Checking for Email

Where do they go, children? All of a sudden they disappear. Adults who look something like them, call me Mother. Who are they? What do they eat for breakfast? Who combs their hair? Where was I when they disappeared? When was that? My babies have all been snatched away by time, the when, the then, and the now... ever moving, ever perfectly still. As as I turn the pages, the photos stuck on by the years, edges yellow, their silly grins, tender faces, birthdays, beach days, babes at my breast... they all blend together in a swirling dance, tapping against the walls of my heart with small cries of "Mama, we love you.."

Two days ago, there was a whole package of Dark Chocolate Chunk and Almond Cookies in the cabinet above my fridge.

Well,  they're gone now. So... what?

Everything is perfect. These days, seeing the world in such political, social, and environmental chaos, that is all I can come to. Everyone in my life is in my life because they have something to teach me, I have something to teach them, we have a lesson to learn, a karma to burn, whatever; it's perfect.

I've come to realize when I look back on the journey of my life, even the most painful of times, I can see how every choice I made, every relationship, every place, every, every thing… was absolutely perfect. Everything behind me has created and contributed to who I am this moment. And that leads me to believe that this moment, and every moment to come, is also perfect, whether or not I can see that perfection.

I was listening to NPR a few weeks ago and there was a piece on about an indigenous culture that lived until recently completely isolated from all other "civilization." These people have no word for time in their language. No word for "when". No word for "yesterday, today, tomorrow…" They have no concept of time at all (which is uniquely a human perception). They speak of what is behind them and what is in front of them. You might think that is a perception of time, leaving the past behind and seeing what is yet to come as in front of them. But this is not their perception at all. What is behind them is what they cannot see, it is the unknown. What is in front of them is what they can see, the known. So when they speak of what they know it is "in front" of them. And the unknown is behind. They don't think of it as past and future, but simply as known and unknown, in a constant state of the "present". The perfect present.

Thinking about the perfection of life… the coincidental meeting of another that proves transformational…. The traffic delay, because of which, I run into an old friend at Trader Joes just as I am leaving. The loss that plunged me so deeply into my own darkness that I emerged gulping deep breaths of light and life…. So many things. Thinking of these countless instances, relationships, events, circumstances…. I realize that it is ALL perfect. We are ALL here for each other. Direct and indirect relationships with others, with animals, plants, creaky doors that are hard to open, the car that won't start and tests our patience, our communities and everyone who lives in them… We are all here for each other. Our cities, our countries, this planet… We are all here to teach each other. To reflect each other. To shine light on one another. To learn how to love ourselves, to seek peace, to resolve conflict, to gain wisdom, to learn how to love others unconditionally, to serve, to rise above, to love, to go home. We are all here together, for each other, in all of our diversity, our perceived goods and bads. The gangbangers, the evangelicals, terrorists, the politicians, teachers, yogis, atheists, bigots and beggars. All these souls we label so many ways. They are all here to teach me. And you. We are all here together.

Relationships are really what comprise the life experience. Our relationships with everything and every one, with the seen and the unseen, the choices we make because of them, how we learn from them, grow, know, and share with others.

This is what lies in front of me.  I seek what lies behind.

I remember the bright eyes, wide smile and huge heart of Babaji. Born Jorge Osorio, he had come to L.A. from Mexico to be with Yogjji in late 1971. I didn't know what the journey of his life had been that brought him here. He was a great guy, always ready with a smile, fun to be with, and quick with words of wisdom. Being with him always opened my heart. His smile always made me smile. I only can remember ever being happy to see him. Simply, I have always, automatically, loved Babaji.

We were a sort of band of yogis, Jorge, my husband Danny, James Stewart, Mark Lamm, Joshua, and others whose names I can no longer recall. He lived in Los Angeles not more than one or two years. He went back to Mexico, and returned for Summer Solstice in 1973 with Bhagwati Kaur who became his bride there. In those very first years, until mid 1974, when I served in Yogiji's household, I would get word of him through Yogji's secretaries, including the latest news about his teaching yoga in Mexico City, his business ventures, and work with other teachers. During this time he was still known only as Jorge.

One of the ways I sometimes served in Yogiji's household was to help with sorting his personal mail. One day, I think in early 1974, Yogiji received a letter from Jorge. This was a letter in which he was much tormented about an issue regarding his spiritual name.

I was raised in Yogjiji's household to completely honor and hold confidential all communication that came to him through personal letters and so on. I was deeply affected by how openly many people brought to Yogji exceptionally personal matters of great difficulty or embarrassment, seeking his guidance. There are very, very few of these letters that I remember any of the content at all, and only one that I remember both the content and the author.

It was this letter. So, because of the trust I must hold, I cannot tell you what this letter said, although I remember his words so well! It was a trust between the student and his teacher. I can tell you though, that from that day forward Jorge was Babaji, and that Yogji proclaimed this so with great love, humor, and appreciation of his soul.

Over the years, through the eighties, I would see Babaji only occasionally. He came back to L.A. to live for a short while, I think in the late 70s. Perhaps this was for cancer treatment or business, I am not certain. He would come off and on over the years to see the Siri Singh Sahib, or perhaps to work on some business deal. I never really knew. One or two times he and Bhagwati stayed at my home for Baisakhi. Even so, our early friendship did not endure. Our chance meetings would consist of big hugs, a short exchange of words, and his usual radiant smile, even when he was clearly in difficulty. I was uncomfortable with the fact that he had cancer. I didn't know how to talk to someone I cared about, or anyone for that matter, who I thought might be dying. I was so ignorant! This was my loss.

When I heard that this time, now, Babaji was really in his last days, that the cancer he has fought with all his spirit in so many forms for so many years was overtaking his physical body at last, my immediate gut response was that I must go to him. I must be with him. In practical terms, it was a trip I could ill afford. But in soul terms, I could not afford to stay home. Perhaps it was more for me than for him. I only knew I felt the call to go.

This was just two weeks ago. Sat Simran had booked a flight for early the next morning, and I joined her on the 3-1/2 hour trip. Arriving in Mexico City, we went straight to the ashram where he, his wife Guru Amrit, and ten or so devoted young Sikh-yoga students lived. Guru Amrit led us upstairs into their softly sunlit bedroom, exquisitely decorated and filled with life and color. There he was, resting on a bed rich with bright quilts and pillows; he thin and weak, yet radiant as ever.

He was as surprised to see me as I was surprised to be there. Instantly, again, I felt the familiar flood of love, my heart opening upon seeing him. All I could say at first was, "Babaji, you are so beautiful. You are so beautiful." I was embarrassed by my own tears. I had wanted to present a happy face and here I was holding back tears. But they were from simple love. We sat and talked. Sat Simran and he had much to share. I actually felt a little awkward and uncertain why I was there. More family and friends, people who had known and been close to him for many years, who knew him and were part of his life, arrived to see him and to attend an event that night honoring him. It was going to be in the yoga room, with all the yoga students and Kundalini Yoga teachers from the area (and even Gian Kaur from Guadalajara) there to honor him, share stories, chant and pray. Lying in bed, unable to walk, and barely able to lift an arm, Babaji said he was not up to being carried down and attending..

He was angry that his death was so imminent, that he had been given only three years with his beloved Guru Amrit Kaur and that others did not treat her with the respect he knew she merited. He spoke with passion about the beauty, grace and integrity of Guru Amrit Kaur. She served him, always with a smile, gracious to every guest, drawing upon such a formidable inner strength… occasionally breaking into tears, keeping firm in her love and faith.

He talked about the years he spent translating the Siri Guru Granth Sahib into Spanish, and during his "dark years" in the 90s, how many days the only thing that kept him going was the time he spent on this great work. He had just completed the translation, and Guru Amrit was having a local printer do a rush job of printing one copy in time for the event that night. She brought us the galleys, exquisitely done, a full bir, with Gurmukhi, Spanish translation, and the Spanish transliteration of the Gurmukhi. Seeing this, I knew he was done. He was complete, and the only thing remaining for him was to free himself of the anger he clung to, as if doing so would keep him alive.

I had brought an old album of photos from 1972 and 1973 Summer Solstices. There were five or six photos of Babaji that Guru Amrit and all the others were delighted to see. As it turns out, none of them had ever seen a picture of him as a robust young man. The photos were passed around the room and again shared with everyone who came for the event later that evening.

Close to a hundred people arrived to love and honor Babaji. We chanted to Guru Ram Das, and then many shared lively stories about him. I am certain they were wonderful stories told by great storytellers, for everyone in the rooms was laughing with their hearts wide open, including me, even though I could not understand a word. So much love in that beautiful yoga room! And not a single sad face. We ended with the Ra Ma Da Sa Sa Se So Hung meditation and then shared in an abundant meal.

Early the next morning Babaji left for the hospital, carried lovingly to the car by two of the young men from the ashram. The hope was that they could do an operation to remove a blockage in his colon that prevented him from eating anything at all. The concern was that he was so frail and weak that he would not survive the surgery. Babaji said, "I will die without it, won't I? So they must do it."

Sat Simran and I left for L.A. a few hours later, having spent barely 24 hours in Mexico City. We learned within a few days that Babaji had been on an IV for nutrition and that they were able to complete the surgery. He had a colostomy and could now eat food; he was thriving. Guru Amrit spoke to Sat Simran with this news and was exhilarated.

Within another week we received the news that his condition had gone downhill again, his lungs were filling, his kidneys failing, he needed dialysis everyday, and the doctors felt there was nothing more they could do for him. He had returned home to complete his last days. My heart went out to both of them, especially Guru Amrit, for the roller coaster of emotions she had no choice but to ride.

Yesterday, in typical Babaji style, he was still with us, determined to live, yet knowing he was soon to begin his next journey.

Today, he is gone.

I am grateful I had the opportunity to sit with him one more time. To see his fighting and beautiful spirit has not been diminished in any way by the extraordinary difficulties he has endured over the last 35 years. In fact, the light of his soul, joined in pure love with the light of his graceful and devoted wife, Guru Amrit Kaur, was immensely magnified.

You are so beautiful Babaji. I have been enormously blessed to have you touch my life and my heart. Know that you are loved.

One journey done

and another begun

the road you've walked

the years you've lived

are as a dream, far away;

moving toward the empyrean

with verdant paths aborning.

-- Siri Ved Kaur

I walk out from my office, up Bedford Drive to Santa Monica Blvd. Thought I'd get some gazpacho at Le Pain. Thinking to enjoy the few minutes I'll actually spend outdoors today, I inhale deeply, taking in the sunshine, the sacred breath, and  hint of  breeze rushing by. It's the heart of Beverly Hills, where nothing is too superficial, but still I expect to breathe in some real air, feel some real sun, and get some organic soup. So, I take that deep breath and my lungs and senses are overwhelmed with the sticky stench of old urine.

It's probably that homeless guy who sits by the sushi place.

But he's not there.

Surprised, I realize the odor is emanating from the gentleman (whom I almost called elderly, except he probably isn't more than 10 years older than me and the 60s are looking younger to me everyday) who just stepped out from the card shop and is walking in front of me.

He is well dressed, looks fit, probably works out or takes brisk walks, gray hair nicely groomed. Maybe he is even humming a tune. He looks Beverly Hills normal and he stinks like an outhouse needing the honey truck to come.

And this sets me off on an entirely different track of thought than gazpacho with a couple hunks of warm baguette bread.

He probably wears Depends; you know, adult diapers. Thousands, maybe millions do, who have leaky bladders, some level of incontinence, or whatever. I know I cross my legs more tightly now, when I sneeze or cough. He's probably been wearing them a long time. I remember my dad and in his last years he wore diapers, and in the end suffered the indignity of others having to change them for him. He smelled.

I think people who wear diapers, at first, they are embarrassed by it. At first they probably change every time they get a little wet. Even though, like baby diapers, Depends are probably made so that you don't really feel the wetness, when someone first starts using them, they probably are pretty fanatic about changing.  But also probably, changing the diapers so frequently, since there is little or no control of urine flow, becomes a chore, and becomes quite expensive for someone on a fixed income, and I've never seen an elderly person carrying around a diaper bag. Where would they keep extras? Having to change every time you laughed, sneezed, leaked..... So I think they don't change so often after a very little while, and I think they get used to the smell. After a while, the smell simply becomes familiar, and we all know how the familiar, even the painful or unpleasant familiar, becomes comfortable. It is so much easier to learn to get by with these unpleasantries, to dull our selves to them, and even be at a sort of ease with them.

Maybe some people even grow to like the smell a little bit.

No one likes to admit, but I'll bet we all have attachments to the scents or odors our bodies produce. I'll bet that you, if you are very honest with yourself, would acknowledge that you actually like the smell of your own flatulence. Specifically, it must be your own gas. If someone else farts, I don't think it is ever pleasant or something anyone else would get some strange pleasure from. Anyway, stir that around in your brain for a minute, honestly.

Back to the old guy with the bad smell.

If he had been the homeless guy who sometimes hangs out by the sushi place, would my thoughts have gone off this way? No. I would have exhaled quickly and powerfully, and withheld my breath  until I was "safely" past the danger zone of getting another whiff. And forgotten about it. It's like walking past a dumpster with a week's worth of rotting garbage. Exhale, hold breath out, walk fast, inhale when safe. Done.

Thursday, June 01, 2006

It was really pretty basic math and the answer was that the medical insurance for my family is costing like $700 a month, and that's after my employer's contribution. I crunched some more numbers, literally, and then tossed the whole wad into the trash.

So, thats enough to get me somewhat depressed. Paying all this for what? For insurance that really is just based on fear. The entire healthcare/pharmaceutical/insurance system is based on fear; thats what keeps it running and the pocket books of the CEOs well stuffed. The fear of what if. The fear of getting ill and hospitalized and of losing everything and ending up homeless and never ever being able to retire.

And I want to do something meaningful. I'm tired. Any energy I spend, at this point, I want it to be worthwhile, to a good purpose, and I don't feel really that now it is, except the purpose of paying rent, paying for insurance, and paying down the insurmountable hill of debt that, just when it seems to be finally getting whittled down, erupts out of control again.

I feel like an observer of all this, not really able to do anything about it.

And time is hurling by in such a surreal stream, I have surrendered to it. I am floating in time and the weeks go by now and I just watch them go by like looking forlornly out a train window and waiting for the next stop. The next stop is usually Thursday. It is on Thursday that I inevitably think, O my God! Its Thursday again! And I blink my eyes and its Thursday even again!  So, as I have just said (or was that last Thursday?) I have surrendered and now the time is just going and I can't care, there is no time to care, for everything is whirling by and if I linger in caring, I will plunge into the wave, like a surfer on self-destruct. It's like, playing the piano, if I linger on any thought, I get out of the flow and make a mistake. But just going with the piece, merging in the music, it is just a flow. I have yet to get through any piece without at least one error.

It's the lingering. The wondering what if. The comparing this to that, me to you, now to then and what could have been or should have been. Yanks me right out of the rushing stream and into a whirling pool, sucking me downnnn.

The things that are calling to me, saying, "Write about me!!! I'm a good story!" are really all major lingerings that have served to make me majorly depressed, or angry, or frustrated. And as I've said, just because I remember something doesn't mean I have to write about it. So much is better, really, honestly and truly, if not said, if not read. Words are eternal.

Is this another midlife crisis? I thought that was done. But here I am, looking on my life and seeing where I am is not where I expected to be. Realizing more of my potential, all that I could be and do, and I am sucked back with a sense of lateness. Of not enough time. Time is whirling by, and every span of this surreal time that flashes past makes it more too late.

This life sometimes I feel is nearly done. Not that I am dying or want to die. But that I feel like I am hurling toward a point, coming sooner rather than later, when it will be over, the last light will flicker in these eyes, the last gasp of breath will come, and that perhaps the reason why I am not doing all the magnificent things I beat myself up for not doing, is because I am nearly done. I dont know. This is what it is like to be depressed. For me, these days, anyway.