If You Are So Much As Reading This

If you are so much as reading this,
you are in my sights, whether I even know you
or not, the program is set:
I am loving you now, this and every other moment,
and I am praying for your health, happiness, well-Being -
day and night, that you may be fit to become Conscious,
that it may be well with you. That is my joy,
my simplest and most precious joy in action -
to keep this moving, and to just once let you in on it,
to receive it. It costs neither of us one lousy cent.
And is my joy. Unconditionally, mine.
If you are so much as reading this, you're in.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NY0o3iuddmk&feature=youtu.be

Traveling Light – A Nice Arrangement

I have a rather nice arrangement with my Creator.
I sit in my private little corner of the room, breathe in depth,
bring my mind to single priority, let thoughts pass through –
(mind is the sovereign host, the thoughts merely guests).
No one gets thrown off my train of discourse, only saboteurs, all others remain.

All concerns which come, any panic, any drama, any sadness,
any desires, wishes, debts of gratitude, longings, all this
I bring, greet as real, feel, and give it to Him, breathing in depth.
He gives me immeasurable joy in return, strength to reach 150.
My cat comes and joins me, remains as we breathe in depth.
Traveling light, I've nothing to buy nor to sell, neither ideology nor religion.
It's 2:30 am, I've slept, I have days off; job is good, as are breaks.
My work is 24/7, no breaks, but inspiration is constant, active or in repose.
Work is always better than none, sloth is what kills.

It's nine hours earlier in California, also a constant.
My granddaughter there has just celebrated her 4^th birthday,
she and her little sister don't know I exist, but I know they do.
That suffices to hold her, them, in my priority, breathing in depth.
If you choose to stay inside and eschew all sunlight, so what –
the sun could give a shit, it sends its warmth out anyway.
Sun is sovereign without judgement, cat comes and shares priority.

If no one reads this, it still gets written; if I don't get my way, so what –
I am free to think, to dissent, to give and take criticism, to remain constructive.
I am free to love, to reflect, to intervene where it's my business to, or to fight.
I am free to breathe deeply, to hold priority.

The self-proclaimed "Antifa" – the Stormtroopers of the day, indulged darlings,
communist-wannabes with Che-banners from another decade – these enjoy
a nice arrangement as well: perennial students with nice digs, no job no need,
atheistically multi-culti by ideology (no conviction), politically-correct and violent.

For their ceaseless aggression and staged slogan-frothing, property destruction,
open defamation, attacks on person and possession, welcoming mass suicide
of their own native democratic society which pampered them. They have
rather a nice, paid arrangement with all the Parties and Lobbies of the dominating Left:
the Greens, The Left, Pirate, the mainstream SPD, and what oddly still calls itself CDU.
These hoodlums are ever on retainer, maintained by a gangster-regime in Parliament.

What do I care? Is this a popularity contest? So what, if I'm a "racist, xenophobic,
homophobic, Islamophobic, patriarchal Nazi"? What a joke. But as it is a joke
which happens to rule, I happen to care. Germans, like the Swedes, have no say
in the matter, "refugees" who aren't are compared with Himmler's Jews, invited
by a Chance-Liar to come and repopulate here, to assuage a Hologram of Guilt
which no one wants to heal. Sure I care, I came to see just that healed.

And I sit now, breathing in depth, my cat purring in confirmation,
she looks at me, regarding me with love from the Natural Kingdom,
reminding me to travel light – it's a nice arrangement.

Breath of Buddha, Breath of Christ

As Christmas Approaches: The Breaths

Friends, readers, browsers: this is to be put to use and it's free. This is nothing new, I put it to practice but am not its originator. This is as old as Buddha and as fresh as your own very next breath, it is for all regardless of what you call your faith, your religion, your ecclectic sortof-sortof, or most valuably: your highest most intimately cherished reality.

And as Christmas approaches I decided this year to put this out there, as it has been received, and in my own manner of presentation – if being Christian (whatever denomination or however you define that) you take this and own it, make it yours – not by reading and thinking about it or having an opinion about it but only by giving it your devoted concentration and following the simple few steps, you will be really fulfilling both the Sermon on the Mount and the Prayer of St. Francis: by letting yourself be made an instrument of service in the most Christian real sense there is. Now do it and I'll shut up:

Sit up straight, whether on a chair (feet flat) or on a mat or rug, however you best do that, back straight but relaxed, neck also. All breathing is through the nose. What you do with your hands is of little matter, mudra or no mudra or hands held or free – just concentrate. Take a few shallow breaths, a few deep ones, some strong then gentle, adjust – consciously adjust your breathing to be long and deep, into the belly and back out, let your focus settle in your chest, just central there, your Heart. Just breathe. You can direct your thoughts better with any of the following, they are only three suggestions of many: Inhale “Toward the One” and exhale “United with All” (meaning all the illuminated souls who are actually leading you in this as we speak) – or, inhale “Christ in me” and exhale “United with All” – or if you're Jewish doing this you can inhale “Ha-Shem Echad,” and exhale “Baruch-Ha-Shem” – whatever works for you.

Now: you have adjusted your breathing and it's long and deep, you should focus your most devoted thought on Whom or on That which you most love – and yes, you are “worthy” of doing this – let the feeling in the center of your chest open to that and receive that. Let into you the presence of your greatest Trust, your greatest Love, let yourself imbibe that, be sourrounded by that, just as the conducting wire (you) inside a glass bulb is surrounded by a generated current and light is produced going outward. Just breathe this way. Let it fill you, in and around you. As this is a Christmas Concentration I'll address it accordingly. Let Jesus abide here, or as it says in Scripture, put on the Mind of Christ, you can even mentally intone Jesus Jesus if it helps – now we can begin.

Refining that breathing, refining like a bare thread coming and going, breathe into yourself all the Love you can draw in from the Universe, from the Cosmos, from the space around you, from so many dimensions, and from the here-now, and in reality. And breathe it out, out, out. Let it be with you, let it be in the room, let it abide, in and out. Whatever else is there with you, family or cares or worries or joys – let all this be of no disturbance, for you are sovereign, let this all be baptized in your breath, as you breathe in and then breathe out all the Love you can muster.

You are a sun, can you visualize that magnificent star up close? That is you, burning, producing such heat and such light – do you not feel your gut loosening and expanding even as you breathe in and out of your Heart (like I told you)? You may be an idiot all day long the rest of the week but right here and right now, you are Being Divine: Who loves ya? Who's with ya? Who'dja invite over to breathe with ya? Spirit is here and real – God's own breath is inside your breath.

Having let all the Love into you and, going out from you, circulate and expand, now continue on by refining still finer and drawing likewise into yourself all the Joy you can bring in, and circulate that through and on out, just as you've been doing. Feel it? It is yours, it is you – yeah, you're worthy of it, you're worthy of it – it's not about you anyway, and yet it is entirely you giving yourself to its Doing – there's nothing theoretical here. Either you're with it or you're not.

Let this continue for a few breaths, then refine, refine, draw in finer still, all the Peace you can let in to your limitless capacity – you sun of God you! – you are the very space itself, embodied as you, just breathing! Don't blow it by thinking – you're there, now stay there! As this Peace which passeth understanding is real with you, going out from you, see how all this Love, all this Joy, all this Peace is contained as one breath of Compassion which you allow to expand out with every outgoing breath – it's as though you're no longer even there doing it, just it is there doing you.

Head and Heart are not apart – you direct this toward yourself and toward everything and everyone in the room, and on out through that window into your neighborhood, hovering just long enough to feel it take, and radiating and broadcasting out to the area, the district, the city, the country, the world, the earth, people you know and don't know, people you love and those you don't even like (no ifs ands or buts), people you've hurt or who've done you wrong, Nature: the forests, mountains, the waters of the Earth, the animals and critters, let it go out to wherever it is needed, whether to disaster areas, war zones, slums or crime-concentrated areas – or just to any nameless faceless individuals out there who may desperately need the witnessing touch of your Love and your Joy and your Peace, your Lovingkindness, your Compassion, breathing onto them and into them. Now.

Not my words should dictate how far out this goes or how far in – what you feel, feel it, go with it, trust, trust, trust.

And what now? Just breathe and breathe and be with it – feel feel feel: you are All-One but not alone.

(Just to give yourself a kick in the seat to get going on it, here are two unmistakably suitable reads:)

http://samuelinayatchisti.blogspot.de/2012/01/candle-for-farthing.html

http://samuelinayatchisti.blogspot.de/2011/12/suit-or-truth-about-santa.html

Bhajan, Kirtan – Goes On And On

When I sing Ram my heart
is opened, stilled and active both,
emboldened and awash in joy;
from the root of my spine to my crown

I am home, at home in this Body,
as if in a Temple full of powerful tones,
overtones and undertones, harmonies
which can really hardly be described.

When I sing Krishna I am
out of my skull with an ecstasy
curing ills, and maintaining health, longevity;
I need no radio, MTV, CDs or company,

I am never lonely because never alone.
Whether aloud or muttered or on silent tongue,
nestled in Love's bosom I am,
wherever these blessed Names are sung.

When I sing Shiva only the Self remains,
there is no what or who, no questions of matter,
but grounded in Body and from Body freed –
into dimensions of Body, which returns to seed;

I disappear, I manifest, I am here and I exist,
as I hear and as I'm real, so may I ever present feel
in this world as in every other: nourished by my Divine Mother.
Ah, there's a Love which can't be spoken, but only sung.

Sonnet, of sorts

(ca. 1986/7) 

She stands before the glass contemplative,
critiques her face and faults all relative;
and studies where her form symmetric falls,
familiarly discerns pounds possible –
Ridiculous in naked truth are we;

"too much or not enough" decidedly
of profile, flows of lines, of hip or bust –
She sees it all, as so have I, but just
let her perceive what I beyond form see:
From scar of cheek down through her wrists my eye
traverses fragrant joy yet unreveal'd –
sound glance of love does penetrate and heal
when drawn in love to 'waken inner being:
for what's being look'd for is what's looking.

INDEPENDENCE

I Am my own worst enemy.
I Am my own dearest friend.
I Am whoever wishes me well, or ill.
I Am whoever praises or blames me.
I Am whoever is also indifferent to me.
I Am whoever would want to kill me, or provoke me.
I Am whoever remembers me, or doesn't.
I Am whoever comes or goes.
I Am whoever shares joy with me.
I Am whoever debates or argues with me, confronts me or takes me to task.
I Am whomever I Am addressing, now.
I Am my only pupil.
I Am never alone, I honor mySelf in each – never alone,
I Am all one.

Yoga For Jews, or: Karuna Is Also Kosher

Ha-Shem breathing concentration:

For all those linear, mono-dimensional Jews who think Jewish has nothing esoteric in it; and for all those Kabbalah-freaks or wannabes who either let themselves be convinced that complexity is a path to God-experience or else run around selling some watered-down Kabbalah so they can sound smart – this could be for you. You may have never touched a Talmud, a Torah, a Mishna or Gemorra, never heard of Zohar, never eaten kosher or kissed a mezzuzeh, never worn talit or t'fillin - you can do this, no problem.  Or if you have done all these things, you can still do this, it won't hurt you.  But if you don't like direct alternatives, fine, enjoy being complicated or materialist, or both. You don't want to take a boat? So swim. You don't want to take a car? So walk. But if you want something real that you can carry into the world with you and make paradise there where you stand, where others can get a hit, a taste, of God's most loving Presence here-now and in reality – then this just might be for you.

Considering the Absolute, taking as a metaphor all the immeasurable vastness of Space, transcending all time and distance, knowing that while you may not comprehend God, God certainly comprehends you - and letting yourself feel it - now address this, your Noble Lord and Cherisher, the Light of your own Origin, so:

With Ha-Shem Echad draw all of this in, from the center of your crown, on the in-breath, drawing, drawing: your breathing long and fine like a thread, through your nostrils down into your heart and your belly and genitals, sending it out through your limbs but holding it central in your heart region and belly. You are drawing on The Unity of Being, on The Source, on The Light within that very breath, letting it circulate. And with it: ha-Shem echad.

Holding that breath, or rather: letting it be held, there in the center of your person, in the chest and belly, heart and hara, glowing, expanding. Inwardly see the blinding sun, for which the sun up there is but a metaphor. Don't strain the brain or the lungs, don't try to do or to control anything, rather let it "do you".

And having held that for just but a scarce moment, let the out-breath proceed with Baruch Ha-Shem releasing up and through that breath passage and out the nostrils, gently, naturally measured. And using the same concentrated visualization – just as will has no impulse without concentrated feeling – let that outgoing baruch ha-Shem really, actually, tangibly radiate as love, through your very pores, through your hands and your feet, out your back, out your chest, 360 degrees, through your eyes, let it expand out, out, out, limitlessly back into the Cosmos and touching all of Creation therewith. Not theoretically, but really. It's not "you doing" it, it is being-done, and with and through you, as you are willingly devoting yourself to this action, this very creative, humble little action.

If you can believe this is being done, that this is happening, then that is faith, you have a faith to build on, you're cooking on the Big Burner.

Practicing this, opening to, Being, sending, drawing in the Oneness of All, blessing the earth with this nefesh, this breath of consciously unconditional love, then of unreasonable, illogical joy, then of peace – not cease-fire, not opposite-of-war, also not graveyard-still – but living, pulsating, symphonic and mind-blowingly of the full I-Am-ness: peace.

Being Jewish like this, you'll never be arrogant like you were, nor self-conscious like you were. And all your family ancestors can finally give it a rest, and your future generations get an endowment better than putting your name up on another hospital. Hey – now you are no longer part of the problem, you're part of the solution, you're healing the planet! And the great thing is, you don't even have to graduate medical school!

So - now you embody the Six-Pointed Star in your own form:  or, "as above, so below."  A real Magen-David now, that's what you are.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=YcOQY-n-EWs 

Show Me An Islam

Show me an Islam without any designs on world domination,
or on political domination over any land or people,
an Islam which would gladly take its place honorably
among all other religions, those with visible Scripture and without,
whatever form their service or house of worship.

Show me an Islam which so much as embraces and celebrates
its co-existence with variety in faith - with Alawite, Baha'i, with Copt and with Sikh.

Show me an Islam free of Sunni and Shi'a,
allowing for freedom from Shari'a,
an Islam free of every form of girl-mutilation,
of forced marriage or even arranged ones,
of any coercion or manipulation or intrigue,
an Islam entirely free of Hijab and Burqa.

An Islam show me, where countless churches and synagogues and temples
are happily frequented among the mosques,
and the spirit of intelligent appreciation reigns.

Show me an Islam of joy, rather than of gloating,
one which unmistakeably demonstrates God's unconditional love -
and leaves pork and politics out of the equation.

Show me an Islam with a sense of humor,
a mature capacity for reflection, for self-criticism,
an Islam which doesn't foment strife and division -
while claiming to preach peace and harmony!
Not an Islam without teeth, but without the thorns.

This would be something closer to the Islam whose
intimacy I have in-joyed for four decades,
the Islam of dervishes, who foment joy and not jihad,
for they belong to God whom they know, and no ideology.

That would be an Islam I could really live with, and welcome.
The Islam we have, I have to live with, but need not welcome.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=x43W4_Vi9LU

A Candle for a Farthing

I usually will rather be found writing than quoting, but three occur to me as I do so.  There's an old saying, that "God hath no power over a mother's prayer" - or something like that.  Well I think I am a mother, at least some have called me "you muthuh"...  Among other reasons that I have candles lit in my place, one candle remains ever lit, a long burning oil candle I try to replace just before it goes out.  This candle has but one purpose:  anywhere, at any one time, any given moment, somewhere someone is suffering at the hands of another, right this moment, and I won't know about it till I read it in tomorrow's or next week's paper, or through any other media, or never.  I don't obsess over it, but it disturbs me, because we really are powerless to do much of anything about it.  It might pertain to a woman, a girl or a boy, a defenseless man or a defenseless child, it may apply to an animal, large or small.  But out there someone is certainly the target of mistreatment, of cruelty, of sadism, or in some way tragically, unjustly left to his or her or its fate.  And quite alone wth it at that.

Okay, that's life.  Yet as Christ said, in his best King James, "You can purchase a sparrow for a farthing, but know: that not a sparrow falleth to the ground, but the heavenly Father knoweth."  Now that Father is a Mother if that's the case, because I can rant myself ragged over the ignorance, the arrogance, the hypocrisies and the deals, the ideological or just plain illogical inhumanities, the anonymous hurt, the anonymous slow-death of victims of perpetrators.  What can I do for the victims, what can I do about the perpetrators?  There's an old saw which we've all heard too often, but who does it?  "Better to light one candle than to curse the darkness."

Never mind who said it, who does it?  Whatever else I do or don't do or cannot – there is a Mother's prayer ceaselessly intoning in my heart, going out from there and joining with that candle in knowing, in partnership with our heavenly Father, that there is a sparrow fallen.  That one might be reached or not, might be rescued or not, might be comforted or not, but one thing in my seeming powerlessness that I do know:  that one shall no longer be alone; somewhere in the city, somewhere in the world, somewhere in my living room – someone is listening, is breathing with that one, is sending out beams of love, of compassion, of succor, of joy.

There may be no ego in this, no helper-syndrome, no self-comforting.  Where there is ego there will never be peace.  Where the ego is overcome for the sake of the real Self, that already is peace, and that is power.

Everyone has an ego, it has a purpose and must be developed.  Imagine though, what your work place would be like if everyone were egoless – not flat, not dull, not boring, not alike, this is what egolessness ain't.  I mean, creative, active, giving, cooperating, achieving together or alone – but it's all no longer "about me".  No bullshitting or griping or whining, no proselytizing, no ideologies.  Just in-joying an ego-free environment.  As our old friend Paul Reps said, "Until it's fun better left undone."

So when I so much as glance at that candle, I wrap someone anonymous to me in the warmest wings of love, and project out joy, unabashed joy.

Join me if this moves you.

A Candle for a Farthing

The Suit, or The Truth About Santa

(as I lived it in Berlin, Christmas Eve 1990)

'Twas the night before Christmas...no, that would be leaving out too much. 'Twas a couple weeks before I entered the Army, living in San Francisco I made one lone attempt to live out a dream I'd often nurtured: to be a department store Santa just once in my life. And really BE it, express it, do an Edmund Gwinn on it, inspired by the old “Miracle on 34^th Street,“ but it was not to be. I called two or three large stores who offered this, and the answer was always: senior citizens only. They don't use 30-year-old Jewish Coloradan health-care givers, down-and-out in San Francisco. My luck. No sign of snow anyway, some cheer.

Berlin, 1990, five years after that disappointment in the City on the Bay. I'd just lived through City on the Wall, and a new era was in the making, hardly dared dreamed of – and now my own little dream was about to be realized, hardly could I have imagined.

Living in the barracks installation which had once housed Hitler's private HQ, I was employed on the side as masseur in a tiny rec center on this very compound. In a building where the Gestapo once tore muscles and shattered joints, there I was working at deep-relaxing muscles and helping joints bend better. It was called Hi-Light and offered a massage service as well as limo-rental, video-rental, ping-pong and a small library, whatever came to the mind of whichever military wife happened to be running it at the time, and was open to creative inspiration. I was available on commission by appointment, according to contract I also gave quarterly workshops. This all ran until the last American military installation was closed for The Drawback, 1994.

In December of 1990, Kelly from Texas was at the helm. She was a congenial sort, and as with her predecessors I often had a good hearty chat with her in the office after an appointed session on the bench. On this particular day she hit me with a volunteer request. Would I be willing to go house to house, flat to flat, for three evenings running, ending with Christmas Eve, in the military housing areas? Would I be willing to do it unpaid, although families responding to this clever little offer were paying a fee of five bucks for Santa to spend 2-5 minutes “dropping by“ and enchanting the kiddies? Would I be willing to have Kelly as a “Rudolph,“ sledding me and about four “elves“ in green from the Berlin American High School around in her van? My heart jumped.

I said, “Maybe. First tell me about The Suit.“ The Suit was grander than I could have dared hoped: the costume itself was totally alright, with enough room for pillows, and as only the boots were missing, I stuck with my military boots, the kids would just have to deal with that. The main thing, the beard and the wig, were as good as it gets, cotton would help the eyebrows, nothing was loose-hanging, it was perfect. As a pipe smoker with a nice collection, I would use my very long- stemmed number which was right out of the traditional illustrated poem – everything was set. So would I do it? I said, “One other thing. Snow. Tell me about snow, I want snow.“ It hadn't snowed a winter in Berlin worth mentioning. That year it would, and did, and how. I told Kelly, leaving the snow open to chance, “Yes. I'll do it, I'm in. Am I alone with this?“ No, it seemed there was one other Santa going on his own tour for the Hi-Light, a Master-Sgt., a tall and lanky, rather banal and colorless fellow who thought that just wearing the threads made the theme, as if just wearing the duds made the dream, and when I heard that he was all they had and they needed a second for another tour, I said, “YES KELLY! YES! I WILL BE YOUR SANTA!“

And so it went. I fit into the whole shtick like an apprentice to the Real McCoy. I went through every tour those three evenings with one thought: I am He. What would He do if He were Me? And what would The Universe wish to communicate to all these children, or to a specific not-yet-encountered child - in the form of a kitsch-traditional, warm'n'rosy Santa – this creative Universe so electrically resonating with compassion, with warmth and love, pregnant with joy like a Santa.

The effect was a complete outward transformation, and inwardly I was morphing into my interpretation of a divinely-dropped North Pole Messenger of love, of joy, of goodwill, of Christmas warmth and cheer at its best – no clichées, no bullshitting, no “acting“ but being it, taking my time actually paying attention to the kids, listening, playing, laughing and joking – and sharing that twinkle of the glance. And it worked. The ho-ho was heartfelt, and slipping into the role I rolled in and out of each visit feeling enriched and in more than a few cases tangibly enriching.

Among all the many various drop-ins, at some I was known by military co-workers, and for them it was “Sam-ta Claus“ - explaining to the young and inquisitive that the military boots were a logical gesture of solidarity with the troops – heaven forbid it should mean I was actually some seargeant- dude dressing up for a stint... Most of it all went pretty much according to program, I spent anywhere from four to five minutes per visit, and there were quite a few of them. And it was fun.

There were about four incidents which will always remain with me from the latter two evenings. I worked the crowd, as they say, on gut instinct and hunch, or call it intuition. My elves were sometimes nonplussed, trying to remind me that time was running, as five turned into ten minutes, ten into twenty. I reminded them with the sternness of a Papa Christmas, that we were on my clock, not Hi-Light's, not Kelly's, not the 5-dollar fee's. They gulped and must have thought, “Oh, shit, the dude's gone mental, he actually believes he's...“ And they dealt with it.

In one flat there was a young mother with her little daughter. Different than the other families I'd been seeing, the air semed laden with an unspoken blue-mood. It expressed the overall tension over the Gulf deployment, Desert Shield was close to becoming Desert Storm, and everyone was more or less on edge in the face of unknowns. I wasn't here for commercial purposes, but on quite other business: Being Christmas. After entering the kitchenette with a hearty greeting, I sat on the nearest chair and motioned the girl toward me, inquiring as to what was on her heart. If you can't do that, what are you doing Santa for? She hesitated, and her mother, leaning against the counter and reflecting this mood as well, courteously explained that they were both concerned about Dave, a family member or friend being in the Gulf, and what danger might await him.

Nodding sagely (Santa does that), I drew the girl to my knee, hugged her gently closer, and spoke very softly to her. Naturally we had one simple rule, if you happen to know what the parents had in store for the child you could “promise“ that – but you don't promise anything you can't, nor can anyone, deliver. So for warm-ups I asked her if she knew who I was, then I asked her if she knew where I lived. When she answered with North Pole, I told her, “No, that's what everyone says, but the truth of the matter is, I live in your heart, right there in your heart, that's where I live. And all year round I am there, loving you, watching you grow, and there is nothing, nothing you can do that could make me love you less. I am seeing everything, just like they say, only I am not thinking bad or good, I am just loving you.“ Well, good for the warm-ups, that got her up on my lap. Her mother's lips were already quivering.

“Now then,“ I went for the gold. “You're going to get this and that for Christmas, aren't you? I don't have to tell you. But you are worried about Dave, and we are thinking about Dave, now aren't we? There are things even Santa cannot promise you in so many words, there are things we just have to leave up to Jesus, and there are things we just have to leave up to God. So what to do? Well we can pray, can't we? You pray with me, with ol' Santa. Now see if you know this song, and anyone who knows it can sing it with us, right now and right here, and we will offer this song up like a prayer for Dave to come home safely. Alright? Alright, now here goes...“

I broke into one of my own most favorite childhood songs from Pete Seeger, also performed by Simon and Garfunkel, “Strangest Dream“ - the whole song from beginning to end, softly and yet with a penetration which carried the mood in that kitchen into a level of refreshed hope and wonder at the power of possibility. If that ain't Christmas. And the child was much more relaxed, and the mother was brushing away tears, and the elves dealt with it. My clock. In Sufism we call this: effacement-of-the-self-in-the-elf, in Arabic, fana-fi-santa.

Shortly after, the elves got a taste of Santa's irritation. We made a stop at one flat where the only child there was an infant, not even half a year old by my reckoning, and with web-cam running and the adults making jolly, I was supposed to gratify their selfish whims of scaring the living bejeebers out of a little one who had no idea what this massive red and bearded intruder bursting through the door was after. And the child burst into screams of terror, to the gaity of these perverse American idiots. Not even then did they have a clue that they were being stupid. I gazed very gently on the child, then growled at the parents and guests a sarcastic “Merry Christmas“ and beat it out of there in less than half a minute. Their five bucks. The elves, following me down the stairs, were shocked and bemused at hearing Santa muttering a very un-Christmas “such bullshitters,“ and “Santa don't play that shit.“

It was the third incident which most moved me. There the elves had to really learn some patience, and live with my Santa-wrath. While I was equipped with a never-empty sack of little brown baggies of goodies for each child no matter how many I encountered, it was part of the deal that a family could leave a bag with a present or two with a note for me to bring it into the apartment as if it was from the Great One himself, a nice touch when one thinks about it. I was not however, expecting what hit me at this domicile: One, maybe two wrapped little boxes, and a note taped on the door, addressed to Santa, requesting that he ask the girl “in which bed she's been sleeping“- in which bed she's been sleeping? They wanted to draw me into their twisted family dysfunction? My intuition was on alarm, I grimaced as I ripped the note off and crunched it in my North Pole fist, I growled with a side glance to my wondering elves, “Santa – doesn't – play – this – shit.“ And we went in.

There were the parents, with the boy, the older of two childen, dressing the tree it seemed, everything appearing quite normal, none of them actually moving toward me or getting into The Visit much, just carrying on with what they were doing. Then I saw the little sister, seemed not older than four, standing at a distance in the living room apart from me and from the family, standing and looking – well, for me quite clearly traumatized, if one looked at it. And that evening I was looking.

I dropped the rocks, and left the others who didn't even take notice, and sat my big North Pole ass down on that couch where she was, and gestured her to come nearer. My previous experience over Dave and Pete Seeger had prepared me for this moment, and I was dismayed to see that this precious child's clear inhibition, her blank stare unmoved by any little humor on my part, was too deep to just be distracted by grins and jests, it was a sign of trauma. What the game here was I could not for the life of me surmise. But with the same wrathful energy coursing through me toward her parents I radiated toward her in concentrated, attentive stillness, all the compassion I felt toward her, all the cherishment, all the joyous love and aching to wrap this little one in my heart.

I got her over to me and went through the same chat as with the other girl the evening before: who I am, where I really live, and it took twenty full minutes to get her to a normal child's responsiveness, a turning up of the lips, a glint in the eye again, a voice. I told her that I watch over her, that she is an ever, ever so good little girl, that I love her, that Santa loves her, that Jesus loves her, that she is loved by God every moment of every day, and that no one, no other person big or small, may tell her differently.

I had to work for those five bucks, I had to penetrate hard rock in what time I had, and I wasn't leaving till something gave. I addressed her with the authority of my office in The Suit, I addressed her with the sovereignty of love. And I stayed with her till she could return to normalcy, if even for that moment. And she got it. And the elves, I think they got it too. Her family got nothing, they were beyond reach. Had I seen anything tangible I could have reported, I would have alerted our youth services. I left there without a word to the others, but took one last lingering gaze at the door, toward the little sister still standing by the couch in that living room, still apart from her family who had missed everything and would still. And she returned my gaze and was back with the living, I hoped, to stay.

Kelly made a grand “Rudolf“ in all that generous Berlin snow, and we wrapped it up from there. A day or two later she asked me what all went on with my tours, several families had called her up especially to tell her they got far more for their five bucks than they'd bargained for. I said, “Oh hell, you know, Kelly, the Master-Sgt. probably had more goin' on in his bag than we'd thought...“

My tours were over, it was Christmas Eve, and I just wasn't finished, after waiting all these years to be The Fat One. I visited a five year old girl I personally knew, a fair piece away in Kreuzberg, not one of your better-heeled districts in town. I had some fun with Berliners en route waiting for the subway and while riding it, appearing as this totally American Clichée of Christmas walking around in an area uncharacteristic for this, being outrageous, greeting people in my still broken German and getting the jaded, seen-it-all Berliner or dour Turkish faces to break into bewildered smiles and laughter. If this wasn't fun, what the hell is!

En route back to my barracks, still in full dress and character, I left the subway and took a short bus run to the front gate. The driver and other riders seemed to know this American shtick, but sitting there as well was a very traditionally dressed, middle-aged Turkish Muslim couple, who checked me out and seemed to figure in a polite way, as I was reading their faces, “Well, yes, this is their Christmas holiday, it has nothing whatesoever to do with us of course...“ How wrong they were, as tonight Santa was there for everyone, and so was Edmund Gwinn, who'd spoken Dutch to the little Dutch girl on his lap, to a watching young Natalie Wood's astonishment, and the “Miracle on 34^th Street“ was about to be transfereed to “Finkenstein Allee“.

I waited till we reached my stop, made a belly-ho-ho, wished everyone “Frohe Weihnachten,“ this being, Merry Christmas, and directly at the shocked but delighted Muslim couple, a ringing “as-salaamu aleikum, wa-rahmat-ullah wa-brakatu-hu!“ - this being, peace be with you and mercy of God and His grace! An especially Muslim touch to this season of joyous love and renewal.

I wondered how the Master-Sgt. was holding out.

- S. Inayat-Chisti, Berlin - Dec. 2011 

(Pir Vilayat Khan doing my Shtick, early '70s) 

Was für eine Religion...? / What Kind of Religion...?

(spontan gedichtet, abends während ambulanten spätdienst, nauenerplatz, auf dem 247er bus wartend:)

Was für eine Religion...?

Was für eine Religion ist das denn,

was dir keine Freude verleiht,

damit die Welt deine lächelnde Stirn immer sehen dürfte,

dein vor Menschenliebe strahlendes Herz?

Was für ein Glaube bringt dir keinen Singen bei,

anstatt Brüllen oder verengte Mistrauen in deinem Blick,

                                                   und Nächstenverachtung?

Klar, hat jeder Kummer, wer nicht -

aber mal ehrlich:  hat keiner dir erzählt,

daß Gott Barmherzig heißt, und Gnädig?

...daß er wohl näher zu dir sei als deine Halsschlagader,

                                           näher doch als deine Atmung?

...oder, daß in ihm wir leben, uns bewegen, und unser Dasein haben?

...vielleicht mal, daß er in dir wohnt, zwar als du?

Und ist das denn keine Ursache für Freude?

What Sort of Religion...?

(composed on the spot in German one evening while making my rounds
on foot as a visiting nurse, in a heavily Turkish, working class district
where I also live - and where one finds, the more "traditional" ... 
the longer the face)

What sort of religion is that then,

that lends you no joy

wherewith the world may see your smiling forehead,

your heart radiating love for Humankind?

What sort of faith teaches you no singing

instead of shouting or that tight-assed mistrust in your glance,

and contempt toward the "other"?

Sure, everybody has woes, who doesn't -

but honestly now:  has no one ever told you

that God's name is compassionate and merciful?

. . . that He is indeed nearer to you than your jugular vein,

nearer indeed than your breath?

. . . or that in Him we live and move and have our Being?

. . . perhaps even once, that He dwells within you, actually as you ?

And is that then no cause for joy?

S. Inayat-Chisti, Berlin, 14 Dec. 2005