Evil people do not further
The perseverance of the superior man.
The great departs; the small approaches.
On Election Night 2016, as we all began to see what was happening, I went to throw an iChing, which often comforts me in times of horror. The hexagrams that came up for “Present” and “Future” were both “Stagnation” or “Standstill”
In a state of standstill or decline, confusion and disorder come along. Inferior forces are on the rise, when the powers of clarity and creativity are on the decline. In such times, the wise take shelter in their own integrity and quietly remain faithful to their principles. Retreat from public activities and common exchanges until the times favor direct action.
During periods of stagnation, inferior elements in society come to the forefront. When the inmates are overrunning the asylum, summon up your fortitude, hide your worth and withdraw. Concentrate on your personal affairs with a quiet dignity, even if that means forfeiting short-term rewards.
Desiring to change a situation too quickly often creates extra conflict. By accepting hardship, while striving to maintain integrity, you are preparing for future growth. “A seed of prosperity is often hidden inside the husk of misfortune.”
Draw your own conclusions.
The more powerful it grows,
saw this man dressed in these terribly impressive wool robes, youngish then, and with short hair, clean-shaven (that changed shortly), and I thought “I belong to that man.” I didn’t know what that meant, either, but that is what I thought. I think the word “disciple” flashed through my mind…that did mean something to me, so I must have had some innate idea. However, it was not until I left home and moved to Cleveland, Ohio, that I began to search earnestly for the Sufis, with this man’s image in the back of my mind. One day, it happened: I saw a newspaper article about a seminar at the local Unity church that this man was giving, and I saw that I could at least attend a public lecture at the end of it. So I went to that, and was blown away, still not quite understanding what was happening to me.
Now, an alchemical retreat, the way most of us do it in this order, is generally taken in silence, in the wilderness. This was quite a historic retreat, for many reasons, and ordinarily I would have observed silence, but Rabia and Nick were parked on the outside of the camp area (most people brought tents), and I’m not entirely sure what they did during the days of the retreat, but I imagine she tried to divide her time between him and his reasonable desire for sightseeing, and the retreat. I just knew that Rabia, extrovert that she was, would want to talk, and so I observed silence during the hours of the retreat, and in the evenings, I would walk over to where they were camping and talk to Rabia. I remember her expressing guilt that I was breaking silence for her, but I said that it was a privilege, so she let it go, and we chatted happily. I remember that, toward the time of my departure back to Tennessee, where I lived then, I realized that I was running out of money. I was a single mother, and I lived pretty close to the bone. I went to Rabia and guiltily asked her if I could borrow $100 from her, and she gave it to me, and I paid it back eventually. I remember another time, during those lean years, when I was flat broke, and out of the blue, she sent me some cash, saying “I just have a feeling I owe you some money, let me know if this isn’t enough.” I doubt that she owed me one thin dime, but golly! I needed those few bucks, and they came exactly when I needed them.
stories up, as I recall, and neither of them was a spring chicken at that time, but they were the dames de grandes of the Abode. I sometimes felt anger that the Abode couldn’t get her down to a ground floor (and Aftab, as well), but I also heard that she wouldn’t stand for it. It was in the days of the Abode when no one had their own bathroom, although Rabia managed one; I never saw it, because the one time I had arranged to go and stay with her, physical problems intervened, and it didn’t happen.
All these memories span some 40 years of friendship, and they are not necessarily in order, but come as they come. I cannot say exactly when they took place, but this is what I remember. And our Rabia was quite the extrovert, and I suspect that these memories of mine will not at all rival the memories of any of her ten thousand friends, because I don’t believe she ever met anyone in her life who was not a friend.
In her last years at the Abode, tragedy struck: walking down the road one d
Merton, and as we read, nodded sagely and exchanged looks of understanding. It was a communion of heart and soul. The first afternoon, we took her to the Nasher Art Museum, and had lunch and saw the exhibits. She was appalled at the price of her lunch, and grumbled about it for the rest of the afternoon, but she also enjoyed herself thoroughly (as I recall, we spent about $10 on her; we tried to hide the check–really!–but she managed to find out). Rabia loved to eat, but there were limits!
Thinking he might be able to let him off the leash for a bit to frolic in the waves, he did so, and immediately Spud took off for the nearest houses, quickly disappearing. Westies are bred to be vermin-hunters, and they move FAST. My husband took off to look for him on foot and I took the car, terrified that in the fast-moving traffic on the beach road he might be killed very quickly. Continuing in the parlance of the 60s, what a rush! I was terrified. He is my child-substitute, my own human children being officially grown-up.
When we reached the Hatteras ferry, we were feeling adventurous and positive, and as it happened, a young man wearing a big backpack and carrying a camera spoke to us, and we ended up having a pleasant conversation with him. His name, he said, was Juan Pablo Cardoña (great name!) and he is from Colombia. He is creating a blog for the folks back home, in order to show them how to travel with very little money. He had started his trip, as I recall, in New York City, and had traveled through Philly, DC, down the East coast, and was now headed–on foot–for Ocracoke and then to Cedar Island, and on. He planned to return to his parents’ home in Orlando to sort out his photos and write his blog. A nice kid (well, anyone under 30 is a kid to me; he is 26). We gave him a ride into Ocracoke Village,
and he had to decide where to spend the night. He had so far slept in at least one church, camped out, been offered accommodations by people he met, and he was kind of up against it on Ocracoke, as the campgrounds are closed at this time of year. But we gave him a small tour of the village and parted with him since we were going in the opposite direction, and the next day, he contacted us on Facebook to let us know he was okay. I hope he still is. Again with the 60s theme: I was reminded of those days when people like me took off for parts unknown whether or not we had money, quite often barefoot.
My daughter brought our other two dogs down to spend a couple of weekend days with us: we had (notice the past tense) two aging Shelties (Shetland Sheep dogs, aka “miniature collies”), both fairly elderly. The older one had a rough time climbing the steps to our cottage, and we had to haul him up. On Saturday morning, as we were about to head out for further adventures, I was sitting on the back porch meditating. I was listening to the waves, and as well, I had the earphones to my iPod in my ears. I was aware of a distant whining, but I thought it was our young Westie, who gets kind of excited about things. When I got up, I saw that our oldest Sheltie was in obvious distress, heaving and whining, unable to respond to anything. It was clear to me that he was very likely dying, and while I was essentially okay with that (he was, after all, quite old), obviously I was distressed. My husband and my daughter carried him to the car to find a vet, and I stayed with the other dogs. Of course, he was dying, and the nice young vet they found put him out of his misery and soothed their feelings of guilt and didn’t charge a penny for doing that. In these days when medical care for one’s animals costs as much as it does for human, that was really quite decent.
Spud is our “gap dog,” because we knew this day was coming, and figured Pip would want a pal to get him through, and it seems to have been a good idea. I suppose in a year or two, we will need another “gap dog.” Everyone should have someone to hang out with.
wait, I’ve got it: I like the ones written by people who can write. That’s it! That’s the ticket!
This is a story that sweeps across cultures, time, and spirit, a story that Ganga and its mysterious qualities runs all through. It is a story of the eventual outcome of will and the triumph of spirit. It is, however, even more: it is about about chance and change and who lives and who dies. The part of it that is a murder mystery is fairly minor, because it illuminates a number of different beings, beginning in India, 1960, which in itself surprised me–although not much–because the event that triggered all the rest, the birth of an illegitimate child, was set in the context of an entrenched Brahmin family for whom such an occurrence was quite unacceptable. The baby born was Narsimha, meaning Lion, and he grew into a force that seeded growth and tragedy both:
I am determined to write this response to the book without “spoilers,” as you may want to read it too. But let me say that as a psychologist, Narsimha presents a fascinatingly accurate portrait of a developing antisocial personality. On the one hand he has plenty of reason to go wrong, yet at the same time, he could have gone either way. I suspect in this day and age we would say he has an “attachment disorder.”
As Narsimha is growing up under the cloud of shame and outrage surrounding his birth, so is Shankar,
d-to-be-true character, while Leela is more similar to her mother in her inability to sacrifice her own individuality for the greater good of the family.
Thus, we have a family growing, both as individuals and a unit, and all the time their nemesis Narsimha, unknown to them, is growing in his own direction. Most of the book is constituted by the thought-provoking development of its characters, only turning into a real detective drama toward the end. It is, I think, far too intelligently written to be confined to that genre. It is a book about the growth of soul. Along the way, who lives and who dies? Or to use a better phrase, who prevails? This is a fascinating read that flows out of its origin–India–to the West and back again, illuminating the development of its characters in the context of their cultures and traditions, on the backdrop of modernity. I keep wanting to tell people: please do read this so we can talk about it!
I saw this on my Facebook page this morning, and it took me awhile to figure out why I wasn’t happy with it. It seems to me that all these “symptoms,” while no doubt true of the early stages of awakening, mostly bespeak spiritual narcissism. In Zen parlance, a clinging to these states denotes the “stink of enlightenment,” as a very real experience–awakening– eventually becomes an ego trip, if one does not continue to go forward and clings to the original experience. In reality, life is very hard, and as one climbs the ladder, one increasingly partakes of the broken heart of humanity as God weeps for its creation. Those who knew the Inayat Khan family, for instance, spoke of the deep feeling of sadness that often emanated from Murshid, and the feelings of grief and depression in his and his wife’s quarters. The Begum often suffered from depression and grief, and Murshid was often made sad by the behavior of his students and the misery of the world.
I am a little late acknowledging the Urs (anniversary of the death of a great teacher) of my best friend and spiritual father, Pir Vilayat Inayat Khan. Traditionally, the Urs is a celebration of the “wedding” of what the Hindus would call the maha-samadhi, a term I use simply because it popped up in my head, residue of my days in various Yogic groups in my twenties, while I was waiting for my teacher to find me. He found me pretty early, as it happens, because I was age sixteen when I first saw him, but it was awhile before I met him; and that is another story for another time. As to the maha-samadhi term, it is meant to describe the final, conscious departure of one from her or his body, with the accent on the word conscious. . . and although I wasn’t there when Pir, as most of us called him, left his body, my impression is that he made a pretty conscious exit, and I do know that he managed to visit many of his students as he departed, including me.
The Renunciation of Jiddu Krishnamurti
Why do I do this to us?
Rays 