ThisLife

I'm finding it very interesting reading two side-by-side explanations, written by keen enthusiasts, about a practice that I'm unfamiliar with. It's a bit like hearing two people describe a favourite author that they share. Of course, my mind being constructed the way human minds are, I see this new description through the filter of my pre-existing beliefs and end up comparing and evaluating all this new information to that which was already comfortably in place in my own head. Thus, the judgements I make about what I see are purely relative to the arbitrary ones I hold,... but a 'personal viewpoint' is the only view know-able to me. So, for that reason, my bringing it to the discussion is valid. Because it's true. My nature finds itself more attracted to Amoyaan's description because its flavour, to me, in essence is carried by the one beautiful line you wrote,.... "It's helped me immensely and I genuinely love it and love sharing it." Again, from purely my narrow, relative standard, it appears to be in harmony with a statement that my current, favourite teacher, (Wayne Liquorman), wrote in one of his books,... “ When the understanding comes, it is always intuitive and instantaneous. In fact, this whole process of seeking is just designed to keep us busy while we’re waiting for something to happen.” I also appreciate the probably equal enthusiasm with which 3bob approaches his explanation of the merits of Vedanta in his life. But my nature being what it is, I confess to being somewhat put off by two aspects of what you say. (or perhaps more accurately, the way you say it). Firstly, the pejorative use of the word "neo". Yes, it is 'advaita' teachings that I'm drawn to, but I certainly don't ever think of it as "neo" advaita, or myself as a "Neo". It smacks of the same use of that prefix in the term 'New Age thinkers'. To my way of think, the advaita I'm attracted to is the basic, stripped-to-its-essence ancient variety as taught in India millenia ago. Advaita Vedanta is what happened to advaita when it was turned into a religion, so that AV now contains doctrine, dogma, specialized vocabulary, priests and a religious hierarchy. If that is an accurate description of Vedanta, I see absolutely nothing wrong with that as a path, any more than I do the way that Christ's oral teachings were turned into Catholicism. Many people like a structured approach to religion. HOWEVER, whenever its proponents feel it necessary to point out the imagined 'superiority' of their particular belief system in comparison to other approaches,... then my hackles begin to rise just a little. The second area of uneasiness I have can again, like I did with Amoyaan's text, be summed up in one of the lines you wrote, ..."Vedanta explains the workings and relationship of the apparent individual, awareness and maya...which is really necessary to grasp the 'mechanics' of non-duality, existence and identity." WHY is it necessary to grasp the mechanics of non-duality ? To me, your description leaves out the unspoken inference that "Knowledge is power." It seems to me like 'spiritual materialism'. An attempted transplant of our western, scientific view that if you study hard to understand how nature works, then you can manipulate it to get the things you want from it. But, to my way of thinking, though all around us we can see how man has successfully manipulated the physical world around us,.... I don't believe it is possible for anyone to manipulate the Tao, (to call it the only remotely-suitable word I know to describe it). Because no you 'separate' from the Tao. It would be like trying to pick yourself up with your own bootstraps. Or the familiar analogy of the 'tongue trying to taste itself'. Of course this idea- if it works for you, is fine. Each of us will find a belief system that agrees with our own personality's make-up. Purely as a comparative I'll show you an "advaita" quote, (again from my same source), which just happens to appeal to the way I'm constructed. There's no right or wrong, higher or lower, accurate or inaccurate evaluation intended. It's just in the spirit of a group of Pokemon collectors getting together every second Thursday evening to show off and compare each others card finds. * * Enlightenment, (or awakening), happens when the mind surrenders. The mind – (and when I say the mind, I mean that aspect of the mind that believes itself to be the author of its thoughts, feelings and actions) - when that is destroyed, that is what we call awakening. It is a happening. This event happens through an organism. And prior to this event happening are other events, other things that happen – experiences, practices, intentions, desires. So we tell a story about that, and say that various things that came earlier caused the awakening. But it’s only a story. My understanding is that if this awakening is to happen as part of the functioning of the universe, then the necessary ingredients will be provided. If it is to be facilitated through surrender, then the surrender will happen. If it is to be facilitated through a guru, then the guru will appear. If it is to be facilitated through a practice, then the practice will be presented and the energy necessary to sustain that practice will also be there. There are numerous techniques that exist within the structure of the world that may facilitate your getting to where you want to go. The pointer of this teaching is that the existence of those techniques, the interest on the part of someone to practice those techniques, and the effect of the technique on that person, are all connected with the destiny of that individual. While there are many techniques, none carry any guarantees and, in fact, all have widely different effects depending upon who is practicing. So, we can say that these techniques exist and they are part of the nature of “what is” – this manifest world. They will have some kind of effect, but we have no way of predicting in any particular case what will be that effect. So the bad news is there is nothing you as an egoic individual can do to bring about this 'enlightenment' that you want. The good news is there is nothing that you as an egoic individual can do to inhibit or stop that from happening, if it is the destiny of your body/mind organism to have such an event happen. *

* Very clearly and pleasantly explained, Amoyaan. Thank you for an interesting insight into a path that I have not really come across before. So many ways we humans strive to re-connect ourselves with,.... (?). The only life form on this planet that seems to be plagued with this enigmatic, bizarre, and Herculean task. Lucky us, eh ? *

* Because it’s so easy to fall into comfortable and predictable habits, I thought I would post extracts from two stories that are completely unlike anything I’ve added here before. On one level, the stimulus to venture out into this new territory came from recently being engrossed for about two weeks in my third re-reading of one of these books. On a different level, it’s my suspicion that this appearance that most of us share,… that ‘spiritual’ and ‘secular’, our ‘religious’ life and our ‘mundane’ life, are somehow quite different entities,… is perhaps like our similarly shared appearance that the sun rises in the east, travels across the sky, and sets in the west. Who can deny the 'truth' of that appearance ? Yet, is it what is 'actually' happening ? Is me sitting here at my computer in my dressing gown somehow different a radically different action than me doing prostrations to the Buddha while chanting sacred, centuries-old mantras ? At this point I feel I should say that I find putting this thread together has turned out to be quite a learning experience for me. It makes me examine the choices of the stories I put here, and what it is about them that makes me feel that they stand out, in some way, from the endless sea of printed word accessible to us all. “But why these two books,… and why lump them together ?”, were questions that rattled around in my brain for several weeks before a satisfactory answer began to sift itself out. In the end the tentative answer came that they were both written by authors who were themselves products of dysfunctional families. And so too, am I, (without going into unnecessary detail.) I think there’s always an invisible strand of understanding between people who have been shaped during their formative years by some common experience. And from talking to many friends throughout my lifetime, it now no longer seems extraordinary to me just how many people grew up in what society has come to coin the newish term, ‘a dysfunctional family.’ But to cut too long a preamble short,…. The first two extracts are taken from “Swimming With my Father”, (by Tim Jeal) and the third one from an absolutely wonderful book called, “The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry”, (by Rachel Joyce). Perhaps a bit of a warning for those who might well find them 'just too boring’. As praise-worthy as I found these two books, (and “Harold Fry” I would heartily recommend to almost anyone),… I should add the proviso that I think they would only really appeal to readers who are at the very least in their forties. My own life experiences tell me that until one has lived through a wider band of life’s spectrum of experiences, (in particular, marital relationships losing their sparkle, and the gradual aging and dying of our parents),… then, these two stories will probably find very little echo of understanding. But for those who have touched on these experiences, the honesty and clear-sighted observation of these two authors, and the life-enhancing way they’ve gone through, then re-emerged with a much richer understanding of their own life,… I think makes these books priceless gems of literature. As a final step into the unfamiliar, I’ll add two reviews of these books from Amazon’s readers that I’ve copied and pasted. They give an excellent general idea of the plots, plus, reviewers are simply authors of a different type of literature. The two I chose were, I thought, equally praise-worthy craftsmen of the written word. * * (1) Amazon Review of “Swimming With...” “What an extraordinary memoir of the author's father and family life. Whilst it is apparent from the unusual life views held by the author's father that he was an undoubted eccentric, the book is generously laced with poignant/painful observations of life within a dysfunctional family unit which ultimately I found movingly life affirming. The book relates the pain, embarrassment, guilt, love and confusion of growing up with an unusual father through initially the eyes of a boy and finally from the perspective of a married family man. The writing is nostalgic rather than sentimental and moves between humour and despair without bearing judgement on the subject of the book. Having read this book two years ago and being profoundly moved by it, I find that from time to time my mind reflects on events recorded in the book to this day. In the end, this finally prompted me to write an Amazon review in the hope that it might encourage a few more prospective readers to satisfy their curiosity and hopefully feel as rewarded as I was when I'd read this brilliant book.” * * (2) Amazon Review of “The Unlikely Pilgrimage…” "One of the sweetest, most delicately-written stories I've read in a long time. Ostensibly it is about a man, just retired, who sets out to walk from Devon to Berwick on Tweed after receiving a letter from an old work colleague who is dying of cancer. Harold pens a quick reply and sets off to post it, but somehow the posting of this letter seems inadequate. He decides instead to walk the 500 odd miles to Berwick, taking us with him. It is clear very early on that Harold's life has been a disappointment. An inability to connect with his son, (stemming from his own neglectful childhood) has driven a stake between him and his wife, Maureen. As a result what had once been a good marriage has deteriorated into a hopeless desert of non communication. It is during his long walk that we discover all about Harold, and Maureen, and their son David, and all about the long held grievances and misunderstandings that have culminated in their isolation and loneliness. Sometimes these memories are extremely painful and I found myself moved beyond belief at this fictional tale. One of the 2 star reviews on this page unbelievably states "nothing much happens". Nothing could be further from the truth. Everything happens as this endearing man struggles to make sense of his life and struggles to find hope and optimism after a lifetime of doors having been closed resolutely in his face. This is a story about all those things we leave unsaid, of all those regrets we fight daily to forget. Wonderful writing, clear recognizable characters, a story that won't leave you, and an in-depth-examination of all those weird and wonderful contradictions that make us what we are. * * (1) “Swimming With My Father “ Like most children, I once had immense faith in the protective powers of my parents. But while I never doubted that they would be around forever, I knew from the age of six that my father was fallible. On one of our many walks to Kensington Gardens via De Vere Gardens - where we would often drop in at the headquarters of the Order of the Cross - I saw in the window of a toyshop at the end of Launceston Place a little tin steamship with a red funnel. For a week or two my father held out against my pleas to be bought this beautiful ship. 'Some boy with a richer daddy will buy it soon,' I said pressing my forehead against the glass. But no richer daddy ever did pass by and wreck my dream, and in the end my histrionics paid off and my father allowed himself to be bullied into buying the red-funnelled steamer. I sang to myself and danced along, clutching a thrilling oblong box, bound for the Broad Walk and the Round Pond. In the past I had quite enjoyed watching other children's boats, but never had I known such happiness as I felt today approaching the water's edge. My steamship had a metal rudder, which if set to one side at the correct angle would bring her back to land again just before the clockwork mechanism wound down completely. At least a dozen successful trips had been made by the time my father announced that we would be late for supper unless we left Kensington Gardens at once. 'That's all for now, Tim.’ 'Just one more trip,’ I begged, shoving the boat into the water anyway. In my haste, I failed to set the rudder at the proper angle and my little vessel headed straight out towards the centre of the pond. 'Get a stick!' cried my father, knowing the boat must be plucked from the water immediately. But there were only a few miserable twigs to be seen. And there was my father, still sitting on a bench taking off his shoes, while my ship was almost beyond the point where she could be grabbed by anyone paddling. 'Please get in the water now !’ Unfortunately for me, his Herbert Barker shoes were worth vastly more than the boat, and he did not intend to get them wet. It was agony for me to see him losing yet more time struggling to undo the laces of his second shoe. 'Hurry, daddy!' But even as I spoke, I knew it was too late to wade in. I let out a wail which sent my poor father dashing to the edge, where he stood balancing awkwardly on his one shod foot, while his naked one waved about in the air - a picture of dithering indecision. 'Maybe the wind will blow it in again,’ he said, hopping back to the bench to put on his discarded shoe. Somewhere out there, roughly in the middle of that vast pond, my steamer's propeller ceased to rotate. There were always a number of ‘boy men’ at the pond, owners of magnificent yachts so large that they had to be wheeled to the water on trolleys. Because most of these boyish grown-ups stepped into the water to stop their boats hitting the pond's edge, they wore thigh-length boots. Although my father did his best to persuade them to take pity on us, all refused, saying the water in the middle would come over the top of their waders. But there was a rowing boat in a shed near the Orangery, and they said that for a fee of £2 a boatman would wheel this boat to the pond and rescue my helpless steamer. My father raised a hand to his brow. £2 was a huge sum - far more than he had paid for my steamer. 'Do you think it's been blown in any closer ?' he asked, gazing hopefully into the distance. 'I think we should fetch that man.' My father looked at his watch and, because we were already late for supper, reckoned he had little to lose by waiting till the breeze blew in my boat. That way he would not have to pay £2 or buy a replacement vessel. But, as the light began to fade, the wind dropped, and my boat became motionless on the glassy surface of the pond. By the time we went in search of the boatman, he had gone home. So my father had achieved the worst possible outcome, for me at any rate. I returned home in tears, without my steamship, to be told that our supper was inedible, though I seem to remember eating it. Lying in bed, I imagined how the fathers of several school friends would have behaved in the same crisis. All would either have got their shoes wet, or paid the £2. If only my father could turn himself into a bustling, young, car-owning, thick-haired, decisive father. The following morning when I woke up and looked around, I wondered if I was still asleep. My steamship was propped at the end of my bed. I reached out and touched it. In the dining room my mother told me quite matter-of-factly that after I had gone to bed, my father had returned to the pond with a torch. By now he would have left for work, so I wouldn't be able thank him till the evening. 'What on earth's the matter with you ?' asked my mother, noticing how stricken I looked. 'You've got your boat back, haven't you ?' * (2) “Swimming With My Father” Until the last two or three months of her life, my mother's mood had always brightened when I reminded her of some comical or bizarre story from the past. One that had always made her laugh immoderately concerned one of the rare occasions on which my father had felt impelled to take a taxi somewhere. On the afternoon in question, he had returned home from work to find himself so hopelessly late for a 'meet the teachers' session at Westminster that no alternative form of transport was open to him. My mother had set out for the school half-an-hour earlier and had left an angry note urging him to hurry, so he ran out into the Cromwell Road and in pouring rain managed to catch a cab - a remarkable achievement during a wet rush-hour. At the very moment of his success, a middle-aged black man splashed towards him through the puddles and rapped on the glass, before passionately pleading to be allowed to take the taxi since he was late for a concert. 'Maybe we could share it?' suggested my father, very loath to surrender the cab, but already wavering as he sensed a need greater than his own. ''Where are you going?' 'The Royal Festival Hall,’ replied the man. 'Hop in,' said my father, thankfully. ''We're going in the same direction.' They had barely reached Gloucester Road when my father’s fellow passenger opened the small leather case he had been clutching, and lifted from its velvet nest a glistening silver harmonica. 'I'm Sonny Boy Williamson,’ he declared, and because you saved my life back there, I’m gonna give you your own concert.' So, all the way to Westminster, while the rain beat down on the roof of the cab, my father was treated to his own command performance by the world’s most famous blues harmonica player. Given their many misunderstandings over the years, the fact that my father's death made such a profound impact on my mother is greatly to her credit and to his. Being of a completely different cast of mind, my mother never took much pleasure in his 'Great Thoughts Calendar’, when he tore off and read out the day's quotation at breakfast. But one morning I remember him declaiming: ‘Blessedness is not the reward of virtue, it is virtue itself,' and my mother surprised me by saying, 'That’s really rather good.’ Only once can I remember her being amused by a religious comment made by my father, but this one instance made her laugh many times, although the joke was on her too. In those dismal days when the number of her cats was ballooning into the mid-teens, my mother sometimes lost count of exactly how many animals she had. One afternoon, I was at home in north London, when the telephone rang. 'I'm really sorry to trouble you, but can you come over fairly soon? You know my little back and white cat, Smudge?' 'I don't remember him.' 'He's a her, actually. Well, she's been run over.' 'Where is she?' 'On the road over the bridge. Her body’s in the gutter. You know I hate asking favours, but will you please come now and bury poor Smudge in the garden. Joe can't manage, and I simply can't face it.' Since my mother had sounded so wretched, I came and collected the cat, which was still in the gutter, and to my relief had not been squashed. Rigor mortis had set in and the cat's legs were stuck out straight, as if she was made of wood under her fur. I took her back to the house, dug a grave in the garden near the bay tree, and covered her. My mother watched tearfully as I patted down the earth. She seemed so distressed that I offered to stay on for a while, but she wouldn't let me. So with parental plaudits ringing in my ears, I drove home again, knowing the blessedness of virtue - or some transitory approximation. Later that same afternoon, my father telephoned me. He had just looked out of the sitting room window and seen Smudge sitting in the flowerbed on top of her own grave. 'It's like the Resurrection,' he told me, joyfully, before ringing off. Minutes later, my phone went again. My mother could hardly speak for laughter. Smudge had just walked into the kitchen and demanded her supper. 'All the time, she was somewhere down the road,’ gasped my mother. 'I'm afraid you've just buried . . .' more helpless laughter, 'a complete stranger.' * * (3) “The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry” Harold passed office workers, dog walkers, shoppers, children going to school, mothers and buggies, and hikers like himself, as well as several tourist parties. He met a tax inspector who was a Druid and had not worn a pair of shoes for ten years. He talked with a young woman on the trail of her real father, with a priest who confessed to tweeting during mass, as well as several people in training for a marathon, and an Italian man with a singing parrot. He spent an afternoon with a white witch from Glastonbury, and a homeless man who had drunk away his house, as well as four bikers looking for the M5, and a mother of six who confided she had no idea life could be so solitary. Harold walked with these strangers and listened. He judged no one, although as the days wore on, and time and places began to melt, he couldn’t remember if the tax inspector wore no shoes or had a parrot on his shoulder. It no longer mattered. He had learned that it was the smallness of people that filled him with wonder and tenderness, and the loneliness of that too. The world was made up of people putting one foot in front of the other; and a life might appear ordinary simply because the person living it had done so for a long time. Harold could no longer pass a stranger without acknowledging the truth that everyone was the same; and also unique; and that this was the dilemma of being human. He walked so surely it was as if all his life he had been waiting to get up from his chair. *

* It's not thin skinned, really. It's just a different type of chess move to see if I can bring the person I'm talking to out from behind the comfortable and protective screen of anonymity we enjoy in an internet chat room,... by trying to provoke enough of a response that I can get a clearer idea of where the other person is coming from. My experience of many spiritual practices is that they end up being just comfortable substitutes for actually engaging in this dance of life that Hinduism calls "lila". (Does that Sanskrit term now make my thoughts acceptable ?) Of course I'm NOT "lumping Sanskrit and all of its related import into "playing with words". Sanskrit is just an inert language, a useful tool. But like any tool,... it's the use it is put to by the wielder which determines whether, (for example), a knife is a murder weapon, or a common cutlery item which allows us to eat our evening meal. I guess I keep coming to 'spiritual' chat rooms like this hoping to find people who are driven by this same irksome craving to understand the nature of our existence, as I am,... and actually have a conversation where I feel I can "see" the other person. But what happens so often resembles more a hand-puppet theatre, where we each put on a hand-puppet dressed up in whatever regalia we think makes it look like the best facsimile of our beliefs. Afterwards, no person is actually ever on stage any more. Just hand-puppets acting out roles and confidently declaiming scripted lines of doctrine and dogma. Probably I am not one whit different. This is just my recurring moan about the emptiness of all these computer connections, this 'virtual reality stuff',... that somehow has edged aside so much of my human connections. It's like the difference between a Facebook 'friend', and a genuine friend. Maybe I'm just simply barking up the wrong tree. Do you think that this kind of relationship is actually even possible on the internet, or is this desire just like hoping to one day meet a koala bear on the ski slopes of Norway ? *

* What a curious way to start off your reply to someone that you're involved in a discussion with,.... stating that my post would fit better somewhere else. Nothing too subtle about that chess move, eh wot ? Why not just squarely address what life has brought your way instead dismissing it as being in the wrong pigeon hole ? To me, this seems to confirm my initial reaction to all the terminology and Sanskrit vocabulary. It strikes me as a fascination for playing with words, ideas, and theories about life rather than the "living ", breathing, aspect of it,... which is no further away than the breath you're engaged in right now, or the post that pops up on your monitor. But I suppose that idea probably doesn't fit comfortably into your Vedanta pigeonhole either ? Oh well. Perhaps my words are just cluttering up your soliloquy and I should go find an empty slot somewhere else. *

Generic,.... Wasn't he an Indian chieftain in the 1800s, who somehow later became the patron saint of all sky jumpers and parachutists ?

Does that explain how you came to be called Manitou ?

* I don't know the meaning of any of those terms, and from the Zero Reply status of this thread it seems no one else here does either. So, in the spirit of trying to be helpful and making you aware that you are loved, I've taken the liberty of giving you seventeen alternative definitions. My feeling is that there's a good chance some of them will mean exactly the same as the words you were looking for : * * Here is the latest Washington Post Mensa invitational which once again asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supplying a new definition.These were the winners: 1. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period of time. 2. Ignoranus: A person who's both stupid and an asshole. 3. Intaxication: Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realise it was your money to start with. 4. Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly. 5. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future. 6. Foreploy: Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid. 7. Giraffiti: Vandalism spray-painted very, very high. 8. Sarchasm: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it. 9. Inoculatte: To take coffee intravenously when you are running late. 10. Dijon vu : the same mustard as before. 11. Karmageddon: It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer. 12. Decafalon (n.): The gruelling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you. 13. Glibido: All talk and no action. 14. Dopeler Effect : The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly. 15. Arachnoleptic Fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web. 16. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out. 17. Caterpallor (n.): The colour you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit you're eating. *

* I'm happy to find quite an interesting discussion developing here. All four of us participating in it each freely chose to join and spend a good deal of our free time in a group like Tao Bums, (whose purpose is to provide a meeting place for spiritual seekers). So we each share a common 'root interest.' What I find interesting is that once this 'root' pushes through the interface that separates our sub-conscious thought from our conscious thought,... each of us then looks at the 'foliage' atop the others, and we start to discuss the differences in leaf, stem and branch. The general line of discussion is usually a variant on, "From my experiences / beliefs,... the type of foliage I happen to have sprouting from my root I think is more likely to bear fruit than the type of leaf that you seem to be promoting." This is just a sample from the standard pattern of what happens anywhere that you find people with different religions, beliefs or philosophies in communication with each other. It is 100% normal human behaviour.. Of course, I'm no different. I can only know my conscious thoughts once they push through into my awareness. And all I can know of others thoughts, is what has now had to push through two layers,.. first this 'external person's' awareness,... then through his personality's way of expressing his thoughts. (in our case, in written English via a keyboard and computer in an internet chat room). But about eight years ago I came across my first Advaita, (or Non-Duality) teachings. They quite blew me away because they seemed to engage in utter blasphemy towards every belief about spiritual pathways that I had unconsciously held to be true, throughout all my life. (I'm quite attracted to periodic 'shock therapy' in my spiritual searching, as it happens. It's an antidote to my tendency to suffocate myself in layers of self-created comfort.) Anyway,... suddenly, here was someone saying that they were living in simultaneous and equal awareness, of their 'root'. And what they found was "Everything is one, There is no separation." Of course, this message is not new. I'm sure everyone who hangs out at a place like this is aware of it as the basic message all mystics have been bringing us throughout the ages. Another way to look at it is that it is an alternate way of expressing the awareness that most of us hope to attain to after all our years of dedicated spiritual practices. But the message that these chaps deliver after their insight, is NOT about the surface practice we should engage in to reach our common root. Instead, well.... at this point let me give you a direct quote from someone, (Richard Sylvester), who's actually gone through what I'm trying to describe here 'second-hand' : * * "You cannot earn liberation. I have not earned liberation. No one will ever earn liberation. You cannot become good enough or work hard enough or be sincere enough to deserve it. Liberation has not happened to me and it will not happen to you. Yet there is liberation. There is only ever liberation. Perfection is already here. What you are is already divine. Searching will not get you anywhere, but there is nothing wrong with searching. In this apparent process it may be heard that searching is meaningless,…but searching cannot be given up until it stops. Then it is over and it is seen that what you were searching for has always been with you, in fact it has always been what you are. But to suggest that you give up searching in order to find is pointless. It does not matter whether you get drunk, meditate, read the paper, sit with the guru or go to the races. None of these will make liberation any more or any less likely. Searching or not searching, misses the point. For there is no one who can choose to do any of these things. If meditation happens, it happens and it will go on happening until it does not. It is the same for getting drunk. You may as well give up the belief that you can choose anything. Except that you cannot do that either. Until it happens." *

^ Believe those who are seeking the Truth. Doubt those who find it. Andre Gide *

* Mother Superior called all the nuns together and announced, "Sisters, I have some extremely distressing news that my duty unfortunately obliges me to break to all of you. We have a case of gonorrhoea in the convent." "Thank God," said an elderly nun at the back. "I'm so tired of Chardonnay." *

* I was visiting a friend last weekend and he was bubbling over with fascination for the uncanny accuracy of this personality test he'd come across. It's free, completely private and with none of the usual internet strings attached that come via log-ins. So, I thought that just possibly some of you Tao Bummers might enjoy a change from the intense speculations involve in our high stakes game of solving deep philosophical questions,... and fancy a simple, no-frills "personality massage." http://www.learnmyself.com/?k=ig-2 *

* Seems like a whole lot of definitions and terminology. How exactly does learning a new set of terms and expanding our Sanskrit vocabulary,... actually help anyone in their day-to-day living ? *

* Seems like a pretty bold step to me,... to even consider trying to 'be', without the help of professional tuition. Wheww ! Best of luck to you in your noble quest. *

Thanks for that unusual piece of information. That analysis certainly hasn't had a lot of 'air time', as I'm reasonably familiar with World War II history, and I've never come across that view before. If the US knew the Japanese were coming, why didn't they have all their forces deployed and on high level alert, so that when the Japanese struck, US losses wouldn't be so great, and damage to the future enemy would have been maximized ? If the US government's aim was purely to join the war against Germany,.... then being prepared when Japan attacked would still have been justification for joining. I'm afraid the logic of that theory doesn't seem to bear much examination.

* As you are in this moment – in this very instant – is ‘perfect’, and could not be otherwise. *

My experiences tell me that history can very rarely ever be so radically simplified as this. In reality, there are so inconceivably many inter-locking and contributing factors, all in a state of constant, interactive flux. With regards to Churchill, I believe that many, many surveys have shown that even today he is still the most well-known and admired politician, across the entire range of British society. (Which may also have something to do with the appalling quality of political leaders that we've been lumbered with since his time). As for your statement that he was the driving force for getting the US into the war,... you seem to have forgotten the helping hand the Japanese gave you at Pearl Harbour. I'm not one to glorify war by any stretch of the imagination. But here I felt that I couldn't just sit idly by while a person who made possibly the greatest contribution in the world towards preventing civilization as we know it from being sucked back down into the brutal and inhuman Dark Ages by German Fascism ,.... was being falsely portrayed through lack of knowledge.

On the other hand, some jokes only do work because of the difficulties in translation : * * An old anecdote. During the war, Charles de Gaulle and his wife were invited to dinner by Churchill and his wife, Clementine. By the time dinner was over, they had got to know each other quite well, and Clementine turned the conversation to deeper questions. She asked, "Madame de Gaulle, what would you really like to get from life?",... to which Mme. de Gaulle replied : "A penis". After a polite but embarrassed silence, the General explained "My dear, it is pronounced 'appiness". *

From the responses that have come back regarding this thread it seems that the type of story that appeals to most in this forum are the factual tales of practitioners’ lives in Asian countries. Since, for many years I was repeatedly drawn to these same cultures, religions, and philosophies, myself,…. I am always happy to share more of these beautiful records left by others who, many years ago, also found themselves drawn to Eastern pathways in their search for meaning and purpose. Most of my accounts were written before our current times. Today, virtually everything of any attractive value that gets ‘discovered’, is first commercially re-packaged and promoted in the media,… and then finally, marketed and systematically exploited until every last drop of profit has been squeezed from it. As a contrast, the story below is one of my all-time favourites. Again, it has been taken from John Blofeld’s 1930s accounts written in “The Wheel of Life”, of his years in China, and Peking. The events here took place at the very beginning of his search, on one of the remote islands off Hong Kong, (where he first set foot in Asia). It tells the extraordinary story of his first ever meeting with a Taoist recluse living high in the mountains of one of these islands. * * Tiger-bone Wine and a Flute The steamer which threads the blue-green, island-dotted sea to Lantao generally carried among its passengers some of those lay-recluses who had retired from the clamour and undisguisedly 'red in tooth and claw' struggle of Hong Kong's business world, to seek the solitude of the hermitages clinging to the slopes of Mount T'ai Yu. For the Chinese, unless fully ordained monks or nuns, are seldom willing to sever family ties completely, and these lay-recluses generally visit their families once or twice a year. I recognized some of them by their distinctive low-collared gowns (much the same for both sexes), while many of those who had temporarily discarded religious dress could be identified in other ways. For even hermits develop occupational characteristics - tricks of speech, manner and facial expression by which they may be distinguished. An hour or so before dusk, the steamer, which had long been skirting Lantao Island, put in at the port of T'ai O. It was met by sampans rowed by women in crow-black jackets and trousers, darting out to transport passengers and luggage to the jetty. Soon I was walking up the narrow main street overshadowed by unpretentious houses of very dark grey brick. The air was permeated by the stink of acres of dead fish spread out to dry in the sun. As, for some reason which I could not understand, nobody would volunteer to guide me and carry my light luggage up to the monastery near T'ai Yu's peak, I had to accept the only alternative to passing a night among the mosquitoes and the gradually overpowering smell of fish. This was to be carried up the mountain in a sedan-chair of light wickerwork borne by two women paddling along front and back with the shafts resting on their shoulders. They knelt to lift me from the ground and experienced some difficulty in rising, but seemed to get along easily enough after that. The mountain path led steeply upwards from the dusk-blurred rice-fields, surrounding T'ai O. It was constructed of horizontally laid slabs of rough-hewn granite and it wound up thinly wooded slopes where some of the lower hermitages lay scattered. Their temple-like buildings were prettily secluded behind groves of trees or bamboo hedges and were approached through heavy wooden gates with stone lintels. By the time the bearers began to tire, they had reached a neglected hermitage distinguished by an inscription on a horizontal stone inset above the gateway, announcing in large gold letters that it was 'The Garden of Mysterious Causes'. Here the women set me down and began to rest themselves, chatting volubly and puffing cheap Chinese cigarettes which smelt like burning hay. I got stiffly out from the sedan-chair and strolled into a stone-flagged courtyard lying behind the green-lacquered gates. The doors of the main shrine-room stood wide open, revealing an interior so gloomy that nothing could be seen except for the objects contained in a pool of light cast by two giant candles of crimson wax burning on the altar. Their rays caught the gilded statue of a Taoist divinity, a probably ancient but far from lovely image of the Empress of Heaven. Soon after I had gone over to examine it, I heard the tipping of a wooden staff behind me and, looking over my shoulder, beheld a diminutive old woman emerging into the light. Her eyes were filmed with luminous white scales and she was obviously quite blind. When she spoke, her high-pitched voice reminded me of a five-year-old child's. 'You are welcome, sir. You have come to stay the night ?' 'Thank you, no. I hope to reach the Po Lin Monastery in time for some supper.' She sighed with theatrical resignation. 'Then at least you will take a cup of tea. It shall be brought instantly. Ah Mu-u-u-ui! Tea for the guest.' These last words, uttered in a shrill ugly scream, had hardly ceased echoing when a small pigtailed girl in dingy black clothes materialized from the darkness like a tiny genii. She was carrying a tray of tea-things. I felt obliged to sit down and accept the tea with good grace, though I knew its purpose was merely to extort a silver dollar towards the upkeep of the hermitage. Presently the old creature, who had been peering towards me as if willing her eyes to see, remarked with some animation: 'Sir, you are a foreigner, are you not ?' Her phrasing of the question revealed that she was a woman of small education, for she had used the phrase 'red-furred devil' for 'foreigner' without being conscious of its rudeness. 'Yes, Madam Recluse, a red-furred devil,' I answered gravely. 'How did you guess ?' 'The ears of the blind as are the eyes of the deaf,' she quoted with a grim chuckle. 'You speak well, sir, but not as we do.' Supposing that my bearers would be growing impatient, I finished the cup of tepid tea and got up to go. It was the thin green variety called 'Dragon's Well', which is costly, but this particular potful had obviously suffered three or four waterings in the course of the afternoon. I placed a silver dollar on the tray and murmured something about an insignificant donation, for fear that the ragged child should conceal it for her own use. Almost at once I regretted not having let her do this, for I guessed that her life under the old martinet was miserable enough. 'You are too kind,' came the perfunctory answer and then, more energetically, the recluse added : 'The path is steep, sir, steep and dangerous. There are precipices hard to avoid in the dark. Go up slowly, sir. Go up slowly !' Suddenly the night seemed less warm. The child-like piping voice had sounded grimly prophetic and I was not too sure that the old crone was innocent of taking a certain pleasure in implanting gloomy apprehensions in my mind. Making some vague reply, I groped my way out towards the gate, while struggling with what then seemed an absurd conviction that her words were intended to have a wider application than the obvious one, though on the face of it it was more probable that her failure to secure a paying guest for the night had made her pettish. I climbed back into my chair; which soon resumed its camel-like swayings. When we reached the steepest part of the long slope, the tilt was sharp enough to bring my knees up rather higher than my face. The bobbing lantern dangling from one of the shafts dispelled the darkness sufficiently to illumine a disquieting view of yawning blackness just beyond the left side of the narrow path skirting the mountain's edge. Apart from the chirping of insects, the slip-slap of straw sandals against rough granite, and the heavy breathing of my female bearers, the night was ominously silent. Our next stop was before a wayside shrine. The lantern's soft glow revealed a mere hole in the rock-face to the right of the path. It had been clumsily daubed with crimson, and in the hollow loomed a crude image of a bearded god with sword held ready to slash off the heads of his enemies. The bearers seemed to fear him, for they lighted a few incense-sticks from the lantern-flame and carefully thrust them among the scarlet stubs crowding the cheap earthenware burner at the foot of the shrine. Perhaps this was the deity who decided whether to guide them safely past or to hurl them over the dangerous precipices. Their brief devotions completed, they signed to me to take my seat and, kneeling between the shafts as they had done before, staggered to their feet exerting far more strength to raise me from the ground than they required for the actual business of carrying me forward. I reflected that the god they had just propitiated was one of those exceedingly ancient deities who go further back into history than the oldest of China's various organized religions, like the hob-goblins of Europe. For another hour I swayed through the night until, on rounding a sharp bend, I saw several lights shining out high in the darkness above me. The path had now become so steep that the bearers no longer protested when I offered to get down and walk. This decision saved us a lot of time and, sooner than I had expected, because of the difficulty of judging distance in the darkness, I was standing before the monastery gate while the two women shouted shrilly for admission. The gleam of oil lamps on smooth, unpainted wood; black-gowned monks with butterfly-wing sleeves billowing as they hastened forward to receive me, serving boys sent scurrying off in search of warm water, soap and a pot of tea; a plank-bed in an otherwise bare cell fragrant with the smell of a freshly stuffed rice-straw mattress - this was a world to which I had become so accustomed during my recent travels that I felt some of the pleasure of a wanderer returning home. And, as expected, I had no sooner washed my face and drunk a cup or two of tea than I was summoned to a good dinner of rice and spiced vegetables, piping hot and so quickly served that it would have been reasonable to look round for Aladdin’s lamp. While I was eating this meal in the guests' refectory, the Reverend Receiver of Guests sat with me, pressing me to the choicest morsels in each dish. He had the rather forbidding features of a mediaeval churchman and spoke with great formality. When I showed signs of lingering over a plate of sliced blood-oranges, he informed me that the Abbot was waiting to receive me immediately 'after rice'. The oranges were so good that I stayed to finish off the plate, making up for the delay by hastening to the Abbot's private quarters as fast as I could walk with the dignity suited to a temple. There I was received by a tall, heavily built prelate with a kindly but unremarkable face, who insisted on my omitting the usual prostrations and waved me to a chair. The formal interchange of names and other details was quickly disposed of, and then came an enquiry as to the length and purpose of my visit. 'Please make it a long visit,' he added hospitably. 'Thank you, Your Reverence. A fortnight, perhaps. I have not come just for a holiday, though; so I may find that I need longer, if I shall not be in anybody's way. I have come to ask your assistance in making a particular study of Zen and of Zen meditation methods.' The Abbot's gaze of friendly enquiry gave Place to an uncertain smile. 'So you are a Buddhist, Mr. P'u ? That is praiseworthy, very praiseworthy. Of course, I shall do whatever I can. But I hardly think . . . I mean, we do have a Hall of Zen here and nominally there are sessions twice a day, but in practice very few of the monks attend regularly. We are not strict, you know. Everyone is left to do very much as he pleases in such matters. As for study, I’m afraid the Fa-Shih [Expounder of the Dharma] is away in Kowloon, so there will be nobody to instruct you. I myself . . .' He paused and smiled confidingly. 'I'm just a simple man, a "business abbot" you might say. As in lay life I was a business man I have been selected to attend to matters of administration and the supervision of the monks - my abilities are confined to such trifles. Yet it is necessary to have such a Person as my humble self in this capacity, for the Hong Kong Government actually taxes temples as though we were a business organization ! So there it is. But – er - if you wish to practice Zen, the Hall is open to you day and night. Use it as you wish. Or you may find the temple garden or the mountainside more conducive to solitary meditation.' 'Thank you, Reverence. I am fortunate.' We chatted for a little while longer on general subjects and I happened to mention the old blind woman at the Garden of Mysterious Causes. 'So!' exclaimed my host. 'So you have met Grandma Wang ? A little mad, they say - a little cantankerous, perhaps. Is she not ? It is strange, though. I have heard people assert that, far from being mad, she has the gift of prophecy, the gift of seeing further than two-eyed people can hope to do. Accurate prophecy, so they say. I suppose she didn't happen to . . . But, no, of course not. You were only there for such a very little time, were you not ?' 'H'm,' I replied thoughtfully. 'She certainly did not say anything of importance to me. She just warned me that the path up to this monastery is dangerous to climb in the dark. But, of course, one hardly needs psychic powers to realize that steep precipices are dangerous to anyone being carried up in a chair at night ! All the same, there was something peculiar about the tone of her voice and I remember wondering at the time if she had some hidden meaning.' 'We both laughed rather uncomfortably. Just then my eye fell upon the old-fashioned wooden clock above the doorway. As it was long past the usual bed-time for Buddhist monks, who rise always before dawn, I stood up to take leave. Overtired from the long journey by boat and chair, I undressed quickly and threw myself down on the straw pallet with such abandon that the thin planks creaked ominously. Instead of sleeping at once, I fell into a state of drowsy contentment, pleasantly conscious of the change from my bed-sitting-room in Hong Kong. Here the mountain air was fresh; there was also a pleasant tang from the ocean far below and the attractive smell of rice-straw. Now and then a faint smell of sandalwood drifted across from the Hall of Ceremony on the other side of the monastery. At intervals of perhaps three minutes came the mournful d-o-o-ong of a great bronze bell struck once. It intimated that somewhere in a candle-lit bell-tower a solitary monk was passing the night intoning the scriptures for the dead; I was pulled back with a jerk from a dreamy state close to sleep by a vision of the horrid torments pictured in symbolical representations of the Buddhist hells. Some people believed quite literally in those horrors, but at least they were never held to be everlasting. The dreadful doctrine of eternal damnation, of punishment which by its very infinity is out of all proportion to the worst depravities possible in a brief life of seventy years, is quite foreign to the peoples of the Far East. Even a Buddhist who has sinned grievously and who has a lively belief in hellish torments can comfort himself with the thought that, once cleansed of his stock of evil Karma he will emerge from hell to continue going the rounds of self-forged karmic destiny until sense-attachments lose their chaining power and leave him free to seek refuge in Nirvana. Nirvana ? Who could say what it really meant ? It is a state sublime and indescribable, a direct realization of the Supreme Reality, a final escape from the bondage of life's Wheel, and analogous to the Christian mystic's goal of union with the Godhead, or with the ordinary Christian's 'living eternally in the presence of God'. A hard teaching, because of the number of lives to be lived through and the oceans of troubles to be encountered on the way, but less terrifying than the frightful, hope-destroying conviction of life eternal amid the flames of hell. The bell kept me awake for a while. I reflected that, in Buddhism, there is the further encouragement offered by the doctrine of the Short Path. My teachers, Chinese and Tibetan, had insisted that there are methods (methods of which the Rimpoche had recently put me in possession) whereby Nirvana can, with stupendous effort, be reached within the course of a mere handful of lives, or even in this present life ! I smiled as I dozed off, remembering my Cambridge friends' warnings that Buddhists are 'lost in pessimism'. I think I must have been still smiling when I fell asleep. The next few days were full of enchantment. I roamed the lovely upland valleys and lingered before gaps in the mountains framing ever-changing views of the blue, foam-flecked sea sprinkled with vividly green mountainous islands; and in the early mornings the blue expanse would be dotted with the dark yellows and browns of the slow-sailing fishing-junks. Again and again I was reminded of a series of delicately tinted water colours by Chinese masters of a sort which I had once taken to be purely imaginative. My walks took me to isolated hermitages where I could rest from the heat in a cool room, chatting with recluses of either sex over cups of jasmine or lychee-scented tea. In the evenings, I would return hungry to the monastery to be regaled with the very special vegetarian food reserved for guests - crisp, golden bean curd fried in sesamum oil, very young and tender bean-sprouts, pickled bamboo-shoots, maidenhair-seaweed, lotus-seeds and more substantial vegetables such as heart of cabbage, bitter melon and that most delectable of all Chinese vegetables known as kai-tsai. I wondered if the plain-living monks were some of them sufficiently attached to the sensuous world to envy their fortunate guests. Yet the more I steeped myself in the atmosphere of the sacred mountain, the less time I gave to the serious business of meditation. Only once did I pass an hour sitting solemnly erect in the fragrant gloom of the Meditation Hall, nor did I make the slightest use of the monastery library's collection of Zen treatises. I tried to assure myself that communion with nature is just another form of Zen, though well knowing that Zen demands a far more strenuous effort than that entailed in the contemplation of natural beauties and the enjoyment of warm sunshine on my skin. The positive distaste which all pious efforts had suddenly begun to inspire in me recalled the old blind woman's 'prophecy'. I felt that her words really had been prophetic, that somehow she had discovered in the recesses of my own mind symptoms of that reaction against the spiritual life which is likely to afflict a youth who for several months has been pushing himself further in the direction of piety than it is natural for him to go. In this context her 'Go up slowly, go up slowly' took on a profound meaning. The fact that she was a horrid old witch with none of the sweetness of the better sort of recluse in no way invalidated the possibility of her having special powers of mind-reading, especially as she was blind. I have often thought that our moods attract experiences in keeping with them and, sure enough, no sooner had I frankly abandoned myself to a sort of Taoistic communion with Nature than I came upon a Taoist recluse who had been doing just that for the greater part of his life. I had already enquired of the Reverend Receiver of Guests if there were any Taoists of note in the neighbourhood, only to receive from that somewhat narrow prelate a characteristically sour answer. 'Why bother with those people ? As a Buddhist, you ought rather to avoid those who enjoy making a display of spectacular powers. Taoist hermits delight in all sorts of childish antics far removed from the exalted teachings of their ancient sages, Lao-Tzu and Chuang-Tzu. Haven't you seen their pictures ? Immortals disporting themselves with music, chess and wine among the purple mountains of Fairyland. Drunk with eternal youth, they fly upon the backs of cranes or ride their many-coloured steeds - unicorns, griffins and even dragons !' His lips met in a thin line of disapproval and I secretly rejoiced that sanctimonious churchmen are so rare in China. 'Ah,' I answered teasingly. 'How I should love to ride a unicorn ! Not as a substitute for Nirvana, you understand. Just by the way.' Like most Chinese when people begin to argue, he rose to his feet with a swish of his long gown and murmured something about business to attend to elsewhere. After that, he allowed me his company more sparingly than before. On a clean-washed morning, soon after one of the first showers of the rainy season that year, the breeze blew so coolly that I decided upon a long walk to a lonely part of the island where few hermits dwell. Presently I wandered off the main path to follow a seldom-used track leading through coarse grass and across a wide, boulder-strewn depression. It brought me round the shoulder of a hill to a smaller depression, thickly wooded. Yellow wild flowers like anemones grew among the grass. Clumps of bamboo fell to creaking and clacking with each gust of wind, until the breeze died and a heavy silence, punctuated by the tsk-tsk-tsk-tsk of grass-hidden insects, enhanced my feeling of having entered a forgotten land, a sort of Wellsian 'Country of the Blind’. The neglected track widened here and grew more clearly defined, as though this part of it were more frequented. No houses or people were in sight. Suddenly I paused, startled by a swift pattering of feet from somewhere just behind me. As I looked round, a little girl shot past me, her two jet-black pigtails flying out behind her, her tiny feet pounding the earth like toy piston rods. The long sleeves of her apple-green pyjama-jacket flailing as she ran called to mind a butterfly skimming the grass in panic flight from some predatory bird. This was certainly no ordinary village girl, no daughter of the black-clad peasants of Lantao. Following her with my eyes, I watched her branch sharply to the left and scramble up a narrow slope set in an otherwise perpendicular rock face. At astonishing speed, she flew up to the top and disappeared across a platform of rock some twenty or thirty feet above the path. The roof and walls of a grey-brick hermitage with an ornamental frieze below the eaves were now clearly visible from where I stood and, spurred by the thought of tea and a place to rest, I began to climb up after her. Dragging myself up the rocky slope proved even more difficult than it looked; roots and grasses trapped my legs and loose pebbles slipped from under me. Indeed, my mode of ascent was ludicrously different from hers. When I reached the top; there was no sign of the girl; instead a tall, dignified recluse in an ample robe of blue stood gazing at me. There war no doubt about his being a Taoist, for his long hair was gathered up into a bun and fastened with an ornamental wooden comb, protruding from a hole in the top of his antique headgear. Here, at last, was a rider of griffins and unicorns. After a brief stare of surprise, the Taoist pulled himself together and greeted me with the amazing antique courtesy of his kind, bowing almost to the earth without losing so much as a mite of his graceful dignity. In returning this salutation, I felt ridiculous, for it was necessary to bend my legs outward from the knees in order to bring my body low enough, and my trousered legs revealed this movement in all its ugliness. His first words took the form of a courteous invitation to enter his ‘humble grass-hut', which consisted of a single room with a low partition to one side which doubtless concealed his bed. The sparse furniture was all of unpainted bamboo, almost elegant in its perfect simplicity, except for a small pearwood altar facing the door and set before a large, colourful scroll. This scroll, the only object in the room to bear witness to the Southern Chinese taste for flamboyance, depicted a bearded sage in snowy robes astride a brilliantly plumaged crane with scarlet beak, yellow throat and eyes like ruby beads. In the sage's right hand was a horse-tail fly-switch, symbol of his magical accomplishments. 'Pray be seated, Hsiensheng. Do not trouble about ceremony.' A further exchange of sweeping bows took place before I ventured to seat myself on a bamboo stool just inside the door; and there I remained, firmly resisting all entreaties to take a more honourable place, that is to say one further towards the back of the room. I insisted that he was so far senior to myself that the usual respective positions of host and guests must remain thus reversed. At this point, the little girl appeared from what was probably a kitchen-shed adjacent to the house; but instead of the usual tea-things, she brought a squat black wine-jar, two thimble-sized wine-cups of white porcelain and a saucer of pickled meat-slices, each with a toothpick-like skewer. When all these things had been placed on the table, the child slipped out without a word and my host signed to me to draw my stool up to the table. The inevitable interchange of questions concerning the biographical details of host and guest followed, during which we kept rising to our feet, raising the ridiculous little 'thimbles' on high with both hands and quaffing the powerful grain-spirit. Then, as we became more relaxed, formality dropped away and the drinking continued without the necessity of rising from our chairs. 'This wine,' said the recluse, 'is something of which I may reasonably be proud. It is a twelve-year-old rice-spirit in which powdered tiger-bones have been steeped for more than half that time. It is a good substitute for the rare elixir of immortality; it fortifies the nerves to an incredible extent, lends tiger's courage, renders the childless prolific, stimulates youth-like spirits in the old, and causes children to attain more rapidly to maturity.' Though it was too fierce for my taste, of course I was loud in its praises. Besides, I noticed that the fiery stuff slipped down more and more smoothly with every thimbleful. Only when our faces had grown scarlet and our speech a trifle slurred did the Taoist venture to enquire the reason for this 'gratifying visit'. I told him frankly that I had come longing for a cup of tea and a place to rest but that, on perceiving my host to be a Taoist, I had ventured to hope for a glimpse of certain hidden arts. Before he could reply, the child returned with two bowls of chicken noodle soup which she set before us. I watched her deft fastidious movements with pleasure. In her, the normal loveliness of Chinese children came near to perfection. No hair could be blacker against the scarlet ribbons, no skin be paler or softer or so entirely without blemish. Jade ear-rings set in gold and a ruby finger ring made it easy to guess that this was his daughter or a close relative. I decided to venture a question, thinking that she was too young for this to be resented; though, usually it is better to wait for information about a Chinese friend's womenfolk to be volunteered. As it was, I waited till she had left the room lest the question should be taken as an instance of a foreigner's bad taste. 'I noticed,' said the Taoist, 'that you were taken with her. Everybody is - always. Alas for when she is a little older ! Yes, you are right; she is my worthless daughter, conceived in folly during my return to the world which lasted for the space of two years. After her mother's death, I had to allow her to share my rustic seclusion. At least she is useful, and I teach her what I can.' He added that she was twelve years old and that her name was True Pearl. Though he had not dismissed the subject with a curt 'She is my worthless daughter,' it was clear he wished to say no more. As we sipped some excellent tea which the girl brought after the noodles in cups with ancient silver filigree lids and saucers, we spoke of other things. The wine had destroyed the last vestiges of formality and suddenly I heard myself shouting: 'And now, Immortality, how about your arts ? Some magic, alchemy or what have you ? Conjure for me a lovely maid of seventeen, willow-browed, hibiscus-scented, moon-cheeked, jade-fleshed, almond- faced, peach-breasted; and able to sing and dance the Dance of the Rainbow-Coloured Sleeves, to play languorously on the flute and to toss off goblets of wine as gracefully as Poet Li Po's cupbearer. Or hand me a phial of immortality-elixir that I may share your immortality, or a crock of fresh transmuted gold !' I stopped, panting for breath and wondering whether to be ashamed, but the recluse burst out laughing. 'Alchemy I have never practised,' he shouted back. 'Gold ? Where would we spend it on this mountain ? No elixir takes effect in but a single dose, and I have twice fled the world to avoid jade-fleshed women.' 'Aha,' I cried. 'You do not deny having the elixir. Pray give me a taste and at least a bottle to add a score of years to my youth !' He was now laughing so much that the bamboo chair creaked protestingly. 'Ha-ha-ha-ha! I'll tell you a secret. The elixir is not something to drink.' ‘Then what ?’The powdered tiger-bones were working powerfully within me and I half believed that he really possessed the secret of immortality. For answer, he asked me to guess his age. I stared at him intently, trying to bring the laughing face better into focus. The smooth, well-rounded cheeks might belong to a man in his early prime. On the other hand, the dark eyes were old with wisdom and experience, and there was a faint network of wrinkles at their corners. Indeed, his eyes would have suited a white-haired old man, except that they were so brilliant and needed no glasses. ‘Fifty of so,’ I explained, remembering that the Chinese prefer one to err on the side of extra years. 'Wrong,' he laughed. 'Guess again.’ ‘Forty-five ? No ? Well, sixty, then.’ I laughed at the absurdity of the last figure, but suddenly he grew serious and, staring hard at me, answered: 'I shall be seventy this coming New Year Festival.’ ‘Ha-ha-ha !’ I yelled. 'And I shall be a hundred by the next Moon Festival. But please be serious. I really wish to know, for I am convinced you breakfast off the elixir.' He smiled resignedly. 'You do not believe me ? No matter. You are not the first. Just now you spoke of a flute.' Without waiting for comment, he shouted something through the window in the Chung-shan dialect and, in a little while, True Pearl responded by hastening into the room with an immensely long flute. It was of bamboo, lacquered in shining black and with a vertical inscription in flowing, green characters. Without further ado, the recluse put it to his lips. First there came a gay, lilting tune which was all semi- and demi-semi-quavers. True Pearl, eyes alight with pleasure, seated herself modestly on a stool in the far corner of the room, even condescending to return my little smile of appreciation. It was clear that she adored her father and loved this ancient music as unrestrainedly as she loved him. For the music was exceedingly ancient, or at least I had never before heard anything remotely like it. The mood changed from gay to sad and then to a more solemn kind of joy. I listened entranced, remaining there for so long that the sunlight began to slant in at the door, reminding me that I must hasten back to the monastery or be out on the lonely mountain long after dark. I tore myself away with regret. Just as I was leaving, I suddenly remembered that I had asked him nothing of his Taoist beliefs and, rather inadequately, blurted out: 'Before I go, Immortality, do please give me something to remember; something which, however short, will convey the spirit of your belief. . . . I mean, well . . . explain why you are here.' He stared at me in undisguised surprise, just sufficiently affected by the wine to forget his antique decorum. Then, recovering himself, he answered: 'If you want a sermon, go to the Buddhist monks. They'll give you sermons enough. As for me, I never have anything to say. I'll give you, instead, Li Po's answer to the Emperor's messenger who had vainly tried to persuade him to return from rustic exile to enjoy renewed favour at court: Oh why do I dwell among these jade mountains ? A laugh is my answer. My heart is serene. See the peach-petals float on the face of the waters ! Ah, here is a world where no mortals are seen ! True there are no peach-trees here, yet are not the hills and the sky and sea enough ?' The poem was lovely, but what struck me even more powerfully was his 'As for me, I never have anything to say'. From the mouth of a wine-bibbing Taoist I had received a splendid lesson in Zen. Bodhidharma struck silent by the glorious vision of Reality, Li Po silently regarding the floating peach-petals, my Taoist friend in speechless enjoyment of sky and sea - was there any difference between them ? It seemed that everywhere I went I stumbled upon hints of the existence of that shining Reality of which it has been said: 'Those who know, do not speak; those who speak do not know !' Yet there was room in my music-sobered mind for a little doubt to creep in. 'Can wine and the spirit mate ?' I asked, hoping my new friend would not take it for impertinence. 'Immortals have been known to ride to Heaven on rivers of wine,' came the laughing reply. 'Wine, guests and scenery go together. With a full moon for company, it is better still. But, when wine becomes the master, inspiration flees the mind.' I felt well answered. Our hurried farewells were full of warmth and I was pressed to return often. I reached the monastery long after dark and found the monks in some distress, fearing that something had happened to me, but some instinct warned me to say nothing of the Taoist. The others might have been interested enough, but the Receiver of Guests, upon whom much of my comfort depended, would have resented my failure to follow his advice by leaving Taoists well alone. After that first meeting, I used to go over to see the Taoist almost every second or third day. I tried in vain to get him to discuss Taoist philosophy, in which he declared himself scarcely interested, for he was one of those men, I think, who feel rather than think discursively or discuss. If so, he was probably more of a Zen adept (though without being conscious of it) than any of the Buddhist monks with whom I stayed. Nor could I persuade him to perform any 'magic' for me, except on just one occasion. The Chinese have discovered that children of either sex who have never as yet been consciously troubled by sexual desire are often very good as 'mediums' for a particular kind of fortune-telling. One day, when we had spent an hour or two discussing such things, he delighted me by offering to persuade True Pearl to examine my hand - not to read the lines in the usual way, but to 'see pictures' in it. She was not too willing, having been on the whole rather cold towards me from the first, as if aware that even at her age she easily aroused over-sentimental feelings in the opposite-sex; but she adored her father far too much to refuse anything on which he had set his heart. So it came about that, towards midday, we burnt incense to the sage bestriding the crane in the painting above the pearwood altar, bowed thrice and sat down on bamboo stools which had been drawn up close to the altar. True Pearl placed a cushion on the floor and, having prostrated herself to the picture with exquisitely graceful movements, knelt close to me peering into my palm. Her father was staring at her expectantly and I noticed that her face gradually lost its lively expression until she came to resemble somebody in a light trance. The silence continued so long that I grew impatient and over-excited, until at last the father seemed satisfied and called: 'Speak now.' She obeyed without hesitation, her voice monotonous, expressionless. Her eyes stared unblinkingly into my hand, which I tried in vain to hold steady for her, as she had shown aversion to holding it in her own. Even before she began to speak, my arm had grown tired enough to make it impossible to keep my hand quite steady. Fortunately, this did not seem to disconcert her. 'I see a hilly place. On every hill a temple or Pagoda or a great statue. There is only one man. He is alone. He is running up a slope. No, now he is walking slowly. More slowly. He has stopped. Oh, now he walks down again. Head forward. Sad, I think. Another man. Or the same one, but on another slope. Running. Now walking. He turns. Oh, silly man ! Just like the first, walking down again, slow and sad. And now another. Papa, it is the same man. I don't want to see any more. I know that man will come down before he gets up. Always the same. Yes, he is turning already. Enough. Always the same. Nothing is done.' The Taoist motioned to me to withdraw my hand. For a little while, the girl continued staring at where it had been, then abruptly she turned to look at her father. He nodded significantly and she quietly left the room. ''What does it mean ?' I asked eagerly. For the first time in our brief acquaintance he was looking almost disconcerted, but he answered with a show of casualness: 'Nothing much, I think. Perhaps she was not in the mood today. Sometimes she sees marvelous things. I am afraid we have wasted your time. Let us go out and look at my new fish pond, which you haven't seen yet.' There was something in his expression and tone of voice which told me that further questions would be unwelcome, so I let the affair slip to the back of my mind while I went with him to look at a little rockery in the centre of a pond as yet unstocked with fish. On the crests of the rocks were miniature pagodas, hermitages and so on, made of earthenware and none of them more than an inch or two high. If there had been a few more of these tiny buildings, I might have supposed that True Pearl's 'vision' had been based on this rockery instead of something she had seen in my hand. I even had a suspicion that this was exactly what my friend wished me to conclude. Shortly afterwards I bade him goodbye, without going back into the house. During the whole of the walk back to the monastery, I thought round and about this curious little experience. Had the child really seen the things she described, like a moving picture projected on to my hand ? Or had something she read there provided her with a shadowy suggestion of such a picture, which she could only make clear by clothing it in a concrete description ? Had she really been in a trance and would she have forgotten what she saw as soon as she withdrew from it ? I was very disappointed that the Taoist had, by his manner, indicated a refusal to discuss the experience. Why had he offered me such a demonstration if he was not prepared to follow it up with a proper explanation ? As to how to interpret what she had sensed or seen, if it was genuine, there was scarcely any doubt at all. It amounted to an unflattering description of my mode of life, in which the longing for spiritual advance was balanced by the slothfulness that constantly hindered my progress. If her 'vision' applied also to the future, then the old witch at 'The Garden of Mysterious Causes' had been right in warning me to go slowly, for it was obvious that by rushing forward at the beginning I was depriving myself of the energy to carry through to the end. By the time I reached the monastery, I was determined to go back to the Taoist on the following day and beg him to give me a frank interpretation of the child's words. So, the next morning, I set off immediately after breakfast. I could not foresee that the opportunity to ask the questions trembling on my lips was already past, or that my coming meeting with the Taoist would be my last. For a very horrible experience awaited me. P'an Tao-shih was walking in his garden when I rounded the shoulder of rock near his house, so he caught sight of me while I was still some distance off and stood waiting to receive me on the ledge above the path. But I had no sooner climbed the steep ascent and reached the ledge than an appalling thing happened. True Pearl, who must have been chasing a butterfly or some other insect, came running towards the edge of that rocky platform and, before either her father or I realized her danger, she had vanished from our sight. I heard myself gasp as, carried forward by the momentum of her own small body and twinkling legs, she disappeared with a thin shriek of terror. For a moment, the horror of if paralysed me, bringing with it a vivid memory of the sheer wall of rock some twenty or thirty feet high. A second shock followed almost at once. Without giving himself time for a moment's thought as to the consequences, P'an Tao-shih had leapt towards the edge and plunged after her. A swirl of sky-blue cloth, a pair of enormous sleeves outspread like wings, and he was gone. But no cry from him echoed the child's shriek. Sweating and almost vomiting with apprehension, I raced forward and peered down upon a confused vision of motionless apple-green surmounted by wind-blown sky-blue. I ran along to the scalable projection and scrambled down in such haste that my jacket was ripped by thorns and even my face cut open by some sharp object or other. At last I reached the path and struck out through the undergrowth towards my friends. I was too frightened just then to think it odd that the Taoist was standing up unharmed, holding the little crumpled body in his arms. True Pearl's small face was drained of colour and the eyes tight closed. She seemed not to be breathing. Only the expression on her father's face showed that the worst was not yet certain. 'Her spirit sleeps,' he said quietly, 'but she will recover.' 'Thank God,' I cried, speaking instinctively in English and then, remembering to speak Chinese, added: 'Are no bones broken ?' 'I think not, but we must get her to the hospital if she can travel in a chair. Will you--' 'Of course. I shall run straight back to the monastery and ask them to send for a chair at once. With any luck there may be one up there, as several visitors arrived last night.' While I was speaking, a lovely feeling of relief swept over me. It was then that I noticed something very odd indeed. The child had fallen on to a large patch of soggy ground moistened by the recent rains, so her clothes were soiled with a thick coating of mud; yet her father's gown showed no trace of mud, except for a few splashes near the hem and a ring of dirt where he had clasped the child to him. 'Incredible !' I whispered to myself. 'Why, he can't have landed on his feet !' Gazing at the rock-face before me, I reflected that a youthful athlete in full training could scarcely have made that flying descent and, by flexing his knees, landed on his feet. And yet here was a man who, however preposterous his claim to be sixty-nine, was at least well into middle age, and there was no doubt whatever that he had landed on his feet, and remained upright ! How was it possible ? Even at such a time, I could not refrain from asking him. The Taoist neither dismissed my question as frivolous for so grave a moment, nor immediately understood its significance. In fact, he seemed astonished. 'But of course I landed upright. It had to be a single jump, as there is no foothold higher up. But why do you seem so surprised ?' Suddenly he smiled through his anxiety for the child and added: 'No, no. I forgot. You do not know much about Taoists. Briefly, then, practice in running and jumping and Balanced Harmony of movement form one of the main "ingredients" in what the vulgar suppose to be the famous elixir of youth. I told you it wasn't anything to drink.' While still speaking, he began to carry the child gently towards the slope. Of course, I offered to help him, but he urged me to return quickly to the monastery for a chair. So, with a shouted 'Goodbye', I turned and ran along the path at a steady lope which brought me to the Abbot's quarters within less than an hour and a half, panting and blinded with sweat, but able to talk coherently about the need for a chair. That evening I dined in the refectory with some new arrivals, to whom I related the story of the child's fall. My description of the Taoist's leap brought murmurs of admiration from the visitors, but none of the three or four monks present seemed much astonished. 'By the way,' I said, laying down my chopsticks and turning towards the monks,' 'how old is P'an Tao-shih ?' The question produced some discussion, but there was general agreement that he must be in the neighbourhood of seventy. 'B-but that's preposterous . . . excuse me. I mean that he looks so young with his black hair and ruddy cheeks. But for the wrinkles round his eyes, he might be well under fifty.' Several of them smiled at this, too polite to contradict, but obviously of the same opinion as before. Presently, one of the younger monks went off to the bell-tower and returned with an elderly man whom they persuaded to relate the following details. 'P'an, or Milky Way as we call him, comes from the same village as myself in the Chungshan District. When I was about ten, I used to support my widowed mother by working for a Taoist from Yunnan called the Sage of the Jade Gourd. Milky Way and another villager, who took the Taoist name of Iron Staff, both became his disciples about that time. They were already full-grown youths, almost ten years my senior. Indeed, Iron Staff, whom I knew much better, was born in the Year of the Pig, which makes him eight years my senior; and I remember that he addressed Milky Way as Elder Brother. So there is no doubt that Milky Way is well on the way to seventy, if not more; but it is some time since we met. He avoids people from his own district, and with good reason.' 'Oh, why ? He seems to me a delightful person.' 'Perhaps he is so, but he has committed one great sin for which the villagers will not easily forgive him. As to his youthful appearance, that is not so strange. Taoists are mostly cheats, you know. The Sage of the Jade Stream, however, was a great wonder-worker and there is no doubt he taught Milky Way some of his secrets before he died, for Milky was always his favourite. Even among us monks there are cases of people arresting the onset of age. The Venerable Hsu Yun, for example, is over a hundred years old; yet he often walks ninety li [thirty miles] in a day with less fatigue than most of the young men who follow him.' 'That is wonderful, Reverence, but you were talking of Milky Way's great sin.' 'Yes, yes. You shall hear how it came about. In our village there was a girl who was famous throughout Chungshan for her beauty. She was engaged to the son of a wealthy landowner, the marriage having been arranged by their parents while she was yet in the womb. However, just a few days before their wedding-day, her father died. Milky Way, who was among the Taoists called in to perform the obsequies, exchanged but one glance with her and the two of them were lost. Regardless of the impiety, they eloped on the very day that the Seventh Day Rite was to be performed. Aiyah, it was shameless ! They say Milky Way became a layman and went to work in his uncle's medicine shop in Canton. Anyway, they disappeared under this cloud of unthinkable evil.' 'You mean, Reverence, that people were horrified at tire idea of a recluse going back to lay life ?' 'That ? Certainly not. That was nothing, especially for a Taoist, for no vow of celibacy is involved. No, have you forgotten that the miserable woman, only child as she was, had deserted her honoured father's coffin for the 'joys of clouds and rain' ? Aiyah, what a sin ! If Milky Way were to show his face in the district, they would crack his skull open, as he well knows.' 'I see. And then ?' 'And then she died.' 'Milky Way’s wife ? But why ? How ?' 'She died,' said the monk sternly, 'for having outraged Heaven and Earth by her impiety, but not at once. On the contrary, she enjoyed the best of health until after the birth of her daughter, whom you have seen - poor child. I have heard that the little girl is a real beauty like her mother. It was just after her birth that the screaming fits began.' 'Screaming fits ?' 'Just so, just so. They say her screams could be heard from end to end of the street, even frightening the nuns in the Convent of Harmonious Seasons, which was a good way off, I assure you. Of course, it was her father's ghost who caused these screams. 'What, I ask you, could the doctors do for that ? As she grew weaker, thinner, paler, fevers fed upon her body and madness consumed her mind. The doctor, some upstart from the University, spoke of consumption, as if everybody didn't know the truth a lot better than he did. And so did she ! Any number of people heard her babbling to the ghost, imploring mercy, screaming her useless repentance. To what end ?' 'And yet,' I asked curiously, 'you say, Reverence, that the ghost allowed her a whole year of excellent health. Why ?' 'I told you,' he answered in considerable astonishment, 'that she was expecting a baby, conceived perhaps even before the two of them fled together. Her father had been a good sort of man. Why should he wish to hurt his own grandchild ? Once the child was out of her belly, he could punish her unfilial conduct with a clear conscience.' 'Yet had she been so very wicked ? After all, she did not abandon her father until after his death.' The elderly monk looked as if he were beginning to have serious doubts as to my sanity. 'After his death ? But that is just why the ghost and all her relatives could not forgive her. A man in his coffin has greater need of his children than a man in his bed, for the latter may still hope to procreate more. But a dead man! Did I not say he had no sons ? 'Well, it had been arranged that her husband should take her surname and enter her family, so that their children might continue the sacrifices to her ancestors. The husband had many brothers, so his father agreed to the adoption, especially as it was one of the conditions of the marriage contract. So now do you see that Milky Way and this girl, by their unspeakable conduct, robbed the spirits of her father and her male ancestors of all hope of nourishment in the spirit world ? What crime could be worse than that ?' 'Reverence, is that a Buddhist tenet ?' 'Why, no. Strictly speaking not. But they were not Buddhists and they believed in the necessity of maintaining the sacrifices. I sometimes wonder about such things myself and fear that they were right. That is why I have adopted the young novice you met with me in the bell-tower. He is to be my spiritual descendant and will sacrifice before my spirit tablet. It may be un-Buddhist, but is it not wiser to make sure of our welfare in the next world by adopting every means to prepare for it ?' 'I suppose, yes. But tell me what happened next.' 'When the woman was dead, Milky Way wept bitterly, they say. Then he cursed himself for foolishly returning to the world, carried off his child one night and disappeared into the mountains. The next time he was seen, he had become a Taoist again, but he still takes care to avoid Chungshan, I can tell you.' The visitors to the monastery who had been listening eagerly to the story now got up to go to their rooms. This reminded the old monk that he had neglected his bell long enough, so he bade me good night and hastened back to his tower. In a few days, news came from Hong Kong that P'an and his daughter had gone to the Tunghua Hospital, that she was suffering from severe concussion and that he had spread his sleeping mat next to her bed in the public ward - a common enough practice in Chinese hospitals. As far as I remember, the girl made a complete recovery after hovering between life and death for several weeks or months. I never saw them again, for I feared to intrude upon them in the hospital and I had left Hong Kong for other cities long before they came out again. My preoccupation with the Taoist lasted some time. It was no doubt largely due to reflections on the calamity suffered by a small creature so undeserving of pain that I began to take life more seriously again. The beauty and tranquility of my surroundings could no longer hide the fact that pleasure is often but a painted screen concealing horrors which may at any time spring out and claim a victim. So my last week on the mountain was spent in meditation, during which I tried to spur myself forward to a more energetic search for the source of spiritual delights by recalling that the Wheel of Life often bears a striking resemblance to a mediaeval torture-wheel, but draped in gay hangings with the spikes and chains well hidden. *

* One of Socrates' friends once asked the oracle at Delphi: Who is the wisest man in Greece? The alleged answer was: Socrates. When Socrates was told about this he was puzzled. Thinking the matter over, he still insisted that he was as ignorant as everybody else. The only way in which he thought he may be wiser than other people was by knowing that he was ignorant, while most people thought they were not. "I know that I do not know" is a centre piece of Socrates’ wisdom. One may wonder about the point of Socrates' philosophical inquiries if they do not result in any final answers. It has, in fact, become common to dismiss philosophy altogether on the ground that philosophers seem to squabble endlessly about ideas that forever evade confirmation or refutation. Even if it were true, however, that no answers are ever possible to Socrates' philosophical questions, the activity of questioning assumptions and critically analyzing possible answers is by no means a waste of time. Seeing that certain answers to questions are invalid, for example, can be an important insight, even if valid answers should not be available. And besides, becoming adept in critical inquiry cannot but help a person to refine his or her general understanding of things. What was ultimately most important about Socrates' inquiries was, indeed, the unceasing practice and habit of being critical and thoughtful--of not being blind to one's own unfounded convictions and presuppositions. Thoughtfulness and critical self-awareness as a way of life is what Socrates stands for. That is why he adopted “Know thyself” as the main maxim for his life, and why his best known pronouncement is, "The unexamined life is not worth living." Life, according to him, is not something that is just to be lived--lived by following blindly and headlong primal instincts, popular convictions, or time-honoured customs. The good life is a life that questions and thinks about things; it is a life of contemplation, self-examination, and open-minded wondering. The good life is thus an inner life—the life of an inquiring and ever expanding mind. *

Shoulder shrugging, waffles, respect, and Wu Wei lol. Wow! That is one hefty challenge to fit together into one coherent thought. Would you care to re-phrase what you were wanting to say into a bit more commonly used English for us dinosaurs ?

Hiya ChiForce, I can very clearly sense the sincerity of your beliefs which you speak of with such conviction. I don't honestly think I'm saying this out of a desire to let the air out of your enthusiasm,.... but from my own experience, I think it's very helpful in wherever our spiritual seeking takes us,... to be aware that there is a difference between 'faith', and 'knowledge'. I was part of an incredibly gung-ho Tibetan Buddhist group for many years. Everyone there spoke about all manner of extremely esoteric subjects in voices of only the strongest possible assurance. They actively encouraged all the newbies to speak with the same faith and conviction. For a while, I myself also enjoyed speaking while fired up with that bright flame of spiritual intensity. It felt somehow like,.... if I "believed and proclaimed " my faith strongly enough,... then the force of my convictions might well burst through the barriers that separated me from realizations and ultimately, perhaps even from enlightenment ! But after a few years, in my heart of hearts, I knew that I didn't have any personal experience of what I was talking about. Then, when I started to look around at some of the most outspoken of that religious hierarchy, I began to question whether they actually "knew" what they were talking about either. With the passage of years, the place was rocked by many sexual scandals, and I noticed that very few of the monks and nuns were still there ten years after their original blaze of enthusiasm. Basically, the entire highly organized structure, (despite the precious nature of Buddha's teachings),... I feel, was largely just a creation of wishful thinking and creative imagination. Those two forces are very subtle, difficult to notice within our mind, and I think they are pitfalls on virtually every spiritual seeker's path. My feeling is that the best way to avoid falling into this extremely common trap is to try to always be aware of the difference between what you actually "know", and what are "objects of your faith", (however brightly that may burn). I hope my recounting these experiences might be of help to you. *

* Do you believe in free will ? “Of course, I have no choice.” Isaac Bashevis Singer *

All this talk of 'karma' sets off twinges of uneasiness in my mind. I think that I know where you're coming from in putting it the way you do since, for well over twenty years I believed 'beyond-a-shadow-of-doubt' in that highly attractive concept myself. But now I find myself thinking that it is perhaps helpful to bear in mind that concepts like karma, as much as they appeal to our desire for logic, are still only mentally created models with which we human beings try to assuage our relentless inner questions about the nature of our existence. I found that coming across other seekers' different ideas about such concepts actually helped bump my own mind out its comfortable state of complacency, (into which it is always seems joyfully prone to sink into, like a comfortable arm chair.) If your own mind finds itself interested in stepping out of its comfort zone for a breath of fresh spring air, you might want to check out this wee story by Richard Sylvester : * * * The laws of karma are a very attractive story. But this communication destroys all that. The mind sometimes hates hearing this communication. One of the reasons that the mind can hate it so much is that the mind loves justice. So the mind wants to hear a story that says, “Ultimately, there will be justice.” Yet clearly there is very little justice in this ‘earthly realm’. There are only two kinds of story about justice that will ultimately work for the mind. One of these is that eventually God will make everything OK because we will go to heaven but our accursed enemies will rot in hell. That’ll be justice ! Oh yes ! (Of course the best thing about heaven is that it has a huge window in it through which we will be able to watch our enemies rotting in hell. In fact, without the window, it would not be heaven.) Alternatively, there is the story of karma, which tells us that there will be justice in a subsequent lifetime. This has the same effect of guaranteeing justice, because in our next life, or in the one after, our enemy will be in our power. Instead of him making our life a misery, we will be able to make his life a misery. At this point the stories of both heaven and karma can become much more noble and sophisticated, because they can bring in our magnificent attempts to rise above the urge for primitive vengeance by developing compassion for our enemies. We can even attempt to become a bodhisattva. This has the additional advantage that we will also be able to beat ourself up when we inevitably fail. It is natural for the mind to be attracted to these stories. The mind lives in a world of cause and effect. In a world of cause and effect there is good and bad, justice and injustice. The mind would like to put things right. That is quite a noble thing for the mind to want to do. But liberation has nothing to do with the mind and nothing to do with cause and effect. That is why, when non-duality was seen within the Christian tradition and within some other traditions as well, there was so often an urge to kill the one who saw it. This is such an affront to everything that religion teaches. No wonder they tried to kill Meister Eckhart, for example. *

* Silence may be the purest medium For the transmission of truth. But it makes for Damned short books And awful dinner parties. Wayne Liquorman *