An old poem with a brand new meaning

As I've mentioned before, I've been influenced in recent years by my studies in Eastern spiritual philosophy. I think this poem can be read different ways, but for me, the passion becomes a spiritual one, so I have titled this poem The Master.


The Master

Crystals dance on tiptoe spires
Winter grass with frost adorned
Pinprick skin by the fire
And you, in wool wrapped warmth
A heart of lava glowing
Simmer steamy eyes
My coat with melting snowflakes
In heap of dampness lies
"Are you warm?" you whisper
Shifting golden coals
A distant dream my shivers
The death of crippling cold
I touch your face
My hands embrace
Your ancient blazing soul

A new poem

I will be adding this poem to the poetry page shortly, but wished to post it here, first.

If I have retired, I am quite happy with my retirement plans — which include much candle lighting and poetry writing. Possibly, there will be some cooking and celebrating of holidays . . . but we will see about that. There could, potentially, be some beach sitting out there . . . or RV trips across America. I'm happy eliminating international travel completely, but under duress will consider it.

In the meantime . . . please enjoy this new work, which I am titling:

Friends

in the game of love and loss
there is no Monica, there is no Ross

in the game of show and tell
there is no heaven, there is no hell

in the game of hit the ball
there is no coach for one and all

in the game of hide and seek
there is no lion, there is no meek

in the game of truth or dare
all is love, all is fair

if you're feeling hornery
better think about the bee

if you're feeling bluish
better think . . . am I Jewish?

if you answer "I'm a Jew!"
be happy, friends,

'cause I'm one, too!!!!!

Blessed be!!! Hail Mary!!! Mazel tov!!! Shalom!!! Amen.

Oh, the Humanity

From Eruch Jessawala, in The Ancient One, pps. 41-42

At the decision-taking meeting held at Meherabad on August 31, 1949, there was one individual who told Meher Baba that he was caught in a dilemma which prevented him from making up his mind whether or not to join Baba in the New Life. This man was a devout lover of Baba who had a fine voice and used to sing devotional songs of his own composition which he followed up with talks about Baba. He had given himself over to this self-assigned work with such gusto that eventually many whom he introduced to Baba, began to look upon him as a Master although he never called himself such.
         When asked by Baba to explain the nature of the problem that faced him, he said, "Baba, there are so many people who have been coming to our meetings to hear about You, that we have hired a large hall and it has already been furnished. To give it up in a month's time in order to be with You will be difficult, so can I be allowed to join You in the New Life as soon as I finish this work?"
         "How long with it take?" Baba asked.
         "By the end of the year I'll be ready to join You," he answered.
         "By the end of the year the training period will be over, but you can join me," Baba told him.
         Unfortunately however, it turned out that this individual never joined the New Life because he was unable to shed certain attachments which had been allowed to form and to which he had become addicted. And therein lies a lesson for all.
         There is undoubtedly much pleasure and enjoyment in sitting around and talking about Meher Baba, but when that is over we must not forget to give ourselves a collective shaking in order to free us from any wrongful attachment which may develop. The attachment to which I refer, can develop from listener to speaker or vice versa, and it was this process which took place in the case of the devout lover in question. He became so drenched with the admiration that he drew from his listeners that he forgot to shake himself out of it and fell a victim to its enchantment.

I feel so honestly blessed, truthfully my friends, that the struggles I have gone through to try and reach my own version of The New Life have brought out mostly negative reactions instead of positive ones.

At every turn, for as long as I can remember, I have been ridiculed and shunned for believing in God. I don't know what kind of lives some of you have led . . . but in my birth family, discussions of religion were absolutely taboo, unless someone was making a really ugly joke at Jesus' expense.

My family is so incredibly stoked by the complexity of their intellectual prowess that they can't see the forest for the trees. They are brilliant . . . every one of them. They understand how the world works, completely. They are practical, and logical and highly motivated and ambitious. They are adventurous and fearless in the face of nearly every challenge that is thrown at them. I am talking about my mother, father, brother, sister, and every single step-, half-, and friend that ever walked through our door growing up. The challenge was out there . . . from birth . . . to become fabulous and brainy, and make good money doing it.

When God started "talking to me" in 1999 . . . the horror of it was too much for my family to bear. "Holy Shit," I could hear them collectively cry. "We've got a retard on our hands."

I say that word BRAVELY . . . because I know you all have used it, at least once. Regardless of the falsity of the world of "political correctness" . . . there is not a single person alive today who has not been called a retard on the playground. Welcome to my world — where, whether you like it or not, TRUTH prevails.

Backlash from negative energy is strong, folks. Whether you want to believe it or not . . . the judgments and criticisms that you put out into the universe are monumental in their effectiveness for destruction. When you are critical of people in your life . . . when you respond unkindly, or ungenerously to people . . . even people you think you love . . . the TRUTH is out there and there's no taking it back.

When you are jealous of your children, or angry at your mother, or unforgiving of your sister . . . WWIII is coming to your house AND FAST.

So, for all the intellectuals out there, and all my critics, just remember . . . this Earth is my home. I don't expect anybody here to kiss my ass . . . they never have . . . but, I am quite sure that karma exists. And, yes, really . . . THIS WILL GO DOWN ON YOUR PERMANENT RECORD.

Delta Dawn . . . What's That Flower You Have On?

Do you remember that song from the '70s? Delta Dawn was the talk of the town . . .

She's 41 and her daddy still calls her baby.
All the folks around Brownsville say she's crazy.
Because she walks downtown with a suitcase in her hand . . .
looking for a mysterious dark haired man.

Logically, I know, that in the ridiculous hunt for Jesus "in a body," I am just plain out of luck in this lifetime . . . and probably every lifetime to come.

I've done enough studying, of every spiritual tradition I can get my hands on (and mind around) to believe — for myself — that the return of the Avatar has already happened. I do not expect anybody else to join me in this belief . . . it is a belief of my own based on my own experience and needs. When we know, we know. When we believe . . . it's ignorant and destructive to try and force that belief on anybody. And, even when we know something, we are still never quite sure how much of our "knowledge" is simple hope and faith, with only a slightly more substantial basis in evidence. It's just my feeling on the subject, but you can quote me on it.

For me, personally, the person of Meher Baba was the embodiment of Christ, and He came and went by the time I was 4 years old . . . in a land halfway around the world from me. Whether I met Him in a past lifetime, either during His advent as Meher Baba, or during any other advent, I have no clear memory. I have had some dreams that allude to it, some fantasies on the subject, a sincere hope that it was so . . . but ultimately, it's all an illusion anyway, and THAT is something I know.

Today, through the grace of God, I was able to read the most powerful lesson on this subject that I have ever come across. It is written by Bhau Kalchuri, from an out of print book he wrote called Avatar of the Age: Meher Baba Manifesting.

God is always present in his real impersonal form, but it is impossible for people with gross consciousness to imagine this real form of God. The real, impersonal, infinite and indivisible form of God is utterly beyond imagination.
         Imagination always creates forms, and the consciousness of individual limited imagination always feels convinced of the existence of anyone or anything so long as it has a form. So God, who is without form and body, has to take form and a human body, age after age, in order to convince humanity in illusion that God is infinite and without form or body.

This quote came from today's Quote of the Day link at www.avatarmeherbaba.org. There's a lot more there, and I encourage anybody who's interested in this kind of thing to take a look at this and the other writings compiled in the Anthology section of that site.

Personally, for me, today's reading — and my life events of the last week — mean that the frantic marathon that has driven me for years is finally over. There's nowhere more to look for Jesus Christ. He's not hiding out somewhere among people I know . . . He's not waiting for me in some far away land . . . He's not about to be born to me or anybody else. "HE" is a concept, and no longer a conception as far as the world goes. Phew. Thank God that's over!!!!

To the people in my life who have suffered terribly from my abuse over this "search" that has had me lifting up your skirts and checking in your bathroom closets . . . I apologize profusely. If I haven't explained myself adequately enough to you, yet, we probably have about 40 more years in this lifetime to patch things up. I'm here, and I love you.

To Derek . . . congratulations!!!!! You win the prize of having the most convincing Jesus story of anybody I have ever met . . . and you are an agnostic at best, if not a straight out atheist of monumental proportions. It's a total and complete riot . . . and I thank God for finally making me laugh about this.

Now, it's time to wash the dishes. Have a great day, everybody.

Love in the Time of Cloistering

It's such a tragedy that I did not, indeed, become a Catholic nun when I had the chance.

It's long, but I have to quote the whole thing, written by Mani S. Irani (Meher Baba's sister) from her book, God Brother:

As I have said before, I was educated in the Convent of Jesus and Mary at Poona. Mehera, too, had attended the school before me. We were taught by the nuns, as well as by the regular teachers.
         I loved the nuns, the habits they wore, and their gracious ways. They were always busy with their work and their prayers, and I marvelled at the time and care they devoted to the lilies in their garden. Whenever one of the nuns carried a long sheaf of pure white lilies into the church of the Convent, I would feel touched. "She's offering it to Jesus," I'd say to myself, "just like Mehera would offer it to Baba."
         Apart from giving piano lessons and moral lessons, the nuns also taught excellent needlework. However, what I'll never forget is the fudge the nuns used to make for school fairs — it was heavenly!
         Two nuns I remember with special tenderness. One was the jolly Irish nun who was our Mother Superior when I was admitted into the school. The other was the very kind, soft-spoken Sister Matilde who taught us French. Although we did not learn much of French grammar from her, she gave us a true knowledge and love of France. I was to remember and thank her for this when we visited France with Baba in 1937. Whatever we saw there, I felt I had seen it before — through the eyes of gentle Soeur Matilde.
         I had always wanted to be a nun — a nun for Baba, just like Mehera, Naja, and the other women who had given up everything to be with Baba, serving Him in total obedience and strictest discipline.
         One morning during recess, one of my school friends was being catty and asked, "Mani Irani, do you know why the nuns are so good to you?"
         "No," I said, "Why?"
         "Because you're going to become a Catholic nun."
         "But I'm not going to become a Catholic nun," I replied.
         "No? Then what kind of nun are you going to become?"
         I don't know what made me say, "I'm going to become a real nun!"
         Years later, after joining Baba as a "real nun," I realised the truth of what I had uttered as a little girl. There was indeed no nunnery like ours, so cloistered and strict, and yet so alive and buoyant with the joy of God's personal presence and love. Yes, being Baba's nun was being a real nun in the deepest and truest sense of the word.

I have not been so worthy, in this lifetime, to live in the presence of God in the human form. It has been such a heartfelt yearning . . . such a deep and sorrowful plea, from the fathomless depths of a breaking heart . . . and yet, unrequited and seemingly denied forever. Such little patience, I know. I feel the admonishment from within, minute by minute. One lifetime??? He incredulously gasps. You can't exist for one lifetime without Me???

He's the one who sees me, though, when nobody else is watching. He's the one who sees me throw myself on the floor, daily almost, wailing helplessly with the torment of my longing for His presence. Should I tell you this? Is it fair to Him?? Does my love for Him diminish somehow, now that you know how pitiful I am because of it? So much of it is unhidden, now, that I don't see how it matters. So much of it is blared across the internet and logged into the notes of psychiatrists and law enforcers. I am a long, howling, wail that cannot be quelled . . . even in the silence of my writing.

If I had escaped to a convent at seventeen or so, I could have lived this life absolutely privately. I could have walled myself up behind some thick, blond brick . . . and I would have come out once in a while to run the library at the school, or possibly teach some poetry (when I was able to get up off the floor.) Or maybe I would have been patting down babies at an orphanage, and doing fliers to raise support for Catholic Charities on my off time. But, nobody would have questioned me, daily, for kneeling in front of the altar with tears running down my face, or spending unusual amounts of time polishing the pews in time for Mass. The parishioners might have instructed their children to speak softly around me . . . but they would have at least given me a little wiggle room for my "oddness." Here in the suburbs, with exes everywhere, and a poor, bewildered pre-teen daughter, I am so far from "normal" that it is ridiculous . . . and I do not even have the propriety of a good black and white habit to help me gain a little respect.

And here, again, today, I find myself on the verge of a new world all over again. Derek and I have finally bitten the bullet. Our relationship has been struggling . . . despite how much we truthfully love each other, deeply and beautifully in a real and unending way. He's my beloved, in so many ways, but in the world — in this world — we are not capable of holding together a romantic relationship. In the classic Seinfeld style, we have been able to honestly say to each other, with laughter through the tears, "It's not you . . . it's me!" and mean it.

But, it means that Sister Babsy is on the loose again . . . and I have been so much trouble when that has happened in the past. I must be honest about it. I love Jesus so much that I hunt for Him everywhere . . . and truthfully, I usually find something that reminds me of Him in every person I meet. Derek was the kicker, in so many ways. He's a man who survived a 125-foot jump from the top of a gorge — as a college student at Cornell — in the tragic response to the loss of a relationship with a woman he loved. Not only did he survive, but within months of the fall, he was back at Cornell, and finished his degree within the same year of his original graduation date. To look at him fully dressed, you would never know. His smile is bright, his eyes are clear, his skin is peachy (truly, honey, it so is!) he's funny and brilliant and beautiful and kind and sweet . . . ahh. Such a guy, you have never met in your life!!!

But, it doesn't take too much to see and understand the scars he has carried from this chapter in his life. There's a long, deep one, running right down his torso. And, the heart is a funny thing. He loves me, but he can't tolerate the "noise" I bring into his life . . . with my drama and pathos, emotion and obscure spiritual mumbo-jumbo (lol!!) — it's too much for a man who has suffered as much as he has. He wants a quiet life . . . and try as I might, I have never been able to stay behind the blond, brick walls.

But, Derek is a crucified man, truthfully, and how can a woman like me resist the temptation??? lol!!! I am tempted, continuously, by the guys with good suicide stories!!!! It's the greatest joke God has ever played on me. When other women are out looking for the car, the house, the wallet, or the body — I'm out looking for the ones with the deepest scars . . . who are living and willing to tell about it. And, really, you can find people like this everywhere!!! Even a woman like me, who struggles at times to live up to some "marketing ideal" of female beauty, has no trouble finding crucified men to date. Without a thick, brick wall and a posse of large women dressed like penguins to protect me . . . the mojo that this produces is quite dangerous. They may be crucified, but they usually aren't committed to celibacy the way Jesus was. Potent stuff for a woman who would be committing some serious blasphemy if she just started wearing a habit around for no official reason.

All I can say is . . . good luck to everyone involved in the new game. I will try to avoid complications that will unhinge relationships . . . or drag unsuspecting drug addicts and mental hospital patients into problematic situations with me. If everybody just stays cheerful around me, the men should be safe.

Blessed be!!!!! (and don't forget those Hail Marys everyone!!)

Patching Things Up With Ivy

Far be it from me to sneeze at the inexorable demands of karma.

I can feel the need, calling me strongly from the "other side," to apologize to dear Ivy Duce, and do my best to restore her reputation among my readers. She is quite hurt that I have taken a jolly comment of hers out of context, and feels that now, her work of a lifetime — trying to get the world to take her seriously as a spiritual teacher — has been shaken down to its root by an awful shrew named Baba Ran. All I have to say to that, Ivy, is "ego, ego, ego . . . " (lol) but, truthfully, I do understand and will do my best to restore good will between us.

This is how much I ***LOVE*** Ivy Duce, friends . . .

Upon learning of Meher Baba, somewhere in the fall of 1999, I asked my guide in this matter what I should "do" about it. My darling teacher told me to get Ivy Duce's book How a Master Works. Yes, he also suggested Meher Baba's Discourses, and Jean Adriel's Avatar, and gave me the names of a few people to speak with . . . but it was Ivy's book that made it into my hands first, and was, truthfully, the most welcome.

Here is a small sample of the incredible poetry and beauty of Ivy Duce, from pps. 550-551 of How a Master Works:

"Norina related to me one time a story concerning the period in which Baba was working with animals. He sent out word that he wanted monkeys sent to him because he had to have one monkey who would recognize him. Myriads of crates and boxes of monkeys began to arrive from all over India. Every time, the disciples would have to sit in a room together; the crate would be opened in the center of the room and the monkey allowed to climb out and go whither it willed. They were getting rather hopeless about any monkey ever recognizing the Master, when one day a very tiny monkey, as soon as the box head was removed, rushed like a streak of lightning straight for Baba, climbed up on his shoulder and chattered wildly into his ear. Baba was delighted and handled the monkey for several weeks, I believe, but he became a great problem. He was small and there seemed to be a constant danger of tripping up people as he would dash frantically to the Master, and the disciples feared he would trip up Baba as he pranced around his sacred feet. When Baba's work with the monkey was done it seemed impossible to detach his small lover, so the Master thrust him into Norina's hands and commanded her to care for him. The Princess gave a hilarious picture of her problems with said monkey. He insisted on sleeping with her, messing up her bed and belongings, and generally creating more tension than any other situation with which Baba had faced her. She was forced to manage and endure this problem for three months before Baba sent the monkey back to its environs. I am sure that most spiritual aspirants would prefer being told to recite mantras for years than to take care of a monkey. Baba brings us down to the realities of living and makes us learn selflessness actively rather than letting us dwell in the ivory towers of psuedo-spirituality."  —IOD

This passage has meaning for me on so many levels that it is quite humorous, poignant, painful and liberating all at once. I don't intend to go into all of the nuances, here, but what I will say to my dear friends and readers is this:

Ivy Duce is a Master in her own right — a woman of honor and beauty, a darling friend to the downhearted, and a brave and hearty soul with an intellect that cannot be matched by man or woman, anywhere alive today.

PLEASE QUOTE ME ON THAT — and make sure to include all emphases & boldness when you do!!!  —Baba Ran

And what I will remind my dear friends among the living is this:

There was a friend of mine who once joked to her husband, "If I turned into a monkey, would you take care of me?"

And what I will say to my friends in both Meher Baba and the Catholic Church is this:

"Norina" was indeed Princess Matchabelli of incredible political fame and fortune, but was also well known as an actress in her own right. Her most famous role was of stage and film . . . where she played La Madonne to perfection.

And what I will say to myself on this matter is this:

Who is the Monkey? Who is the Mother? Who is the Master? Who is the Friend?

And the way I will answer is this:

laughing wildly with tears running down my face.
Je vous salut, Marie.
Amen.

Purposelessness

A little over a year ago, I was on vacation on Cape Cod with my beloved Derek and another couple. During that one, short week that we shared — in a beautiful location near the beach, but a less-than-ideal cottage (that was a bit rustic, overall, considering the cost) — I started feeling my all too familiar feelings of disconnection from the physical world. It begins slowly, most of the time, with an odd thought or impression that gradually turns into a mental obsession. On our vacation last year, it was a strange oil painting in our cottage that started the whole thing. It looked to be the work of a young, practicing artist. It was of a bird, a blue jay, looking rather subdued on a branch. But, the background of the painting was a shocking, vibrant melange of color — mostly oranges and reds — and we joked that this was the "Blue Jay of the Apocalypse" as it looked as if the world behind him was burning up.

Well, this image started my mental wheels rolling. Unfortunately, I am trapped easily by fears of global disaster. Since the onslaught of my symptoms of bi-polar disorder (or whatever it shall be called) about a decade ago, my imagination is often tickled into a state of dread and portent by thoughts of Armageddon and the possible pain it will cause. In the past, these thoughts have spurred me into "action" — meaning that I begin attempting to "fix" the remaining problems of the world through symbolic acts, thoughts, writings and comments. This behavior appears completely illogical to the people around me, and yet makes perfect sense to me internally. It is the disconnection from my friends and family at times like these that has caused immeasurable heartache and misunderstanding. When I can no longer explain myself, or when these explanations make no sense to people around me, they call for the assistance of "professionals" to intervene, and I usually end up hospitalized.

That silly "Blue Jay" set me off on a mental and physical crusade that lasted about a year, this time. It's been a terrible time for all of us in my family, and we are just now attempting to heal from the effects of this latest round of "mental illness." I have been battling demons in my mind — which have felt palpable and overwhelmingly real to me. Regardless of the opinions of others, I have felt that I have been contacting and healing some horribly frightened spirits . . . ones who have been living for a long time in mental "hells" of their own creation. Ultimately, I know these are my own fears, and my own spirit in need of healing and help, but in the fray of the "work," I see them as other and everywhere. I meet them in my own imagination, and also in the places I end up physically — such as homeless shelters and mental hospitals, and even online. Although there is no way to convince any of the "normal" people in my life that this is actually necessary work — that I am well-prepared for and understand completely — I continue to hope for compassion and understanding from a world and society that is nearly hopelessly (in my opinion) bound by falsity and illusion.

And yet, I know overall that my experience of this "imaginative battlefield" is also a complete illusion. I have looked upon my role in this game as having some sort of meaning, I suppose, in that I have offered myself to God, my whole life, as someone who would like to help Him fix things in this world. I have said it before, but it bears repeating, that I became determined to marry Jesus Christ in third grade . . . and knew even then that I wouldn't be given a chance to do so if I were not "worthy" of this somehow. The psychiatrists, I'm sure, could create a quite comprehensive study to show how my imaginative need for "religion" as a child created my eventual mental dysfunction and delusion. And, ultimately, regardless of how real my experiences feel, or whether my efforts actually bear results of any kind, they are indeed nothing more than mental illusions at play.

What I laughingly propose to all the "normies" is this . . . my mental war against fear and ignorance is delusional, yes, but no more delusional than the job/house/wife/child/college hunt that seems to be your life's purpose. Regardless of the fact that there are more of you than there are of me . . . it is my strong feeling that you, also, are pursuing a vacant dream.

According to Meher Baba, from The Everything and the Nothing:

"Reality is Existence infinite and eternal.

Existence has no purpose by virtue of its being real, infinite and eternal.

Existence exists. Being Existence it has to exist. Hence Existence, the Reality, cannot have any purpose. It just is. It is self-existing.

Everything — the things and the beings — in Existence has a purpose. All things and beings have a purpose and must have a purpose, or else they cannot be in existence as what they are. Their very being in existence proves their purpose; and their sole purpose in existing is to become shed of purpose, i.e., to become purposeless.

Purposelessness is of Reality; to have a purpose is to be lost in falseness.

Everything exists only because it has a purpose. The moment that purpose has been accomplished, everything disappears and Existence is manifested as self-existing Self.

Purpose presumes a direction and since Existence, being everything and everywhere, cannot have any direction, directions must always be in nothing and lead nowhere.

Hence to have a purpose is to create a false goal.

Love alone is devoid of all purpose and a spark of Divine Love sets fire to all purposes.

The Goal of Life in creation is to arrive at purposelessness, which is the state of Reality."

As an attempt to bring this understanding into my life in a deeper way, I am going to make a bold assertion and see how well it holds up over time. I suppose it could be considered a prayer of sorts — but more effectively, perhaps, it should be considered a meditation, since I feel I will be looking for ways to repeat and absorb its meaning for a long time:

It is time, finally, for me to become a living example of Meher Baba's assertion that there is no work to be done. I am choosing to embrace my own purposelessness . . . and to finally free myself from any anxiety about a world gone astray. I have done my best. Now, I will not worry and be happy.

I wish you well, dear friends, in your own search for meaning in life, which may have absolutely nothing to do with your perceived purpose.