is the art of being nothing."
"It has to be more complicated than that," I said."Nope. Just be nothing and something will happen, but it won't be caused by you."
I looked at this little guy sitting next to me--this one who occupies heart space and is one heck of a cookie maker--and I knew that he knew. The silence of the universe enveloped us. A bird flew by in blessing and a butterfly lit on a rose.
"There is no mental God," said Swami out of the clear blue. I looked up at him from across the swing.
"There is no emotional God," he continued. "There is only the God of being and He belongs to the all."
This went far beyond cookie-baking. Silence filled the space and we were just particles and waves. It was not deifying; it was idea-defying. Swami was thumbing his nose at religion, spiritual speculation and human grandiosity. I could dig it.
Before Swami came to live with me, I was always looking for the truth. Now that he is ensconced in the kitchen, I have been able to let go of a good deal of my anxiety. His way is to get on with his life and this is a helpful thing for me. He is living out loud and letting me in on the truth of his being.
If he has arthritis, he yells. If he makes a good batch of cookies, he smiles ecstatically. If I frustrate him, he rolls his eyes. Of course, a lot of his tomfoolery is just that, but the essence of his being always seeps through. The mystery of Swami is that he doesn't exist. No matter how hard I try, I cannot bring him to physical life. And yet he is a miracle-worker. He has changed my life for the better and has taught me how to beg for self-mercy until it hurts. And it often does.
Swami is against the parts of me that are out to do me harm and will not brook their presence for very long. It's not that he's psychic; more like what he says is in my best interests. When I get gloomy about my inability to overcome my mind, he steps up to the plate and acts it out for me so I don't have to. "Darned stinkin' thinkin'....I'd put out some mousetraps but you'd catch your emotions in them and then where would we be?"
Then we just end up sitting in silence and who can't profit from that?
O Holey Knight
Swami Z is holding midnight satsang every night until Christmas. It’s a beautiful thing. Larry and Ruin, Rose and Jim and I make the trip to the satsang room bearing gifts for the baby Jesus, which is being played by Rose’s purse. It was the only thing that proved to be exactly the right size to fit into the impromptu creche that Swami built. “It is an irony,” he proclaimed, “that something no bigger than a breadbox should BE a breadbox--and an acceptable baby Jesus. We beheld the pocketbook in dutiful awe, not wanting to acknowledge the emperor had no clothes, so to speak. We knew a dirty little secret. There was a tuna fish sandwich in the baby Jesus.
And there was the wondrous sight of Swami himself, bedecked in bathrobe and cookie crumbs, proclaiming that all souls are one, including Larry’s. I was hoping against hope that Larry would come down with the flu or something, but no such luck. He is a part of the living nativity. He is Mary...so the mullet finally paid off.
Rose and Jim are the two wisepersons...short one member but politically correct. After all, this is not a perfect world. I, thankfully, do not have to take part in the Living Nativity because I am the director. I am expecting a call from Spielberg or at least Stephen Colbert, because who knew Christmas could be so edgy. I am reminiscent of Penny Marshall with a megaphone as I holler at Ruin to hang in there.
Ruin, you see, is the star. I have hung him from the pot rack at just the right angle and I patiently point a flashlight at him the whole time. He could just as well be Rudolph because Larry fed him cherry pie in hopes that the comparison would be noted. In that case, we are both a holy and a secular celebration.
What does this have to do with anything? Everything, if you ask me. My little ragtag crew wishes you Happy Holidays. I promise not to keep Swami stuck in the iMac for so long as last time. He is too good to keep to myself.
He will pay us a visit on Christmas Eve, so be sure to stop by.
Love, Vicki
A Visit From Saint Swami on Christmas Eve
The little bunch of satsang attendees huddled by the fireplace in hopes of a visit from Saint Swami. Usually Swami took great delight in playing Santa and letting Ruin be Rudolph. But the hairs on the back of my neck begin to stand up when ten minutes had gone by and there had been no sign of Swami. Jim and Rose were too polite to ask where he was, but not Larry. Larry’s shirt was gapping at the waistline, one button in danger of popping off. I personally had seen him eat two dozen sugar cookies this morning.
“So where’s Santa?” he said with a hint of sarcasm and a whole lotta vanilla on his breath.
I cringed at how easily Larry ruined the most silent of nights, but I managed to say that I didn’t know.
Ruin was propped by the fireplace awaiting his turn to come alive. Rose went over and fed him a nice moist slice of fruitcake. I reached into my pocket and found some Kisses rolling around. I filled my mouth with them and prayed that Swami would come soon.
Jim fell asleep right there in his folding chair and began to do a gentleman’s snore. I went and got the afghan off the bed to wrap myself in. The fire was dying out and I was cold.
Larry organized a search of the house to see if Swami could be found. But something in us knew that it would be futile. He would not be coming down the chimney this year. There would be no “ho ho ho’s” from the little man in the bathrobe.
We all fell asleep at some point. It was then that Swami Nicholas came and left us wondrous gifts. There was Midnight in Paris cologne for Rose, Vitalis for Jim, a new welcome mat for Larry’s trailer and a year’s supply of cupcakes for Ruin. He gave me the most wonderful gift I had ever received. He took me out into the clear night air and showed me where he came from. He looked up at the sky and then directly at me. “We all come from the same place,” he said. “It’s just that it’s so hard to remember that.”
“Everywhere you are, there I am--because we are from the same place.”
Maybe Swami was finally going to say something of profound significance. Did I dare ask him a question on this holiest of nights?”
At that precise moment Larry came out into the back yard and ruined everything. And then again, maybe not. Swami wrapped his arm around Larry and to my amazement, Larry begin to cry. Soon Rose and Jim joined us in a group hug. Sometimes I just have to try and make a good story even better, but I swear I saw Ruin ride across the sky. Love turns stick ponies into flying reindeer and the most cynical reader into one who believes.
So Swami did not come down the chimney this year, but he did show us that sometimes horses can make reindeer out of themselves and our little group are sometimes blessed with the Presence of Someone Who Knows but Will not Tell.
This all happened on Christmas Eve 2005
Vicki Woodyard
The Scribe of Both the Scurrilous and the Saintly
Trailer Park Christmas --Dec. 25, 2005
It had to happen sooner or later. Larry insisted that the satsang gang come to his house on Christmas Day. If you can imagine Barbra Streisand meets Porky Pig, you have some idea of how it registered on the tacky scale. I loved it.
To begin with, Larry had been cooking for the past week. But he had eaten it all! So we feasted on hot dogs, Bush’s Baked Beans, Make Your Own S’Mores and Jelly Bellies. Of course there was the obligatory onion dip and ruffled potato chips. Ruin seemed embarrassed by the lack of homemade holiday foods--his long-lashed eyes were cast down as he ate foi gras from Rose’s purse on the q.t.
Jim had brought some good whiskey and I had put together a variety of my favorite things. (And I am making this up so it is calorie-free). I had a plate of homemade fruitcake basted lovingly in rum for the last month, bourbon balls rolled in powdered sugar, peanut butter fudge, Martha Washington candies, spiced pecans, pumpkin pie, a saccher torte and a parakeet in a pear sauce....or was that a partridge in a pear tree. Oh, we feasted all day long.
Swami sat in the middle of our complicated life as he now sat smack in the middle of our little trailer. How we loved our old Saint Nicholas. His tiny little feet were wearing red socks that Myra had made for him and his shiny little pate was covered by a stocking cap.
“Tell you what,” said our little wise man, “I’m gonna tell you the bottom line of why I came to live with Vicki.”
“Oh, please do, please do,” everyone begged. It was, by now, an apocryphal tale beloved by all.
“I came to live with Vicki because she opened the door!”
“She opened the door. She opened the door!” There were hallelujahs and praises ringing to the starry sky. I felt humbled to have been the one to have brought Swami to life.
But all that was about to change. There was a sudden knock on the door. It seems someone had reported us to the police for being rowdy. Were we too loud when we had paraded around the trailer park bearing Swami on our shoulders. Did we yell, “Go, Swami, go Swami” too loud. Or did they just have it in for Larry and were waiting to get back at him?
Whatever the reason, Swami now found himself at the receiving end of a pointing finger held by a police officer. He obviously did not know the power of one.
He smiled at the officer until he could motion for Larry to bring Ruin to him pdq. When Larry put Ruin into Swami’s hand, it was all over but the shoutin’.
“Look what I got for Christmas!” said Swami with this manipulatively goofy grin. It’s a stick pony that eats. Here, feed him some cranberry sauce.”
The officer took the dish of cranberry sauce and cautiously offered it to Ruin, who promptly snarfed up the whole thing. A Christmas miracle if you ask me. The officer looked on in amazement. He called his deputy to come in and asked if the deputy could feed him some baked beans. Ruin ate the whole can. Holy honkin’ humanity. Our stick pony had stuck it to the law.
After we got rid of the cops, we sat at Swami’s red-clad feet and sang carols and told each other our own version of the Christmas Story. He was born in an iMac so the story goes... on and on and on.
Much love from Vicki Woodyard
Swami’s Scribe this Christmas Season
The Bic Guru
Swami claims to have enlighened more than his share. Rose and Jim and a few others are now flicking their Bics when he says something especially overwhelming. They are pushovers for his patter.
“I cannot enlighten anyone for I am no one. “ Yeah, right. All he has to do is brandish his spatula and disciples come running. I am feeding an army of goofy people who never wash the dishes. They can lick the bowl but they can’t load the dishwasher. I am getting fed up.
Jim has taken to quoting Swami right in the middle of the Sears appliance section. He has been heard to recommend that people buy washers and dryers and then come to satsang. I am running out of folding chairs. Swami has nothing to say to drop-ins of this ilk. So why does he invite them? Beats me.
A man who had just bought a washer-dryer combo came to satsang and raised his hand. Turns out he had a lint-trap question. And here I have been trapped in concepts for most of my life--apparently that is nothing compared to lint. Swami gave him satori, kensho and change for a dollar. The man left happy and with a baggieful of cookies. I rest my case. Satsang over! Now shoo!
*****
Let he who is without snit cast the first “I told you so.”
I wanted to ask Swami whether or not I had made any progress in self-escape. However, how was I to word such a question? I settled for putting it exactly like that. Swami sat down at the table and looked me straight in the eye. “Vicki,” he said, “the answer escapes me. But I heard the question.” He rose to put the kettle on and that gave me time to fall back and regroup.
When he sat back down, I tried to reformulate the question. “Have I,” I faltered, “made the first step towards self-demolishment?” Silence. Then I heard someone knocking at the door. It was Larry. He had ridden over on Ruin just because he had nothing better to do. Satsang was not being held. We sat there together in a comfortable silence. Who cared whether I had escaped or remained a captive of my own thoughts. This was Eden.
I have often wondered what Swami would say when I got so low that I felt like surrendering. Of course, no ego has ever been able to surrender; that is understood (but not by the ego). I asked him if there was any advice he had for me about maintaining spiritual practice when all is almost but not quite lost.
We sat at the table--me disconsolate and Swami a mere mirror for me. I gazed into his soul and saw the Self in all its silence. I loved the purity of his non-existence and prayed that he would one day become real. It was all I could do.
Whenever life bears down upon us, we must remember the concept of grace. It has something to do with God and nothing to do with us. Swami may be a fictitious cookie-maker but he is also the love of my life. He transcends what I intend to say and voila--I am changed into a different version of myself.
I am getting downright jealous of Ruin--that teacher’s pet-on-a-stick. Yesterday Swami fed him cookie dough right from the bowl and then gently wiped his little mouth off. Who says that spiritual teachers don’t have favorites.
Swami knew that I was watching them out of the corner of my envy so he made it excruciatingly obvious that he loved the little fake horse. I am not being a stick-in-the-mud, but the Swami-meister was slathering it on just so I could turn green with envy.
“Vicki thinks Ruin is just a silly old stick, but I love you, Ruin. You are the best stick pony in the whole wide world.”
“Bite me,” was what I thought, but I recovered nicely (or so I thought). I asked Larry to stay for dinner. We were having fried hot dogs and he hates them. Larry has been my spiritual guide for a few months and he has proved himself to be totally worthless. And now we have little Ruin to take care of. It would be just like Larry to go and find a second stick pony. If he does, we will have to build a stables onto the satsang hall.
Where We Are Joined To God
Today Jim raised his hand with a question about surrender. “How do I surrender when there is no one there?” he asked. I looked at him in his gray polyester pants and saw a gentle giant. There had been no one there in the negative sense for some time now. Jim was as serene as they come. In fact, if he was unsurrendered, I had only just begun. I was a weisenheimer in the company of the wise.
“Jim,” said Swami, with the softest of half-smiles, “surrender happens. Look at Ruin; he doesn’t worry about letting go of thought.”
Ah, we were back to Ruin again. We returned there frequently, as now Larry was allowing us to ride Ruin after satsang. It was a liberating experience to trot him around the back yard, letting him stop to eat grass. Sometimes I remembered the freedom of childhood. And at other times, I just rode him right into a tree. I am still a bit clumsy.
“Swami,” I said, shuffling through a stack of coupons, “where do you think we are joined to God?”
“There is only one answer to such a stupid question,” said Swami with an unusual air of sternness.
“Ya got me,” I said, thinking of Sara Lee and Hershey Kisses, wondering what I would cook for dinner.
“You are one with God at the point where you are able to be honest with Him. You are with Him all of the time, but it doesn’t do you any good until you stop lying.”
“Who, me?” I said, knowing full well that Swami hated me being a smart aleck.
A Turn for the Worse
Satsang was so much fun today. Swami had a light-heartedness about him that had little to do with circumstance. His arthritis has been bothering him, so I know that he isn’t pain-free. He just seemed eternal as he sat there loving us all so deeply.
Rose has changed markedly since satsangs began. She, who used to clutch her handbag so tightly that it was comical, has begun to show her inner beauty. The softness of Rose is showing through now as she listens to Swami speak.
“You people are not changing at all. Your suffering is at an all-time high. The dam may break and flood us all out of the house.” We were all surprised. Just when I thought progress was being made, Swami turns the car around and steers it in another direction altogether.
That afternoon, things took a nasty turn. Rose had come down with a cold and was sniffling away at satsang, robbing it of purpose and meaning. At least that is what I thought. I kept it to myself, of course. Jim, Larry and Ruin just sat there expressionless. “If she blows that honker another time, I’m gonna blow,” I thought.
Swami suddenly broke off in the middle of a sentence (I wasn’t listening to him but to myself). “Vicki, would you like to tell the class what you were just thinking. I know that you were close to God just now. “ He looked positively menacing.
“I, uh, I uh....”. The words were stuck in a glob of guilt and I couldn’t get them out. To make it worse, Rose sneezed and I said, “God bless you.” And He did, apparently. Swami resumed what he was saying and I was temporarily off the hook. But I had better examine the effects I was having on myself. If all I could be honest about was how irritated I was with Rose’s cold, how could I ever come to the living truth?
Larry was the only one who seemed unmoved. He is about sixty-per-cent automaton and forty-per-cent human. The latter is thanks to Ruin, who sits beside him gazing into eternity. “What do you think the problem is, Swami?” he asked. “Because some of us are willing to change.”
Ha! I couldn’t wait to hear what Swami said next. Instead of speaking, he sat motionless for at least a full minute. Then he said, very slowly, “Then change now!”
Jim jumped and I sat up straighter. Larry knocked Ruin onto the floor altogether and said defensively, “Okay. Okey dokie. I am changing. Now.” We gazed at him collectively until he turned bright red.
Larry said unexpectedly, “I have something to admit. No one loves me.”
You could have heard a pin drop. You could have heard the world turn. No one wanted to say that, so Larry had said it for them. Swami slumped slightly. Then he said, so gently that a tear fell from my eye, “Vicki loves you.”
What? Me, love Larry? This is the guy that was going to guide me in the spirit world and instead he muscles into satsang with Swami.
I couldn’t lie because I had just said that honesty joins me to God. What in the heck is going to join me to Larry? I didn’t love him....couldn’t love him. Swami was driving the satsang-mobile at ninety miles an hour and I wanted to get out.
“Hmmmpph!!” said Jim, booming out what would save me. “I love Larry a lot more than Vicki does. I love him more than, more than......" He slowly trailed off.
Swami looked at me and let me off the hook. “Vicki loves Larry, too, Jim. She just doesn’t know how to get in touch with her feelings.” Swami was on thin ice with me and he knew it.
Rose saved the day for all of us. She reached into her pocketbook and took out a small digital camera. She took a picture of satsang right in the middle of it changing. I must say that it was a beautiful sight. She caught Swami’s charisma, Jim’s idealism, Larry’s stupidity and my enormous appetite for living on the edge all in one small click. Oh, yes, Ruin’s mane had never looked so handsome. Satsang over.
That afternoon, things took a nasty turn. Rose had come down with a cold and was sniffling away at satsang, robbing it of purpose and meaning. At least that is what I thought. I kept it to myself, of course. Jim, Larry and Ruin just sat there expressionless. “If she blows that honker another time, I’m gonna blow,” I thought.
Swami suddenly broke off in the middle of a sentence (I wasn’t listening to him but to myself). “Vicki, would you like to tell the class what you were just thinking. I know that you were close to God just now. “ He looked positively menacing.
“I, uh, I uh....”the words were stuck in a glob of guilt and I couldn’t get them out. To make it worse, Rose sneezed and I said, “God bless you.” And He did, apparently. Swami resumed what he was saying and I was temporarily off the hook. But I had better examine the effects I was having on myself. If all I could be honest about was how irritated I was with Rose’s cold, how could I ever come to the living truth.
In A Rut
I was worn out from housecleaning and was also in a rut. Satsang had fallen into a routine and I found myself guessing what Swami would say next. I was taking him for granted.
The usual suspects were there. Swami was holding forth and I was just about to nod off. Suddenly Rose shot her hand up. “Yes, Rose, what is it?”
“I want to know if you think any of us are going to be enlightened any time soon...or is this just a big waste of time for you?”
Rose coulda been reading my mind.
“Rose, we are not here to make progress. We are here to make you disappear. And that takes time.”
Rose looked dissatisfied with that answer. I understood where she was coming from.
“What will happen when we disappear?” I ventured to ask.
Swami always applied more pressure to me than he did to the others. “I, for one, will be very glad,” he said with mock disgust. At least I hoped it was mock.
Larry giggled. “I think that when Vicki disappears, we won’t have any place to meet.”
Glad that I had a reason to be, I asked Swami to get to the bottom line. “Will we know love when we have disappeared?”
“That is all you will know,” replied Swami. “And all that you will need to know.”
Rose wiped her eyes, Jim gave a sigh and Larry, well, Larry he just gave Ruin a little pat.
Note: These little satsang pieces come in fits and starts. Check back for more....
Love, Vicki
Larry knocked on the door, barged in and sat right down beside me at the kitchen table. “Ruin is sick,” he said with a serious look. “He has the measles.”
“Oh, that’s ridiculous,” I barked. "Stick ponies don’t get sick. Wake up."
I picked Ruin up and looked him over. “Measles my hind leg; he’s got Hawaiian Punch all over him."
Swami handed me the dish rag and I healed him right on the spot. Call me crazy, but I suddenly felt better. Silliness is next to Larry and I am next to Swami and all’s right with the world.
*****
I have a lot of snits. I am not saying that snits are a good thing; I am just owning up to what goes on in my antebellum cerebellum good-for-nothing brain.
“Vicki, if you have one more snit today, you are over the legal limit. Now zip it.”
I knew that Swami was right. Often I snitted on people unconsciously and felt indignant when I got one in return. It’s rather like forgetting you ordered a red wool hat and then on the hottest day of the year, there it is. You ordered it; you just forgot.
Swami sings off-key when I have a snit that he isn’t up to dealing with. “I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places that this heart of mine embraces....” and I am just snitting away to my heart’s content.
If you have ever had a good cleansing snit, you know that others have them, too. They just have them when you’re not looking. Only spiritual masters are above snitting. Swami has teachings snits, which don’t really count. He fakes anger so that we will take our lessons more seriously. At least that is what I tell myself. Occasionally, I see the truth of what is really going on and I schmoo over with love for him. And one good schmoo wipes out ten snits...and least that is what I have been told.
This morning I drug myself around the kitchen wearily. Depression has hit and even Swami cannot take it away. He is not a magician but a magi and there is a difference. He continues to give satsang and I attend, but my heart is suddenly not in it. Perhaps I need a good colonic.
Larry dropped by (he knows that the script reads, “Cue spirit guide” so he obligingly enters the kitchen.) He props Ruin in the corner and grabs a chair. Swami pours him tea and serves him warm sugar cookies. He is one lucky spirit guide, if you ask me.
“Vicki,” says Larry, “have you ever thought that you are in spiritual overdose. That maybe you need to go on an anti-spiritual retreat. A little boot-scootin’ boogie kind of trip?”
He had a point. I had not left Swami’s side for many moons. Not only that, I had no desire to be out of his sight. I was committed to him, depressed as I had become. Satsang reflected my weariness that day.
“Swami,” asked Jim, “if God is here and now, why aren’t we any different?”
“Because you are not here and now. You are now and then.” Swami sighed. Ruin stirred briefly. Rose had knocked him over. She softly repropped him, patting his soft brown head. He was a magi, too--born in a stable.
Swami spoke words that my brain filtered down to my heart. Stuff like I had heard so many times before. “Your depression is grief. What are you missing....who are you missing?....I was dozing off.
Suddenly Swami shot up out of his chair and left the room...
Quickening
What we seek is quickening--the spiritual intuition that cuts through the mental machinery and zaps it.
Swami swept into the room like a burst of spring blooms. Freshness wafted into our collective hearts, for this was Swami come to enlighten us. We all sat up straighter. Someone told me that this was for keeps.
“I have cut the cords that bind you,” he said.
Larry looked panic-stricken. “Are you talking about cable, because I wanna watch something tonight.”
“No, Larry, I am talking about what keeps you tied to yourself like a hitching post...like you tie Ruin to the parking meter.”
Rose and Jim clearly had no better guess than Larry. What was it about Swami that was different? He hadn’t gotten his ears lowered--that wasn’t it. He hadn’t had a facial or gotten a new shirt. I knew what it was. He had bought a new cookie shooter. No, that wasn’t right, either.
Swami sat in his chair surveying the stupidity of his students. “I have ended your ignorance once and for all. Don’t you feel clear-headed and suddenly sane?”
There were no takers. Not a single one of us managed to wake up even one tiny bit more. Surely enlightenment can be given away if the owner has more than enough to share?
I pondered this question as we dully filed into the kitchen for pumpkin cupcakes. Swami looked buoyantly undisturbed by it all. Last night he had been morose....and now this. Something was up and it wasn’t the time on Ruin’s parking meter.
Swami spoke, albeit with whipped cream on his chin. “I have decided that all of you are lacking the seventh sense,” he said.
My ears perked up as high as Ruin’s. What was he talking about?
“The sixth sense is psi. The seventh sense is a sense of humor. I am not sure that any of you people have one."
The phrase, “you people,” always meant trouble. We became one giant annoyance to Swami. Our snitting had reached an intolerable level and he was just about to kick us out of the nest. Squawk.
“Enlightenment should be fun. It should elate you; if nothing else it should elevate you.”
“Vicki has a pretty good sense of humor when she writes about me. But when she leaves the computer, she forgets how funny being human is. She mopes around with the best of them.”
I was annoyed. I looked around. Rose was looking dour. Jim was stiff as a soldier and Larry was teed off. Ruin looked the other way. I couldn’t expect him to have a sense of humor. He was just a stick horse.
“All of you are sitting there looking insulted.”
“ No snit, Swami,” said Larry from the back row. Suddenly Rose giggled. That let the rest of us off the hook and we began to relax. Satsang ended with Swami doing an inpromptu soft shoe and the rest of us singing with our mouths full.
A Very Merry Christmas From Swami and the Crew
Swami and I were hanging out in the kitchen. He had been baking Christmas cookies nonstop and was clearly bushed. His hands were floury and his eyes were calm but weary. I longed to hug him, but I didn’t want flour on my red shirt.
The weather had been cold and cloudy. Larry had taken to stopping by each morning to be there when the first cookie batch hit the kitchen counter. Even Ruin was looking fat. Rose had taken him home for the Thanksgiving holidays and stuffed him full of turkey and coconut cake and sweet potato pie.
Satsang had been going down the road as usual. There were seldom any decent questions asked...it was more like basking in the glow of Swami’s energy field. Sometimes I thought he should launch a satellite so he could beam it all over the place. But maybe that is happening anyway.
The only teeny tiny problem we had was Larry, my erstwhile spirit guide. He has been itching to get a second stick pony, believe it or not. “Why on God’s green earth would you even consider getting another pony?” I asked him petulantly, setting my karmic bank account back two hundred years.
“Because Ruin is running out of steam,” he said.
“How can a stick pony run out of steam?” I hollered. I had already blown it...might as well enjoy the outburst. (Such is the comment of an undeveloped student.)
“I have been getting tireder and tireder when we make our runs to Dunkin Donuts and over here.”
“Well, heck, Larry, did it ever occur to you that you are using your legs to power Ruin?” A great silence ensued. Swami insinuated himself into the conversation, gently but firmly...
“Vicki, did it ever occur to you that you are using God’s voice to run Larry down? What would He think of that?”
“I never thought of God as a ventriloquist, I guess.” Swami shot me a look.
We couldn’t get over the hump of Swami’s comment. What we did was typical. We covered it over with cookies and ate our way through another meaningful opportunity to change. If I was dumb, Larry was dumber and Ruin remained appreciative of the extra prasad we threw his way.
Christmas is a-coming and the pony’s getting fat....sing along, devotees.
Christmas Eve, 2006
Swami seemed to enjoy Christmas. Rose egged him on, making her unique egg nog and knitting a cozy cap for his radiant little noggin. Oh, he was a good lookin’ dude as he stood at the front door in his black boots and bright red cap. We were having Open House Satsang, if you can imagine such a thing.
I don’t know what was in the dip that Larry bought, but I suspected it was something not found in stores. I reached into the bag of Fritos and stopped myself before dipping it into the plastic Santa bowl filled with Larry’s dip.
Rose had made her usual cutout sandwiches. This year she had cut the crust off of white bread, made angel shapes and filled them with tuna fish. There has to be tuna when Rose is on the scene.
Jim entered quietly bearing a box of Russell Stover chocolates for each one of the ladies....all two of us. He also had some fruitcake he had received as a gift. I would eat it, but not until January or February, when I had run slap out of anything better.
“Okay, time for satsang,” said Swami, with a mischievous grin. “I’m gonna be Baby Jesus this year.” He lay down on the couch and wrapped himself in the afghan. But he continued to give direction.
“You, Larry, ride Ruin up to the couch and then offer me gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.”
“How about a bag of Fritos and some punch?” was Larry’s rude reply.
“Okay, said Little Infant Swami, “Okay, let me have some of that stuff. I’ll bless it and distribute it as prasad.”
“Jim, you are Joseph-- and Rose, you are Mary,” he barked, getting into his Spielberg mode.
That left me to be a shepherdess, which I didn’t mind at all. But I also had to be the star shining down on Swami. I sat on the back of the couch and shone a flashlight into Baby Swami’s face. He had an unearthly glow about him as he lay there in the naugahyde manger. Such a blessing he was.
There was only one fly in the ointment. Larry had spiked the punch and when we had all drunk our fill, we didn’t know the difference between Swami and the gatepost. Larry tied Ruin to Swami and rode home with nothing between his legs. The next morning he woke up screaming in horror. “He’s gone, he’s gone.”
Swami woke up with a stick pony tied to his waist and feeling hungry. He fed Ruin first and then made himself some oatmeal. He rode Ruin home, only to find Larry in tears. When Larry saw Ruin, he shouted a hosannah of gratitude. All’s well that ends well. As Swami says, “You can’t beat a satsang Christmas, but you are welcome to try.”
Merry Christmas from Swami and the Gang
Our love to devotees worldwide....
Swami and I were sitting at the kitchen table making Valentine cards. There was red construction paper, scissors and magazines. We were fashioning cards out of whimsy and love. Lord knows, I was coming up short in the love department these days. When I looked in the mirror, I saw nothing but trouble, so I had been avoiding myself. I was finding out avoidance equals disaster, though. Every time I turned around, there was Larry with his two left feet and his lopsided grin. I think I hear him at the door now....
“Hi,” said Larry glumly.
“Come in, Larry,” said Swami. “Park Ruin and help us make Valentine cards.”
I made a sour face and said nothing. Larry pulled up a chair and asked if he could have some cookies.
“Vicki, get Larry some of those coconut jumbles,” said Swami.
I got up and fished several out of the tin and then Larry asked if he could have some milk.
“Cripes,” I said, “don’t you ever say please?”
“Please,” said Larry with crumbs all over his face. I drug the jug from the fridge and poured him a tall, cool one. Then we all three sat making our cards.
Swami worked and worked on his and when he finally held it up to the light, it was a miracle. It was a large heart that he had put two words on and they were this: As Is. It’s not that the card was that beautiful or anything; it was the fact that Swami knew exactly where my problems with life lay. I was a rebellious little idiot, always wanting things to be different than what they were. But not now, not this moment. I took the card from Swami and asked him to be mine.
He looked up at me with those old man’s eyes and said nothing. He didn’t have to. Brevity is the soul of wit and, in this case, a deep spiritual teaching.
Not Fade Away
Sometimes Vicki forgot to pay attention to Swami and he would begin to fade away before her very eyes. Swamis are like that. He was always there in such an integral way. She couldn’t imagine his absence. There had been times when he had gone away, but he had always returned. That seemed to be a part of his teaching, for Vicki believed in departures.
He sat at the table sipping tea and looking into space. Dust motes danced in the shaft of light coming in through the window. I saw them turn and make a beeline toward Swami. None came in my direction. How odd is that?
“You old coot!” I exclaimed. “You’re a mote magnet. How can you do that?
Swami squinted at the motes moving visibly toward him in the cone of light. As he watched, I watched him....begin to fade away. Yes....his shirt and pants were still there, but there was only light where Swami used to be. Could that light speak?
I yelled into the light. “Swami, where are you?” He rearranged himself as skin and bones and voice. “I’m right here where I’ve always been. Nowhere in particular.”
I sensed a change in our relationship, for how can matter speak to spirit and be heard. Did it matter. Had I been heard? What’s up with that?
Swami reached across the table and took my hand. He planted a kiss upon my palm and asked me to pass the cream. Had I passed the test...and if so, what was it?
Feeding Ruin
To Ruin, everything was sweet. Whatever we decided to offer him was received with love and gratitude. At times I must admit to feeding him things I knew he didn’t really like. Ponies are not fond of Peeps, but at this time of year, I cannot resist buying packages of them at the drugstore. I would not deign to eat a Peeps myself, but suddenly I think that Ruin would fancy one.
When Larry dropped by for an early lunch today, I popped open the pack of Peeps and fed Ruin some. His little mouth was sugary and sticky and he beamed at me like it was a bag of fresh oats. I was that vile. Oh, yes, I saw myself quite clearly these days. Expediency was a definite motive with me. I wanted Larry to have the Peeps experience, too.
“Lar...” I said sweetly, “Wouldja like a Peeps?” He did his usual “I’m watching my waistline,” bit and I told him I was watching it, too. “It’s gotten to the point where you need two more holes in your belt,” I said sanctimoniously. I myself was not eating Peeps but Swami’s morning offering of gingerbread molasses cookies dusted with powdered sugar. I had made sure Swami ate some, too. I wanted to track him and powdered sugar was as good a way as any. His disappearance into light had me snookered and confused. What if he hitched a beam to some far-away galaxy to bake cookies for Venusians or something...
When Larry and Ruin left, I asked Swami if he would like to help me work in the garden. “Of course, Vicki,” he said. So we played in the dirt, pulling weeds and soaking up the sun. I asked him casually why he was disappearing suddenly and then reappearing. His answer was way cool.
“It’s a guru thing,” he said. “Something we do it to confound our students."
I looked up at him in awe but he was gone. I wasn’t confounded; he had just gone in the house to take a nap.
*****
When Swami came into the kitchen from his nap, I told him I had a question to ask him. “Oh, that,” he said, “that’s not worth asking about. Ask me something with some meat in it...like why I don’t make pretzels or Rice Krispie Treats....or dog biscuits."
“Okay, I’ll ask...why don’t you make anything besides cookies?”
“Because that is what you expect me to make. And you expect me to enlighten you and so I do.”
“I sure as heck don’t feel enlightened,” I whined. About that time the oven timer went off and I was saved for the moment but I wasn’t about to let this subject die away.
“I also expect you to disappear right in front of my eyes and never return.”
“If you expect what you get, you will never be disappointed.” And with that, Swami turned on his heel and disappeared yet again.
For what it’s worth, Swami can be a pain in the old patootie. He has the annoying habit of praising everyone in satsang but me. Rose came in smelling like Charlie the Tuna and Swami kissed her and said she smelled like heaven. Jim’s turn came when he told Swami that he had been working on breathing consciously. “Fine, Jim. Great! You’re going to end up teaching us all a thing or two.”
I scowled. When was the last time that Swami made ME a good example. My brow furrowed up like Edward R. Murrow. Dang...I had to do something to get attention. So I made up a question and raised my hand. “Yes, Vicki,” said Swami.
“Can you explain nirvana...do you experience it on a regular basis?”
“Only if I remember to eat my bran,” he said.
Okay, he was clearly not taken in by my ruse. So I sat there in complete silence for the rest of satsang. I could have been a stone. As Swami walked by, he patted me on the head and said, “Well done.” Apparently my silence, which reeked as badly as Rose’s tuna, earned more for me than any stupid question I could raise.
Spiritual Honesty
Spiritual honesty is a sometimes thing; often we are too immersed in ego to hear the voice of truth, although it is always trying to break through the charade of being separate from anyone or anything. Usually we are brought home to honesty by a certain amount of pain or suffering. The moment we are forced to witness the pain, we return to honesty. I imagine someone or something in heaven rejoices even a small bit when this happens.
I write the characters of Swami Z and friends without allowing myself to think about them. I just turn my head in their direction and there they are, full-blown in their honesty and idiocy for all the world to see. There is something about a loser on a stick pony that frees everyone up to relax a little bit and stop taking their spirituality so seriously. At least I hope so.
Swami says that he moved into Vicki’s kitchen because she opened the door through her suffering, or something to that effect. He never tried to take it away; he only began his guru shenanigans right there in front of God and everybody. I mean, who could believe that a cookie-making, grizzled old sonofagun could know a thing about advaita vedanta or heaven forbid, how to teach a bunch of miscreants about the secret of life. So far he hasn’t.
But the small but stubborn crew are heavily invested in attending satsang; on most days we can call that a wasted effort, but every now and then something will sprout that isn’t coming from Ruin’s feedbag. A real sprig of truth will turn up in someone’s brain. Take last night....
I won’t bore you with the details, but a certain devotee named Larry was heard to say this, “I know what will set me free.” We all turned and looked at him with great disdain. I even snorted. “No, I don’t mean what will enlighten me,” he said, “I mean what will set me free.” Turns out Swami had tied his shoelaces together while we were all meditating and he was just about to untie the knots. Such a satsang, such a teacher...and soon we would all be having a party in our mouth. The oven timer just went off, meaning that even if satsang wasn’t over, it might as well have been.....
From a reader: Don't know why, but just wanted to kiss the screen in front of me while reading your words. Just one question: what does "I write the characters of Swami Z and friends..." mean?
Vicki: Just what it says. They are fictionally delicious. Although they are made-up, they are allowed to romp all over the page as they like. It is a form of play for me and therefore I snicker right along with everybody else And yes, they are loveable because they are themselves. Thank you for the kind words.
Little Bunny Feet
"This busy mind can take you
On some really wicked adventures.
It always looks so good.
Whether it’s interest in etheric bodies,
Or whether it’s making loads of money,
Or whether it’s a new relationship,
These ships always sink.
All ships eventually sink.
Rest as the ocean itself
And you will never sink again."
Arjuna Nick Ardagh
There is nothing to add to
what is true and final.
Likewise, there is nothing to subtract.
But the mind would be ever “doing.”
Let it do what it likes.
It ain’t you.
Vicki Woodyard
I asked Swami Z when my mind would give up and leave me the heck alone. He stared at his slippers before turning the tea kettle on. I looked at his slippers, too. Looked at them long and hard. Two bunnies.
Swami and I sat looking at each other as if we didn’t know any better. I sighed and he sighed back. I took a swig of tea and so did he. I thought I might as well go for broke. So I posed the ultimate question: “Who am I?”
If you think he gave me the answer, you have another think coming. He stood up, stretched and walked out on me. Crept out on little bunny feet...
Comments, suggestions and questions. Vicki Woodyard
©Vicki Woodyard 2009 All rights reserved
