A Woman Unto Herself

You are all-goddess – in your very Humanness,

your own form, I see only goddess and nought else.

I see myself offering puja to her, this very goddess,

thereupon she is receiving me into her –

homage paid in the kiss,

in the armpits, the nipples, the belly,

then my face deep in this Yoni – long and slow,

controlled, disciplined, concentrated,

till she gives the signal to be entered.

You are still you, to be admired and appreciated,

ideosyncrasies synchronized mutually

in serendipitous symphony.

Not a personal fixation, and yet,

not the least bit indifferent to your person,

every hidden and open fibre of your unique embodiment

of what is drunkenly divine and manifestly set

in the eternal ecstasy of each moment's expression

of Union.

Not sharing a need but joining in mutual worship,

a statement of fulfilled desire.

A Child's Book of Grace and Blessings

(Summer of 1982, Longmont CO: it all came to me while taking a bath one afternoon, after work at a doughnut shop - all of it, in that bathtub, the whole draft in one shock hit. ... the cat came much later of course.)

 Sometimes God gets lonely too -
That's why He created you.

God is mercy, God is sweet -
I count my blessings as I eat. (I)

God is mercy, God is sweet -
I count my blessings as I eat. (II) 

God is beauty, God is light -
How I thank Him for my sight.

God is dear, and always near -
If I listen I will hear.

Toward all His creatures He is kind -
I'll copy Him toward all I find.

God is here, and also there - 
Makes it easier to share.

God is great, and God is small - 

No one owns 'im (He belongs to all).

He lives and loves through everybody - 
(I sing to Him while on the potty).

He's always where I wish to go - 
He gets there first - how does He know!

He's not a "man" an' not a "lady" - 
Unless I make 'im to be ...
Always watching what I do,
He's deep inside of me.

I am His, and you are too - 
He cherishes both me and you.

The Friend who never goes away, 
I sing for Him each night and day -
I'm proud of HIm without a doubt,
He knows my feelings inside-out.

His laughter fills me when I play -

And He never, ever missed my birthday!

Puja-Mausi cannot read this, I suppose - 
But then, she doesn't need to, for she knows.

The Pants of My Murshid

Over three decades since he last wore these,

cloth black and simple, made by a fellow student,

a seamstress – made to order, cut for Yoga

and dispensing Dharma.

By the seat of his pants I now sit in ‘em,

since three decades I wear ‘em off and on,

worn as long since they are.

My Puja-kitty likes these best for burrowing

between my legs while sitting, taking her repose

by the seat of his pants.

Am I smarter or cleverer for wearing ‘em,

did they ever enlighten me –

or is it just sent-to-mental?

I dunno, but the cat sure does love ‘em.

Meanwhile

Speaking His Name – I speak yours.
Addressing Him in Song – I address you singing.
Losing myself in the vision of my Lord and Cherisher,
in the vision of the Self, of the Beloved – I am lost in you.
Now as I devote myself to this Friday evening's praise and melody:
should I but part my lips, my breath is fixed on our kiss,
my tongue is married to yours, and only honey may clothe
the words which issue from my mouth
whether sacred or common, to anyone or whomever;
the sweet red wine I drink – is your saliva,
the bread I partake of – is our Fucking.
My body sways with you, it can hardly keep still!  Emotion overtakes me,
I want to weep for yearning after you – then I'm good, I'll be alright.
The sense of separation passes; the determined, indeed pre-determined,
Union is cherished, assured, vouchsafed.
Like water through an aquaduct, blood through my vessels,
you are consciously inseparable from me, feeding me, keeping me alive
for that day when our bodies will join all dimensions in one
never-ending Act of our Lovemaking.   Meanwhile 
I perform this Shabbos-Kiddush, meanwhile
I perform this Puja, meanwhile
I sing. 

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.

I Meet Her Gaze

Wednesday morning,
the March snow from yesterday
is melting, I have off.
It is well past 5 a.m.,
I do not have early shift,
no bus no car no leaving.
I have not fed the "kids",
yet they are at peace;
the tomcat snores over my left ankle,
looks up, I meet his gaze,
he snuggles in and sleeps.
The cautious temple-kitty sits on the floor
to my right and gazes up at me,
I meet her gaze and make room for her,
she springs to my right thigh,
stretches long and snuggles close.
On my left, my beloved turns toward me
and holds me to her,
I lay on my back, receiving, receiving.
I have not risen to make Puja.
Finances are a shambles,
who is left that I do not owe -
the wolves are at my neck,
we own little, undertake nothing,
what shall we make for breakfast.
Yesterday I share with her Trungpa's statement:
that "the bad news is that we are
in free-fall, with nothing to hold on to, and no parachute;
the good news being, that there is no ground."
She finds this discomfiting,
I explain that it speaks to the impermanence
of anything, of everything.
That we are idiots – and precious, divine, and in God's hands.
That in the bardos we perceive this more distinctly than now -
although the "after-death" is simultaneously moving
in every moment of our life; the bardos are now and with us.
She gazes at me and says: that one thing is permanent, her love for me.
I meet her gaze. Nodding.
It is now 8 a.m., my heart soars like a hawk.
It is a good day to die.
And to be reborn.
I rise to feed the "kids".