Cherished

Back when my lad (now 20, and about whom I still say: "This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased...") was about 5 and I was putting him to bed, I had just finished reading an email from a fellow expatriate here. It contained a book review on something dealing with anecdotal material from witnesses to SS atrocities in Poland. A former villager told of seeing an SS guy strolling casually down the alley or street or road, whistling merrilly as he dangled a just still living and moaning infant on the tip of his bayonette, its last breath still audible to the witness. I sat stock still. I was, needless to say, so deeply upset at reading this, so traumatized because no matter how much material you take in – and I'd already imbibed a very, very great deal – it whacks you over that cliff of the most terrible distress, every time. Every time. So now I gotta put my laddy to bed. We sat in the near pitch dark room.  Rather than singing or playing, I was dead silent. Being a child, he sensed my sadness.

In his half-Doitch, half-English, he asked me what was wrong. Of course telling him anything like this was completely out of the question, but I had to be straight with him. I replied, "Well, hon', Papa is just very very sad right now." Asking me why, I replied again, "Sometimes there are others in the world, children, yes also children, who suffer or have suffered such things I cannot tell you, and your Papa is just too sad about it not to be sad." He wanted to comfort me.

So I did what actually wasn't our habit, but also not unheard of: I said, "Let's put our hands together here, you put yours together and then mine over yours, so... And Papa is going to pray, and this will be your little bed-time prayer, just yours." And I began, "My Beloved Lord and Cherisher, may all children everywhere be as loved, and as cherished, and as safe and secure as me."

In German there is no one word for cherish, except in cherishing an idea or a wish. To cherish a person is conveyed in a phrase, and my German idioms were less up to it at that time. While the sweet sound of our word, cherish, no doubt from the French cher, is to endear – we all know it conveys something more than words, notwithstanding a popular single on the charts back in the mid-'60s.

My little son asked me in his 5-year-old attempt at a new English word, "Was ist 'chewish'?"

I told him, "Well, you know what it is to love someone a whole lot, like how your Papa loves you, right? Cherish is something totally – lile you could never imagine livng without that one, ever. It's like....this:"

And I proceeded to give him pecks on the skin of his back, along the shoulders and between the shoulder blades, each kiss a dry and tender covenant of everlasting love toward my own child, each kiss a protection, a prayer for his well-being. After a few of these, I said, "Cherish is like...that. Okay? Now to bed with you."

We sat there a moment, in the dark – or I sat, he leaned over my arm some. And then he said, "Chewish me again."

And of course, I did.

I cherish him now as I ever have, and I will always have his back. 

Those Who Are Awake

There is a morning call to prayer in "The-Religion-Of-Peace" toward every Muslim,
and there is a mourning call to action for those who are awake concerning them.
For those who are awake are not the ones dividing humanity into "acceptable" or not,
but rather the supremacist assertions of Qur'an, Hadith, Sunna, Shari'a, and Jihad.
Those who are awake may counter absurd accusations with absurd reflections,
of "Islamophobic" with "Kafirophobic" or "Islamophile" - to gage the reactions.
But more important still, is undistracted attention on being awake, staying awake.
Even friends may leave, or at least stop visiting.  Pressure to stop, or to fake,
gentle, soft or solid pressure, social or official pressure, media's manipulations
reassure and reassure, contradictions stir, dumbing-down desired for elite's machinations.

Those who are awake owe themselves the honesty, the respect and sovereignty
to think and reflect, include or reject, independent of the stream of the majority.
They owe this to their spouses, partners, children, and what loved ones look to them
for the one sign of integrity in the grave and testing time ahead, not far, that time.
Those awake will learn to feed their wakefulness, strengthen nerves, straighten spines,
give time to prayer, defense and meditation, inform oneself and others, read the signs.
To stand reverently firm and say yes when yes is required, and no when it's no -
this is how those awake recognize and see, the objective compassion to know
where the Zeitgeist is heading and how to respond with courage and faith.
Those who are awake are indifferent to being jeered, cheered or falling from grace.

For only those awake know really what's at stake.

Fire of Devotion

 

The sun does not warm the earth by being nice.

In whichever old language divine praises are sung,

all Traditions are in agreement that it be done with devotion.

If it is not one's native tongue so much the better,

knowing the sense and direction of the content

neither requires knowledge of every word, nor will the mind

be thus hampered with linear conceptual thinking.

Pronunciation is of more value, also rhythm and melody.

For this, devotion is needed.

And what is this devotion?

It is the fire of present love, of love being present.

It is natural that one feels lazy, too familiar, unmoved, or some panic.

And it is natural to one's discipline, to resist this influence.

Go into that love, go into the gut of it, the heart of you,

renew it, fall in love every time and be a lover.

Nothing is ever lost, and the gain

is in every moment one returns inward to that love.

This love goes out to all who would awaken,

if you would just recite once more

that prayer, that mantra, that hymn -

for the sheer love of intoning it, hearing it,

in your own voice.

Inspirations may come, you keep at it.

Reminders may come, of those in need of succor.

You keep at it, and hold it in that gut, sing from your heart.

Be present, and if you are not present yet-

get there by love's own blazing radiant will.

Let every recitation count, every repetition, every syllable and note.

First time is the last time...is always the first time.

You fall in love - and stay there.

It will give you presence of mind for the outer life;

it will give you the tenderness to nourish others;

it will give you the intestinal fortitude to go forth into steady combat,

in defense against the tyranny of the day.

The tyranny of conformity and flatulently flat-talking relativisms,

of platitudes of political correctness and its iron grip on the soul,

of the deadening cudgel of manipulated thinking

by a jaded, complacent era.

And the tyranny of that which most deny exists,

much less appreciate the imminent and gathering danger.

When one takes a medicine against illness,
sometimes the active substance is given inside
a compatible, neutral fluid - as with infusions, injections, drops.
The fluid carries the substance into the intended environment.
Just so, is the devotional intensity of your love that substance,
carried through your singing and recitations,
neutral of ego, of preferences or self-consciousness,
into the intended environment - reaching you, reaching all.

Prana sends its breath throughout your bodily form,

strengthening your immunity, your patience, your determination.

When you sing with devotional prana,

it begins to sing you, carrying off into the world -

and you become the Word.

This is love, in action.

The sun does not warm the earth by being nice.

Empathy

The screams of Islam's victims reach me in the night.

I hear them in the day through the din of normal life,

I hear the cries of children, of boys used as girls,

of girls used as property, and mutilated in their own most sacred...

I hear the weeping of women, and the bleating of God's creatures,

I sense the contempt toward this world's beauty, the stench

of loathing reaches my nostrils, and having no power but in prayer –

I have to bear it.

One hears how stupid Christianity is, how archaic, how weak,

one hears how arrogant the Jews are, how fundamentalist are both;

one hears little of Buddhists, of Hindus, they must have become irrelevant;

of Muslims one hears a great wind and clamor of how discriminated they are,

how misjudged, how maligned, intolerated, how misinterpreted:

one is not allowed to address the sheer lack of empathy

for the victims of Islam, these are denied recognition

as the mainstream sleep-walkers fall over each other – even atheists,

to recognize and fawn upon the "Religion of Peace."

Confrontation is only to be viewed as hostile hatred and vile bigotry,

no one can imagine that confrontation comes from empathy.

But I will say this once, and I'll be saying it again until one more awakens:

Being Human is something truly, deeply divine at its core,

the one question of any consequence being, what defines it, being Human:

it is not defined by power or by wealth, not by poverty or by shame,

it is not decided by ideology at all, or religion, or sexual orientation;

neither politics nor supremacy, nor tyranny nor pitied victimhood,

nor doing-everything-right nor following someone nor being good.

What decides and defines the Human Being is the faculty of empathy.

Real empathy cannot be manipulated, nor faked, nor sentimentalized;

it has the taste of consciousness, it both reflects and is spurred to action,

where action is required after reflection.

I hear much about tolerance and about co-existence, useful cudgels

in the hands of today's molders of NewSpeak, who know nothing,

nothing whatsoever of real empathy.

Am I Being Un-patriotic?

No fallen American soldier in my lifetime
has ever died for my freedom.
It is but a lie, an untruth, and an affront
propagated by interests ruling our governing body,
as a cancer drives a body, cell by cell, toward
eventual capitulation of all moral force and integrity.

It does not matter which president sits, the die is cast;
profit at all cost in the unrelenting contest of greed,
cynicism, hypocrisy, incompetence and intrigue.
Young countrymen and women, with ever darkening futures
or none left to see at all, trained and indoctrinated, sent abroad,
trained but unprepared, schooled but not matured,
heroized with propaganda which respects not one of
their precious lives now fallen – not for my freedom, nor for yours.

It is a lie as a matter of policy, an untruth as a matter of duty,
an affront toward every soldier sent and fallen, and toward the families
they have left to mourn. But those who form the policies do not mourn,
so don't listen to them; don't attend their parades, don't buy their memoirs,
don't support their platforms or their calls, the ground is thin ice breaking.
Strike at the polls, vote them out, vote them out if you can – but can you?

No fallen American soldier in my lifetime
has ever died for my freedom or for yours.
Democracy is as precious as those fallen lives,
for it too is fallen, its cadaver carried high
in a frenzy of propaganda.

To love Democracy one has to first imagine it,
not play to its travesty, it is to embrace it within
where heart and mind might learn and mature –
this would be patriotic, but not politically correct.
The naiveté of my people does not excuse the ineptitude
of principle-challenged psychopaths who begin wars on a lie.

When free speech and critical opinion fall to the mainstream culture
of arrogance, ignorance and aggression, Democracy falls
and my freedom is at perile as is yours; patriotism,
a beautiful and a noble feeling in the heart,
becomes a whacked-out cocaine high when it is
toyed with, manipulated to justify cover-ups of crimes
no American can bear to be apprised of.

May I be pardoned in this, for being so un-poetic,
may I be pardoned for sounding so un-patriotic.
But do not pardon me for being politically un-correct.
Arrest me, charge me, throw me in jail – for there I will sleep no worse
than I do many many nights, far removed here from my home shores,
here on a continent being dragged into the American Dream of delusion.

I am no stranger to mourning the dead and the fallen,
I have learned to mourn the dismemberment of
differential analysis in favor of deference to
demonic ideological wills abroad and at home.
If the truth is slow to come to the surface
I will be around as long as it takes; if my deep concerns
are called irrelevant by the relativists of the day, then
let the Orks of Islam prove me out at the end of that day.

Am I saying something new, of course not,
but I will not court silence or appeasement, I will not behave.
I will not submit to the poison of insipid correctness,
I will stand corrected by historical evidence but I will stand
on my own two feet and strive to perceive with a heart immersed
in my very private love for Democracy and for patriotic values.

I remain an expatriate, but will never be an expatriot.
My weapon is prayer, my shield as well, the barricades I mount
are internal, and should I be called to the barricades on my own street
I will be there. In the meantime I burn this candle here,
unextinguished, for the fallen, for my freedom and for yours.

Some prayers of mine...

May all women everywhere find and assert
their inborn sovereign dignity and power.

May all women everywhere find and assert
their inborn sovereign confidence and grace.
Amen, so be it.

May the living spirit of of The Divine Mother be with all children
everywhere at all times.

May Her lovingkindness and intercession prevail mightily on behalf

of their well-Being, in all situations on all levels.
May all children be well, may all children be happy.

Peace, peace, peace

May this prayer be extended and applied with all power and grace

to the entire Animal Kingdom, that all of Nature's creatures great and small

be blessed and sustained, shielded and protected, cherished,
healed and restored through this prayer;

that all of Nature's creatures, as with all children the world over,

be delivered from the hands of human cruelty into the hands

of human compassion and lovingkindness.
May all of Nature's creatures be well, may all of Nature's creatures be happy.
Peace, peace, peace.

There Is Not A Day Goes By

There is not a day goes by, nor a night, that the thought of my heart
is not immersed in Prayer and Presence, in concentrated lovingkindness
toward and embracing and enveloping and for the deliverence and healing:
of all victims of perpetrators and predators, of victims who later could
themselves become perpetrators, and of victims who remain victims.

Not a moment actually goes by without my holding close to my breast

in prayer and in yearning, those daughters in Nigeria

who are my own concern, and women and gays and Christians and children
throughout the abetted and vetted cultures of tyranny and violence, who are
either persecuted, terrorized, tortured, murdered or "executed" -
while Islam may have no monopoly on such outrages,

it certainly has a corner on that market.

Children who are mistreated and abused systematically, kidnapped,
sold for sex in a most unkind cult and culture of pädophilia, more widespread
and abetted than one cares to imagine - networked, as with satanic covens

(which one dare not mention);

these occupy indeed my politically powerless days of which there is not one

to which I don't dedicate hours to Prayer and Presence.
Where in Scripture is spoken of "not merely persons but

powers and principalities,"

we can speak today of lobbies, networks and tyrannies, systems of
overweening presence and power and designs on absolute control.

Therefore:  Prayer and Presence, the presence of real light,
and the prayer of faith - to fight for the light against the night, with
faith in the face of all daunting odds, of power which is of the world, of

indifference and of decadence, of sloth of heart.

Of all the tea-candles I burn in a week, the one constant is the
six-day oil candle which burns and is replaced, that this flame is
never extinguished, but burns 24/7, burns undeterred for those
who belong to ourselves, those whom we want to see free.

So for the hundreth time I am invited any reading this,

to join me in the following:

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

Being With Yourself

Prayer is not the words but

the Word as it makes sovereign your tongue

(evenso whether spoken or sung);

blind is faith not, but conscious –

and there is no faith without this.

Prayer is consciously speaking

the divine intention, its healing impulse –

if prayer it is.

The tip of that tongue is

creator, sustainer or destroyer –

it can idly maim or murder as easily as

it can concern itself with what is sacred,

consciously whispering ceaselessly

the Beloved’s Name

into action.

Prayer is the language of the heart

on the tongue

in action.

Prayer is being with yourself

more intimately

in compassionate friendship.

Prayer in action.

Meditation in action.

Rest in action.

Faith is now, not maybe;

here, not the "hereafter";

responsibly transcending

all time and space –

inheriting the earth.

How prayer works / wie das Beten funktioniert

Today during my morning prayer-set a nice little metaphor occurred to me:  two fish in the Pacific.   The one asks, 'What are you doing?'   The other replies, 'I'm corresponding with a beloved cousin in the Atlantic.'   'Huh?  What - you're kidding.'
'Shh, really. I'm concentrating and sending my love to my beloved cousin in the Atlantic.'  Says the first, 'You're nuts - how do you do that?'    The second replies, 'Water.'

'What,' laughs the first, 'what do you mean by "water"?!'

'Never mind,' says the second, going back to his correspondence. 'You just don't get it.'

Heute während meiner Frühgebets-Set kam einer netten kleinen Metapher auf mir zu:  zwei Fische im Pazifischen.   Fragt der eine: 'Was machst du da?'   Antwortet der Andere: 'Ich korrespondiere etwa mi meinem geliebten Verwandten dort im Atlantischen.'     'Häh? nee, spinnst du oder veräppelst du mich?'
'Pscht, im ernst. Ich konzentriere mich und sende meine Liebe an meinen geliebten Cousin im Atlantischen.'   Sagt der Erste: 'Du hast nicht alles - und wie soll das funktionieren?'
Entgegnet der Zweite: 'Wasser.'    'Was,' lacht der Erste, 'was meinst du mit "Wasser"?!'    'Tja, vergiss es,' sagt der Zweite, wieder am korrespondieren. 'Du begreifst es ehe nicht.'

Why Do These Tears Fall Suddenly Now

You are as a brother to me,

and it pleases me to love you as one,

you tirelessly post statements, I send you poetry,

both of us are serving Hanuman.

I feel so internally this bond, HD,

why else should this verse interrupt me at prayer!

I know this eternally between two such as we,

I stop at merging, the better to behold your face the more.

Sitting with you alone, on this ancient temple ground,

our inner ear full of the sacred timeless Sound –

our outer ear bombarded by chattering monkeys all around.

I am absorbed as are you; I could embrace,

draw the world into my bosom like Amma –

or a mother hen, as Jesus lamented Jerusalem;

I could outrun horses with Jap Sahib on my lips,

sword at my hip, in the service of Gobind Singh.

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