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 14th
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.
