Sumangali.org: In The Spirit Of Serendipity

I have always steered clear of the meme format for blog posts, as I considered it self-indulgent, but if a meme catches on, it ends up being more about other people than oneself, so here goes.

John Gillespie over at SensitivityToThings.com has started something with his finely crafted Six Childhood Facts post, and you can read a highly entertaining 6 from Pavitrata Taylor in From Out of the Ether a Golden Egg.

Just for fun I tried to think of a few, but only got to 5. If you think of some of your own, you can add them at the end of this post, or leave a link to a post on your own site. I realise now that the things one has grown up with, and which thus seem ‘normal’ can be amusing and interesting when viewed from adulthood, especially through the eyes of others.

If you’d rather skip the facts about me as a child, you can go straight to the dessert, a bonus feature: Age Does Not Matter. It doesn’t though does it, really?

Some Childhood Facts

1. Tutankhamun
   I would not say a word until I knew I could deliver it perfectly, so I spent most of my time silently listening, and the rest sounding like a 50s newsreader. My mother spoke to me constantly like a friend rather than a baby, so I randomly picked up long words which made me sound cleverer than I was. I nearly gave an old man a seizure in a Sussex railway station when, tottering in a knitted dress and lace-covered nappy, I pointed up at a poster for an exhibition in London and said “Tutankhamun” with newsreaderly gravity and archaeological grandeur.
2. Mastermind
   My mother and I used to be able to read each other’s minds, which might be why I have never really learned how to lie; there would have been no point. We used to play a game called Mastermind, where you have to guess the opponent’s choice of 4 coloured pegs, and the order in which they are placed. There were 6 different colours, and we used to play hardball in that one colour could be repeated up to 4 times. The games never lasted long, in fact they would often be over in one guess, but we used to play for hours.
3. Fillings
   I would eat only junk food after about the age of 9. I hated fruit and vegetables. I ate copious amounts of sweets every day but I was wraithly thin and I have still never had a filling in my teeth.
4. Cheese
   I became a vegetarian at age 13, due to my love of animals. It was rather alarming for my mother, especially as nourishing me was already so difficult, but she took it very well. In the early 80s it was not so easy to buy vegetarian food. Had I been from one of those grow-your-own-muesli, knit-your-own-yoghurt families it might have been easier, but I was not. Anyway, as I said, I would only eat junk food. In those days being vegetarian was all about cheese.
5. Magic
   I used to think I had magical powers because if I held one finger up to my eye I could see through it. It took me many years to work out that it is possible to look at one thing with one eye, and one with the other, so the two images are superimposed. Precocious in some fields; woefully retarded in others. (I’ve never told anybody about that).

Age Does Not Matter (A More Recent Anecdote)

“You wasn’t born in seventy.”

He was huge. Even his shining shaven head seemed muscular, his eyes steady and piercing like an archer’s. I was dried up and dizzy from flying all day, and then even my breath stopped. The hall echoed with an unreal uncomfortable sterility. His huge hand was on the precious little red book that has let me travel everywhere. The stare did not break. How would I prove that I am in that photo booth snap? It was all I had to show that I am me.

CHUG. The rubber stamp came down. He did not betray an ounce of mirth. But after half an instant, in which my world dissolved and hurriedly reconstituted itself, I realised he was making a joke for us both… and paying me a large compliment into the bargain. A joke and a compliment were yet more welcome in that lonely sterile world than they could have been in any other place, made funnier and kinder still by the deadpan delivery.

I yelped a strange laugh with what breath I could draw, and felt the immigration hall at JFK turn to look. Sudden sounds, especially merry ones, are not so common there. I stopped short of skipping my way to Baggage Claim.

If I didn’t seem like I was nearly thirty-seven, that is a victory for my meditation teacher, Sri Chinmoy.

Thirty-seven. I have to laugh. Other people laugh too, when I can remember (or work out) how old I really am. (Nearly 38 now!)

Yesterday I was remembering some of the “records” I used to listen to in my teens. Sometimes I do things like that just to amuse myself; it’s so staggeringly long ago it’s almost as if it must have happened to someone else. I daren’t show you a picture of me then, that would be too staggering. I look older than I do now, in fact I look older than I am now. I carried the weight of so many imagined worries.

It’s not that I don’t worry now, I do, but nowhere near as much. As the saying goes: You can’t push the river, it flows by itself. Meditating every day shows me that is so. I don’t care less; in fact by worrying less I have more with which to care.

As Sri Chinmoy says:

“Age does not matter,
Unless you replace
Your heart-light
With your mind-night.”
—Sri Chinmoy
(unofficial quote)

Age does not matter. Until his passing at age 76, Sri Chinmoy proved that to me. Through his life of meditation and self-transcendence he showed me that perhaps I am not as limited as I think. I hope to continue forgetting how old I really am. I hope to feel amused, rather than bound, if I do happen to remember, and grateful to Sri Chinmoy, especially if others find it funny too.

IMAGES:

• Portrait of Sri Chinmoy: courtesy of Pavitrata Taylor at Pavitrata.com
• Portrait of me age 7 (top): courtesy of my Mum
• Portrait of me, my Mum, Snoopy and Henry-the-dog: courtesy of my Mum

A Chicken and Egg Situation

I spent a while teaching English as a second language in Thailand many years ago, and had a splendid time. Not only did I find the language (especially the written characters) more beautiful than my own English equivalent; the culture, the etiquette, the people, the weather, the food, everything beguiled me and I felt entirely at home, as if remembering a Heaven where I once belonged. Maybe I’ll tell you more about it another time, but I will say two things for now:

1. My grasp of the Thai language extended barely beyond the basic pleasantries and the buying of food. This was mainly due to the importance of inflections and polite appendages, which English has no care for. The word “khai” could sound from me at random as the verb “to sell” or the noun “egg” or the noun “chicken” depending on its delivery. Vegetarian as I am, my linguistic state was precarious.
2. Explaining English to other people made me extremely glad that it is my first language, so I don’t have to struggle with its peculiarities from a text book or teacher. The more I explained, the more baffled I became by my own explanations, gradually realising that there are as many exceptions as rules. I was tempted to take the stance of Frenchman G. Nolst Trenité:

“Finally, which rhymes with enough —
Though, through, plough, or dough, or cough?
Hiccough has the sound of cup.
My advice is to give up!!!”
[source]

Image: Kedar Misani

Contextual Complexities

Learning our first language comes from constant immersion combined with dire necessity. We pick up meanings largely from the words’ environmental context, and grammar from their verbal context. This leaves us able to use a large number of words effectively but often only notionally; without really knowing their precise meaning, let alone their origin.

Words such as man, woman, cat and dog have not changed throughout the ages, but more complex phrases evolve relatively fast:

“…the phrase ‘willy nilly,’ which we now take to mean ‘any which way’ originally had a much different meaning. Willehe-nellehe was an Old English term meaning ‘whether he will or whether he won’t’ and implied someone doing something against their wishes — whether they wanted to or not. Over time this concept has been misinterpreted to the point where its meaning is entirely different. Extrapolate this example across the language and you get constant evolution.”
[source]

The speed and accuracy with which we pick up a language no doubt depends on many factors; partly environment/encouragement, partly our own propensity. Elizabeth Barrett (pictured) is one extraordinary example; something of an infant prodigy in the world of words, not just speaking but reading before she can walk. Elizabeth read her first word when she was 13 months old, from then devouring books with exceptional voracity. In her father’s words:

“I think she has some special abilities that have just been a fortunate thing she’s been born with.”

“This is something we never expected,” added his wife. “We didn’t teach her this. We don’t sit down and drill her on words. She loves reading books.”

[source]

Believing in reincarnation as I do, I can’t help wondering if such capacity is not only to do with nature and nurture, but past experience. Perhaps the name Elizabeth Barrett is a clue?

The Word Burglars

So the English language is as fond of breaking rules as it is of making them up as it goes along, it also is in a constant state of evolution because we don’t always really know what we mean when we speak it. Add to that the (disputable) fact that it has the largest vocabulary, and I am yet more glad I don’t have to learn it from scratch.

“The Oxford English Dictionary lists a total of 171,476 words with an additional 47,156 obsolete and 9,500 derivative words as subentries, giving almost a quarter of a million words in the English language, even when technical terms, place names and multiple word senses are excluded.”
[source]

But that includes all the words we’ve half-inched from other languages. So-called loanwords are “a consequence of cultural contact between two language communities”. As such contact will presumably only increase, so will our vocabulary.

So far we have taken ketchup from… Chinese (yep), gingham from the Pacific Islands (and I dread to think what we gave in return), Japanese gave us karaoke (whether we wanted it or not), American Indian gave us avocado and hurricane (a mixed blessing), African languages gave us jitterbugs and zombies (which we probably could manage without, but it’s the thought that counts), Arabic gave us caravan (thence all sorts of traffic problems during the British summertime), Hindi gave us bungalow and chintz (to be used sparingly, especially in a bungalow), German gave us poodle, noodle and apple strudel (enough said), Dutch gave us smuggle and freebooter (well, we stole them really), French gave us garage and sachet (which we’d struggle without), Italian gave us opera and umbrella (which we needed badly), Spanish gave us mosquito and tornado (which we didn’t). Shall I go on, or are we sufficiently incriminated?
[source]

Shakespearean Tragedy?

I’ve already briefly touched on the subject of poets adding to our lexicon in John Milton and the Origin of Space, but, says Stuart Waters, Shakespeare et al are doomed:

“There is no motive in this crime of the future, just an inevitability based on one undeniable fact. Language changes, and ironically, Shakespeare was himself perhaps the greatest ever at introducing new terms, concepts and metaphors into the language. The very craft he mastered will eventually consign his works to history.

“Technologically, the very nature of communication is changing on a daily basis and we are only at the beginning of this revolution. The internet, email and text messaging are tremendously fertile fields for the growth of new words and concepts and because this type of technology changes so quickly it is very difficult to see where it will take the language. On the one hand communication technology exerts pressure for language evolution, but on the other hand, it puts everyone in touch with everyone else, breaking down the barriers of distance and culture which traditionally fuel language change. What will be the outcome? Who can say.

“It is clear however that sooner or later the poetry and artistry of the Bard will be lost to all but historians of English, just as the works of Homer are unintelligible to modern Greeks.
[source]

Outcome 1: Pidgin

“What will be the outcome?” asks Waters. Well, Pidgin English is one (pidgin, not pigeon).

“A pidgin is a simplified language that develops as a means of communication between two or more groups that do not have a language in common, in situations such as trade. Pidgins are not the native language of any speech community, but are instead learned as second languages.
[source]

English may have the largest vocabulary. Its offspring, Pidgin English, claims to have the smallest, but is possibly yet trickier to learn. With just a few examples from the version spoken in Papua New Guinea, I am amply convinced of that, (although it does have logic, phonetic continuity, and absolute cuteness in its favour):

• television: bokis wailis wantem piksa
• corridor: ples wokabaut insait long haus
• antiseptic: marasin bilong kilim jem
• bathroom: rum bilong waswas

[source]

Outcome 2: LOLspeak

LOLspeak is born of our modern-day 24/7 culture where everyone is multi-tasking, communication is as urgently important as breathing, and everything is too much hassle to do properly or fully. Some familiar examples of LOLspeak are OMG (oh my God), BRB (be right back), and the eponymous LOL: laughing out loud, lots of love, or…

Depending on the chatter, its definition may vary. The list of its meanings includes, but is not limited to:
1) “I have nothing worthwhile to contribute to this conversation.”
2) “I’m too lazy to read what you just wrote so I’m typing something useless in hopes that you’ll think I’m still paying attention.”
3) “Your statement lacks even the vaguest trace of humor but I’ll pretend I’m amused.”
[source]

Does LOL mark the demise of the beautiful English language? IMHO, no. Whatever it signifies for humans, it is a mark of progress for all other species. If it counts for English, animals have finally started to speak, and even nuborned ones are typing their own messages on sites such as cuteoverload.com, ihasahotdog.com and icanhascheezburger.com (pictured). So LOL is progress. Officially.

(Ono! U meen dey don type teh msgs demself?? Srsly?).

Who Has The Largest Individual Vocabulary?

Whatever may happen in the future, regardless of species, who has the largest English vocabulary right now? This is not a straightforward question. Michael Quinion explains why:

“What we mean by word sounds obvious, but it’s not. Take a verb like climb. The rules of English allow you to generate the forms climbs, climbed, climbable, and climbing, the nouns climb and climber (and their plurals climbs and climbers), compounds such as climb-down and climbing frame, and phrasal verbs like climb on, climb over, and climb down. Now, here’s the question you’ve got to answer: are all these distinct words, or do you lump them all together under climb?

“The other difficult term is vocabulary. What counts as a word that somebody knows? Is it one that a person uses regularly and accurately? Or perhaps one that will be correctly recognised — say in written text — but not used? Or perhaps one that will be understood in context but which the person may not easily be able to define?
[source]

Of all the people I know, my meditation teacher Sri Chinmoy (pictured) definitely has the largest vocabulary, however it’s measured. Growing up in East Bengal, English was not his first language, but I regularly come across English words in his writings which I have never seen before. Take my favourite example: sesquipedalian (meaning a very long word).

Sri Chinmoy published almost 1600 books during his lifetime, including around 117,000 poems. Whatever happens to the English language; however it evolves, however it is used and misused, I will always relish it and cherish it, and I will always look to my teacher Sri Chinmoy for new words and new inspiration. It is not only his vast vocabulary, but the use of it which I love. He reminds me to stay in my heart, and to try to use whatever capacity I have for goodness. Although he passed away last year, and I still miss him dearly, he left behind the legacy of his writings for us all to enjoy forever. Read to your heart’s content for free at Sri Chinmoy Library!

“No more am I the foolish customer
Of a dry, sterile, intellectual breeze.
I shall buy only
The weaving visions of the emerald-Beyond.
My heart-tapestry
Shall capture the Himalayan Smiles
Of my Pilot Supreme.
In the burial of my sunken mind
Is the revival of my climbing heart.
In the burial of my deceased mind
Is the festival of my all-embracing life.”

—Sri Chinmoy (from The Dance of Life)

Image: Pavitrata Taylor

The Song-Bird of St Petersburg pays tribute to Sri Chinmoy at the Royal Albert Hall

Boris Purushottama Grebenshikov is a living paradigm in the world of music and poetry, justly lauded in his Russian homeland and throughout the world. Tapping the ‘infinite silence’ within as a source of his prolific creativity, his songs are his direct interpretation of the universal musical consciousness.

No wonder then that he found in Sri Chinmoy a profound inspiration. With almost 1600 books to his name and over 21000 songs, here was a Spiritual Master who shaped his own life’s service from the very fibre of music and poetry, singing the songs of Heaven into the ears of the earth.

Sri Chinmoy was born in East Bengal, 1931. Following an inner calling he moved to New York in 1964, to be of spiritual service and inspiration to the west. From then until his passing in October last year, his meditation brought forth a wellspring of creativity in many fields.

Sri Chinmoy met Grebenshikov in 2005, and offered him the spiritual name Purushottama. A unique friendship blossomed from there. The immediate bond between teacher and student was exceptionally deep given its outer brevity; a recognition and reflection of true inner harmony. In Grebenshikov’s own words:

“Before meeting him I could never imagine I would see with mine own eyes the enlightened spirit operating from within the frail human body. It made me realize we do not really understand how strange it is to be fully realized in the world that misunderstands Divine realization. And I am endlessly grateful for his love and unflinching selfless courage.”

As part of his soulful service, Sri Chinmoy offered over 700 free public concerts in the span of his life, which he dedicated to World Harmony. London’s Royal Albert Hall ranked among the most notable venues, where he last performed in October 2003. In this same spirit, and at the same venue, Boris Purushottama Grebenshikov paid tribute to him last week.

Under a 14-foot portrait of Sri Chinmoy, flanked by statues of Ganesha and Saraswati, the setting was an Indian garden at night. An enclave of trees and glowing candles waited on a backdrop of winking galaxies. Hoards jostled outside for a place in the hall, peering over galleries high up into the roof to catch a glimpse of the artist. The legendary Song-Bird of St Petersburg entered with a smile of joy equal to his air of poise and humility. As he took centre stage his audience could not have been more attentive, appreciative, or more alive with electric anticipation.

Some 20 musicians joined him, mostly from the Indian and Irish genres, and some of the finest in their fields. Two were from Grebenshikov’s original band Aquarium, which dates back to the early 1970s. The tabla talked in rhythm to four Irish bodhrans; a sarangi sang sweet melodies over a group of classical strings. The fiddle, tin whistle and Uillean pipes carried on an Irish banter with such unbounded effusion, precision and harmony, that the crowds could not contain their shouts of delight.

All the while Grebenshikov was an ocean of depth, speaking through an acoustic guitar as if it were a part of himself. His singing voice itself was, as always, an exquisite blend of strength and sensitivity; ageless and imperturbable wisdom with a sweet and heart-melting centre. The essence of the poetry, although mostly in Russian, could be felt even by the uninitiated, such was its earnest delivery.

The songs vaulted from pin-drop soulfulness to ebullient joy, via countless spirited forays into new musical realms. They stopped neither at folk, nor jazz, nor rock, nor classical, nor world music, but spun into a whirl of all these, where no division or identity could be defined, where music sprang forth unbounded and unadulterated from its source.

As a finale, Grebenshikov offered a bhajan he wrote in Sanskrit for the goddess Saraswati, and a loving song in the ballad style, which he wrote for Sri Chinmoy during one of their earliest meetings. The Sri Chinmoy Centre Choir accompanied him on the refrain:

“O, Guru Sat, we may be far apart,
O, Guru Sat, forever in my heart.”

It was a poignant end to a magical evening; an evening whose spirit seemed to have no age, no beginning, no end; no limits or worldly boundaries of any kind. With simplicity and utmost self-giving, Boris Purushottama Grebenshikov offered a tribute to his teacher which was at once fittingly grand, heartfelt and joyous.

IMAGES:
Portrait of Boris Purushottama Grebenshikov by Antonov Pavel

LINKS:
More about the concert at GrebenshikovConcert.com
Review by Tejvan Pettinger at SriChinmoyBio.co.uk
Photographs of the event by Pavitrata Taylor at Pavitrata.com
Download a PDF of the official programme (26Mb)

It’s been hot in England. That’s newsworthy enough, but you know how we Brits love to talk about the weather. It seems like summer is just around the corner, (perhaps somewhere in Spain or Portugal). The tulips are big as goblets, the birds compose new rhapsodies until bedtime, and new-mown lawns send out their familiar green perfume, which itself acts like a happy pheremone on me. All these triggers lay forgotten in my mind through winter, as they always do, to be rediscovered like a perennial gift each year, never losing their thrill.

Another sure sign of summer is the flight of hot air balloons in the morning. The long roar followed by soft silence tells me they are coming near, and I rush to the window to find them in the sky. I have never flown in one, but so love to watch them, strangely fast and graceful for their imposing dimensions.

I lived in Bristol for a few years, and always looked forward to the annual Balloon Fiesta. Up to 100 balloons gather together from around the world, in all their fantastic colours and shapes: there a flying mobile phone is not out of place next to a floating dog, a fire extinguisher a similar size to an entire inflatable cathedral. At night they stay tethered to the ground with lit flames for a beautiful “balloon glow”. In the early morning and at dusk they mount the sky in flurries. To see them closely and in numbers is to witness not only their true size, but their unique charm.

Now that we have more reliable methods of flight, the hot air balloon has been reduced almost to a novelty; largely the plaything of champagne breakfasters and the mouthpiece of corporate advertisers. In 1783, however, hot air ballooning was a more serious, and a much more dangerous affair. An intrepid (probably unsuspecting) sheep, duck and rooster were the first passengers. Following their survival of 15 minutes in the air, the Montgolfier brothers took off from Paris two months later, not only staying up for 20 minutes, but also, like the farm animals, staying alive. Human flight (with any notable degree of success) was born. [source]

That which flies is not necessarily light in weight though, as any jumbo jet will tell you. Last year my meditation teacher Sri Chinmoy (then aged 75), lifted some hot air balloons, seated with one arm overhead. They are not so buoyant beneath their natural habitat of sky. A 140-foot tall rabbit weighed in at 369 pounds (167.4 kg), followed by a multi-coloured 90-foot balloon at 397 pounds (including the pilot and basket).

Speaking of Sri Chinmoy’s one-arm seated lifts of a 575 pound (260.8 kg) dumbbell a few days earlier, longtime registrar of the British Amateur Weightlifters Association Jim Smith commented: “Sri Chinmoy is giving back to people the importance of having the mind, body and spirit together. No other human being on earth has ever lifted over 3 times their own body weight, even with two hands and while standing!”

Up until Sri Chinmoy’s passing last year, age 76, he strove to inspire people to transcend their limitations through sports and meditation. He was also a prolific writer. Here is one of his many uplifting aphorisms:

You do not have to fly
To the blue-vast sky.
The blue-vast sky will enter into you
If you turn your mind into
a silence-home.

—Sri Chinmoy
From Twenty-Seven Thousand Aspiration-Plants, Part 211

You can find our more about Sri Chinmoy’s weightlifting feats, and see some video clips, at Sri Chinmoy TV

MOZART IS GOOD FOR YOUR HEALTH

Mozart’s music lowers stress, heightens intelligence and relieves heart disease. It could even improve your eyesight, and doctors may soon prescribe it for epilepsy. According to Roger Dobson in The Independent, Mozart is a Medical Maestro:

“Mozart soothes the beating heart. A study at Oberwalliser Hospital in Switzerland on the effects of music on heart-rate variability in 23 adolescents showed that listening to music may be helpful in heart disease. The study showed that listening to Mozart or Bach resulted in reductions of heart rate and variability.” [source]

It seems the benefits are not only available to connoisseurs of classical music, indeed it’s not even necessary to be conscious of the music for it to work its magic. Proof comes from the Agricultural University of Athens where scientists played Eine Kleine Nachtmusik to carp for 30 minutes at a time. The fish grew more and showed fewer signs of stress.

You might not recognise the second portrait above, as it was only unearthed last week. It’s deemed the most important painting of the great composer, considered more accurate than the most well known (first above), painted 18 years after his death. [source: The Telegraph].

BILINGUALISM IS GOOD FOR YOUR HEALTH

Separation between countries in Europe is becoming increasingly passé. That has to be a good thing in itself, but it also means bilingualism is on the increase, maybe even for us reluctant Brits. Why is that so healthy?

“Researchers found that bilingual people are far better at retaining their mental abilities into old age than the majority, who speak only one language, in fact that they were less prone to problems such as Alzheimer’s disease in later life.” [source: Agence Bretagne Presse]

According to Omniglot.com, we use different facial muscles, not just when speaking different languages, but when using different accents. So, all us Brits reluctant to learn a language can practise our Scottish, Welsh, Irish, and English accents and we’ll at least give our faces a good workout, even if we lose our marbles earlier than anyone else in Europe.

CHOCOLATE IS GOOD FOR YOUR HEALTH

Yes, yes, I know, lots of fat and sugar and calories and often very garish packaging, but bear with me. We don’t want too many of those nasty free radicals radicalling around so freely do we? What we need is antioxidants then, just as your mother always told you:

“Eating dark chocolate could help control diabetes and blood pressure, Italian experts say.

Researchers found eating 100g of dark chocolate each day for 15 days lowered blood pressure in the 15 person-study.

The University of L’Aquila team also found the body’s ability to metabolise sugar - a problem for people with diabetes - was improved.

But eating the same quantities of white chocolate did not have an effect, the researchers said.

The team said an antioxidant called flavanol was responsible for the effect because it neutralised potentially cell-damaging substances known as oxygen free radicals, the American Journal of Clinical Nutrition reported.” [source: BBC]

A lot of disclaimers follow in the article above, so of course we must read them and take them very seriously before consuming large quantities, or at least consult a good chocolatier. Don’t consult your doctor, they’ve got enough to do.

Montezuma’s organic is my latest favourite chocolate in the world, especially their Emperor Chilli bar (pictured). If you haven’t tried chilli chocolate, (and especially if you have), you might want to get some (more) at Montezuma’s. No garish packaging there, and it’s good for you. Chillies are full of vitamins A and C, they stimulate the heart, kidneys and nervous system. Don’t get me started… [source: BBC]

(Did I tell you the one about the diamond burglar armed only with a box of chocolates? Chocolate is not only good for your health, but can be good for your bank balance. Don’t try this at home. No, really.)

BLOGGING IS GOOD FOR YOUR HEALTH

According to blogging scientists at Eide Neurolearning, it’s official: blogging is healthy. That’s very good news for all you lovely people on the left who have visited here recently (forgive me for not adding links to you all). Let me return the favour by telling you why blogging is so good for you. The Eides say:

1. Blogs can promote critical and analytical thinking.
2. Blogging can be a powerful promoter of creative, intuitive, and associational thinking.
3. Blogs promote analogical thinking.
4. Blogging is a powerful medium for increasing access and exposure to quality information.
5. Blogging combines the best of solitary reflection and social interaction.

Maybe we shouldn’t spend all day at our desks though, according to The Independent:

“Scientists have claimed that it’s as risky as smoking, increases obesity, and that it could lead to deep vein thrombosis if you do it for too long. Yet 59 per cent of us do it every day at work. Sitting at a desk, it seems, can be hazardous to your health.”

So what’s the answer to maintaining physical well-being while keeping our brains healthy with blogging? Get out more? Not necessarily, you could take up Deskercise: steppers, Swiss balls and neck stretches. Yikes. Find out more here, it’s a very good article.

GIVING IS GOOD FOR YOUR HEALTH

The BBC released an article yesterday about the proven health benefits of giving to others, based on some recent Canadian research, in: Charity Makes You Feel Better. Giving to others makes you happier, and therefore healthier. It could even save your life:

“Those who spent the cash on others reported feeling happier at the end of the day than those who spent the money on themselves, no matter how much they had been given.

Dr Dunn said: ‘This study provides initial evidence that how people spend their money may be as important for their happiness as how much money they earn.’

‘And spending money on others might represent a more effective route to happiness than spending money on oneself.’

Dr George Fieldman, a psychologist at Buckinghamshire New University, said: ‘Giving to charity partly makes you feel better because you’re in a group. You are also perceived as being an altruist.’

‘On an individual level, if I give to you, you are less likely to attack me and more likely to be nice to me.’”

…and not just giving, but forgiving is especially wholesome:

“In one study, people who focused on a personal grudge had elevated blood pressure and heart rates, as well as increased muscle tension and feelings of being less in control. When asked to imagine forgiving the person who had hurt them, the participants said they felt more positive and relaxed and thus, the changes dissipated.” [source: Science Daily]

• While we’re on the subject, a very nice article also came out yesterday at Sri Chinmoy Inspiration: Harnessing the Power of Self-Giving
• Image: A favourite photo by Sharani Robins, who wrote a great post recently called Kindness and the Unexpected

SALT IS GOOD FOR YOUR HEALTH

Well, not all salt. According to a recent article in The Independent, if you put a sea fish into a table salt solution it will die. The sodium chloride most of us keep in a shaker on the dining table strains the heart and chivvies the blood-pressure, so too much of it will send us the same way. Unrefined rock salt, however, contains more than 84 different minerals.

“‘These mineral salts are identical to the elements of which our bodies have been built and were originally found in the primal ocean from where life originated,’ argues Dr Barbara Hendel, researcher and co-author of Water & Salt, The Essence of Life….

Without mineral salts, says Dr Hendel, there would be no movement, memory or thought and your heart wouldn’t beat….

Mineral salts, she says, are healthy because they give your body the variety of mineral ions needed to balance its functions, remain healthy and heal. These healing properties have long been recognised in central Europe. At Wieliczka in Poland, a hospital has been carved in a salt mountain. Asthmatics and patients with lung disease and allergies find that breathing air in the saline underground chambers helps improve symptoms in 90 per cent of cases. ” [source]

You can find out more about Himalayan rock salt at Indus Salz. They even make it into table lamps. Wizard! Must have.

INDIGO IS GOOD FOR YOUR HEALTH

According to the ancient code of Feng Shui, different colours affect us very differently, and indigo is noted for its healing properties. So are green and blue.

“Yellow is a happy color that promotes creativity and vitality. Use it in a kitchen or office. Green is a healing and calming color. It is great for living rooms or bedrooms. It renews and keeps us in balance. Blue is also a healing color as well as a mentally relaxing color. Add blue to a room when someone is sick. Blue will keep the room’s occupants calm. Indigo is not only relaxing but is also to keep good health in your home.” [source: Essortment.com]

Colour therapy is a well-established art. Everything you ever wanted to know about the science of colours can be found at ColourTherapyHealing.com, where we find that indigo is calming and good for studying. It also helps heighten intuition.

But what of the spiritual significance of colours? Kedar Misani has recently completed a beautiful and informative series of videos on the subject. It’s based on spiritual master Sri Chinmoy’s book Colour Kingdom, where indigo is found to signify unity. That seems to be a good note to end on; if bilingualism and self-giving are good for the health, then unity certainly must be. You can enjoy the videos and find out more at Sri Chinmoy TV.

Mr Magorium’s Wonder Emporium

The heart in this film is undeniable, and it’s definitely not just for children. As the film’s motto goes: “You have to believe it to see it.” (It’s alone worth watching for a cameo appearance by Kermit the Frog, out shopping, dodging stares from the public).

Mr Magorium (Dustin Hoffman) is a 243-year-old owner of a magical toy shop. Although he has been inventing toys since the mid-1770s, and is perfectly healthy, he has decided that the time has come for him to leave the world, so he bequeaths the shop to its manager, Molly Mahoney (Natalie Portman).

With his imminent departure the emporium itself shows signs of sadness. “We must face tomorrow, whatever it may bring,” says Magorium, to the very soul of the shop, “with determination, joy and bravery”.

Mahoney lacks the necessary faith in herself that she can continue without its magical owner. “Unlikely adventures require unlikely tools,” says Mr. Magorium, and in a rather Zen gesture, gives her The Congreve Cube, a solid block of wood, which he assures her will bring her the answers she needs. “Your life is an occasion,” he reassures her, “Rise to it.”

As the nine-year-old narrator says, “All stories, even the ones we love, must eventually come to an end, and when they do, it’s only an opportunity for another story to begin.”

Read more at imdb.com

Scooby Doo’s Pipe Organ Pizza

The film not only reminded me of the childhood half-belief that toys are really alive, but only move when we’re not looking, I also remembered a special place I used to go to as a child: Scooby Doo’s Pipe Organ Pizza, in Houston.

The organ itself controlled a whole wall of pipes, drums, and strange gadgets, behind glass. The organist would play requests written on little white pieces of paper. I always used to request Tie a Yellow Ribbon because I knew he knew that one. To me it was the closest thing to magic, and all with the accompaniment of most amazing pizza.

It closed down soon after I left America. The organ was apparently salvaged, refurbished and installed in someone’s house.

The Mighty Wurlitzer in Buffalo

And that reminded me of an adventure I went on with my meditation teacher Sri Chinmoy, but that story’s already told, in a publication called Inspiration-Letters at the Sri Chinmoy Centre. In fact you can read a whole variety of stories there from other students of Sri Chinmoy.

“Only the beauty and love
Of a childlike heart
Can transform the nature of the world.”
—Sri Chinmoy
Twenty-Seven Thousand Aspiration-Plants, #26603

I met my second nephew for the first time last week, eight days after his arrival on earth (that’s me on the right, at a similar age). His expressions changed fast, as if dreaming. What could he dream so soon? Memories of other worlds or other lives perhaps. I wondered what his dreams would be in later life, hoped we would be friends, collect beetles in a jar, laugh together over a late lemonade in his grandmother’s garden.

He is huge for a newborn, with hot fists and a determined frown, but I was a little afraid for him. It seems brave to me to be born at all, to be human, to live on earth.

Despite its intensity, nobody remembers being born. Everyone uses their first breath to cry. Raw sound, cold, movement, pain, exhaustion, separation from the source, are too much to bear at once. There is no strength of one’s own to call upon, and nothing certain or familiar on which to depend. Julius Caeser, Abraham Lincoln, Albert Einstein, Muhammad Ali, however mighty they became, each arrived naked and alone, and cried.

My primal bewilderment stayed with me longer than theirs, and perhaps longer than most. The cry silenced but was always there. Life was a fast road and the human vehicle seemed so brittle on it. I saw pain in others and felt it as my own. I grew no armour in my thoughts or senses.

I was a morbid child, my first dream in colour was of death. I lay awake in fear of everything, craving the release of sleep, but dreading my own dreams more than waking life. “Empty your mind,” said my mother, “think beautiful things or have no thought at all.”

So I made my first tiny flame of peace inside. It lit my world a little in that strange perpetual night; spilled into the darkness so at odds with my safe and gentle circumstances.

I worried about life and the end of it, about the world and myself in it, about being small and about growing up. I worried that God had forgotten me on earth. That’s the strangest thing: I was raised an atheist but always secretly believed in God, that there was more to life than earth, that death was not the end of it. Thank God for that.

It was a vague belief though, like a church bell ebbing and gathering on a faraway breeze, or a photograph faded almost to obscurity. There was nobody to sharpen the image for me. To own to another that I believed in God, and needed to feel closer to Him, would have seemed weak, delusional even; like admitting that I couldn’t handle myself.

But nobody knew anyway. Nobody knew where we are, or even how far the universe goes. Nobody knew for sure what happens after death. Nobody knew where God is. It didn’t seem to bother anyone. That bothered me most of all.

I blundered through my teens as well as anybody can, still haunted by fears I couldn’t name, increasingly sensible to the vulnerability of a world I didn’t understand. As I grew, so did the dark. I was trapped in it, a slave to my own fear. The faint memory of God was swallowed in it too, and I was terribly alone.

Luck has a habit of following me, especially when I need it most. A lady where I lived had taught herself to meditate, and gave me some books so I could do the same. She talked about God, naturally, like a friend. The picture grew in clarity again, in brief glimmers.

Through each attempt, I collected strength beyond my own ability, harvesting happiness from an orchard much more bountiful than my own, an orchard of sweet fruits that went on forever, where it was always summer. I dared remember that my life is not a solo voyage, but piloted by Someone bigger. At last I could breathe, as if for the first time.

One day I turned against fear, and it dissolved, like a serpent made of smoke. God had not forgotten me; I had been forgetting Him.

I was a fair-weather friend to God though. Meditation was difficult. Although I practised every day, my efforts lacked vigour, unless I was desperate or in trouble. I reached an agreement—a sort of dual tenancy—with the serpent of smoke. It was always there but it would keep to its own quarters. God lived somewhere upstairs, and I was often too idle to climb there, perhaps calling a perfunctory hello from the second step each morning.

Courage came then from more comfortable sources, the sort you can buy in a bottle or a pill, that you can win through fickle friendships and small outer victories. It was a cheap happiness, and like most imitations, it fell apart after a few years. I chased it, all over the world, but arrived back where I started, and that time with nothing.

I suppose it was a new birth, a blessing in the form of annihilation. There was an accident which nearly took my life. Soon after that I had no money, no job, no family near me, no friends, no home, barely any belongings, not a shred of hope or self-esteem. I was helpless as an infant. And I cried a good deal.

I knew I had to learn to meditate properly. I had to find someone who knew how to do it and could show me. I dug out the books the lady had given me and tried a new exercise: The Spiritual Guide. It started with imagination, as all visualisations do. I waited on a beach in my heart for someone to come and teach me, and eventually he did.

He was a beautiful Indian man, all softness and sweetness, but with the strength of a galaxy contained in a human form. He loved me, as if he had known me always. He listened and understood, without judgment or harshness. He encouraged me, sincerely, not indulgently, and not in words, but in silence, releasing wisdom and peace like fragrances. I had only to breathe them in.

Here was someone who knew. He knew God. Anything I did not understand, he already knew. He did not need to tell me; the fact that he knew was enough for me, to see it and feel it in him. He contained all opposites, extremes of all I had longed for: subtlety and certainty, beauty and practicality, and most of all, immaculate poise.

He did not answer me or solve anything directly, but having sat with him, I knew what to do in life, and felt the strength to carry it out. Over the span of a year I gained a good job, a car, and a beautiful home. I was safe and healthy, challenged by the world but no longer terrified by it.

I wanted to learn more, to meet with others who knew meditation’s secrets. I wanted to practise with them, find new techniques, exchange experiences. The Sri Chinmoy Centre was the first and only place I found.

I thought it had been my own imagination. How could such a man exist on earth as the one who had sat with me every day that year? There he was, in photographs and videos. He had come to life. He had been there all along. I could read his words and sing his songs. Eventually I could sit in his outer presence, as I had done so many times in my heart.

I cannot account for my good fortune. I am small and full of imperfection, but divine love touches all creation like the fingers of the sun. Luckily we need not wait to deserve it.

In Sri Chinmoy I found answers to questions I had not yet formed. In his brief life of 76 years he gave to all equally and abundantly: not what was deserved but what was needed. In poetry, in songs, in physical demonstration and silent meditation, he made maps for us: maps of immediate inner lands, and others we will not reach for a very long time.

Sometimes I miss him. I had ten years to become attached to the luxury of his living presence. But I know he has given me much more than I need, and much more than all the world can give me. When I miss him, I know I need only sit in my heart and he will come to me.

When I was little, my mum had a penchant for Chinese antiquities. Along with a glossy rosewood coffee table, my favourite was a painted statue of Shou Lao, the god of longevity. He held a long twisted staff of many twining branches in one hand, and a peach (of unlikely proportions) in the other.

Although he looked at least 200 years old, he smiled as if mid-chuckle, and his cheeks had a crimson glow like the peach. We were told that the peach came from a tree that bore fruit every 3 millennia, and anyone who took a bite from it could live as long as they wanted.

Researchers say that by 2060 people living in the country with the highest life expectancy will live to an average age of 100. The average lifespan globally is double that of 200 years ago. But, say researchers Jim Oeppen and Dr James Vaupel “This is far from eternity: modest annual increments in life expectancy will never lead to immortality.” (Source: BBC)

Physical immortality is yet further off in some countries. There is a gap of more than 30 years between the life expectancy of the world’s poorest and richest countries, and the gap is widening. (Source: The Independent)

But maybe help is at hand, as Steve Connor reports in an Independent article: Who Wants to Live Forever (sorry if you get that Queen song in your head all day, I know, it happened to me too.)

“A genetically engineered organism that lives 10 times longer than normal has been created by scientists in California. It is the greatest extension of longevity yet achieved by researchers investigating the scientific nature of ageing.

If this work could ever be translated into humans, it would mean that we might one day see people living for 800 years. But is this ever going to be a realistic possibility?”

…

“There is, of course, a huge difference between yeast cells and people, but that hasn’t stopped Longo and his colleagues suggesting that the work is directly relevant to human ageing and longevity. “We’re setting the foundation for reprogramming healthy life. If we can find out how the longevity mechanism works, it can be applied to every cell in every living organism,” Longo says.

“We’re very, very far from making a person live to 800 years of age. I don’t think it’s going to be very complicated to get to 120 and remain healthy, but at a certain point I think it will be possible to get people to live to 800. I don’t think there is an upper limit to the life of any organism.” ”

Of course I believed the story of Shou Lao, and at six years old asked myself how many more years I’d choose, if that peach on the dresser was not just ceramic. I’d say my answers have changed a lot throughout life, but now I’d definitely answer: as long as possible.

That’s not just because I believe in reincarnation, and want to delay my return to embarrassing teenage haircuts as long as I can. It’s because I’ve found what I’m looking for in life, I’m happy, and I want to hold onto that as long as I can. Believing in re-incarnation means believing in immortality at the soul’s level, but along with a new birth comes a new state of amnesia, and we are challenged with finding our long-lost happiness again.

On immortality, my spiritual teacher Sri Chinmoy says:

“In the world of consciousness each individual is immortal. An individual identifies himself either with the soul or with the body. If he identifies himself with the body, which is far from perfection, then naturally he feels he cannot live forever. But if he identifies himself with the soul, then he knows that he is immortal. The body will die, but when it is a matter of consciousness—which every man has and which he inwardly is—man is eternal, man is immortal.”
—Sri Chinmoy: How Can Man Live Forever

He goes on to say that age can be a matter of mental perception rather than just a physical inevitability:

“If the mind is used, then you are finished. When you are ten years old, the mind will make you feel that you are as old as ninety years! Only think that at this particular stage of life you are supposed to do something. Then after ten or fifteen years you are supposed to do something else. Continuously a new game is starting, a new part you have to play. Each time you are given a new role, you have to play it well. When you become a huge tree, at that time more responsibility comes. A tree has to give so much, so much. Under the tree at first only one pilgrim can stay. Later many individuals can come and stay. Finally, the tree has to feel the responsibility of giving shade, protection and shelter to all. The higher you go, the more shelter, protection and illumination you have to give to others. In terms of human age, you may be only sixty or seventy, but in terms of divine light and divine wisdom you will become hundreds and hundreds of years old.”
—Sri Chinmoy: Sri Chinmoy Answers 21

Maybe Shou Lao’s happiness is part of his secret then, and not the peach alone. Sri Chinmoy’s life of happiness and meditation allowed him to continue transcending his own astonishing achievements in weightlifting well into his eighth decade, until his passing last year at the age of 76:

“I am trying to inspire people who are not praying and meditating. I am telling them that everybody has a vital, everybody has a mind everybody has a heart, everybody has a soul. But they are not utilising these members of their inner family the way I do. Otherwise, if I had to depend entirely on the physical, I could do next to nothing. My biceps are not even 14 inches, whereas the biceps of other weightlifters are 21 or 22 inches. My calves are not even 13 1/2 inches, and theirs are 20 inches. Their muscles are gigantic compared to mine. I can lift as much as I do because I am taking help from the strength within me.”
—Sri Chinmoy on SriChinmoy.tv

In 2003 Sri Chinmoy met Fauja Singh, the UK’s sporting legend who rediscovered running age 81, completing marathons and competing for world records well into his nineties. In 2004 Singh signed a major advertising deal with Adidas called “Impossible is Nothing”.

So forget about retirement, if you want to live long and prosper, look busy. Take Shigechiyo Izumi as another example:

“As well as holding the title of the oldest man to have lived, Izumi, from the Japanese island of Tokunoshima, holds the record for the longest career. A farmer, he worked from childhood until the age of 105, in a career that spanned 98 years. In spite of a weakness for sho-chu (a barley whisky) and taking up smoking at 70, he lived to 120. He died in 1986.”
(Source: The Independent)

I will end with a quote for my teacher Sri Chinmoy, whose outer loss from the world is still great for those who had the joy of knowing him, although his example of self-transcendence will live on:

“Unable are the loved to die for love is immortality”
—Emily Dickinson

FURTHER READING:

• Tribute to Sri Chinmoy
• The Oldest People in the World

This is a short play I wrote, based on a story by Sri Chinmoy, called The Seeker-Writer. It’s a humorous story with a spiritual lesson behind it. Hope you enjoy it!

[Enter Writer]

Narrator:
Once there was a seeker who’d developed much sincerity.
By writing books he’d also gained considerable prosperity.
His first book was a comprehensive study of zoology,
His second was a very famous tome on anthropology,
His third one was his favourite: it was autobiographical,
His fourth was his most lofty, and was largely theosophical.
Animals, humans, self and God: each subject he’d applauded.
So by the greatest in each realm he hoped to be rewarded.

Writer:
Each book that I have written, let me go and read aloud
to the best in each field. They will certainly be proud!
The first one I will offer to the king of beasts: the lion,
The second to my country’s king: the highest human scion.
The third unto the highest in myself I shall address,
The last to God: my loftiest is certain to impress!

[Exits, and re-enters a forest scene. Enter lion.]

Writer:
Lion, lion, your life-force and power all admire!
Your mane so rich, your eyes so deep and wise yet full of fire!
Your poise, your grace, your speed and all deportment so majestic!
Your paws so lithe, your teeth so bright, your pouncing so elastic!
You are noble, for you only kill when you are hungry.

[Lion roars]

Writer:
Ah! and so it’s written, only roar when you are angry!
How dare you roar at me you rude and most ungrateful beast?
I sing your praise, and what? You want to make of me a feast?

[Exeunt]

[Enter Writer and King]

Writer:
Majesty! Your royal highest height of human highness!
This fine work of prose I bring to you, despite my shyness.
In it I explore the farthest reaches of humanity,
And in you I see the heights of goodness, grace and sanity,
So to you I offer my research on human nature.
Your kindness and compassion bathe this continent in rapture!
Faith and certitude arise in everyone you meet!
Bravery and wisdom just two puppies at your feet!
Blessèd are your people since your pure and noble birth:
In you we see the representative of God on earth.

King:
Thank you.

[Exit King]

Writer:
‘Thank you’? ‘Thank you’? Well my ears must need a clean.
How could it be that one so fine and noble speaks so mean!
I offer my own heart in words, all praise and admiration.
Is ‘Thank you’ all he has to say for such appreciation?
So for nought this life is spent in wordy adoration.
What can a humble writer do, when doomed by his vocation,
but weep into the night and seek the solace of his soul.

[Enter soul]

Yes! Let me read my third book, it is sure to reach its goal!
This, my favourite work of prose is all about myself,
How can I sit and let it gather dust upon a shelf?
Soul, my soul you are the brightest, dearest of possessions,
The purest and the best in me, imparter of great lessons,
To your beauty, this my earthly body is no parallel
You are the fastest whitest horse upon my life’s carousel!

[Soul smiles]

Fifteen minutes solid, soul, I have admired and praised,
And all you do is smile? Now I really am amazed.
Of all the aspects of myself I thought you were the best,
But you are much more mean and more ungrateful than rest!

[Soul stops smiling. Exit Soul]

But wait, my finest literary work I shall reveal!
If not beast or man or soul, then God will surely feel
The meaning of my words; their depth and clarity.
If no-one else, then God will see my brilliance and rarity.

[Enter God]

God, I stand before You now in grateful, warm elation
Reflecting in amazement at Your vast and grand creation
Upon your little Finger-Tip the planets make their dance.
Your Grace is in the eye of Time, of Mystery and Chance.
Throughout the universe Your fond Compassion reigns supreme.
I am glowing with delight to play my part inside Your Dream!

God:
It is all right.

[Exit God]

Writer:
‘All right‘? ‘All right’ only? No! Alas!
My finest and most lofty work waved off like so much gas?
How could God Himself be so devoid of love and gratitude?
To think I hoped to be like him! Well I don’t like His attitude!
I hoped at least my Heavenly Father could say something nice,
But in Him instead I found a heart as hard as ice.
I found only disappointment in so-called superiors,
Let me teach them something! I’ll visit their inferiors!
The tiger stands in second place for bravery and might.
I’ll choose my words to cunningly assure him of his height.

[Exits, and re-enters a forest scene. Enter tiger.]

Tiger, tiger burning bright! Your markings are the oddest,
But in the forest hierarchy, surely you’re too modest!
With your deft skills and courage all lions you’d defeat!
Such claws! such teeth! You’d mangle any hero into meat!
Lions are just pansies, all strutting, pompous fluff!
All they really do is roar to make themselves look tough!

Tiger:
Yes. Yes! Thank you little human! Now I see!
I’m Top Cat, I’m all that, it’s all about me!

[Writer nods]

[Tiger struts around, then finds a gold ring on the ground and carries it in his mouth]

Tiger:
What’s this? Let’s see, is it something nice to eat?
Yeuch, it’s made of gold! What use is anything but meat?

[Drops the ring by the Writer, and exits]

Writer:
O! Such a fine, expensive, jewelled, golden ring!
Such gratitude the tiger has to give me such a thing!
At last someone has felt my love, my efforts were worthwhile!
So much more one ring is worth than just one measly smile!
With pride and joy abundant now I’ll carry on my quest!
One realm adores me, now I’ll seek the praises of the rest.
If the tiger loves, then let the dumb lion abhor me.
If not the king, then let his minister adore me.

[Exits, and re-enters a palace scene. Enter minister.]

Minister, do you see you are much greater than the king?
Your humility is greatness, I am not just flattering!
Your selfless life in service to your country will pay off,
Every pauper, every lord to you their cap will doff.
With your virtues, wait and see, in time you’ll take the throne;
All the riches of this realm are sure to be your own!
You do all the work, and still the king gets all the glory,
But wait and see, in time it’s sure to be a different story.

[Minister looks around, gives Writer a big bag of money, then exits.]

A thousand rupees! I was right, and here’s the proof!
The so-called highest do not know and do not care for truth.
Those below them really see the wisdom of my mind.
In spiritual height I see they leave superiors behind.

[Enter Heart]

Heart, my heart, you are so nice, to everyone so kind.
They say the soul’s the highest, strongest, deepest, most refined,
But where is that fickle rogue? You’re here for all to see.
Your love so steady offers shelter like a generous tree.
Even doctors know you, and I feel you with each breath.
When you stop, I cannot live, and follow you to death.

[Heart starts to cry]

Heart:
Never! No! Words like that come only from a fool.
Have you not learned the ABCs yet at your inner school?
How can I ever match the divine beauty of the soul?
I am simple as a child, and earthly is my role,
I am honoured all my earthly life the soul to serve,
And praise for higher virtues I never shall deserve.

[Exit heart, crying]

Writer:
In passing on my lavish praise the heart was o so hasty
And to my soul, ungrateful, undivine and o so nasty!
How my heart is melting at my own sweet heart’s humility.
The heart’s the greatest part of me, the source of all nobility.

[Exits, and re-enters a Heavenly scene with a flower. Enter a cosmic god.]

Writer:
Cosmic god, I come to offer you all my devotion;
I found that God is empty of all Fatherly emotion.
I spent my life in serving Him with each breath of mine.
‘It is all right,’ He said! How very cold and undivine!
God does nothing well! I made of Him a lovely fuss,
And did He even thank me? How can the world be thus?
‘All wrong,’ I say. My praise was lofty and immense!
I think He has grown old, and is no longer speaking sense.
Your beauty and your wisdom are remarkably superior.
You need not be suspicious that my motives are ulterior;
I see in you the future God, and offer my obeisance.
I bow to you. In you I hail divinity’s renaissance.
I place the flower at your feet which God did not deserve.
In my undying service, I shall love without reserve.

Cosmic God:
Idiot! Get out with your foul words to the Supreme!
I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when He lets off steam!
How can you appreciate the Love He has for all
With such a craven attitude and with a mind so small?
How dare you place a flower at my far inferior feet?
As wasteful and ridiculous as pearls cast in the street!

[Enter God. Cosmic god places flower at God's Feet]

Supreme, I bow to Thee, to Thee, Supreme I bow and bow.

[Exit God and Cosmic god]

Writer:
Respect is due, I say again, if not before then now!
All of my devotion for himself he could have kept,
But he gave it all to God, I swear I could have wept!
Now I know for certain that the highest are inferior,
And that the so-called greatest are in no way superior!
In so many ways I put my theory to the test
And now I think it’s time for me to take a well-earned rest.

[Lies dow to sleep. Enter Saint]

Writer:
Is it a dream? Are you a saint or do my eyes deceive me?

Saint:
A vision and a saint I am, I hoped you would receive me.
You’re a fool. Your silly theories only tricked your mind.
You tried to seek the highest, but you left the truth behind.
God sent me to you, and with some exasperation.
When the lion roared it was with joy and inspiration!
Your love brought him new courage so he spoke his mighty thunder.
It was his way of thanking you, and showing you he’d heard.
What did you think, he’d dance a jig? Or twitter like a bird?
What of the king? You think he likes verbose appreciation?
He thanked you, and you felt such vehement indignation?
He hears praise from many who are greater, more refined,
Less long-winded than you are. To thank you was most kind!
You were lucky that he let you ramble on at will.
From him a nod is praise indeed. A ‘Thank you’, greater still!
And from your soul you think a smile is such a common thing?
Did you hope to see it jump for joy or start to sing?
Your soul is God on earth, and its smile is His Divinity!
To know that you have pleased your soul is to receive Infinity!
Talking of God, there is one more thing I have to say.
‘It is all right’ means that you are right in every way!
God told you to your face your words were all perfection.
You became disgusted, but you missed His true Inflection!
For God to give such praise means all your words are ratified!
Much more than you deserved, but still you were dissatisfied!
Only a fool would choose self-pity over glory.
Your call, your life, your progress, end of story.
The highest are the highest, but those who won’t believe
Are missing out on blessings they could easily receive.
If we are earnest, pure in faith, and true unto the soul
We may let the greatest lead us to the highest Goal.

—The End—

• You can read the original story by Sri Chinmoy at SriChinmoyLibrary.com
• Other rhyming plays plays by Sumangali at SriChinmoyCentre.org:
  • Krishna’s Supreme Love
  • Music and Religion
  • Satyavama’s Perfect Husband
  • The Pilgrimage to Santiago

I’d put off visiting Scotland for over a year, even though York is inexcusably close, and even though a very kind open invitation stood since I moved north from Wales. That’s the trouble with open invitations, and things that are close: they hover just below the top of the list of things one may do, pipped to the post by others with deadlines and narrower windows of opportunity.

Through the dinge of a train window, hedges sprawled in intricate skeletal black, bothered only by crows. The sky of England sat thick and woolly, like something you’d find in an old ottoman. I entered then not just another country and culture; the hedge, the sky, the crows were identical, but carried the sense of an entirely different soul.

Arthur’s Seat, a questioning hook-nose of a mountain, reared out of flat browns and greys. A manmade mountain reached beneath: dark blocks of stone just discernible as ancient dwellings. “EDINBURGH: Inspiring Capital”, sped past on a building sign. Indeed, thought I, just then basking in its strange and powerful beauty. The train seemed to pull in to a work of fiction.

I gaped a good while in admiration at a church, the shape a child would draw for a space ship—aimed for Heaven rather than the Moon, presumably—black as a crow, in curled stone, seemingly too delicate to stand for long, yet as old as if it had grown up there as a brother to Arthur’s Seat.

I arrived, upon a short walk, at the “Old Town”. There, my Scottish friend told me, they built so many layers on top of each other because the surrounding land was swamp. It looks just so, as if they needed to be strong enough to hold fast to each other over centuries, lest they fall in, each wall a fortress of blank dark grey and turrets, up and up and up. Here and there tall alleys, or “closes” form chinks in the Royal Mile; chinks of strange blackness rather than light, climbing beguiling pathways, each with a curious historical tale. Despite the cold air, darkening sky, blackened churches, grey terraces, and obscure alleys, there is nothing of the bleak or eery about the city. Contrarily, its strength lends an inner warmth; a motherly sense of safety and familiarity.

A reformed coffee addict, I struggle a good deal this time of year when Starbucks roll out their Gingerbread Latte. I don’t care who knows it: call me shallow, call me a marketing sheep, my heart glows at the sight of that round green logo, and I look longingly in, or go in just to drink tea. I know I could do that anywhere—anywhere in the world—but strangely, a high stool by a Starbucks window is one of my favourite places for sightseeing. There in a street of kilt tailors, haggis mongers and cashmere shawls, I could fully absorb the details and subtleties of my new environment.

I had an appointment with two friends and colleagues to talk over some business before an evening meditation at the Sri Chinmoy Centre. “Meet us by Greyfriar’s Bobby.” they said, “If you get lost, anyone can tell you where he is.” I didn’t get lost, so there we stood: me and a bronze statue of a Skye terrier, on the corner of Candlemaker Row. I had to stand a little way off in fact, as he is quite the bigshot and often has his photograph taken. “Let’s go to Starbucks,” said my friends when they arrived, “it’s just around the corner.” I smiled, and once again narrowly triumphed over the guile of ginger coffee.

I was invited to help make a mandala, part of a double birthday celebration at the Meditation Centre that night. I was in my own Heaven with such simple yet detailed occupation, thrilling at the shades of colour the rice turns when dyed and drained, coaxing it into fine shapes on a printed template. I was amazed and touched by the splendour my friends created between them, under the auspices of “birthday cakes,” more a matching pair of edible temples. They told me of past visual extravaganzas for other birthdays, effusions of heartfelt creativity and childlike joy.

Birthdays are always given a lot of significance in the Sri Chinmoy Centre; Sri Chinmoy says that on a birthday, the soul remembers and renews its promise to God; the promise it made in Heaven for this lifetime. It is therefore a day of soulful meditation, of gratitude, and of divine happiness.

“Each birthday is a petal of a flower. The flower, petal by petal, blossoms and then it is ready to be placed at the inner shrine in the aspiring heart.”
—Sri Chinmoy, Reality-Dream

I love to visit different Sri Chinmoy Centres around the world, as there is always something new and inspiring to be enjoyed in each place, even though we all share the same spiritual path.

As we came back out into the cold, the famous terrier caught my eye again. I asked my host why this little dog was honoured so in bronze. She enthused a long while and promised to lend me a book when we got home.

I unwrapped the bundle of flowers I’d brought for her, and her housemate passed me a random vase to put them in. “I know this vase.” I thought, then checked myself, certain I must be confused. “No, I know this vase.” The pink ribbon around its neck was faded almost to white, but I knew the shape of it in my hand.

2003 was the last time I’d been in Edinburgh—Sri Chinmoy happened to be there on my birthday. I’d dragged a dear long-suffering friend around all the flower shops in the city for the whole day to find the “right” vase of flowers to give to my Guru. Finally I found a plump handful of freesias and gerberas in shades of light pink, and a simple bulb vase. It did not look special to anyone else, but to me it was potentially perfect. In a hotel lobby I proceeded to take at least half of the stems away—the imperfect and overly fussy—to leave a very zen clutch of sprigs. I trimmed them further and moved them about for another half hour, defying anyone who came within a metre of my craft, and bearing the brunt of a little friendly teasing. It was not so much the result I sought, but more the route: the intensity of a working meditation, the striving for Heavenly perfection through a limited earthly medium.

In the evening Sri Chinmoy called for me, meditated with me for a few moments, then passed me a gerbera from the vase. It was more profound and significant than I can express. All that came tumbling back as I placed flowers in the same vase at my friend’s apartment, now four years later, this time white tulips and freesias.

It seemed much longer than twenty-four hours later that I stepped back on the train; I suppose I had gained much more than twenty-four hours’ worth of happiness and inspiration. I opened the little paperback with a Skye terrier peering from the cover, fiesty yet wistful.

Bobby belonged to a lowly shepherd named John Gray. Such was the dog’s devotion, he lay on his master’s grave in Greyfriar’s Churchyard from the day the shepherd died in 1858. For fourteen years, until his own death, Bobby guarded his master, leaving only once a day to eat. Gaining the status of “stray” rather than “saint”, or even “orphan,” merely due to his species, Bobby faced extermination by the authorities, or at least expulsion from his post: dogs were not allowed in graveyards, and dogs were not allowed to live at all without a license. His devotion won the hearts of the local children, who saved up their pennies in a big bag to buy a license between them. His exceptional manners earned him access to the grave, further defying human regulations.

The tale itself is no doubt greatly romanticised by its author, Eleanor Atkinson, but any historical inaccuracy is surely only in the finer details; the devotion and loyalty of dogs has the power to melt the hearts of our much more sophisticated species. Are we really so evolved? Perhaps, but perhaps we still have much to learn from our little canine brothers.

“Very, very early a dog learns that life is not as simple a matter to his master as it is to himself. There are times when he reads trouble, that he cannot help or understand, in the man’s eye and voice. Then he can only look his love and loyalty, wistfully, as if he felt his own shortcoming in the matter of speech. And if the trouble is so great that the master forgets to eat his dinner; forgets, also, the needs of his faithful little friend, it is the dog’s dear privilege to bear neglect and hunger without complaint. Therefore, when Auld Jock lay down again and sank, almost at once, into sodden sleep, Bobby snuggled in the hollow of his master’s arm and nuzzled his nose in his master’s neck.”
—Eleanor Atkinson, Greyfriars Bobby

More on a love of dogs at Sri Chinmoy Centre:
Inspirational Dogs, by Sumangali
Puppy Powers, by Sumangali
Return To Puppy Powers, by John Gillespie
Puppy Powers Revisited, by Jogyata Dallas
Savernake, a poem by Sumangali
The Guide Dog and Her Man, a poem by Sumangali