My running life has had a chequered past. I know I’m not alone in having detested cross-country at school, but that’s no true prediction of one’s relationship with the sport anyway. Who wants to be clambering through mud and weeds in the dead of winter, clad only in shorts and a polo shirt? Very few.
Auspicious Good Fortune
A spiritual memoir: Sumangali Morhall's inspirational journey from Western disillusionment to Eastern spiritual fulfilment, under the guidance of Sri Chinmoy.
Sumangali Morhall studied meditation with Sri Chinmoy, from 1997 until his passing in 2007. The name Sumangali (Shoo-mon-go-lee), given to her by Sri Chinmoy, means auspicious good fortune.
Sri Chinmoy is an Indian spiritual Master, who dedicated his life to serving humanity through his prayers and meditations, as well as his musical, artistic, sporting and literary works.
It is often said that while meditation is simple, it may not be easy. In our growing culture of ever-quicker fixes, those new to meditation are prone to giving up early, convinced they lack the aptitude. In truth, few take to it naturally right away.
A rhyming play, based on the story by Sri Chinmoy. Performed on January 1st 2017 for students of Sri Chinmoy on a winter retreat in Kalamata, Greece.
(…in my subjective opinion). This is a work in progress – I hope to collect more spiritual memoirs and autobiographies here as I read them. Do leave me your own recommendations in the comments.
We were very fortunate to welcome Agnikana’s Group to York on October 27th, for a concert entitled ‘Music for Inner Peace’, at the De Grey Rooms.
The lone lamenting of an owl kept me from my sleep – that and a silence foreign and exotic to my ear. I stood inside the open door by marsh and brush to gaze out on a nightscape free of any human sign. The far off fells were only rough charcoal sketches. Wind funnelled up […]
I’m currently reading Revelations of Divine Love, by Julian of Norwich (1373). Nobody knows Julian’s real name or where she began, and most other details are based on conjecture. But we do know she wrote some of the greatest prose of her time, and was even the first woman to write a book in English.
It was early on a summer Sunday I took myself walking through small enclaves of meadow and marsh, pondering how my love of England has grown as I’ve grown – from the petty resentment and boredom of teenhood where everything disappoints, to the middle of life with twenty years’ spiritual practice behind me.
Since the Mystery Plays chart the story from Creation to Last Judgement, there is only God at the beginning – God with a Yorkshire accent. There’s a certain kindliness, a kind of certainty to a Yorkshire God – you’d probably know where you are with Him. He’d be firm but fair.
It was here before, just so – the long straight avenue parting luxurious chestnut trees and families of deer browsing up to the Burges church festooned with gilded angels and parrot-coloured windows.
One of the very (very) few German words I know is the one for hedgehog. I don’t remember where or why I learned it, but it stuck in my head because igel sounds like eagle, and there can be no two creatures more dissimilar.
This year Easter came early, so I spent Good Friday at home, baking hot-cross buns and filling vases with daffodils and purple tulips. In amongst spring freshness and the cosy aromas of spice, I did leave time for reflection though.