Pregnant With Radiance

The period of mid-1973 to late '74 was particularly formative for me and informed and imbued the rest of my life from there. A student at CU-Boulder, and not much of one at that, I followed Mark Twain's lead and never let my schooling interfere with my education.

It was in this period of my life that I discovered the beloved Swami and many others, and the Bhakti path I was to take, and that I began to massage – and to sing, ceaselessly; it was in this period of my life that I would discover the Dances, and the Sufism which so decidedly established my future, from which place I'm now telling this in retrospect; it was at this juncture in time that I discovered in this way, all the Bringers of light, of Dharma, and discovered Christ, and found my own Teacher out of a marketplace full of 'em - the Coach I'd prayed God to vouchsafe me.

I'd longed to be pregnant with radiance, You may love a certain food but you have to eat lots of it to get fat on it. So it is with light. I wanted to be so full of this love I'd discovered, that I could swallow all the world's darkness and shit out light.

Neither drugs nor grass nor booze played a role in my life. I was stoned however, flat-out stoned on love. The only thing lacking was a dime and maturity – and the latter comes with time, no security. I worked at Ticos, washing dishes with joy and some soap – my pupils were sometimes actually dilated. I'd show up giggling but always on time and fit for work, my supervisor on the cook-line, a Pisces named Jeff, looked me straight into those stoned eyes and asked if I were showing up on the job drunk or on weed. I smiled and assured him, I was drunk on love, just love, patting his arm. That was the period of my wearing a wooly, multi-colored Morrocan jalabea everywhere, my hair grown long, first beard, and passing out roses in the park, washing and massaging feet – anyone's. The only beer I got soused on was Bir Hanumana (strength of Hanuman). My beloved Swami embodied that, and he was pregnant with radiance. All Great Ones are, and I revered them - and I wanted to be pregnant with that radiance.

One fine early Spring mid-morning in '75 I guess, on The Hill just off campus, I walked by Chuck's Grill, which was nearly empty. I only wanted to use Chuck's restroom, which back then was the norm without making a purchase. I just had to do a quick number-one and leave.

On my way to that restroom I noticed this young woman of very unremarkable form and features – let's be honest here, you would have walked right by her. She was neutral and apathetic, also rather dumpy, and that turned out to be because she slouched in the booth where she sat alone, the only customer in the joint.

Because of this slouch, and her pullover sweater, it crossed my Lucy-in-the-sky-with-diamonds optical-perception, that: she might be pregnant. To this day, I don't know what took hold of me - but after I'd left the restroom instead of heading straight for the door leading out, I swung by her booth and with my right hand gently on her shoulder and my left gently on the hump of her belly, on the pullover of course, I asked her with sincere elation and warmth, “When?...“

As in, "when's the date, O mother-to-be?" She did not call the cops, she did not make a scene, she did not say, "WTF – you some kinda goddam smart-ass? Get away from me you freak!" She did not react angrily or even look hurt or burst into tears at this otherwise seemingly insensitive cruelty. The fact was, she was not remotely in the family way, she was just frumpy. She had a gut on her. So?

Not a word passed between us, her eyes registered bewilderment, to which my eyes registered "Oh shit, you're not pregnant?" then, "OMGdess, I fucked up, am I a schlemiel!" I muttered a genuine "sorry, I thought..." but outside of that it went all without words. And then something happened. She got it, and her face brightened up at the idea, and my face brightened up again and for that moment gazing at each other, she had the radiance of someone pregnant with life inside her. So she was in that moment pregnant with radiance.

Then we both laughed, just a sweet, tender, ever so human laugh, shared in love between two total strangers under quite comical circumstances. I collected myself and nodded goodbye, headed for the door. One last look over my shoulder and a wave: that woman watched me from her booth, still smiling and still glowing, sitting a tad straighter there, and I have no recollection of her voice, as not a word had been shared, it was all through the eyes.

These drunken eyes, pregnant with radiance.

Short Memoir of a Singing Masseur and Bhajan-Junkie; Puja

I have never been to India and can hardly be said to have been abroad, but for my seven weeks in Israel and one in Greece at age 21. The world of Dharma came to us, came to me in the House of Sadhana – Khanka, Ashram, by whatever name – under the guidance of my beloved Teacher. I have sung with hardly a let-up for some four decades, variations of Ramnam, of Sufi Zikr, of Bhajans and Mantra innumerable, sung and massaged, sung and massaged. I am still at it.  Much was embodied in the Dances.  We had so many house guests staying or passing through, of unforgettable visage - and I will never forget a single one, not a name nor a face - who'd ever stayed with us in Boulder.

Pir Vilayat, who, having received my foot treatment, told me to now go ahead and work out a full-body massage as I had the feet. I would have anyway, but this sort of feedback from a Sufi Pir, well... And there was Paul Reps, later Murshida Vera Corda, also Reshad Feild - under whom we actually learned and performed Sema, as well as deepening Zikr. I've lost count of how many times Yogi Bhajan spent evenings and taught as guest, or that we visited him. Murshid Hassan from Nablus on the West Bank, came to stay with us three different times, led and gave us the Hadhrat, left us that which I will never lose nor lose touch with. As had they all, as had they all.  Let me not overlook Karmu, little known healer, great in form and spirit and gifts, Murshid Sam had called him the "Black Christ" he'd once composed of in a poem before ever meeting this radiant beautiful guy of humble surroundings and radiant charisma; his stay with us was unforgettable.  And I'm only mentioning half of 'em here.

They all or almost all, had their feet washed and oiled and massaged by me. Tyaga-ji, a lovely yogi traveling through together with a young American named Ram Dass (not that one, just another one), having just returned from being with Mother Krishnabai and leaving with us a gift of dust she'd collected off the feet of the late Papa Ramdas, was one of our guests. He let me also massage his smooth, coffee back as he sat there. He also gave us a precious Hanuman Bhajan which I'll bet my weight in rupees I'm the only one who was there that remembers it now and can still sing it - as I do.

That was the mid- to late '70s, and in '79 we made room for Purshotamdas Jalota-ji, Bhajan-Master, to guest with us, he stayed for a solid month, left to visit others and returned to us because we knew how to host a guest in style. And that meant, he was treated like the most honored of guests, and we sat with him and received his instruction – he was such a natural uncle, we easily called him Papa-ji – whereby we learned so much Bhajan and moreover, his own arrangements, I wish I still had my notes today, as much of the Kabir has escaped me and appears irretrievable. Through this, our established regular usage of Nectar of Chanting (with Guru-Gita and more) was only deepened, the devotion given more scope and dimension.

Among so much else, he taught us the Ram-Bhajan which had been specially composed for Gandhi by his teacher, and which formed the basis and the engine for Gandhi's life and Movement. It was this Ram-Bhajan which got the British Empire outof India, all else was just putting oneself on the line and commitment.  Singing this makes your body feel like a sitting temple into which Ram the Presence of God is actually descending.

Whether I sing in English, Arabic, Hebrew, Sanskrit, Punjabi, Gurmukhi, French, Latin, or Aramaic:    I have never stopped singing since, and still can't quit. So I'm hooked.

Puja

Everything is Puja here, everything is Puja. Every picture in this place is there for a reason, lots and lots of the cats or of the kids all over – even the cats themselves are Puja, Puja-Mausi was my temple-kitty from the start and even Jimmy the tomcat has since been elevated to Puja-Jim. 

The ashes of my parents and their pictures are Puja, the marble headstone for a lost child there on the shelf with flowers and candle and incense and any snapshot of him and the 14^th century Madonna and Child wood-icon on the wall - is Puja. All the Swamis and Sheikhs and Murshids, Dervishes, and Mother T and Mother Krishnabai, and "Madeleine" and Cardinal Galen and two of the gentlemen who all opposed Hitler, and Pope J-P the First who'd been murdered in his bed, and Nityananda and Maharajji, Gandhi and King. And brothers and friends and books in overflowing shelves – everything, everyting is Puja and gets dusted Fridays for Shabbos-Kiddush (also Puja, of course). Puja is Seva and Seva is Puja - so cleaning or cooking is Puja, making someone a sandwich is Puja, feeding the cats. Going to work, paying the bills – Puja. Even Puja is Puja, and that healing & blessing concentration every morning with more names than I can count memorized in my noggin, is Puja as well as Seva. And after all the prayers and concentrations, comes the sacred nectar of Japa in the form of Dhikr-Allah and Ramnam, and Mantras to grease the axles of my beloved Sikh, Christian and Jewish traditions.

Having said this, for no better reason than it occurs to me to share here – the following occurs to me in this light. One evening in the Fall of '81, as I sat on the floor next to Sheikh Muzaffer of the Helveti-Jarrahi Order from Istanbul, visiting his Tekke in NYC, he observed out loud, through his translator, that anyone walking down a country road and spying a lump of dog shit will say, very logically, "Oh, a dog was here." Why then, he continued, doesn't everyone just as obviously look at the wonder of nature all around and observe, "Ahh, God was here!" This earthy, authentic manner of expressing the matter – is Puja.