"Love is the only reality and it is not a mere sentiment.
It is the ultimate truth that lies at the heart of creation."
When I woke up that morning years ago, I had no idea that the trajectory of my life through time and space would be very much determined that afternoon. In fact, I don't think I fully realized it until a few moments ago sitting here --a half century later.
It was the summer of 1965. I had just finished my freshman year in college and was back home in a small town north of Chicago, working in a factory again for the summer, putting myself on a $5 a week "entertainment" budget and saving the rest to fund my education. I spent three of those dollars that afternoon in a matter of moments at a table of used books at the Lion's Club White Elephant sale in the small park near the center of town.
For years, I've realized that two of the books that I bought that day had a profound influence on me. The Wisdom of Buddha, published by a Buddhist organization in Japan was my first introduction to Buddhism. When I flipped it open and scanned a few pages, I thought, "Wow. That's interesting. This sounds like the Bible to me!?" This began the exploration of Buddhist teachings and practices that was to emerge, inspire, and sustain me over the years.
The second book was another small tome, The Wisdom of Gandhi. Deeply touched by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and the Civil Rights Movement, I had read that Dr. King had been deeply touched by Gandhi. That was good enough for me. Poking my nose into that one immediately brought forth another 20% of that week's allocated "mad money", and set the tenor and tone of my life's political activism and engaged spirituality.
It was only today, after an interesting experience yesterday evening, that I remembered that there was a third book I bought that afternoon.
The First Reminder, as translated by Chogyam Trungpa is: "Maintain an awareness of the preciousness of human life." The teachings about this slogan are seen as support for a deep personal contemplation of the truth presented. This contemplation, when taken to Heart, can change everything. Experiencing the Preciousness of Life is a wonderful gift.
Sitting there, allowing my mind to flow gently down the stream, quickly elicited the title "How Sweet It Is" for this post. I had no idea where that would soon lead.
The phrase "how sweet it is" had emerged from childhood memories of the comedian Jackie Gleason and his sketch character Ralph Kramden, whose bumbling bravado, macho working class egotism, and perpetual scheming to inflate his bank account (or his ego) would invariably create some sort of mayhem in the world of The Honeymooners each week. It was generally his wife Alice, a rock solid paragon of patience and unflinching assertiveness (usually delivered with razor sharp sarcasm), who, with arms crossed and toes tapping, would finally rein Ralph in and save the day. "How sweet it is", was Ralph's reoccurring exclamation of gratitude for Alice and the life they shared.
The mind stream cascaded on. Downstream from the Google search to jiggle my brain cells about Gleason's TV offering (it first aired when I was 6 years old), I found James Taylor's irresistible cover of the Motown song "How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You)" on YouTube. I immediately hit "play". Within moments I had picked up the 12 stringer and was playing along.
In another few moments, my chest was heaving and tears of profound gratitude were flowing freely.
How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You!) Indeed!
What struck me was that, although there was a slight whisper of nostalgic "me and you baby" romantic emotional energy and memories involved, the Gratitude and Devotion I was swept up in those moments wasn't really that at all.
The Being whose embrace and understanding made my heart sing "I want to stop and thank you, Baby" was none other than the Beloved that evoked the mystical poetry of Rumi and Hafiz. In my heart of hearts I was embracing, and being embraced, by the One Love that permeates heaven and earth! Awash In Love, Ecstatic, I was one of those freakin' Mystics!
I guess that blows my cover as a staid and solid practitioner of Mindfulness, huh?
I got goosebumps. That statement Presented a Truth that resonated with something deep inside me. I've been exploring that for a long, long time.
Over the years, I've studied the scriptures of the world's religions, participated in rituals, and investigated a variety of techniques. I've blissed out on the Bhakti of Kirtan Practice. I've danced with Sufi's. Done psychedelic sweat lodges. I've had my moments with Jesus as well. I am deeply grateful to have experienced the One Love in a number of Peak Experiences, Big Ones and Little Ones, over the years.
Yet, I've found that the Peak Moments are just that. They are moments. (occasionally strung out like the jewels of a necklace over the course of hours and hours) Although one can be launched into personal experiences of the Divine, of Eternity, of Perfection, of Boundless Love and Absolute Truth, they are just moments, wonderful places to visit -- but. being serious about this Bodhisattva thing, I wouldn't want to live there -- even if I could.
We each live and breath amidst the day to day activities of family, work, and relationships, of washing dishes and taking out the garbage. Immersed in the mundane and ordinary moments of life as it is, embedded in a world full of both incredible beauty and excruciating suffering, we each travel this path from birth to death moment by moment. What the Practice offers is the deepening ability to embrace the Reality of each moment with a clear mind and an open heart.
Through time, effort and patience -- on and off the meditation cushion -- the subconscious patterns that operate to separate us from ourselves and others are ultimately seen for what the are. As their energies are experienced directly they can be transmuted. They no longer dominate the way that we see and react to the world. Healing into our True Nature, we become Healers -- in whatever small way that we can.
Standing at the table in the park that day in the summer of 1965, I picked up a third book. Amidst those Moments yesterday, I remembered that that I also bought Gitanjali (Prayerful Offering of Song) by the 20th century Hindu Mystic Sage and Poet, Rabindranath Tagore. I had no idea who Tagore was at the time, but Gitanjali had an introduction by William Butler Yeats who I'd heard of --and the small hardback treasure was printed before WWI in London! It was antique and exotic!
I had no idea how this book would touch what would lay between the covers of my life story.
Yet I opened the book and was deeply touched as I read the first poem. Not quite understanding where Tagore was coming from, I was still hooked, a bit haunted. I pulled out another dollar bill, put the third book in the bag, and walked home.