Emotional turbulence is a major obstacle to the accomplishment of our goals. We thrive when are having a joyful and prouctive period. These stretches can be followed by several weeks of lethargy and doubt. This lull in the ride of life is a major sidelines many.
The key is to look past emotion. We come into this world equipped with tools to negotiate our surroundings. The mind and emotions are nothing but assets for the purpose of assisting our soul's growth.
We are not our mind; we are not our emotions. The choruses of "I am depressed," and "I am unstable" echo in our post-modern landscape. The arm is a tool. If your arm is broken, would you refer to yourself as broken?
We are so out of control that we permit the wild flailings of our mind and emotions. Imagine if your arm had a tendency to smack people. Rather than helplessly giving in to the arm, you would bring it under control.
This ontological identification with the mind and emotion is what the householder yogi seeks to snap. We seek to harness the power of the mind and emotion, to realize them for the tools that they are.
The warrior seeks to control his reaction to what the world throws at him. Bringing the mind and emotions under his or her control is the first step.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Gangland Bust in Venice
The LA Times ran a story this morning on a massive raid on the Shoreline Crips gang in Venice Beach. http://www.latimes.com/news/local/crime/la-me-venice20feb20,0,4692262.story 300 LAPD, Feds, and state officials swept through the area, arresting 19 people and seizing weapons.
The area of Venice is Oakwood, or Ghost Town. It is bounded to the north by Rose, the south by California, the east by Lincoln, and the west by Abbot Kinney. "The slum by the sea" was once hostile gang territory with a demographic almost entirely made up by blacks and hispanics.
A massive gentrification has taken place in the past fifteen years. With Santa Monica becoming thoroughly bourgeois, edgier West siders moved south. Oakwood has been the last area to not thoroughly succumb to hip million dollar homes and boutiques. Dilapidated, chipped paint shacks share the block with cube shaped homes concealed with bamboo and stylized fences.
Oakwood park is the epicenter of Ghost Town. Several old timers drink malt liquor on the benchs in the north end of the park as beautiful 20 somethings participate in their kickball league. At the corner a handful of drug dealers peddle crack to passing cars.
LAPD said that the Shoreline Crips were controlling access to the park. This point I find dubious. I have used the park as a bike short cut many times. While the gang is a presence, they do not seem to control the park.
Perhaps this is a justification to clean up the neighborhood. There are still pockets of Venice (Broadway from 7th to 5th comes to mind) that truly resemble a slum. Blatant drug dealing is unquestionable.
Momentum is scrubbing "the slum by the sea" label off Venice.
The area of Venice is Oakwood, or Ghost Town. It is bounded to the north by Rose, the south by California, the east by Lincoln, and the west by Abbot Kinney. "The slum by the sea" was once hostile gang territory with a demographic almost entirely made up by blacks and hispanics.
A massive gentrification has taken place in the past fifteen years. With Santa Monica becoming thoroughly bourgeois, edgier West siders moved south. Oakwood has been the last area to not thoroughly succumb to hip million dollar homes and boutiques. Dilapidated, chipped paint shacks share the block with cube shaped homes concealed with bamboo and stylized fences.
Oakwood park is the epicenter of Ghost Town. Several old timers drink malt liquor on the benchs in the north end of the park as beautiful 20 somethings participate in their kickball league. At the corner a handful of drug dealers peddle crack to passing cars.
LAPD said that the Shoreline Crips were controlling access to the park. This point I find dubious. I have used the park as a bike short cut many times. While the gang is a presence, they do not seem to control the park.
Perhaps this is a justification to clean up the neighborhood. There are still pockets of Venice (Broadway from 7th to 5th comes to mind) that truly resemble a slum. Blatant drug dealing is unquestionable.
Momentum is scrubbing "the slum by the sea" label off Venice.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
So Cal Winter Wonderland
One of my main qualms with life on the east coast was winter. The outdoors become an inaccessible wasteland for six months each year. This is especially in my home state of Virginia, where the snow is not consistent enough to allow for perpetual skiing and snowball fights. Every January I found myself swimming the greyness of freezing rain and ice storms, fantasizing of greenery. March did not always bring spring. Throughout March and April I would drive along Skyline Drive looking for the arrival of leaves and the odd bear freshly out of hibernation. But they were holding out until May.
Winter in Los Angeles is having your cake and eating it too. The temperatures dip into the 40s at night, rarely dropping below 60 during the day. Rains fall to clean smog from the air and provide enough moisture to ensure against a fire season that would make the PCH a wilderness road.
If temperate winter is not your thing, there are three sets of high mountain ranges ranging from 30 minutes to 2 hours away. 10,000 foot behomeths covered in snow stand guard over LA, allowing the Mediterranean loving Angelenos the comfort of viewing winter within the comfort of their own climate.
My good friend Nirbhao and I drove out to the LA/Ventura county line two Saturdays ago for a hike along the highest point in the Santa Monica mountains, at 3,111 feet. We were in the midst of a series of storms dropping heavy precipitation on the region. The desert brown of the past few drought years had given way to grass stubble. We hiked along through chaparral thickets and sandstone canyons.
Two drastically different views flanked each side of the ridge. To the east stood a set of snow bound mountains. 11,000 foot San Jacinto stood as a sentinel 100 miles east. The nearer San Gabriels were completely blanketed down to 4,000 feet. Another thousand feet would have brought snow to the mountains that wind through LA.
To the west lay the Pacific, with Catalina and the Channel Islands erupting from the sea.
With winter a short drive away, I am quite content in the land of daytime temperatures always above 55 F, even in the January. Gone are the days of hibernation.
Winter in Los Angeles is having your cake and eating it too. The temperatures dip into the 40s at night, rarely dropping below 60 during the day. Rains fall to clean smog from the air and provide enough moisture to ensure against a fire season that would make the PCH a wilderness road.
If temperate winter is not your thing, there are three sets of high mountain ranges ranging from 30 minutes to 2 hours away. 10,000 foot behomeths covered in snow stand guard over LA, allowing the Mediterranean loving Angelenos the comfort of viewing winter within the comfort of their own climate.
My good friend Nirbhao and I drove out to the LA/Ventura county line two Saturdays ago for a hike along the highest point in the Santa Monica mountains, at 3,111 feet. We were in the midst of a series of storms dropping heavy precipitation on the region. The desert brown of the past few drought years had given way to grass stubble. We hiked along through chaparral thickets and sandstone canyons.
Two drastically different views flanked each side of the ridge. To the east stood a set of snow bound mountains. 11,000 foot San Jacinto stood as a sentinel 100 miles east. The nearer San Gabriels were completely blanketed down to 4,000 feet. Another thousand feet would have brought snow to the mountains that wind through LA.
To the west lay the Pacific, with Catalina and the Channel Islands erupting from the sea.
With winter a short drive away, I am quite content in the land of daytime temperatures always above 55 F, even in the January. Gone are the days of hibernation.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Perpetual Connection to the Universal Flow
There's not one man who gets up in the morning and feels "God, I am trust with you." Yes, you can say "thank you, God." You can say "bless me, God." You can say, "I pray to you Lord God, help me." But none of you have the guts in the morning to say "I am your God, you are mine, let us have this day together." - Yogi Bhajan
Thursday, January 10, 2008
An Industrial Agricultural Disaster
Hillary pulled an upset in New Hampshire, with a suspiciously large gap between polling and votes...
The food we eat is driven by lobbyists rather than nutrition. This is the idea that underlies the first part of Michael Pollan's brilliant work "The Omnivore's Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals." The first section discusses corn and how it has lodged itself as the primary ingredient in our food, to the detriment of our health, environment and economy.
With the advent of artificial fertilizers and other technologies in the mid-twentieth century, the yields of corn went through the roof. Acres that in the past yielded 20 bushels now approach 200 bushels. With this amazing productivity, farmers began growing primarily corn. Cattle were moved to feedlots, since it was cheaper to feed them corn as opposed to naturally grazing on grass.
With the tremendous glut of corn, prices naturally dropped. Farm lobbyists convinced the government to cover losses. In October 2005 the price of a bushel fell to $1.45. The government maintains a target price of $1.87 (though it often costs more to produce a bushel than the target price). 42 cents is paid for each bushel grown. The taxpayer spends nearly $5 billion a year covering the gap. Farmers still grow broke even with subsidies.
The world appetite for corn is nowhere near the amount produced. Farmers needed to find ways to utilize this corn. 60% goes to feeding cattle, animals whose digestive tracts contain an organ called the rumen designed to process grass. The corn is often mixed with cattle blood and fat, chicken meal, pork meal, fish meal, or chicken feces. When there is too much starch and too little roughage, the system becomes highly acidic which in turn damages the entire body. Low ball estimates indicate that 15 - 30 % of slaughtered feedlot cattle have abcessed livers.
To deal with this and the inevitable infections resulting from living in crowded conditions while standing on their own feces, farmers fill their cows with antibiotics to keep them healthy enough for human consumption. Antibiotics are given to all cattle, not just sick ones. This massive dosage is leading to many common ailments becoming resistant to antibiotics.
The corn not fed to cattle is converted into high fructose corn syrup, a substance unknown to the human body before the 1980's but now constitutes a massive part of the diet. The average American eats 66 pounds of it a year, in addition to the nearly 100 pounds of other sugars. Many processed foods are clever repackaging projects to get the consumer to eat more corn products. Hamburgers, french fries, sodas, breakfast cereals, etc... are full of corn products.
Much of the cheap corn is exported. Mayans in Mexico and Guatemala believe that God made them from corn. Growing corn in small patches plays a central role in their culture. Now they cannot compete with rock bottom prices of imported US corn.
The empire of corn is highly reliant on oil. Among other things the black gold is needed to make the pesticides, drive tractors and transport the corn. Each acre needs 50 gallons of oil. A feedlot cow needs 35 gallons before it winds up on a dinner table.
And all this information came from the first section of the book. It is a startling read, illuminating how our supposed agricultural progress is in fact destructive on many fronts.
The food we eat is driven by lobbyists rather than nutrition. This is the idea that underlies the first part of Michael Pollan's brilliant work "The Omnivore's Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals." The first section discusses corn and how it has lodged itself as the primary ingredient in our food, to the detriment of our health, environment and economy.
With the advent of artificial fertilizers and other technologies in the mid-twentieth century, the yields of corn went through the roof. Acres that in the past yielded 20 bushels now approach 200 bushels. With this amazing productivity, farmers began growing primarily corn. Cattle were moved to feedlots, since it was cheaper to feed them corn as opposed to naturally grazing on grass.
With the tremendous glut of corn, prices naturally dropped. Farm lobbyists convinced the government to cover losses. In October 2005 the price of a bushel fell to $1.45. The government maintains a target price of $1.87 (though it often costs more to produce a bushel than the target price). 42 cents is paid for each bushel grown. The taxpayer spends nearly $5 billion a year covering the gap. Farmers still grow broke even with subsidies.
The world appetite for corn is nowhere near the amount produced. Farmers needed to find ways to utilize this corn. 60% goes to feeding cattle, animals whose digestive tracts contain an organ called the rumen designed to process grass. The corn is often mixed with cattle blood and fat, chicken meal, pork meal, fish meal, or chicken feces. When there is too much starch and too little roughage, the system becomes highly acidic which in turn damages the entire body. Low ball estimates indicate that 15 - 30 % of slaughtered feedlot cattle have abcessed livers.
To deal with this and the inevitable infections resulting from living in crowded conditions while standing on their own feces, farmers fill their cows with antibiotics to keep them healthy enough for human consumption. Antibiotics are given to all cattle, not just sick ones. This massive dosage is leading to many common ailments becoming resistant to antibiotics.
The corn not fed to cattle is converted into high fructose corn syrup, a substance unknown to the human body before the 1980's but now constitutes a massive part of the diet. The average American eats 66 pounds of it a year, in addition to the nearly 100 pounds of other sugars. Many processed foods are clever repackaging projects to get the consumer to eat more corn products. Hamburgers, french fries, sodas, breakfast cereals, etc... are full of corn products.
Much of the cheap corn is exported. Mayans in Mexico and Guatemala believe that God made them from corn. Growing corn in small patches plays a central role in their culture. Now they cannot compete with rock bottom prices of imported US corn.
The empire of corn is highly reliant on oil. Among other things the black gold is needed to make the pesticides, drive tractors and transport the corn. Each acre needs 50 gallons of oil. A feedlot cow needs 35 gallons before it winds up on a dinner table.
And all this information came from the first section of the book. It is a startling read, illuminating how our supposed agricultural progress is in fact destructive on many fronts.
Monday, January 7, 2008
The Aquarian Politician?
Barak Obama's decisive win in last week's Iowa Caucus has discredited the notion that Hillary could stroll into the Democratic nomination with little real competition. Barak polled nine points ahead of John Edwards, and ten points above the third place Hillary Clinton.
The success of a black man in a rural, overwhelmingly white state suggests that the American people may be more desirous of real change than otherwise thought.
Obama's message relies largely on a rhetorical shift away from fear mongering. Bickering is the favored form of communication in Washington, with defensive posturing against a menacing world the chief foreign policy. In her 15 years in DC, Clinton has come to embody the Washington establishment in her initial support for the Iraq war, and her bellicose words on the Iranian threat. She has so established herself in this way that in showing a drop of humanity in her suggestion that the issue of drivers licenses for illegal immigrants in New York is complex, she was maligned for breaking from rank. In these ways she represents the "Bush lite" wing of the party.
Bill Clinton rose as the underdog in opposition to the stagnant Washington elite whose Cold War mentality was ill equipped to deal with the new world. 15 years later, his wife stands as the bulwark of the old guard . "Don't stop thinking about tomorrow," the theme song to her husband's 1992 campaign, could be adopted by her chief rival.
In the face of a status quo candidate, the people of Iowa threw their support to a candidate who thinks about issues and who speaks to people's hearts. His vocal inflections increasingly resemble those of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
One of the drawbacks to Obama is his relative lack of experience, particularly executive. But we have had plenty of presidents with loads of experience who grossly mishandle their positions. I am of the belief that Washington changes people for the worse, and the less DC experience one has the less prone they are into falling into the Washington mold.
Barak is a populist who is riding a tone of hope in the face of beltway cynicism. Despite his relative lack of executive experience, his message is enough to encourage this cynical Capital Hill born Aquarian foot soldier.
The success of a black man in a rural, overwhelmingly white state suggests that the American people may be more desirous of real change than otherwise thought.
Obama's message relies largely on a rhetorical shift away from fear mongering. Bickering is the favored form of communication in Washington, with defensive posturing against a menacing world the chief foreign policy. In her 15 years in DC, Clinton has come to embody the Washington establishment in her initial support for the Iraq war, and her bellicose words on the Iranian threat. She has so established herself in this way that in showing a drop of humanity in her suggestion that the issue of drivers licenses for illegal immigrants in New York is complex, she was maligned for breaking from rank. In these ways she represents the "Bush lite" wing of the party.
Bill Clinton rose as the underdog in opposition to the stagnant Washington elite whose Cold War mentality was ill equipped to deal with the new world. 15 years later, his wife stands as the bulwark of the old guard . "Don't stop thinking about tomorrow," the theme song to her husband's 1992 campaign, could be adopted by her chief rival.
In the face of a status quo candidate, the people of Iowa threw their support to a candidate who thinks about issues and who speaks to people's hearts. His vocal inflections increasingly resemble those of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
One of the drawbacks to Obama is his relative lack of experience, particularly executive. But we have had plenty of presidents with loads of experience who grossly mishandle their positions. I am of the belief that Washington changes people for the worse, and the less DC experience one has the less prone they are into falling into the Washington mold.
Barak is a populist who is riding a tone of hope in the face of beltway cynicism. Despite his relative lack of executive experience, his message is enough to encourage this cynical Capital Hill born Aquarian foot soldier.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
I recently finished reading "Indian Summer: The Secret End of An Empire." The book documents the end of British rule in India and the scramble to construct new power structures. The focus of the book is on the major political figures during the time.
The primary British figure is Dickie Mountbatten, the heart-centered but aloof quasi-royal viceroy who distracts himself with ceremonial pomp in the face of handing independence to 400 million people of warring tribes. Then there is his wife Edwina, a highly driven woman whose inability to connect deeply with any one man drives her to chase one affair after another in search of satisfaction. She finally finds it in Jawaharlal Nehru, a Kashmiri Pandit intellectual educated in England who just so happens to be the Indian prime minister . The love triangle of Dickie, Edwina, and Jawaharlal are three primary players in bringing stability to an inherently disastrou situation.
Other players include Muhammed Ali Jinnah, a secular Muslim who is one of the first to invoke political Islam as a tool to prevent a Hindu dominated state. And then there is Gandhi, a brilliant and often insensible leader whose satyagraha (nonviolent civil disobedience) played a major factor in convincing England to leave. He was so revered that he could make Muslims and Hindus stop fighting by refusing to eat until violence ended.
The book illuminates the fascinating interpersonal relationships that played a role in the creation of India and Pakistan.
What the book did not explain was the impetus behind the massive violence in the Punjab. The At the time the Punjab was comprised of pockets of Hindus, Sikhs, and Muslims living amongst each other. These groups lived amongst each other. A cartographer was given pen and paper and told to create a border between India and the Muslim Pakistan. Pakistani Muslims attacked Hindus fleeing for India. Sikhs and Hindus butchered Muslims. Trains full of refugees were set on fire.
What I found especially shocking was the violence perpetrated by the Sikhs. Sikh jethas reportedly rode from village to village using their kirpans, ceremonial daggers that signify cutting through negativity, to butcher entire communities.
The partition and the subsequent violence illustrates the ability of the Piscean man to snap at a moments notice. Communities that have had good relations for years can be whipped up into genocidal frenzies at a moment's notice. The twentieth century saw it happen in Germany, Rwanda, and the Yugoslavian states. It is currently happening in Iraq.
I am left perplexed as to the root of this violence. I can only conclude that it results from holding a space of fear. And I pray that it is a remnant of the Piscean age.
The primary British figure is Dickie Mountbatten, the heart-centered but aloof quasi-royal viceroy who distracts himself with ceremonial pomp in the face of handing independence to 400 million people of warring tribes. Then there is his wife Edwina, a highly driven woman whose inability to connect deeply with any one man drives her to chase one affair after another in search of satisfaction. She finally finds it in Jawaharlal Nehru, a Kashmiri Pandit intellectual educated in England who just so happens to be the Indian prime minister . The love triangle of Dickie, Edwina, and Jawaharlal are three primary players in bringing stability to an inherently disastrou situation.
Other players include Muhammed Ali Jinnah, a secular Muslim who is one of the first to invoke political Islam as a tool to prevent a Hindu dominated state. And then there is Gandhi, a brilliant and often insensible leader whose satyagraha (nonviolent civil disobedience) played a major factor in convincing England to leave. He was so revered that he could make Muslims and Hindus stop fighting by refusing to eat until violence ended.
The book illuminates the fascinating interpersonal relationships that played a role in the creation of India and Pakistan.
What the book did not explain was the impetus behind the massive violence in the Punjab. The At the time the Punjab was comprised of pockets of Hindus, Sikhs, and Muslims living amongst each other. These groups lived amongst each other. A cartographer was given pen and paper and told to create a border between India and the Muslim Pakistan. Pakistani Muslims attacked Hindus fleeing for India. Sikhs and Hindus butchered Muslims. Trains full of refugees were set on fire.
What I found especially shocking was the violence perpetrated by the Sikhs. Sikh jethas reportedly rode from village to village using their kirpans, ceremonial daggers that signify cutting through negativity, to butcher entire communities.
The partition and the subsequent violence illustrates the ability of the Piscean man to snap at a moments notice. Communities that have had good relations for years can be whipped up into genocidal frenzies at a moment's notice. The twentieth century saw it happen in Germany, Rwanda, and the Yugoslavian states. It is currently happening in Iraq.
I am left perplexed as to the root of this violence. I can only conclude that it results from holding a space of fear. And I pray that it is a remnant of the Piscean age.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Sadhana For The Adventurer
A consistent sadhana is at the core of the Kundalini yoga experience. Change occurs when one follows a daily regimen of yoga and meditation. The consistency chips away subconscious and physical blocks. Keep the sadhana strong and the universe will take care of the rest.
A daily practice is certainly feasible when one has a set schedule and location. Awaking before dawn to do yoga is practical if one has an apartment and a nine to five job. But what happens to the traveling yogi? What becomes of sadhana if one is at a 14,000 foot campsite in the midst of a howling storm?
I experimented with “sadhana on the road” while on a three month backpacking trip to South America last year. I traveled by bus through Peru, Bolivia, Argentina, and Brazil. Most of my time was spent in the remote Andean highlands where the elevation ranged from 10,000 up to 16,500 feet.
Maintaining my discipline was a challenge. I began the trip during the eighth month of a daily regimen of 31 minutes of Sat Kriya. This asana entails sitting in rock pose (with the buttocks on the heels), clasping the arms above the head with the arms straight, and pointing the index finger towards the sky. “Sat” is chanted as the navel point contracts, and “nam” as it relaxes. “Sat Nam” means “our identity is truth.” Some of the countless benefits of Sat Kriya include balanced sexual energy, a strong nervous system, and smooth digestion.
I flew into the nearly 11,000 foot former Incan capital of Cuzco, Peru from sea level. I awoke the following morning to a splitting headache and a complete lack of appetite. Two weeks later I found myself in La Paz, Bolivia with a case of dysentery. Fever and a weak stomach made the idea of Sat Kriya most unappealing. The symptoms lasted for several days in both cases.
I contemplated taking a break from the practice during both of these illnesses. Yet every morning I brought myself onto my heels, clasped my hands above my head, and began pumping the navel along with the mantra “Sat Nam.” The kriya circulated healing prana through the body. It strengthened my worn out digestive system. The repetition of mantra brought peace to my being.
Another challenge was keeping up in the outdoors. My primary reason for visiting South America was trekking in the Andes and the Amazon. I did not know how my sadhana would fit into a mountain man lifestyle, but I was determined that it would. One afternoon I found myself camped under a 14,000 foot pass in the Cordillera Real range of the Andes in western Bolivia. A hail and snow storm blew in as I was in my tent meditating. For a moment my ego jokingly pondered whether I had developed some siddhi that enabled me to call in a storm. The wind was bending the tent poles on my head.
I ate dinner with a friend and our indigenous guides before scoping out a spot for Sat Kriya. My hands shivered in the night air. I periodically opened my eyes to glimpse the lights of isolated villages amidst jagged shadows of the Andes silhouetted by the moon.
That trip took me up and over the Andes and into the Amazon Basin. The freezing ice storms of the Andean highlands gave way to the world’s largest forest. My heart raced during Sat Kriya as my mind interpreted unknown sounds as prowling jaguars.
Fitting in Sat Kriya became part of the adventure. Finding a way to meditate amidst mountain gales, damp jungles, and interminable bus rides was an adventure in itself.
As I have grown in my practice, Sat Kriya has become sustenance. It has become less of something that I do, and more an aspect of my identity. When I was sick it brought healing. When I was exhausted and overwhelmed it brought strength.
Sadhana is not an impediment to the traveler. Rather, it is a companion that nourishes the journey.
A daily practice is certainly feasible when one has a set schedule and location. Awaking before dawn to do yoga is practical if one has an apartment and a nine to five job. But what happens to the traveling yogi? What becomes of sadhana if one is at a 14,000 foot campsite in the midst of a howling storm?
I experimented with “sadhana on the road” while on a three month backpacking trip to South America last year. I traveled by bus through Peru, Bolivia, Argentina, and Brazil. Most of my time was spent in the remote Andean highlands where the elevation ranged from 10,000 up to 16,500 feet.
Maintaining my discipline was a challenge. I began the trip during the eighth month of a daily regimen of 31 minutes of Sat Kriya. This asana entails sitting in rock pose (with the buttocks on the heels), clasping the arms above the head with the arms straight, and pointing the index finger towards the sky. “Sat” is chanted as the navel point contracts, and “nam” as it relaxes. “Sat Nam” means “our identity is truth.” Some of the countless benefits of Sat Kriya include balanced sexual energy, a strong nervous system, and smooth digestion.
I flew into the nearly 11,000 foot former Incan capital of Cuzco, Peru from sea level. I awoke the following morning to a splitting headache and a complete lack of appetite. Two weeks later I found myself in La Paz, Bolivia with a case of dysentery. Fever and a weak stomach made the idea of Sat Kriya most unappealing. The symptoms lasted for several days in both cases.
I contemplated taking a break from the practice during both of these illnesses. Yet every morning I brought myself onto my heels, clasped my hands above my head, and began pumping the navel along with the mantra “Sat Nam.” The kriya circulated healing prana through the body. It strengthened my worn out digestive system. The repetition of mantra brought peace to my being.
Another challenge was keeping up in the outdoors. My primary reason for visiting South America was trekking in the Andes and the Amazon. I did not know how my sadhana would fit into a mountain man lifestyle, but I was determined that it would. One afternoon I found myself camped under a 14,000 foot pass in the Cordillera Real range of the Andes in western Bolivia. A hail and snow storm blew in as I was in my tent meditating. For a moment my ego jokingly pondered whether I had developed some siddhi that enabled me to call in a storm. The wind was bending the tent poles on my head.
I ate dinner with a friend and our indigenous guides before scoping out a spot for Sat Kriya. My hands shivered in the night air. I periodically opened my eyes to glimpse the lights of isolated villages amidst jagged shadows of the Andes silhouetted by the moon.
That trip took me up and over the Andes and into the Amazon Basin. The freezing ice storms of the Andean highlands gave way to the world’s largest forest. My heart raced during Sat Kriya as my mind interpreted unknown sounds as prowling jaguars.
Fitting in Sat Kriya became part of the adventure. Finding a way to meditate amidst mountain gales, damp jungles, and interminable bus rides was an adventure in itself.
As I have grown in my practice, Sat Kriya has become sustenance. It has become less of something that I do, and more an aspect of my identity. When I was sick it brought healing. When I was exhausted and overwhelmed it brought strength.
Sadhana is not an impediment to the traveler. Rather, it is a companion that nourishes the journey.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
The air on Los Angeles was burning. The sky is still reddish grey with smoke and chemical particultes that infiltrated our lungs. On Sunday I stood on the Venice piers watching the Malibu fire climbing up a ridge.
The fires and the Santa Ana winds set the air on fire. Walking outside felt like stepping into a stove. My sinus ached and bled from each chemical infused breath. We are being warned to avoid outside activity into next week.
Such is life in the land of earthquakes and fire...
The fires and the Santa Ana winds set the air on fire. Walking outside felt like stepping into a stove. My sinus ached and bled from each chemical infused breath. We are being warned to avoid outside activity into next week.
Such is life in the land of earthquakes and fire...
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Finishing the AT
On August 28, 2003 I completed the 2,169 mile Appalachian Trail. I began the trip in September of 2003, hiking approximately 500 miles from Spring Mountain, Georgia, to Mount Katahdin, Maine. I went to school for a semester, and returned to finish the remainder. During the last leg I usually hiked at least 25 miles a day. My brother was getting married August 30, and school had begun on the 27th.
I awoke at 5 am at the base of Katahdin. About 10 other hikers and I scrambled up the granite boulders of Katahdin. During the trip my daydreams had been filled with thoughts of standing upon Katahdin at the trip's completion. As I scrambled above the treeline, a storm had enveloped the mountain. The 30 mile an hour gusts gave the hail a horizontal trajectory.
I reached Thoreau spring, a mile from the summit, and came to grips with the fact that my summit moment would be accompanied by a hail storm. I was overcome with tears, and began the final push to the summit. The wind roared in my ears, drowning out all but thoughts. 100 yards from the summit one particular gust tore the cloud cover from the mountain, revealing the craggy summit that was the Northern Terminus.
The above picture captures my life's greatest moment.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
The Story And Its Relation To The Yogi
What is the origin of our creative pulse? What are we seeking to accomplish when we write? In the past I thought of writing as a dialectic, a way of placing unresolved issues on the table for the purpose of putting me at ease. I could find a middle ground in a mind shaken by competitive emotions and compulsions.
Over the past two years I have taken to the yoga path. Rather seeing the world from a polemical point of view, the yogi sees the union of all. Struggle ceases as everything is accepted. Also, the yogi views the mind as a tool rather than the core of the true self.
So where does story fit into this? If the story is about reconciling our disparate emotions, what does one write about when one is in ecstacy with themselves and all of creation? The Siri Guru Granth Sahib, the Sikh scripture that presents the formula for escaping from our problematic take on our existence, has seemingly little logical structure or story. It is present a few core teachings that largely lack the elaborate cultural coding of other scriptures.
Perhaps the story is unique to the Kali Yuga, the time of separation between man and God. When the people of the earth realize that they are taken care of by the creator, will there be a need for a fictional dialectic to aid in explaining our surroundings and reason for being here?
Over the past two years I have taken to the yoga path. Rather seeing the world from a polemical point of view, the yogi sees the union of all. Struggle ceases as everything is accepted. Also, the yogi views the mind as a tool rather than the core of the true self.
So where does story fit into this? If the story is about reconciling our disparate emotions, what does one write about when one is in ecstacy with themselves and all of creation? The Siri Guru Granth Sahib, the Sikh scripture that presents the formula for escaping from our problematic take on our existence, has seemingly little logical structure or story. It is present a few core teachings that largely lack the elaborate cultural coding of other scriptures.
Perhaps the story is unique to the Kali Yuga, the time of separation between man and God. When the people of the earth realize that they are taken care of by the creator, will there be a need for a fictional dialectic to aid in explaining our surroundings and reason for being here?
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Creativity of the Immobile
What does one write about when one settles in a routine? I ask myself this question as I find myself in the ninth month of office life. My writing is voluminous when I travel. Some aspect of the journey, of the experience of the new, elicits new thoughts and a need to record them.
But here in LA I remain immobile. I work five days a week at a nondescript office job. Three weeknights are filled with yoga class. Two and a half hours every morning are dedicated to yoga. While I am content, few startling or exciting thoughts enter my mind.
My travels have been the main source of my inspiration, and as I approach a year since having left the country, I must find other sources.
But here in LA I remain immobile. I work five days a week at a nondescript office job. Three weeknights are filled with yoga class. Two and a half hours every morning are dedicated to yoga. While I am content, few startling or exciting thoughts enter my mind.
My travels have been the main source of my inspiration, and as I approach a year since having left the country, I must find other sources.
Friday, September 21, 2007
One Last Hurrah From the Aquarian Way
Where are we going Walt Whitman? Our country has gridlocked itself in a civil war. Four and a half years after we invaded Iraq, we have one hundred and thirty thousand troops in the country at a cost of three hundred million dollars a day. The 2008 budget will alot 200 billion for the war, at over half a billion a day. The war has lasted longer than the Civil War and our involvement in Vietnam. We could have funded universal health care many times over with what we have spent on this war.
The administration is declaring the situation improved, citing once tumultuous neighborhoods in Anbar and Baghdad to be improved. The new found quiet of these neighborhoods is the result of ethnic cleansing.
We are sitting in the middle of a civil war that seems destined to continue until there is a massive population relocation or a change of heart. Iraqi politicians seem incapable of bringing peace. As American soldiers die, they go on vacation rather than create a solution to bring a solution that would hasten our departure.
Iraq was nothing more than a flimsy colonial drawing with a strong man holding things together. A vacuum was created, with violence reigning until a new power emerges. And our guy Maliki seems incapable of being that entity. Radical Chia cleric Muktada al Sadr is a stronger figure, as he already controls much of the health infrastructure.
Not only does a three state partition seem inevitable, but infighting within the new entitites is also a very real possibility. Currently three Shia militias are fighting amongst each other in the Southern coastal area of Basra.
Leaving Iraq could initiate bloodshed. But the same people who said that the Iraqis would greet us in the streets are warning against genocide. Should we still be listening to them? Perhaps retreating and rebuilding our reputation from scratch is our only way to progress.
The administration is declaring the situation improved, citing once tumultuous neighborhoods in Anbar and Baghdad to be improved. The new found quiet of these neighborhoods is the result of ethnic cleansing.
We are sitting in the middle of a civil war that seems destined to continue until there is a massive population relocation or a change of heart. Iraqi politicians seem incapable of bringing peace. As American soldiers die, they go on vacation rather than create a solution to bring a solution that would hasten our departure.
Iraq was nothing more than a flimsy colonial drawing with a strong man holding things together. A vacuum was created, with violence reigning until a new power emerges. And our guy Maliki seems incapable of being that entity. Radical Chia cleric Muktada al Sadr is a stronger figure, as he already controls much of the health infrastructure.
Not only does a three state partition seem inevitable, but infighting within the new entitites is also a very real possibility. Currently three Shia militias are fighting amongst each other in the Southern coastal area of Basra.
Leaving Iraq could initiate bloodshed. But the same people who said that the Iraqis would greet us in the streets are warning against genocide. Should we still be listening to them? Perhaps retreating and rebuilding our reputation from scratch is our only way to progress.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Life in Venice Beach
Across the street there are 6 cop cars parked back to back, blocking an alley. One cop went running back to his car for a moment, wearing a face mask indicative of a siege.
Venice retains its rough edge amidst the endless affluence of West Los Angeles. Once known as "the slum by the sea," Venice saw gang warfare for decades. The Shoreline Crips and the Venice Trece were the ruling parties. No one without a death wish ventured onto the boardwalk at night.
The eighties saw the Hollywood area reach capacity. With the film industry growing, people continued to move to LA in search of work. Santa Monica was the first beach town to be revitalized. Venice followed, as fresh money renovated the former slums. Crack houses were renovated into million dollar homes. Drab streets were filled with freshly landscaped palms and birds of paradise.
I live in the last frontier of Venice. Drug dealers spend the afternoons on a corner four blocks away. Police helicopters periodically circle the area in pursuit of some drug dealer or gangster. Gangs still periodically war for control of certain blocks. I have woken up to find blacked out drunk homeless people sleeping on my doorstep. A colony of seeming drug addicts living in dilapidated trailers has parked itself on the opposite corner. They frequent the Big Lots and 99 Cent Store along with the working class Mexican and black families.
It is rumored that Whole Foods is buying the aforementioned shopping center. And perhaps the arrival of the ever expanding bourgoise temple will transform the last remanants of "the slum by the sea" into the territory of the hip entertainment crowd.
Perhaps I am getting older and losing my love of grit, but the beautifciation of the area does not seem like a bad thing.
SDS
Venice retains its rough edge amidst the endless affluence of West Los Angeles. Once known as "the slum by the sea," Venice saw gang warfare for decades. The Shoreline Crips and the Venice Trece were the ruling parties. No one without a death wish ventured onto the boardwalk at night.
The eighties saw the Hollywood area reach capacity. With the film industry growing, people continued to move to LA in search of work. Santa Monica was the first beach town to be revitalized. Venice followed, as fresh money renovated the former slums. Crack houses were renovated into million dollar homes. Drab streets were filled with freshly landscaped palms and birds of paradise.
I live in the last frontier of Venice. Drug dealers spend the afternoons on a corner four blocks away. Police helicopters periodically circle the area in pursuit of some drug dealer or gangster. Gangs still periodically war for control of certain blocks. I have woken up to find blacked out drunk homeless people sleeping on my doorstep. A colony of seeming drug addicts living in dilapidated trailers has parked itself on the opposite corner. They frequent the Big Lots and 99 Cent Store along with the working class Mexican and black families.
It is rumored that Whole Foods is buying the aforementioned shopping center. And perhaps the arrival of the ever expanding bourgoise temple will transform the last remanants of "the slum by the sea" into the territory of the hip entertainment crowd.
Perhaps I am getting older and losing my love of grit, but the beautifciation of the area does not seem like a bad thing.
SDS
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Office Life
My office supplies two things in the kitchen. Coffee, and painkillers. 4 big boxes of 4 different brands of pain killers. There is no fruit, no snacks, nothing to nourish one's day. Stimulants to keep one moving against the natural tendency to run from feeding data into a machine all day. Pain killers to numb the aches from staring into a throbbing neon radiation machine all day long.
There is an obvious disconnect in many employees here. People walk down the halls with their heads down, providing no acknowledgemnt of the passing person. I have been here since January. Is it possible that people pass each other every day for years, never acknowledging their unknown colleauge with even a small smile?
I am happy that my life goals will not include this anonymous office life of neverending purgatorial projects.
There is an obvious disconnect in many employees here. People walk down the halls with their heads down, providing no acknowledgemnt of the passing person. I have been here since January. Is it possible that people pass each other every day for years, never acknowledging their unknown colleauge with even a small smile?
I am happy that my life goals will not include this anonymous office life of neverending purgatorial projects.
Monday, July 16, 2007
"This stillness to which all returns, this is reality, and soul and sanity have no -more meaning here than a gust of snow; such transcience and insignifance are exalting, terrifying, all at once, like the sudden discovery, in meditation, of one's own transparence. Snow mountains, more than sea or sky, serve as a mirror to one's own true being, utterly still, utterly clear, a void, an Emptiness with out life or sound that carries in Itself all life, all sound. Yet as long as I remain an "I" who is conscious of the void and stands apart from it, there will remain a snow mist on the mirror." - Peter Matthiesson, from "The Snow Leopard."
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Where I Am Now, How I Got Here, And How I Can Move Forward
The past weeks have seen me negotiating this reality in haze. I was walking tall and proud, doing Sat Kriya for 62 minutes, manifesting beauty. And then I slowly crashed, tumbling into a nether realm of muddled thoughts, angry moods.
I guess this is what St. John of the Cross refers to as “the dark night of the soul.” For much of my meditation career, mystical apparitions have danced across my eyelids. And now much of that has stopped, and I am faced with the task of being an overwhelmed security guard in charge of protecting the void. Subconscious thoughts overwhelm my capacity to keep them out, and I am stuck.
But this is a stage that many encounter on the quest, the dark night of the soul. The confetti stops flying, and the practices that once presented us with joy become another drudgery task.
So I ask my teacher what to do. The answer is to stop operating on an emotional basis. Feelings come and go, and in reality we have little control over them. Continue to walk the path even when everything around has gone pitch black. Sometimes I made my most miles on the Appalachian Trail while it was rainy. When there were no views to stop and marvel at, I could push through.
It is at this point where experience comes to a dead end that faith comes into play. The teachings say that the dark night of the soul is a transitory faze a final march through the swamp before the light is reached.
Having already begun this journey, I am faced with two choices. Continue on in faith and grace, or sink into sludge. The answer seems self-evident.
I guess this is what St. John of the Cross refers to as “the dark night of the soul.” For much of my meditation career, mystical apparitions have danced across my eyelids. And now much of that has stopped, and I am faced with the task of being an overwhelmed security guard in charge of protecting the void. Subconscious thoughts overwhelm my capacity to keep them out, and I am stuck.
But this is a stage that many encounter on the quest, the dark night of the soul. The confetti stops flying, and the practices that once presented us with joy become another drudgery task.
So I ask my teacher what to do. The answer is to stop operating on an emotional basis. Feelings come and go, and in reality we have little control over them. Continue to walk the path even when everything around has gone pitch black. Sometimes I made my most miles on the Appalachian Trail while it was rainy. When there were no views to stop and marvel at, I could push through.
It is at this point where experience comes to a dead end that faith comes into play. The teachings say that the dark night of the soul is a transitory faze a final march through the swamp before the light is reached.
Having already begun this journey, I am faced with two choices. Continue on in faith and grace, or sink into sludge. The answer seems self-evident.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
I am in the tail end of a two month creative block. Conversations and writing are labored.
Perhaps my five months working in a windowless office doing glorified data entry sparked it. The phosphorescent cave dulled my drive. My interests away from the experiential world and its intricacies to conversations about NBA basketball and Lindsay Lohan's latest legal trouble.
My most creativity peaks while traveling, hiking up Andean peaks with my mouth filled with coca leaves and learning indigenous phrases from my guides. Seeing the world, the energy of moving, fuel me.
The question is how to remain grounded in an income producing reality while spending several months a year traveling.
SDS
Perhaps my five months working in a windowless office doing glorified data entry sparked it. The phosphorescent cave dulled my drive. My interests away from the experiential world and its intricacies to conversations about NBA basketball and Lindsay Lohan's latest legal trouble.
My most creativity peaks while traveling, hiking up Andean peaks with my mouth filled with coca leaves and learning indigenous phrases from my guides. Seeing the world, the energy of moving, fuel me.
The question is how to remain grounded in an income producing reality while spending several months a year traveling.
SDS
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
News From The Sporting World
Michael Vick, the quarterback from the Atlanta Falcons, is being investigated for holding dog fights at his house in Chesepeake, VA. There is a national uproar over the issue, and it is likely that the Falcons will cut him.
I find it interesting that people are outraged over dogfights, while they are eating the flesh of animals that were tortured every moment of their incarnation. But eating meat is acceptable because of the systematic routinization of it. I think of Hannah Arendt's discussion of "the banality of evil" in her account of Adolf Eichmann's trial. Eichmann performed the bureaucratic work of arranging the transportation of European Jews to concentraion camps. The Moussaud found him in Buenos Aires and brought him to Israel for trial. To his last day he could not see his mistake, as he was physically removed from the acts of violence.
We are conditioned to ignore the negativity of some undeniably negative acts, while we explode in the face of what we have not been conditioned to accept.
I find it interesting that people are outraged over dogfights, while they are eating the flesh of animals that were tortured every moment of their incarnation. But eating meat is acceptable because of the systematic routinization of it. I think of Hannah Arendt's discussion of "the banality of evil" in her account of Adolf Eichmann's trial. Eichmann performed the bureaucratic work of arranging the transportation of European Jews to concentraion camps. The Moussaud found him in Buenos Aires and brought him to Israel for trial. To his last day he could not see his mistake, as he was physically removed from the acts of violence.
We are conditioned to ignore the negativity of some undeniably negative acts, while we explode in the face of what we have not been conditioned to accept.
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