What Are the Chains that Bind You?

Tonight I saw a one man show performing "Jacob Marley's Christmas Carol". Never have I fully realized the depth of this tale.
Something that struck me in particular was the punishment that Jacob Marley received upon entering the afterlife for it was the very same thing that weighed him so passionately yet so heavily in his life.

The ancient philosophers of the East talk of this very subject. They call it Karma. Karma literally means action.

Jacob Marley was to be chained to cash boxes and ledgers for the rest of eternity as they slowly grew into his skin and as he slowly morphed into them. His vice, its seems, was monetary.
When he first arrives at the after life he notices everyone around him chained to something, or that they have become that something. Some were draped in jewels, some chained to fiery demon women. These were the things that they most loved or hated in life. There were their foremost motivations in their dealings.
And so, Karma, is this chaining. It seems so tragic and cynical, but there is a Savior in this world. But before we meet the Savior we must ask ourselves, "Why? Why do I act in the way I act? What is my motivation?" What do we chain ourselves to here on this temporal world? And thus, in the story the Ghost of Christmas past is the facilitator of the hellishly introspective life review that Jacob and Scrooge cannot escape as they so often did throughout their lives.

In Eastern philosophy Karma is action, and action is a binding force. But there is such thing as Non action, or Akarma. Akarma is the performance of an action without any desire for fruit but for the pure simple joy of doing the Almighty's will. It is the sponteneity and wisdom of the PRESENT moment. This is what leads to liberation. This leads to Krishna Consciousness or Christ Consciousness. This is the true Buddha. This is the Dharma. This is the Sangha. And in the story of Jacob Marley and Ebenezer Scrooge it is the Spirit of Christmas PRESENT (you cannot love God in the past, you may not live him in the future, you have only now and now is all you will ever have).
In the story Jacob is not to play the part of the Spirit of Christmas Present (as he did the Ghost of Chirstmas Past), or to even call upon the Spirit -he is to LIVE it. And as he lives it he seems both in control and free to choose yet he acts spontaneously with the guidance of this divine power, he is in supreme joy, he is blissful and free to give of himself without a thought. And as Scrooge and Marley sit and watch the Cratchit's Christmas celebration and they gather to sing a lullaby to their crippled youngest, he sees a brilliant golden light connecting each person in the family to one another, then beholds the light circling back to him and his wonderful realization of the uniting force of the Holy Ghost -the uniting power of creation and the Spirit of Christmas Present or God's Divine love; the Pure love of Christ.

With Scrooge's change of heart Jacob Marley is liberated from the chains he so diligently crafted during his Earth life. Through this journey and awakening he is set free and steps outside the door to behold the universe unfolded before him. And there he stands in awe for how long? An hour? A Century? Then he sits staring, still in rapture, into the infinitude of creation. For how long? Eons maybe?
Then he humble steps back inside the office, ready to help and continue the mission we were all sent to do.

What are the chains that bind me?
What is my most prominent motivations?
I hope to reflect on my actions, past and possible future, and ask myself "Why?", for this question when honestly and deeply analyzed can bring about an awareness that can lift us ever higher and allow us access to our higher selves and to the will of God, lest we experience harder and harder lessons until we awaken to our Divine potential.

"Don't you know that ye are Gods?"

May we realize our unity and at-one-ment with our Lord and Savior this Christmas.

Jah. Jahovah. Wakatanka. Jesus. Buddha. Hare Krishna. Moon, Earth, Mother. Goddess Gaia. Isis. Devaki. Mary. Queen. Omega.
Heavenly Father. Divine Mother. Friend. Beloved God. Mahavatar Babaji. Lahiri Mahasaya. Swami Sri Yukteswar. Paramahansa Yoganandaji. Saints and Sages of all religions. I humbly bow at Thy lotus feet.
Lord God, may we saturate ourselves with longing for Thee. May we be immersed especially by Thy love so perfectly eminated through the Christ Jesus. May our motivation be Thee, for Thou hast no chains to bind us.

Aum.

Peace.

Amen.

Mindfulness is the Refuge

Many years ago I encountered some children on a beach in Sri Lanka. It had been a long time since I had seen children like that, barefoot children on a very green island with no sign of industrial pollution. These were not children of the slums; they were of the countryside. I saw them, and to me they formed a beautiful part of nature. As I stood on the beach alone, the children just ran toward me. We didn't know eachother's langauge, so i put my arms around their shoulders-all six of them, and we stood like that for a long time. Suddenly I realized if i chanted a prayer in the ancient Buddhist language of Pali , they might recognize it, so I began to chant, "Buddham saranam gacchami" (I take refuge in the Buddha). They not only recognized it, the continued to chant. Four of them joined their palms and chanted, while the other two stood respectfully. This chant is a common prayer, like the Our Father. "I take refuge in the Buddha. I take refuge in the Dharma. I take refuge in the Sangha."
I motioned to the two children who were not chanting to join us. They smiled, placed their palms together and chanted in Pali, "I take refuge in Mother Mary." The music of their prayer did not differ much from the Buddhist one. Then I embraced each child. They were a little suprised, but i felt very much at one with them. They had given me a deep feeling of serenity and peace. We all need a place that is safe and wholesome enough for us to return to for refuge. In Buddhism, that refuge is mindfulness.

-Thich Nhat Hanh, Living Buddha, Living Christ

The Last Smile

"The Last Smile"
Swami Paramahansa Yogananda
Highest Divine Swan of Yoga-Bliss

Taken an hour before his Mahasamadhi
or final conscious exit from the mortal body.
March 7, 1952

In his eyes I see the culmination of a lifetime of
Compassion
Service
and Love for the Lord.

This is one of my favorite photos of Him.

Like a few other great saints
Yoganada's body remained immutable
even after his departure.

"No physical disintegration was visible in his body even twenty days after death... This state of perfect preservation of a body is, so far as we know from mortuary annals, an unparalleled one... He looked on March 27th as fresh and as unravaged by decay as he had look on the night of his death."
-Mr. Harry T. Rowe
Los Angeles Mortuary Director, Forest Lawn Memorial-Park.

It is a symbol of his continued service
To his faithful devotees
And to humanity.

"My countless brothers! I shall wait for all... through Whispers from Eternity I shall gently say: 'Awake! Following His ever-calling voice, let us go home together.'"
-Paramahansaji

Aum, Peace, Amen.

It Rained Last Night; Easter Came Early

It rained last night. My bedroom window was wide open. I awoke this morning with the fresh air in my lungs -life woven between the water and air molecules. The space has been sanctified.
Let us all have new beginnings! Let us die and resurrect only the things that will bring us closer to our Divine Nature. It is our birthright. It is our mission.

"Did you know that the ant has a tongue
with which to gather in all that it can
of sweetness?

"Did you know that?"*

Today I gather all I can of sweetness
For the love in rain is unconditional and cleanses all.

*See last post.

Whatever it is: Let it go.

Flare
by Mary Oliver

     1.

Welcome to the silly, comforting poem.

It is not the sunrise,
which is a red rinse,
which is flaring all over the eastern sky;

it is not the rain falling out of the purse of God;

it is not the blue helmet of the sky afterward,

or the trees, or the beetle burrowing into the earth;

it is not the mockingbird who, in his own cadence,
will go on sizzling and clapping
from the branches of the catalpa that are thick with blossoms,
that are billowing and shining,
   that are shaking in the wind.

   2.

   You still recall, sometimes, the old barn on your
great-grandfather's farm, a place you visited once,
and went into, all alone, while the grownups sat and
talked in the house.
   It was empty, or almost. Wisps of hay covered the floor,
and some wasps sang at the windows, and maybe there was
a strange fluttering bird high above, disturbed, hoo-ing
a little and staring down from a messy ledge with wild,
binocular eyes.
   Mostly, though, it smelled of milk, and the patience of
animals; the give-offs of the body were still in the air,
a vague ammonia, not unpleasant.
   Mostly, though, it was restful and secret, the roof high
up and arched, the boards unpainted and plain.
   You could have stayed there forever, a small child in a corner,
on the last raft of hay, dazzled by so much space that seemed
empty, but wasn't.
   Then--you still remember--you felt the rap of hunger--it was
noon--and you turned from that twilight dream and hurried back
to the house, where the table was set, where an uncle patted you
on the shoulder for welcome, and there was your place at the table.

   3.

Nothing lasts.
There is a graveyard where everything I am talking about is,
now.

I stood there once, on the green grass, scattering flowers.

   4.

Nothing is so delicate or so finely hinged as the wings
of the green moth
against the lantern
against its heat
against the beak of the crow
in the early morning.

Yet the moth has trim, and feistiness, and not a drop
of self-pity.

Not in this world.

   5.

My mother
was the blue wisteria,
my mother
was the mossy stream out behind the house,
my mother, alas, alas,
did not always love her life,
heavier than iron it was
as she carried it in her arms, from room to room,
oh, unforgettable!

I bury her
in a box
in the earth
and turn away.
My father
was a demon of frustrated dreams,
was a breaker of trust,
was a poor, thin boy with bad luck.
He followed God, there being no one else
he could talk to;
he swaggered before God, there being no one else
who would listen.
Listen,
this was his life.
I bury it in the earth.
I sweep the closets.
I leave the house.

   6.

I mention them now,
I will not mention them again.

It is not lack of love
nor lack of sorrow.
But the iron thing they carried, I will not carry.

I give them--one, two, three, four--the kiss of courtesy,
of sweet thanks,
of anger, of good luck in the deep earth.
May they sleep well. May they soften.

But I will not give them the kiss of complicity.
I will not give them the responsibility for my life.

   7.

Did you know that the ant has a tongue
with which to gather in all that it can
of sweetness?

Did you know that?

   8.

The poem is not the world.
It isn't even the first page of the world.

But the poem wants to flower, like a flower.
It knows that much.

It wants to open itself,
like the door of a little temple,
so that you might step inside and be cooled and refreshed,
and less yourself than part of everything.

   9.

The voice of the child crying out of the mouth of the
grown woman
is a misery and a disappointment.
The voice of the child howling out of the tall, bearded,
muscular man
is a misery, and a terror.

   10.

Therefore, tell me:
what will engage you?
What will open the dark fields of your mind,
like a lover
   at first touching?

   11.

Anyway,
there was no barn.
No child in the barn.

No uncle no table no kitchen.

Only a long lovely field full of bobolinks.

   12.

When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider
the orderliness of the world. Notice
something you have never noticed before,

like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket
whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.

Stare hard at the hummingbird, in the summer rain,
shaking the water-sparks from its wings.

Let grief be your sister, she will whether or no.
Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also,
like the diligent leaves.

A lifetime isn't long enough for the beauty of this world
and the responsibilities of your life.

Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.
Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.

In the glare of your mind, be modest.
And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling.

Live with the beetle, and the wind.

This is the dark bread of the poem.
This is the dark and nourishing bread of the poem.