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Swami Is Holding Satsang Here.
Swami's MailbagI love the Swami, and I love your honesty and vulnerability...and I'm learning! A.
"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.
"Swami told me that he had to reach through my broken heart to teach people anything at all. He didn't tell me that I would be laughing through my tears as I wrote him."
Vicki Woodyard
Swami Z's Satsang
Stuck
Orphan
Unreal
Wondering
The Wings of a SwamiValentine's with Swami
Yoga With Swami Z
Soliloquy
The Ankles of a Swami
A New Year
A Guiding Light
Christmas Eve With Swami
Making Sense of Christmas
At Swami's Table
More Than Anything
Halloween
So Much Love
The Absence of Swami Z
Home of the Famous Swami Z
Letter From A Reader
Just A Device
Escalation
Smelling Like Vanilla
The Lecture Circuit
Kitchen Table Cutup
Reality
Who is Swami Z?
Swami Z And His Darshan
The Swami Z Fan Club
Prasad From A Pez Dispenser
Swami Z, An Incarnation of Love
The Sleeping Swami Sawing Logs
All Alone
The Peeping Teacher
Magic Carpet Ride
Initiation
Transmission
Disappearance
Someone's in the Kitchen with Swami
A Question
Swami's Hammock
Just Another Old Man
Nothing to Do
My Creation
The Lecture Circuit
Feedback
Dear Vicki
I left a guru (swami) about 4 years ago and have been stumbling around in the dark ever since -- blaming him --blaming me -- just feeling stuck. What you write seems funny and true and yet -- well -- I have a question for you -- IS there life after a guru? Sunflower
Dear Sunflower,What a great question. Those of us who must seek have so many unanswered questions. Since the job of the guru is to push you away, we tend to be a whiny lot-- If it's not one thing, it's another--and the guru is to blame for all of it. My little swami is so loveable and yet so utterly unattainable. Where did he come from and why can't I let go of him? See, you're not the only miserable devotee in the world....
Vicki
Like the late Roger Miller, Swami Z is fifteen minutes ahead of his time. He came to me unannounced and moved straight into my heart.
Perhaps we should be a bit more careful whom we invite into our hearts--unless we are prepared for them to stay forever.
Swami exists between tears and laughter, fear and faith, now and then. He doesn't speak through my mouth but through my hands typing at an iMac. That is why I call him an iMaculate conception. From the getgo, the Swami has been a barrel of laughs and a loving guide to what is.
His skinny ankles and bald pate give him a comical appearance, but who has seen the wind? Like Ram Dass' Maharaji, he does all sorts of magic tricks. He is a shapeshifter par excellence. But most of all, he has opened me up to my own possibilities. I can't get rid of him, although he and I do schtick about that. It's all God's play and some of us are more foolish than others.
I am looking at Swami Z right now and for the life of me, I don't know what I see in him. But he had me at "hello."
The Sleeping Teacher Lists--But Never Actually Falls Over....
The Sleeping Teacher, affectionately known as Swami Z, was seen today propped up against a pillar in the Sleep Department at Macy's. Makes sense, doesn't it? I mean, really, his generosity is only overshadowed by his giggle.
True, he doesn't have the gift of gab, but you can get that on any list these days. What I honor about Swami Z is that he shares what he knows freely to all who want to be enlightened, but would rather get a good night's sleep.
He's such a cute little guy, having given up and put Cocoa Puffs in his begging bowl a long time ago. The milk of human kindness keeps them moist. I get weepy just thinking about how self-sacrificing he is.
There was a time when Swami Z went out each day and accepted whatever anyone put in his bowl. But he is older now and prefers Cocoa Puffs.
But I digress. Swami Z can often be found in a Sleep Department near you. He carries a large Sharpie with which to autograph your bedsheet. He is considering coming out with his own line of designer sheets...perhaps with a thread count of three million. Smooooth...
I met Swami Z today at Macy's and I am in luvvvv. After taking many incarnations (and often subways) to achieve enlightenment, I now find a man who is giving it away for free...for nothing...zip....nada. And his kindness is such that if you don't like it, he will also take it away. I tell you, I was taken aback.
There is nothing that this Swami of the Jammies will not do. He allows anyone to attend satsang. And I mean anyone...even if they are wearing robes and calling themselves silly names. You can bring your blanket and suck your thumb. You can suck his thumb...he doesn't care.
I had one question that I wanted Swami Z to answer. Would I be getting enlightened this lifetime?
Of course I would, I was told. As soon as he took his groupies to lunch. I'm sorry...what he really said was, "You groupies are out to lunch!"
What I totally love about Swami Z is his ability to dispense junk food while remaining blissfully unaware of the calories. No other guru knows so little about what is good for you.
His magnanimity is matched only by his paunch. I am quite paunch-drunk, in love, bowled over by this guru giving satsang while counting his sheep. Some gurus would shear them, but not Swami Z.
He asked me what I wanted for Christmas and when I told him that I wanted all the children of the world to be fed one decent meal, he offered to make it for them. Sad, but true. His cookie habit would sicken more than it would heal.
Leaning against one of his many futons, I tried to question him about his life pre-enlightenment, but he said that like everything else in his life, it was a snore. I wanted more. He thought I said "Smores," because he has those, too.
I said, "Can you tell me what life as a child was like for you?"
"Of course,"he said, rummaging through his box of Cocoa Puffs with a misty eye, "of course I can, but I won't."
And that pretty much sums up the teaching.
Swami Z, An Incarnation of Love
My love for Swami Z increases hourly. When I asked him how it was that he came to be an incarnation of love, he said that he wasn't until you added two parts water.
That opened my tear ducts right up. Pretty soon I was sniffling through my ears. Perfect. Perhaps now I could make sense out of something that the sleeping swami had to say. Because love of this sort must make sense...mustn't it?
As I dried my ears and blew my nose and wiped off the front of my shirt, he sat blissfully opposite from me, fiddling with his Pez dispenser. I knew that prasad could not be far behind.
<>"Swami, Oh, Great Sleeping One, how is it that you have created this love for you and placed it in my heart....and a Pez in my hand...how can this be done...can love be created...?"
He looked at me strangely, as if he did not speak English. Then suddenly I heard him say...."Let's go jump on the bed!"
The Sleeping Swami Sawing Logs
Swami Z often saws logs of deep insight and makes a great dharma fire. Those who seek his wisdom gather around his warmth and bask in his glow...if he has remembered to use his deodorant that day. But thatâs another story.
It has been said that the Great Ones never emit bodily odors of the unpleasant kind, but that is not always true. Actually Swami smells like a baby that has just spit up, especially if he has let the milk sour on his Cocoa Puffs. Itâs just slightly revolting and pretty endearing.
One of his wisdom logs says this: When you sleep, sleep fully. Do not sleep with waking mind. And if you do, enjoy it anyway. Once he slept so fully that he communicated the Living Wisdom to an entire county and three treefrogs.
Bliss is just another word for forgetting what you know. Knowledge too often applied is worse than too much butter on a baked potato...canât get too much. Enjoy.
The Swamiâs words ring true but his snore roars.
Swami Z and I sat in his kitchen. "I am all alone," he said. "Do you know that you, too, are all alone in this big, big world?"
Surprised, I studied his face. The light was dim and I could see wrinkles in his face. Usually, I didn't notice. But tonight I just sat and took him in.
"No one really knows me," said Swami Z., stirring his cereal calmly.
"Do you know that you, too, are all alone on this cruel planet?"
I couldn't think of a word to say that would comfort him. I just watched his weariness as it slowly spread across the messy old kitchen.
"Sometimes," he said pensively, "sometimes this truth, too, has its place."
I never did manage to say anything. For the longest time we just sat together eating our cold cereal.
Sometimes I feel that Swami Z can read my mind... that he is peeping into my deeps and seeing...nothing.
"Swami," I said, in my ususal fit of pique, "why donât you move along...donât you have someone else to mystify besides me?"
"Oh, youâre the only game in town for me," he said with a goofy little grin.
"Besides," he said as he ate his fourteenth cookie of the morning, "if you looked inside your own mind, I wouldnât have to do it. Just look, and like the wind, itâs gone. Thoughts would disappear and so would you."
"Right....like those cookies I just opened."
His little tummy was bulging with cookies and I was left holding the bag.....Pecan Sandies...my favorite.
Swami is at the doctor having his annual physical and I volunteered to stay home and clean house. I am in the kitchen now and am excited about getting to reorganize while he is out. I should have several hours to do a really excellent job.
First thing Iâll do is reorganize his spices. Five minutes later the job is done. Apparently one canât have too much cumin.
Now itâs on to tackling what he keeps under the sink. Yuchh....old bottles of dish detergent, dustrags, rusty scouring pads, and his magic carpet? I drug out this frayed old piece of faded magenta carpet and looked at it stupidly. The next thing I knew hours had gone by as I sat on the cold linoleum floor on his ratty old carpet.
I was startled when he came in because the sun was lower in the sky. I had been flying high, but it was a good trip. I had gone places I feared to go, but on the Swamiâs old scatter rug I had not been the least bit afraid.
The worst place I went was like a crowded bazaar. People were yelling and selling. Children were naked and hungry and animals were roaming around where you least expected them. I gave the carpet a sturdy jerk and landed right back in front of Swamiâs sink. Phew, that was a close call. I got the feeling that he went places like that all the time. That perhaps he did some good there.
And now here he was standing over me and I heard him saying, ãThis is no magic carpet ride. Itâs about me pulling the rug out from under you.ä
The linoleum felt cold to my fanny. I changed the subject.
ãSwami, how did it go at the doctor?ä
ãFine, fine.....ä I asked him to open up his heart chakra wide and say ahhhhhh.ä
ãAnd how is your health, Swami, did you get a clean bill of health?ä
He drug a dirty folded statement from the pocket of his robe and looked at it.
ãIt was fine until I stopped by Baskin Robbins. Now itâs got cookies and cream on it.ä
He didnât notice that I never got around to cleaning his kitchen. Thereâs always tomorrow for the unimportant things to be taken care of.
Today is my birthday and Swami Z has promised to give me a new name. I am wearing orange, if that is a clue. "Close your eyes," said Swami as he spun me around three times.
I felt a cool pressure around the area of my third eye. Had I been accepted as a sanyasin? Eagerly I jumped to my usual conclusions, hitting my knee on a kitchen chair. I hobbled over to Swami and he gave me a bear hug and pointed to the mirror hanging in the dining room. I eagerly hopped in there to take a look, anticipating a tilik at least.
I went right to the mirror and I donât think Swami will mind me sharing this. I am now Navel Sunkist #3107. I have arrived. I am nobody!
Swami Z is the most compassionate of teachers. He gives us the hard stuff even before we have earned it. I get drunk on his teachings. I hiccup in ecstacy. I suppose that he would burp me if I asked him.
The milk in his bowl may be a bit curdled, but there is no expiration date on the teachings.
When I get hungry late at night I reach for one of his homely sayings.
He loves it when I canât think straight. It is then that he has succeeded in the transmission. Just donât use that word around him. He will only tell you that he doesnât own a car. Thatâs the problem with Swami. He owns up to nothing.
Swami Z can bring you from darkness to light, especially when he takes you to the concession stand in the movie theater.
Who wants a little swami with a milk mustache running around anyway? He has heard about reality TV and thinks it is cool. After watching the Osbournes, I caught him in the kitchen wearing a sweat suit and biting the heads off of gingerbread men.
The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.
Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Oh, Where, oh Where, has my Little Swami gone?
Tonight I had a rude awakening. The Swami who goes by the name of Z had come to my computer as an iMaculate Conception and I believed in him wholeheartedly. I had half a mind to wear orange and ask him for a new name. Something like Z No Evil....
And now this. I was tossing and turning on my astronaut-like foam mattress--the best sleep that money can buy--trust me --and I heard the voice of the devil.
ãSwami Z does not exist. You made him up....you fool.ä
I wept into my Perfect Pillow. ãSay itâs not so, Swami. Surely you exist.ä
ãOnly if you think I do....and if you don't think I do..."
I was talking to myself. He had made me irritable again. ãYou sound like Jimmy Durante--Inka Dinka Doo. Think I donât, I do...what nonsense."
I was talking to the wall.
And I havenât heart from him....I mean, heard from him since. If anyone sees a little old swami toddling around town, let me know. It just might be him.
Someoneâs in the Kitchen with Sw
Swami and I were up late as usual. Thankfully he had returned home. Itâs a little like Dorothy clicking her heels together three times. Only with the Swami itâs clicking your computer on.....and there he is.
We were making slice nâ bake cookies, eating the dough as we sliced happily away. The world had thinned out somewhat and we seemed to be between dough, re mi.
"Me, me, me, me," he intoned, as if he were singing.
This old man is just that. A dumb old man. Look at him standing there with his skinny ankles and that bald pate.
All of a sudden I heard this: ãAnd I know who you are, too! Cleopatra, Queen of the Nil!ä
Thereâs no getting around it. Heâs everywhere--even inside my mind. Never mind my heart.
He peered at me suspiciously. ãAre you ready to bake these or shall I feed them to the cat?ä
ãSwami, you know you donât have a cat.ä
ãAnd you donât have a 'you'."
He always gets the last word.
I had a question forming in the back of my mind. Actually it had been slowly growing there for years and I thought that I knew the answer. Although the question could not be put entirely into words, I will try to give the gist of it.....will there ever be an end to this longing for love, this fear of losing love, this hope of winning love as yet unseen...?
ãShoosh,ä said the old Swami. ãI get it. I get it. Youâre hoping that I can tell you something that you wouldnât hear if I shouted from the rooftops.ä
He looked as pathetic as ever. I wanted to rush over and embrace him, so shaky was his stance, so fragile was his old body. I knew that eventually his brain cells would begin to die from sheer age. What a loss...and yet....
I knew that I would always remember him and long for his love. I was thinking of the day when he would no longer be on this earth with me. And of course, he had other disciples who would miss him, too.
ãLet me tell you something that may surprise you,ä said Swami Z., deftly flipping a cobweb from the corner with his spatula, ãwhen you can contain the whole world inside your heart, they will never forget you....impossible. They will be unable to not love you.
You will not have to beg for the leavings of love.You will have the recipe for love itself.ä
ãBut what about me loving them?" That was my question as well. I long to keep loving some people who are not interested in returning my love.
"What do you care?" Patiently, he repeated, ãWhen you can keep them in your heart, you will never again have to leave home to find love. It will find you. Just like you found me.ä
And then he added, ãYou didnât hear a word I said.ä
Maybe someday.....
The swami is like a boat to the other shore....if you get my drift.
He does the duality dog paddle extremely well for
an old man.I long for him while I am in his presence. I think itâs because he never gives me the satisfaction of letting me love him as I want to do. And I want him to reciprocate. I want a fair trade.
I march along with him, jump into the pond with him, longing for him to look directly at me and say, ãThere you are, I love you and I will never leave you.ä
When he says it, I will let you know. It would be comparable to ......I donât know if there is a comparable.
But so far, he just hangs out with me, instructing me on how to slice the cookies more evenly or begging me to give him more raw dough than any old man should eat. I know that he is loveable....but is he faithful? After all, he tends to vanish like our plates of warm cookies. A hint of vanilla hanging in the air is all thatâs left.
Yesterday he walked by the elementary school and joined in recess. In a rope swing, his old legs were pumping and soon all the kids were following him.
I would like to be one of those kids following Swami. But often he is inscrutable and unsuitable. Just a dumb old dough boy.
"Rest and rapture. What else is there?" Pamela Wilson
Last summer I spent some time in Swamiâs hammock. Cocooned in remnants of cookie dough, we would laze the afternoon away. Now that winter is approaching, we will still have our quiet times...because basically that is who Swami is. He is just an old man in a blissed-out state.
ãResting from your mind should be a regular occupation,ä said Swami from his kitchen table. He had sat down after mopping up the floor after some of his cookie dough stuck to it.
ãI donât know how to rest my mind. It just swamps me so quickly....I rolled my eyes in mock peril. To my surprise his sleepy old eyes threw sparks at me.
ãDonât you know what a bother you are to yourself--never mind me. Never mind anyone else. You drive yourself nuts and itâs all I can do to keep my own composure.ä
ãDonât you think my mind gives me enough trouble without yours adding to the mix?" he added.
ãBut, Swami...ä
ãDonât you Îbut, Swami,ä me. Iâve had quite enough of you and your mind. Keep it to yourself.ä
Oddly enough, the minute I took it back consciously it disappeared. I was back in Swamiâs hammock.
I donât know how old Swami Z is. He just toddles in one year and out the other. At times he is sincerely senile. ãI donât know...I donât remember...what did I have for lunch?ä
He and I are sitting in front of the fire. He has me convinced that his verbiage is ready to be swept out with the trash, but he has not forgotten how to have the last word.
ãWhat I had for lunch and what I remember about having lunch....is that the stuff of the wisdom mind....maybe.ä
Now he is deftly dragging his old stool in front of his chair and propping up his slippered feet. Never missing a beat, he tells me that he knows where he left the car keys.
ãKnock it off. You donât have a car, you old coot.ä
ãAnd you donât have the right to remind me. Some things are best left forgotten and unsaid. Every bit of unfinished business that you have ever had is coming up so fast it is making your head swim. Good thing I can dog paddle...take you to the other shore, huh?ä
I hung my head before I went over to his chair and gave him a hug. He smelled pretty much like always...an old man who has been in the vanilla too long. How do you bottle that and save it?
"Live with skillful nonchalance and ceaseless concern."
-- Prajnaparamita SutraThere is nowhere to go and nothing to do. But only after a serious incarnationâs worth of ãgoing and doingä do we know that. Letâs face it. All of us have eagerly read the books about being one with everything, knowing yourself as the Self, chopping wood and carrying water, mountains becoming mountains, etc. and so forth.
I never did get it until Swami got a hold of me. He gave it to me by osmosis, which is not be confused with halitosis. His cookie breath is ambrosial.
He is so long in the tooth that he is tripping over it...but I digreth, I mean digress. ãI guessä is one of Swami Zâs expressions that drive me to blink...
Here is a sample of one of our recent conversations:
ãSwami, are you enlightened?"
ãI guess.ä
ãYou mean that a person could be enlightened and not even know that he was?ä
ãI guess.ä
ãCan you give me enlightenment, Swami?ä
ãI guess.ä
ãYou are driving me nuts, bonkers....canât you do better than guess?ä
ãYou are not even close to getting there and I donât want to hurt your feelings.ä
ãHave you heard the story about the bird who flew over the mountaintops with a scarf in his mouth.... as long as it takes to wear the mountain down, that is how long it takes one to achieve enlightenment," said Swami.
ãSo you canât give it to me, can you...admit it....
ãYou are going senile on me...you old....you...you.....ä
You guessed it. Swami had fallen asleep while looking for my original face.
Oh, well, tomorrow is another illusion.
Sad to say, Swami has stopped looking for his original face and is instead, looking for his glasses, which are on top of his head, along with a layer of lint.
Why the lint? Because some words are funnier than others...and since Swami only exists because he is my creation, I can make him wear a feather boa or worse. If he knows what is good for him, he will stop feeding me all the straight lines and give me some of the good ones.
Speaking of lines, the Swami is becoming increasingly famous at Macyâs. Nothing that I can do will persuade him that people in the Sleep Department are not in more need of awakening than others. I fear that he will fall down the up escalator and hurt himself. He is a little long in the tooth and he keeps tripping over it. Dental karma is the worst.
Sometimes he stands by the cash register and goes ka-ching over and over. When I ask him to stop, he throws a teaching tantrum, throwing himself on the floor screaming, ãI want my mantra...I want my mantra.ä If his mantra materializes, I will let you know.
Those of us who love him are growing impatient for their enlightenment moment. But it seems that all he has are ãseniorä ones. You gotta love him...or else. Who else can I write about that lights up the room the way that he does?
I am thinking of sending Swami Z out on the lecture circuit. He can be booked for seminars, sleepovers, makeovers....He not only has his original face--he has his original loincloth, but just barely. I know, that was cheeky of me. You see, as Swamiâs creator, I get to put words in his mouth. He retains the rights to the Cocoa Puff Collection. Lately we have been doing Cocoa Puff collages about the meaning of life. Like life, the collection gets sticky.
Seriously, if anybody is still with me, he is getting on my nerves a bit and a two-week lecture tour would enable me to clean his joint up. I keep noticing Puff tracks all over the place. I am itching to put my squeegee to work on his mirror. He could not see said original face if it bit him in the ass.
Other than that, Swami is doing fine these days. He jogs, meditates and does power napping while watching Larry King. He plays like he is not interested in celebrity, but he knows a little more than he should about Madonna, if you ask me.
He operates the remote like it was prayer beads. Mumbling and fumbling, he intones the channels in a sacred fashion. When he hits a good one, he will stop briefly, making u-turns out of commercials and into the Larry Sanders Show.
What does this have to do with enlightenment? I wonder myself. After he goes to bed, I snatch the remote and try to retrace his steps. All the great ones leave footprints. Swami leaves right after the weather forecast. His followers always know what to wear in the morning if they will but listen.
Sidenote: I just want to let everyone know that Swami Z will be happy to help you look for your original face. He is willing to go so far as to accompany you to the plastic surgeon's office. He will not stay for the surgery; however, as he is squeamish.
Swami and I are in the kitchen late at night--far too late. It is half-past Conan and I am propping my eyes open with the toothpicks that Swami is using to construct some odd cookie contraption. Itâs not a gingerbread house--more like a crooked condo.
ãOkay, okay, whatâs the teaching, whatâs the code, Dan?ä I said. "Iâll bite."
He popped a piece of cookie into my mouth.
ãTeachers are boats to the other shore," he said.
ãYeah, and youâre paddling with just one oar,ä I retorted.
"You will never make it to the other shore. The fox will try to carry you across the river and you will let him eat you," he said, giggling.
ÎNo, no, Swami, thatâs the story of the gingerbread man.
Run, run as fast as you can, you canât catch me, Iâm the ginger bread man.ä
Swami Z began to run around the kitchen waving his spatula. "When you want a cookie as much as you want air, youâll be a dog...no, I mean, you will disappear.
The wolf disguised as Grandma will eat you for lunch and what will your swami do then, poor thing? No student, no teacher." He looked at me and my heart melted like one of his cookies.
ãSwami Z," I said, ãmay this night never end.ä
ãFrom your lips to Godâs ears,ä said Swami Z.
RealityItâs not always rosy between the two of us. Between you and me, heâs just a lonely old man needing love. If you can find it in your heart to let him know that he is, as Stuart Smalley would say, okay just as he is, I will see that he gets the message. Lord knows, I am getting his.
The man has issues. I can see us now on Dr. Phil. He could devote one twenty-minute segment at least just to us and our warped relationship. It is a love-hate one, disguised as guru and disciple. Underneath he is a mass of seething hostilities.
Dr. Phil has chairs that he puts his guests in. When he has brought them to a fever pitch of confession, he suddenly moves slower and then gently turns the warring guests to face each other.
ãSo, Swami,ä I hear Dr. Phil saying, ãwhat is it about Vicki that irritates you so much?ä
ãOh, she is loving me to death. I need my space, I need to be able to go into my room and scratch myself...and sheâs always following me around begging for enlightenment.ä
ãHowâs that working for you, Vicki?ä says Dr. Phil. (He is almost as cute as Swami.)
I grumble under my breath that itâs working about as well as this bit. He has gotten me up at two a.m. to write this and I am beyond cross. Forget the great beyond, the boat to the other shore, I want to get some rest from this televised delusion.
ãAnd you, Swami Z, how do you feel about your creator-disciple cum-cookie maker, Vicki?ä
ãNever saw her before in my life,ä he sez.
We will be appearing next on Peopleâs Court and I will be suing him for all heâs worth....for what itâs worth.
This morning I found Swami Z sitting in the old rocker reading the after-Christmas sales and clearance ads. He pointed to a pair of longjohns and grinned. ãItchy, scratchy,ä was his comment. I looked at this old man with the exceedingly skinny legs and giggled from picturing him in such a getup.
ãI know what you need, Swami,ä I said. ãYou need a soft flannel shirt from L.L. Bean, maybe something in a red plaid.ä
ãL. L. Bean,ä he said, ãyes, thatâs the ticket. Get me a red plaid flannel shirt from L. L. Bean. Itâll look good with my jeans and mala. Will go to Macyâs Sleep Department and sign bedsheets....look with-it, look hip.ä
ãOkay, now youâre making fun of me,ä I said. ãGo ahead, wear your ratty old bedsheet and play swami to the hilt. You do it very well.ä I could feel my blood pressure rising. Didnât the old man know whatâs good for him?ä
The last time I saw him he was going out the door on the way to Macyâs. He was wearing one of my two-hundred and fifty count cotton sheets and smelling like vanilla. Sheesh!
Testily, I told Swami that he was my creation and I would get him a t-shirt that said, ãIntellectual Property of Vicki Woodyard.ä"I will get my own," he said, ãone that says, ãIâm with Stupid.ä
ãYou canât teach!ä I said.
ãYou canât learn,ä he shot back.
There is an eternal war between guru and disciple. We have put our war paint on and we are camera-ready. We can appear anywhere at any time doing anything because we donât exist. We are mere fabrications of fun and futility.
We can arm-wrestle, mud-wrestle, make mud pies and sling mud at each other.
I actually think that he is gearing up for a publicity tour. Advertising himself like some Streisand about to warble wisdom--for a price. I hope that never happens. He is actually too innocent for this world. Much like the Little Prince, I am his sheep and he is caring for me. Underneath my bravado I am beginning to fear that he will disappear.
Right now my true feelings for the guru are showing and I must quickly cover them up. Uh oh, here he comes again. I put on my best ãjust donât get itä face and accuse him of being a charlatan.
ãYou,ä I said, "are trying to pull the wool over my eyes. Youâre no guru. Youâre just playing to the crowd and they donât care about you. They would just as soon listen to somebody who makes sense....somebody who can really enlighten them, not just tease them about it.ä
He crossed his eyes at me and I chased him out of the room with my broom.
He would vote me off of the island in a minute. And I know that he wouldnât think twice.
ãSwami Z,ä I said, ãyou only exist in the kitchen of my mind. I cooked you up. If I were the Cos, I would say, ãI brought you into this world and I can take you out again.ä
He was completely unperturbed. ãYou just donât get it,ä he said. ãThere is no doer--and thatâs a fact.ä
ãIf thereâs no doer, how does anything get done?ä
ãThe grass grows by itself,ä he said with a yawn. ãNow excuse me, I have to get to the sleep department at Macyâs.ä
ãOh, no you donât,ä I said, if I donât write you there, you canât go.ä
ãWhat are you going to do, ground me?" snorted Swami Z.
ãI want to get back to this no-doer business.ä
ãItâs none of my business,ä said Swami. ãFigure it out yourself, smartie-pants.ä
The dance of duality was being done in a most excellent manner. I was doing flamenco and clicking castenets. He began to partner me as if he were twenty years younger.
Suddenly we were dancing on the table top, dervishes of the dance. I was spinning our yarn so fast it would make your heart swim. We were destined to do this dance.
Matador and bull, Sonny and Cher, Simon and Garfunkle, our relationship was precarious. It was just a piece of fiction. Or was it....to be continued.
Thatâs the bit....to be continued. Only love can take you down this road....
ãI know, ã I said, ãyou could be in Macyâs window, demonstrating one of their beds or something.ä
"I donât do windows,ä he said stubbornly. ã And I am an iMaculate conception, remember?ä
I did, indeed. At this time of night I am sorry that I ever got the idea of him. I am just trying to throw him a crumb...thatâs all.
ãMaybe I can start a list for teachers who can make cookies but not sense,ä I said.
He giggled ãDoes your computer accept cookies?" He knows more about worldly things than he lets on. But he doesnât want me to know.
ãRemember that guru who tied his cat to a tree and now all his disciples think that they have to follow suit?ä
ãSure I do, but youâre trying to change the subject."
ãThatâs the object,ä he admitted.
If you see a homeless guru, it will be because I have evicted him from my mind. If he looks in your window, donât let him make you feel sorry for him. If you let him in, youâre in big trouble.
I tried to tell Swami that he is just a device...a way for me to do my thing.
He looked at me pathetically. I looked back at him defiantly.
ãDo you know this to be true?ä he said, challenging my underlying assumptions as easily as a Gangaji or a Byron Katie.
ãOf course," I said. ãI am in total control of my thoughts. I created you out of my thoughts and I can delete you in an instant.
I try to give you all the best lines,ä I offered. I pranaamed to him, ad libbing humiity.
ãAh, youâre just phoning me in. You are writing my character with one hand tied behind your back.ä
ãWhat did you say?ä I entered into the computer.
ãToss me a koan...what is the sound of one hand typing behind your back?ä
ãI made you and I can break you,ä I typed.
I had him reply caustically, ãYou are so powerful.ä
I turned off the computer and stomped out of the room. While I had been yelling at him, he had stuck a "kick meä sign on my back.
Whatâs a mother to do?
I tried to explain to Swami that he is a piece of fiction--a figment of my fevered imagination.
He would have none of it.
ãSee," I said, pointing to the computer screen, ãthereâs just a blank screen with a blinking cursor until I put the words down. Donât you know how actors always refer to the writers when they are accepting rewards. 'If itâs not on the page,' they say, with humility, feigned or othewise.
ãIf youâre not on the page, you donât get face time," I said threateningly.
Swami is being typed quickly into a snit.
ãYou stupid disciples just donât get it. The guru and the disciple rise and fall together. Theyâre like ham and eggs, peanut butter and jelly...ä
We looked at each other, salivating from similes. I made us a peanut butter sandwich and backed us out of the computer and out of a potentially dangerous situation.
I see a food fight in our future.
I told him that I was thinking of pulling the plug on him.
He looked at me pitifully and then said to anyone who would listen or is reading this drivel, ãIf you believe in me, clap your hands....ä
His aura begin to grow brighter so I guess some of you are continuing to follow our nightly skermishes...
Writerâs note: Sigh, now I will have to write some fans into the bit...is there no end to this?
ãSwami, you make me so angry. You are pushing all of my buttons. Nevertheless, I created you doing this so that we could have some copy to post. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.ä
He peered at the computer screen to see what he would be saying next.....
ãBlah, blah, blah, ã he said, pretending to be bored with what he read....ä blah, blah, blah...I created the universe and when enlightenment happens we will all feel much better.ä
He wandered across the computer screen and into the kichen, looking for a cookie.
I was hopping mad and left holding the bag. I was going to have to pass this anger along....unless....he was forcing my impurities to the surface and popping them like pimples.
Oh, I get it. I had karmic seeds that hadnât cooked, much like a bag of cheap popcorn.
Swami wandered back onto the screen. ãBam!ä he said suddenly. ãKick it up a notch.ä
Stay tuned. He is singing "Shall I stay, would it be a sin...and I join in... "And I can't help falling in love with you." He is brandishing the dishtowel a la Elvis and I am swooning in front of the stove. It doesn't get any better than this....at least for me. Swami is looking at me like I'm quite daft.
I am practically falling face first into the computer I am so tired. Swami never comes around till I get ready for bed and then he begins to make his pronouncements.
ãI want to you to change the copy on this page. I want you to call it.....hmmm..ä
He was looking at the blinking cursor and my fingers typing him into existence.
It gave me a feeling of power that I could create him and all his silly little words.
ãI want you to say, Home of the Famous Swami Z,ä he said triumphantly.
ãBut, Swami, donât you know that gurus are supposed to just hint that they know. Donât you think that you should say something a little less blatant....like enlightenment happens....but I can be the vehicle.ä Just try to be a little more modest.
ãNope," he said. ãThatâs it. Spirituality Light--Home of the Famous Swami Z."
I shrugged. Buy the premise, buy the bit.
ãIâm hungry....can we order a pizza?ä I asked.
ãI will create a pizza being delivered to us instead of our having cookies and milk,ä said Swami Z. ãIâm the guru. I deliver.ä
ãPepperoni and mushrooms...not the psychedelic kind,ä I flung back. With this old coot who needs them?
Swami Z has been gone for some time now as some of you may have noticed. Being inconsolable about his absence, I have kept silence. Silliness is not always appropriate. A depth-charge to the soul is necessary at times. And so it has been with me. In his absence I have resorted to arranging his spices, now grown stale, and dwelling in memories of times in his hammock. Ah, the sweet smell of the grass as we sat under a shady tree.
I have received cryptic notes from him. There are no pictures of Florida oranges or sunny beaches. Just a plain postcard with a scrawl or two.
ãBe sure that you understand where you are coming from....nowhere.ä
That first one sounded like the the typical swami that I had grown to know and love.
ãClean out your sock drawer. Make a few puppets.ä
ãGot milk? Donât got me.ä
ãLike wind through a laudromat, sometimes too warm and fuzzy.ä
Okay, so I shouldnât miss a little swami so much. I am quite sure that he is hiding out somewhere very close by. Sometimes I smell vanilla when I am at the mall and think I catch a glimpse of skinny ankles and a bedsheet. I catch myself running past Sears and Radio Shack, hoping to catch up to him.
A phantom swami in an empty mind.
He used to say that my mind was too full of stuff that I had no use for. He, who baked cookies into the night and never washed the dishes. He, who played at rebuffing me while teaching me that love knows no barriers. The little devil.....
If he ever comes back, it will be a new day. I have washed his aprons and left them hanging on the peg behind the door. I have bought shiny new cookie sheets and an enormous bottle of vanilla...and it is quite expensive.
Heck, I am going to write him a postcard and prop it on the kitchen table. Who knows...perhaps he will return when I am out. I found a postcard and sat staring at it for the longest time. What is there to say to someone like Swami Z......I finally drew a smiley face with a diagonal line through it. He hates smiley faces.
Swami Z --Part IISwami Z was sitting by the kitchen fire with a mug of hot cocoa in his hands, warming them by the heat of the concoction. He looked up at me and said, ãSo much love, so much love, what is it for?äãEducation is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.äOscar Wilde
Now the Swami has never been much of a one to ask me questions, unless they are of the ãwhatâs for dinnerä variety. Therefore the question took me by surprise. I looked at the skinny old thing in his ratty bathrobe, struck silent by his love surplus. I would have taken him in my arms, but that had proved dangerous on one occasion.
I had scooped him up in a dance of joy after eating one of his sugar cookies and he had gone into a snit that lasted for days. ãWhy do you think an old man like me comes to live with you....to give, not to receive. Now put me down and wipe that grin off your face.ä
A large tear formed and ran quickly down my face. I had no idea that it was there, so perilously close to my idiocy. ãThere, you see,ä said Swami. "You need me--I donât need you--except to give me a home."
Our home was modest, but it seemed to suit Swami well. Together we had weathered quite a few storms (all caused by me, apparently. The swami was an old tar, a seasoned veteran of the briny emotional deeps).
He returned to his intonation.....äSo much love, so much love, what is it for?ä I sat and picked at my cuticle while pondering the question.
ãIs it for me, Swami?ä
He put his mug down carefully and looked so warmly at me that the answer arose in my heart, much like the steam rising from his mug.
All I could do was nothing. Sometimes nothing is more than something....and thatâs the truth.
You may find it hard to believe, but Swami Z likes to go trick-or-treating on Halloween. He has so many bedsheets from which to choose (thanks to me). Yesterday I came in from the grocery to find him sitting in the rocking chair wearing a sheet over his head. I said the only thing that I could, ãWell, thatâs an improvement!ä
Swami would have looked at me sadly, except that he hadnât cut any eyeholes in the sheet as yet. As it was, he just said ãSo you mmmpth be mmpthei out of my pmnukk.ä
ãWhat?ä I said. ãTake that stupid sheet off of your head.ä
He drug the sheet from his head, causing the few hairs on his head to stand bolt upright.
ãSo you wonât be eating out of my pumpkin,ä he repeated. He knew that I had a fondness for any kind of candy--so he could afford to say this. I had every intention of picking through his pumpkin immediately after he got it filled and brought it home.
You may not think that this is a guru-disciple issue, but indeed it is. I have plenty of uncooked karmic seeds and most of them are dipped in chocolate. He had me by the short hairs of my neck and he knew it.
Swami and I were in a spiritual standoff regarding eyeholes in my bedsheets. As clumsy as he was, he would not get far without them. I would not get far without some Snickers, M & Ms and Almond Joys. There must be a way to compromise on this issue, but there is no such thing as compromising with the guru.
The rest of the day went on without a reference to this thorny issue, but the following morning brought an unexpected resolution. I walked into the kitchen where Swami was eating a bowl of Cocoa Puffs and said, quite generously, ãHere is a sheet that you may indeed cut eyeholes in....and you donât have to let me eat out of your pumpkin.ä
He didnât speak for a moment, due to a mouthful of Cocoa Puffs, but when he did, it was music to my ears. ãI have decided not to go as a ghost but as one of my disciples. I will be wearing one of your skirts and a blouse--I would like to say that I decked him, but I fought the impulse to be quite that aggressive. But when I went to the closet to get the skirt and blouse I felt quite satisfied. Swami has never looked good in pink and my skirt--well, it will make him look hippy.
The Teacher Is Always With YouSwami Z has been hard for me to shake lately. It started with the Halloween sheet business and continues to escalate. Between you and me, I think that he is eating too much sugar. He is doing slice and bake cookies for next week. My kitchen smells like cinnamon and has the ãstickies.ä He has spilled dough in different places and never cleans it up. Some gurus tie cats to trees when they meditate. Swami sprinkles sugar 24/7. Itâs a wonder that we donât have more bugs in the house than we do.
My cookies sheets are never around when I want them and Swami Z--well, what can I say. The guru is not only within, he is without. I am writing a song called, ãI Canât Miss You Till Youâre Gone.ä Donât get me wrong--when he is in absentia, I am miserable. And when he is always here, I am also miserable. The student is in overload at all times.
He reads my mind like it was The New York Times; most of it he isnât interested in. If I had coupons, he would clip them because he is very pragmatic, believe it or not.
ãVicki,ä he will say, causing me to startle. ãDid you remember to put my sheets on tumble dry, low?ä I normally put everything on medium and since he is a medium, he knows that. (a little guru word play)
ãNo, Swami, I put everything on medium,ä I remind him, beginning to gather a head of irritated steam.
ãOkay, okay,ä says Swami cheerfully, ãI will just sprinkle a little water and put them back in the dryer.ä ãChristened sheets,ä I said sarcastically. ãHoly smoke.ä
He grabbed me and swung me around in an impromptu dance of joy. I surrendered to the charm of this old coot, I mean cook. We ran out of breath and sat collapsed at the kitchen table. He took prasad from the cookie jar (pumpkin spice cookies) and fed it to me with a cup of steamed milk. I will regret this when I step on the scales, but come to think of it, with Swami, most things stay in balance.
More than anything, Swami Z is a scent. Smelling like vanilla must be a sure sign of gurudom because Swami attracted me by his scent. Often I experience the guruâs oneness as a waft, nothing more.
When I try to pin the scent down, it floats away. Yet when I seek nothing for myself, the scent comes to me unbidden and lingers in my hair. His teachings are like that, too.
He is obsessed with home to the point of idiocy. He says that he moved in with me because my little house attracted him. He sits in the kitchen most of the time, blending wisdom with whatever he happens to be doing in there.
He also likes to sit by the fire in the fall and winter, occasionally sharing an insight that he knows I am unready to hear. Then he sits back and enjoys my consternation.
ãYou know, donât you, that I came to live with you because I needed a roof over my head,ä he reminded me one late fall afternoon. ãI had run out of places to stay. Everyone had kicked me out. No one is as gracious as you.ä He was clearing playing me for a fool.ä
"Now, Swami, that is just so not the truth,ä I hmmphed. ãYou told me that you moved in with me because you liked that my sheets were of such high quality...that they made wonderful outfits for you.ä
The little man with the dough just sat there, giving me plenty of rope with which to hang myself.
It is said that when the pupil is ready, the master appears. That is definitely true. And mine appears to be crazy. But no mind, I belong to him now and he belongs to me. I guess that makes us two of a kind, but what kind I donât know.
Swami Z looked at me and suggested a game of poker.
"I think your content has settled," I remarked.
"Not to worry, every ounce is still there,ä he shot back, offering me a handful of Cocoa Puffs. We often ate them on the side. For example, for dinner we might have pasta with Puffs, or pepperoni pizza with a side of cereal. My teeth were being cut on the daily dharma that went crunch, which reminded me, I had a dental appointment. When Swami first told me that dental karma was the worst, I bit.
ãWhy is that, Swami?ä I said, running my tongue over my lower teeth.
ãBecause your teeth are hard on the outside and soft on the inside, just like you. You donât know how bad the pain is until something goes wrong. Then you drill and drill until....voila....rot.ä I hate to tell you that he enjoyed telling me this, but he did.
I can't figure out if his teeth are false or real. He never lets me get that close to him. He is like vanilla in that if you get an actual taste of him pure and undiluted, you will find him unsavory. He must be mixed throughout before he becomes the most useful. I bow to him and his scintilla of truth...maybe he doesnât even have that. I am the most deluded disciple that he has....just ask him.
The leaves are falling from the trees as we sit in the backyard. Watching the squirrels fly across the yard, we mirror each otherâs contentment. ãSee that one over there,ä Swami said, pointing to a young squirrel scampering up a nearby tree.
ãSometimes you are just as squirrely. I watch your mind trying to save wisdom for the winter. Making notes of what I say and in what context I said what I said.ä
The little old man had me there. I have a notebook filled with Swamiâs wisdoms (not his teeth but his sayings, which have teeth.) Are you getting confused? Swami hopes so. At one time I had thought of turning him into a book, but he refuses to be Flavor of the Month for anyone. He sees success coming and runs the other way. Frequently he hits his head, I admit, but his dottiness only adds to his charm.
ãNothing worse than being trapped by a would-be disciple,ä is one of his wisdoms. ãNothing better than catching one and releasing it back into the wild, once again able to care for himself.ä To that end, he keeps traps ready and waiting.
If he ever asks you to tell him if a dog has buddha nature, watch out. He may be distracting you to trap you into a king-sized box of Cocoa Puffs (for display only). Being puffed up with pride is one thing--being trapped in the Puffs is quite another--a horror story in itself.
Once Swami lured someone into the box and literally thumped him until his contents settled and he fell asleep. But thatâs another story.
I sat at the kitchen table altogether disheartened. The holidays are bearing down and, as usual, I never seem to jump into the flow and enjoy them as they were meant to be enjoyed. I always blame commercialism, but that is just a concept, after all. Who knows, perhaps I would just skip the holidays this year...no tree or turkey or gifts...just raw honesty. I dropped my head onto the table and fell asleep.
I awoke to the smell of vanilla and saw Swami standing over me, naked little ankles and all. He wore house slippers and a warm plaid robe that I had given him last year. He had a potholder in one hand and with the other he held a box of light brown sugar.
ãThis sugar is hard,ä he said, accusingly. ãAll lumps and hard edges...how can I bake cookies?ä
I spoke before engaging my brain. ãI canât do everything,ä I said, with about two tablespoons of self-pity.
ãYou got that right,ä said Swami. ãIn fact, you canât do anything.ä
I looked at him with a jaundiced eye.
ãLookie, here, little Swami-doodle, ã I said condescendingly, ãwho do you think pays the bills around here?ä
He eyed me silently. I eyed him back. His silence was a teaching that I will not soon forget.
In silence I got up from my chair and found a piece of bread. ãHere,ä I said, ãput this in the box of brown sugar and it will soften up before you know it.ä
Those were some of the softest cookies that Swami ever baked. And my heart....well, of course it had been softening all along. I just had a bit of a setback that afternoon.
I am having trouble making sense of Christmas. Swami Z is whizzing around the kitchen baking cookies from early morning until late at night. He has cinnamon sugar on his nose and flour on his chin. Me, Iâm getting grumpier by the hour.
ãSwami,ä I said, "do you not intend to wash a single dish today?ä I looked at all of the cookie sheets, mixing bowls and measuring spoons heaped high in the sink.
ãProbably not,ä he said, biting into a warm cookie; "thatâs what I have you for.ä
I must confess that having a little Swami live in your house is a bit confusing. He throws confetti on the bathroom rug and writes ãI love myselfä in shaving cream. He stands in front of the mirror bowing and smiling. Sometimes late at night I hear him laughing in the kitchen quite alone. At other times, he is secretive and subversive. I donât intend to let him get away with things, but that is the way it is.
Occasionally he takes the bus and disappears for the day, coming home at night looking powerful and sad. I think he visits people that I will never know, taking them sweets and giving darshan to old trees.
As aggravating as he can be at times, I cannot imagine my life now without the diminutive little cookie freak. The hollow places in me are often filled with light and levity and I find myself giggling unexpectedly or crying healing tears.
ãI love you, Swami,ä I said sincerely, rising to put my arms around him before going to get dressed.
He turned as red as the cherry on one of his cookies and vanished into thin air. I knew that he would reappear again when the oven timer went off. Some things you just know.
Swami and I sat in silence this morning for a long time. Todayâs silence was different. It was as if we joined ourselves in such depths that the heights were found in them.
ãGoing down into your consciousness is the same as going up,ä said Swami when we had at last resumed our everyday minds. He took off his cardigan and hung it on the back of his chair. I poured hot tea for the two of us.
Lately he looked like a skinny old cherub sans halo. His cookies, in fact, were angel-shaped for the holidays and were piling up in my old tins. They wouldnât last long because people were beginning to seek Swami out and they never left without cookies. Rarely did people want the recipe; they wanted Swamiâs presence along with the cookies. So I toted in large bags of flour and bottles of vanilla. My old swami smelled heavenly.
ãToday I have invited someone I met to come over,ä said Swami, rising from his chair. To tell the truth, I preferred keeping him to myself. Once word got out that he was so dear, there would be increasing numbers of people showing up for darshan.
I felt some trepidation as I saw an old blue Buick pulled up at the curb and in the house sat a woman deep into Swami-chat. He looked up when I came in, but said nothing. He was a good listener. I donât know what they talked about, but she left with a baggie full of cookies.
ãShe was here because her mind was giving her much trouble,ä said Swami, as if to ward off my jealousy. ãHer mind is like yours--prone to jealousy and wild imaginings.ä
ãSo what did you tell her?ä I said as I put away a few groceries and sat down to face him across the table.
ãJust that the mind would not cease to give her troubles, but since she was not the mind, she should never be afraid of it or to call it names. I encouraged her to call it duplicitous and self-doubting.ä
ãWell, Swami,ä I said, ãname-calling is not such a nice thing to do, is it?ä
ãNever you mind,ä said Swami with a soft smile, ãthe mind is not so nice itself. It will rise up and talk back to her and then she will come to me for further advice. This time I will agree with her--and you--that the mind is not so nice. And then we sit in silence and all will be well.ä
Swami and I disappeared for a few moments and yet we went nowhere. When we got back, we were still absent. I knew that the journey without distance was possible and required no guidebook or map.
It is Christmas Eve and Swami and I are sitting down to a quiet supper. The old wooden table is greasy with oils and butter. Christmas placemats cover some of the spots and we are using paper cups to hold our egg nog. Swami is looking resplendent tonight in his plaid bathrobe and fur slippers. He has been up since sunrise baking the most beautiful cookies. They are arranged on an old glass plate that my grandmother gave me. There are stars and gingerbread men, green trees and red Santas wondrous to behold.
The TV is on and I see scenes from A Christmas Story. I love the one where the boy gets his tongue stuck to the pole. Darren McGavin was brilliant in that movie, but so was the rest of the cast. I am reminded of how many times I have seen Swami get his sheet stuck in the door as he goes in and out on his way to Macyâs. Oh, yes, he still makes appearances there, though not as often as he used to. I know for a fact that he visits the childrenâs hospital far more frequently than he would have you believe. He has been carting cookies there as fast as he can make them.
I have something that I want to ask Swami and I have been trying to catch him at an alert moment. Heâs such an old poop that he nods off before you know it. ãSwami,ä I say, trying to be nonchalant, ãwhy is it that you never speak about your past?ä
He sat up a bit straighter in his chair, as if to acknowledge that he heard. ãWhy should I?ä he said. ãItâs not like you donât trust me.ä
ãYes, I trust you, but for instance...have you ever been married?ä
ãNo,ä he replied. ãI have been a man of God since birth, since they placed me in the manger.ä
I looked at him and knew that he was not being in the least bit blasphemous. He knew who he was and who he wasnât. His clarity was cunningly masked by chaos. Greasy cookie sheets, whirlwind trips to goodness knows where...all orchestrated to irritate....me!
I loved him down to his socks. I loved him as he ate his franks and beans. I raised my paper cup to him and stood to bow and say ãnamaste.ä Before you could say ãRudolph,ä he had raised my kundalini and lowered my expectations of having another question answered. I knew when to hold Îem and when to fold Îem. But I was a sheep of his fold and that is, after all, the most important thing. We left a plate of Christmas cookies and a glass of milk for Santa, but we had chips and onion dip ourselves. Merry Christmas to all those who keep Swami in their hearts.
Love, Vicki
Swami and I turned in early on Christmas Eve. He is clearly tired from weeks and weeks of making his beautiful cookies and hand-delivering them all over town. We had not had much time to talk about anything meaningful. Our conversation had been limited to, ãWhereâs the flour scoop and the extra butter?ä I had kept busy sweeping up his messes and going to the store for raisins, dried fruits and chocolate chips. Now we were as whipped as the cream on his pumpkin cake.
I turned out the lights and fell into bed exhausted. It was cold so I got up to get an extra blanket from the hall closet. If I had not had seen it, I would not have believed it. Golden light was coming out from under Swamiâs closed bedroom door. I stepped a little closer to it and it didnât go away. Summoning my courage, I put my hand on the door knob and opened it a crack. Swami lay on his back, gently snoring under an old faded quilt. He was bathed in this wonderful light which now filled the room and filled my heart as well.
A tear slipped down my cheek and I silently closed the door. Whoâs to say whose little swami he is. Does it really matter?
Swami was late getting up this morning, but then so was I. December 26 is the flimsiest day of the year, strength-wise. The sun was watery and pale and I felt that way myself. Last night when I had seen the light coming from under Swamiâs door, I had been changed against my own will.
I had quickly put on my nightgown and tucked myself into bed. Shivering from the light, I had prayed for understanding and received none. How could such a scrawny little man be possessed of such power. And why had he kept it hidden from me? Didnât he know that I was avid for enlightenment? Of course he did.
I put the kettle on and buttered some toast. Spreading orange marmalade on it, I mused about what would happen when Swami swept into the kitchen. So far I had heard nary a peep from him. I ate my toast and washed up a few dishes.
ãVicki!ä said Swami suddenly. I looked up and saw nothing but my usual little comrade in cookie baking. ãHave you seen my slippers?ä
ãNo, Swami,ä I said. ãArenât they beside your bed?ä
ãNo, they are nowhere to be seen."
It was then I noticed that he was wearing an odd little pair of bed socks with a pom pom at the heel.
ãNo matter,ä he said. ãTheyâll turn up sooner or later.ä
Several times I almost got the courage to ask him about the light, but the light itself seemed to stop me. As if it knew that once I asked, I would be cheating myself out of something vital. I had been doing that all of my life. Well, actually, it is beginning to feel like it is not quite my life anymore. Not since Swami moved in.
A New YearSwami Z has been gone all afternoon. I have taken a nap and taken down the Christmas tree. Boxing up the old ornaments, I smiled at how happy Swami had made me this past year. He moved in about a year ago and most of my projects have fallen by the wayside. That is as you would suspect; for no one can accomodate a swami readily.
Swami Z has required me to take a new look at how I live my life. Making room for his baking projects has taken up a lot of time. Grumbling at how messy he was, at first I resisted cookie-baking with all of my might. But soon the aroma of vanilla had me hooked. I have been looking forward to a fresh January batch.
My waistband has gotten a little tighter, yet Swami remains as slender as ever. He is looking healthy these days. Maybe it is because he walks everywhere he goes. Sometimes he takes the bus, but the stop is a few blocks from our house.
The lines between truth and fiction have definitely faded since Swami moved in. I used to think that my thoughts were real and that I had made Swami up. Now I know that my thoughts are unreal and only He is. Paradox comes in many different packages.
Speaking of which, I hear the front door opening. ãSwami, is that you?ä
ãNo,ä he called out, ãItâs the Big Bad Wolf.ä I better go and let him in before he blows the house down.
Swami Z waltzed around the kitchen with the broom. I eyed him wearily, finally saying, ãAh, knock it off."
My guru looked askance at me. I mean, what has the world come to when one is smart-alecky with the very fount of wisdom? I didnât care.
January had kicked me in the seat of the pants and they were already two sizes too small. Not to mention my heart. I felt as Grinchy as I looked. My mirror had been lying to me, telling me that I was fat and now Swami was throwing good cheer in my face. How much worse could it get?
Life hates a smart aleck and finds ways of teaching it humility. Swami Z was the present agent doling it out to me.
ãVicki,ä he said, ãwhatâs eating you? Or should I say...what have you been eating?ä
ãJunk,ä I said. ãIâve been eating junk....that you fix. Cookies, cookies, cookies.ä
ãThat is not fair,ä said Swami. ãYou know good and well we only eat cookies when we have cleaned our plates...eaten our vegetables and drunk our milk.ä
He was right...the little.....doofus!
ãIâm depressed,ä I spat the words out like watermelon seeds.ä
ãYou coulda fooled me,ä said Swami. ãI thought you were high on life.ä
Sarcasm is Swamiâs middle name. He was not going to let me get away with anything, but continued.
ãWhat do you think I came here to live with you for? To support you in your old ways....to let you compromise your integrity....to get you off the hook. No, indeed. I am here to goad you into being what you already are.ä
ãAnd whatâs that?ä I said, weary with winter and all of its lack of light.
ãI am here to pull the rug out from under you and believe me, that is no easy job.ä
I stood up so I could look him right in the eye. ãOkay, go ahead,ä I said, throwing down the gauntlet.
ãYou are no good to yourself or anyone else the way you are. You march right back to the path and get going.ä
ãItâs disappeared,ä I wailed.
ãNo, itâs right where you left it,ä snapped Swami. ãNow get going.ä
I disappeared into my depression like a snowflake on a hot stove. Swami would know the next step to take.
The Ankles of a SwamiThere is something about Swamiâs ankles that are the dearest thing about him. I suppose itâs the way they poke out of his fuzzy slippers when he scurries about the kitchen late at night. They are scrawny, pale and downright silly. I always fear that Swami will withdraw his love, leaving me in the lurch. Is that the root of my human fears and emotions toward this apparition of a guru...and does he know me better than I know myself?
I see him as a quasi- Swami, quicksilver and mysteriously mine. Yet his love is obviously a shoreless ocean, as someone once described another saint. Oh, yes, I do believe that Swami is a saint, albeit a little overdone around the edges. His barks and squeaks and hollers are nothing but subterfuge to keep me thinking that he is the same as me. Lord, I hope not.
Just as I begin to re-emerge from my musings, the little guy sails past. ãOn my way to the Dollar Store,ä he hollers at me as the door bangs behind him. Got to get some cookie cutters and they should be on sale.ä
He never asks if I need anything....inconsiderate old....never mind. I was trying to see if you were paying attention. You know I love him, donât you?
SoliloquyãHave confidence; obey without asking questions. In this way the being will come to have priority over the ego.ä
Lizelle Reymond, To Live Within, Penguin Books, 1973
ãSwami,ä I said, as we sat in front of the fire in the living room, ãI donât understand anything about you.ä
He cracked a crooked smile and opened his crinkly old eyelids, saying nothing. He pulled a blue afghan over his feet that were propped up on the footstool.
ãWhen you first came here to live, I thought you were a bona fide nutcase, but a funny one. Remember how you stood over me at the computer and interrupted my train of thought? Here, have some popcorn.ä I passed him the bowl and went on talking. He put it down, obviously no more hungry than I was.
ãAll things considered, I think I owe you an apology. I mean....you are one of the sanest people that I know--not that thatâs saying a lot. I thought about my family and how conflicted we all were. Swamiâs conflicts always had a purpose to them. If he drove me crazy, it was to make me acknowledge how mixed up I was and how much I suffered.
ãAnd when you left for a while, I grieved as if you had died. What was that all about? Didnât you know how much I had come to rely on you?ä The fire crackled and spit and I heard the clock strike ten.
äI know that once I welcomed you back, things seem to have undergone an alchemical change. I stopped resisting your odd schedule and begin to look forward to your bursting through the kitchen door.ä
ãMy loneliness, thanks to you, is becoming more alone and....spiritual. Maybe itâs aloneness. I know that everyone suffers and wants to have love in a demonstrable form.
ãSwami,ä I said impetuously. ãPlease donât leave me...not now. Just when I am beginning to know you.....ä
The old guy had fallen asleep. I pulled the afghan up under his chin and kissed the top of his head....and went to get my camera.
Just before his death Shakyamuni said, ãI have taught nothing at all!ä
Swami Z is vacuuming right now and it is so noisy that it is hard for me to think. Last night I had been trying to think of a way to go about asking him to teach me yoga, but he talked me into popcorn instead. He is quite limber, doing the cobra just as it should be done. My body could use some tuning up. Everyone is overloading the gyms this month, so I donât want to go that route.
ãVicki,ä said Swami, dragging the vacuum and storing it in the hall closet,ä Get your yoga mat and we will begin.ä
I was all excited until I realized that he was going to pop a yoga tape into the VCR and leave me alone!
The little guy was gonna put me in someone elseâs virtual hands. Sheesh.
As the video began to play, I watched intently but my attention was partly focused on Swami. He had lain down on the couch and was snoring away. ZZZZZZ does not half describe it. It was more like a ZZZZZZ to the nth power. The glass on the end table was quivering. He was not much of an example right this minute.
See, thatâs the problem with having a live-in guru. The shoemakerâs childrenâs feet go bare....you get the picture. When Swami is at Macyâs, he spouts his best lines. At home, I have no such luck. He is more likely to discuss snickerdoodles and Ding Dongs. Right now the freezer is crammed with peanut butter cookies and liebkuchen.
I made it through all forty-five minutes of the yoga tape before deliberately drawing a face on his little bald head. It was pretty good if I do say so myself. The art of living with a little swami turns up in the oddest places.
Karmic Seeds
Swami and I are eating karmic seeds for dinner. They donât taste very good, especially if you have to keep eating leftovers. For instance, on Monday night we had family fights and then again on Thursday and Saturday. You canât get these meals in a red box at the supermarket. They just show up unexpected and unannounced. They seem to multiply in your mouth and leave lots of leftovers for successive nights.
What do Swami and I fight about? Before I tell you that, let me hasten to explain that Swami is the one who decides which seeds we will be heating up; all I can do is eat them. He likes to serve me ignorance over and over again. That is because I am an intellectual and use words to defend myself.
He is constantly leaving crumb trails throughout the house and sometimes he mixes in anger seeds in with them. I blow up and bang! We are off to the family fight. When I accuse him of being messy, he counterattacks with the fact that I am a perfectionist. I launch into a verbal attack on his purpose in making me angry.
ãVicki, Vicki, Vicki,ä he said, brushing crumbs from his flannel shirt, ãdonât you know that you canât change anyone but yourself?ä
ãOf course I do,ä I snorted, ãbut if youâre so enlightened, why are you such a slob?ä
I stopped and looked at him; at his diminutive figure and almost helpless demeanor. I wanted to hug him and hit him at the same time. He is paradox perfected. I didnât wait for him to answer. I turned on my heel and left the room, which guaranteed that we would be eating leftovers tomorrow night. Swami will not rest until all of my seeds are cooked.
Swami Z had just pulled a sheetful of cookies from the oven. I couldnât wait to eat my share. I had learned, however, that Swami did not take kindly to people eating the cookies right off of the sheet. He liked to present them on a milk glass plate that had belonged to my mother. He discovered it shortly after he moved in and promptly appropriated it.
Memories now mingled with the smell of cinnamon and vanilla. We sat across from each other at the bare table....salt and pepper shakers pushed out of the way. I thought this boded well for what I had to ask Swami once I ate a warm cookie or two.
ãSwami,ä I said, swallowing the last melt-in-your-mouth morsel, ãcould you please tell me how I can become more loving?ä
He looked up at the ceiling. The silence began and continued until I was about ready to leave. When he spoke, his words were unusually slow.
ãDo you love me?ä he asked, ãor do you love yourself loving me?ä Of course, such a question could never have a logical answer. He knew that--the old poop.
ãAnd do I have to earn your love....or does it come free with no strings attached?ä
I looked up at the ceiling myself.
ãNo, Swami, you donât have to earn my love. How could you? It just arises, sort of like your cookies as they bake.ä
I got up my courage to go on. ãAnd the part about loving myself loving you...thatâs just a conundrum.ä
ãA whatzit?ä he snapped, doing his testy old man bit. ãIs that anything like a poser?ä
ãSort of. If I loved myself loving you, would that be such a bad thing?ä
ãIt wouldnât be the real deal,ä he sighed. ãYou know I never use imitation vanilla. And if I did, I would only do it in an emergency. In fact, I would use lemon extract first.ä
ãWhat does that have to do with how I can become more loving?ä
He didnât hesitate a New York minute before saying nothing. The conversation was coming from the wrong place and he was putting me in mine. Love was just going to have to take a backseat to more important things like flavorings.
I rolled my eyes, knowing that this was turning from love to cookies. It didnât really matter. I had been given Valentineâs prasad by the master chef. The next thing I knew, Swami was talking about using almond flavoring if he had run out of lemon extract. What exactly is a devotee to do?ä
Happy Valentineâs from Swami and Vicki
Are You Having a Fresh Experience?ãSwami,ä I said with a heavy sigh, ãI feel so guilty for all of the things I have done...and havenât done.ä
He looked at me with great energy in his eyes--as if he had just been given an unexpected gift. What was that about?
He said nothing but went to the spice rack and with a grand gesture, waved his arm, causing them to fall wildly onto the floor. ãSuch a noise,ä he said. ãAlmost unendurable.ä
He took an apple from the wooden bowl and examined it closely. Having satisfied himself that it was fresh, he took it to the sink, washed it and sat down. He took a large bite, smiling with satisfaction. ãNow thatâs an experience,ä he said smugly. I wanted to hit him.
Relentless
Swami is a relentless cookie-baker. He is busy from morning until night, pursuing his passion for freshness. He gives these cookies away to one and all. I have seen him invent a new recipe and give it away before the cookies had cooled off. He has total faith in his ability to please the senses. Now why would that matter? I have often wondered.
To be the recipient of a batch of his cookies is to understand the power of unconditional love. Forget the Pillsbury Dough Boy-- I have the Swami of the Sugar Cookie living at my house. His spatula should be bronzed and hung in the Cookie Hall of Fame.
If you are a milk-drinker, they are wonderful washed down with a tall, cold glass. They also go well with hot chocolate or ginger tea. Should you ever be lucky enough to sit at Swamiâs table, donât discount something known as the Mystery. It is baked into every bite and hits you like a ton of bricks.
The first time that Swami fed me a cookie, I knew that he was more than he appeared to be. He was giving me prasad straight from the Master Chef. All I could do was bow and lick my lips. Had I known what was to come, I would have packed up and left. For with each bite of cookie, I have found myself steadily disappearing. And itâs not easy.
I have cried over what Swami has asked me to do. And what is that, you are wondering? It has something to do with loving someone beyond yesterday and tomorrow. It involves moving into empty space and being unable to decorate it with anything familiar. Then comes the silence.
I have been chasing Swami around with my mental butterfly net for far too long. He is achingly beautiful and I do what I can to capture him so that I can get a closer look. You are saying, ãWhat do you mean...achingly beautiful. Are you referring to his skinny ankles or one of his sparse hairs?ä Of course not.
Swamiâs beauty arises from somewhere that I have never been. It is as much a scent as anything. It causes me to stop and look at him from the corner of my heart. He may be standing at the kitchen counter mixing dough or just sitting quietly in front of the fire. He knows that he does this to me and he laughs.
ãSwami,ä I said, ãwhy is it that you aggravate me and activate my heart chakra at the same time?ä
ãNever question love,ä he shot back, almost angrily. As if to stress his meaning, he spun around and looked at me full in the face. I looked back and the spell was broken. Now I saw what he meant. Something had evaporated and it wasnât vanilla. It was....an imperceptible movement between us. I had done this...had broken a delicate cobweb spun of faith. Dagnabbit.
I put the kettle on and sat waiting for it to whistle. Swami took off his apron and washed his hands. He came over to me and took both of my hands in his. He turned them palms up and kissed each one. I wondered. This was not in Swamiâs usual repertoire.
I said nothing. The moment remained.
What do you want me to do?
Swami Z and I were seated at the kitchen table, elbows propped. The New Year was at our doorstep and now I asked him this question, ãWhat do you want me to do?ä
Swami Z peered into his mostly-empty tea cup and said wryly, ãIt is best that I not tell you tonight.ä I was not surprised at this lack of a specific answer. Vagueness was his stock-in-trade.
In the morning I got up early and put the kettle on. I tied an apron around my waist and pushed the curtains back. The day was glittering and I was quickly lost in wonder. A squirrel dashed across the lawn, as if on his way to a cache of acorns he just remembered.
Swami swept into the room suddenly. He was dressed to go out, even though it was barely nine a.m.
ãWhere are you going so early?ä was my obvious question. He smiled at me and then unexpectedly came over and gave me a gentle hug. ãIâm going to Macyâs.ä
I waved a plate of donuts at him and he grabbed one and sat down. I reached for his blue cup and poured hot water over a tea bag.
ãI have some devotees that are expecting to see me. Before Christmas they asked me the same question that you did last night. ã
ãOh,ä I said, ãWhat do you want me to do....that one?ä
ãThat very one,ä he said, biting into the tasty circle.
ãI am going to tell them the same thing I tell you. You are asking the wrong question. You should be asking how you can quit asking that question. Itâs mental.ä
He went on, wiping crumbs from his mouth. ãSurrender never asks. It waits and then does the will of the moment. Thatâs all.ä
Of course I was totally deceived by the simplicity of his answer and the test arose with my next breath.
It was my next breath. But was it really mine?
Wondering is something that I do all the time. Who is Swami and what is he about, really? Just when I think I have him figured out he confounds me all over again. Perhaps it is best to take him as I find him, which is increasingly hard to do. The man is never at home. What with Macyâs and hospital visits, his dance card is pretty full. The other night he fell asleep in front of the TV watching a pledge drive. Between his snores and the pleas for funding, I couldnât hear myself think. It was delightful.
I sat and mused on the little man some more. I loved the way he smelled like vanilla. I adored his silly winks and warming hugs. I didnât like him so much when he did things to put me on the edge of my so-called reality. It has always been precarious. Now he seems bent on teaching me how to fly.
ãVicki,ä he said, ãI think itâs time you came out of your shell a little.ä
ãSure,ä I said, "sort of like Venus rising from the sea.ä
ãNo, more like Charlie the Tuna coming out of the can.ä He giggled at that one.
ãActually, I need you to fill in for me at Macyâs tomorrow. I think you can pass as one of my more enlightened devotees.ä
As some of you may or may not know, I met Swami in the Sleep Department at Macyâs last year. That is why I call him Swami Z. He took a liking to me and moved in to keep me company. I began writing about him in the middle of the night. He would wake me up and prod me until I turned on the computer and wrote about him. I used to write things that werenât exactly flattering to the old poop. But now I know better. I am coming more from the heart than the head. And I am definitely fatter. All of his cookies would do that to anyone.
He spoke again. ãIf someone asks you the meaning of life, just act like youâve got a frog in your throat. Hem and haw until they get the picture--enlightenment is a myth and a misconception, at least where you are concerned.ä
Did I say that he looks down on me even though he is barely five feet tall?
ãSwami,ä I said with a sincerity and humility that scared me, ãwhere I am standing, you are the closest thing to Buddha that I know.ä
Swami winked and threw out this koan as he left the room. ãDoes the Pillsbury Doughboy have buddha nature?ä
I had to think about that one.
.....
I had a question for Swami and sat waiting for him to reappear for dinner. I had fixed franks and beans and biscuits from the can. Believe it or not, Swami didnât object to fast food, whether cooked at home or eaten out. Perhaps it is his antidote to stress, I donât know.
He breezed in around six oâclock and we ate, as usual, without saying too much. After cleaning up the kitchen, I asked Swami my question.
ãSwami, what do you think about me doing what you do...you know, speaking to people about the truth?ä
He rolled his eyes before letting a fake weary sigh escape from his lips. ãAbout the truth....about the truth? Thatâs like being a little pregnant....just isnât possible.ä He rubbed his belly and stretched his legs before the fire.
ãIs you is or is you ainât my baby,ä he sang.....as if to emphasize the ambiguity of such a subject.
I said nothing. He said nothing. The clock ticked and the VCR came on. I looked at its automatic recording of a program and Swami smiled. ãYou want to do a recording, huh?ä
ãNot exactly,ä I said. ãI want to help people.ä
ãNo one there to help,ä said Swami. ãHelp yourself though. Thatâs always a good thing to do. Canât do too much of that.ä
He got up from his chair and walked over to mine. Leaning down, he patted the top of my head and said, ãSee you in the morning. Sweet dreams.ä
That night I dreamt of Swami and me dancing under a full moon. He was young and I was old--just the reverse of our real life. It made me wonder. Suddenly it didnât seem to matter if my worth depended on helping other people. Who were they, anyway? When I looked outside my window, all I saw was everything.
UnrealToday was a disturbing one for me and that is as it should be. The status quo is never a good thing. That is why knowing Swami is like knowing a river personally-- just canât be done. You can admire its beauty or its power; that is something else altogether. I think that people are ultimately the same way. We must let them flow.
But back to what happened. Swami came into the kitchen early and turned the stove on. Setting the kettle on, he returned to his chair and sat in silence. I looked at him closely. He looked the same as always; his plaid bathrobe was neatly knotted and his little head was pink in the kitchenâs light.
ãSo, Vicki,ä he said. ãI donât quite know how to say this but Iâll try.ä He cleared his throat in a tentative way. I regarded him as I would a statue that has come to life, which is pretty much how he happened, come to think of it.
ãI know that I am not real.ä
I didnât know how to reply so I just sat there clumsily, almost falling out of the chair from embarrassment.
I tried to make light of what he just said. ãYeah, I said,ä I guess the jig is up. I created you just to have some interesting copy on the homepage.ä
ãNot only am I not real,ä he continued, ãbut it doesnât seem to matter.ä
Tears were forming in my eyes as I reached over and patted him on his arm. I could feel the texture of his soul.
ãIt matters to me,ä I said, beginning to weep. ãLook at what Iâve gone and done. Created a character that I have come to love and now I find out that he knows he is only a character. But thereâs something even wronger than that....I want you to be real. I want it so bad I can taste it.ä
Swami and I are having a hard time with this one. He would like to comfort me, but how can unreality give comfort? He got up and poured hot water into his mug and returned to the table.
ãVicki,ä he said, reaching across and patting my hand. Not to worry. I donât exist, but you donât either! He had triumphed over me once again. Perhaps the game was still on.
Swami has decided that he is an orphan and wants all of the sympathy contained therein. He is also determined that I, too, will see myself in the same way. He is staging dramatic scenes revolving around our pitiful, lonely life. All that because he isnât real and neither am I. How can the unreal have parents or relatives?
He continues to bake cookies and has come up with a new version of a chocolate chip. He calls them ãonlies.ä
ãOnlies,ä I said, ãwhat the heck kind of name is that for a cookie?
ãBetter than lonelies,ä he shot back. He is trying ( I think) to make the best of his unreality. To that end, he is rocketing around the house baking nonstop. Already he has been to the market to buy chocolate chips and butter. I enjoy this part of his hyperactivity.
ãThis is gonna be a good batch,ä he says, licking his lips. ãOf course, they are only as good as you think they are. Have one.ä
I took the warm cookie with its melted chocolate chips and said the only thing possible. ãThis is goooood.ä The word ãgoodä looked like a stretch limo that I could ride around in. Being unreal with Swami is better than being real with the rest of the world.
StuckãSwami,ä I wailed, ãI am stuck.ä We were sitting in front of the fire kicking around a variety of spiritual topics. I confided that I didnât know what God wanted me to be doing. ãI know thereâs some task that I have come in to do...but I canât figure it out.ä
Swami looked at his fingernails then up at the ceiling. I know him so well by now that I readied myself for a worthless answer. He was not about to give up any real info. He never had; why should he start now?
Sun was coming in through the window...a weak, watery light that was merciful to the dust on the end tables. You could have written ãSwamiä in the dust.
ãHere it comes,ä he said with a certain air of feigned boredom. ãI have some gift to share....some calling...ä
ãYeah,ä I said blackly. ãIs it me or is it getting sarcastic in here?ä Swami stood up and stretched his back. I could hear it creaking. Then he struck his head with his hand and said, ãAh, yes, now I remember! I donât exist. You invented me and let me think that I was real. I donât have to listen to your problems.
Let me clue you in--you donât exist either. We are awash in a sea of what some people call samskara. But letâs get this straight. I call it egocentric thinking.ä He sat abruptly and tried to look irritated, but he couldnât quite pull it off. What had come over him? Yesterday he was a cuddly orphan, baking his ãOnlies.ä
ãSnap out of it, Swami,ä I barked. ãAnd get your feet off the sofa.ä (I always resort to being a bully when I can do nothing else.)
Swami stood up, brushed off his corduroys and exited stage left. I pulled the curtains and called it a day. That night as we passed each other in the hall, it was all I could do to keep from hugging him. No matter what he did or said, I loved him deeply. He is my bulwark in a sea of uncertainty. Let no one tell me that he does not exist. He does. I made him up. I oughta know!
E-mail: Vicki Woodyard
©Vicki Woodyard 2006 All rights reserved
