“ Life on the Mississippi – The New Millennium”
2.21.2002
“ That,”
I had said to Tom as we had coffee before he left for Austin, Texas, “ would be
a wonderful name for this chronicle
being written in these pages --
you know, the Big Black Book !”
We tossed this around
till it became better and better and the idea stood shining in front of us.
“The name has been taken, “ he said.
“ That
was, when…. In the 1830s?” I said. “ this is the New
Era. The Modern Version.”
And he made me promise,
as he left, that I would not give up on the idea. Make the Big Black Book into
The Life on the Mississippi – The New Millennium, contributed to by the
Independent Scholars attending the Independent Scholars’ Evenings at The
Institute.
Yes,
I promised him. I would. It had been called the Big Black Book till now, a
leather-bound manuscript with lined numbered pages waiting to be written in.
Certainly, it will be a
little personal, sometimes. But it is us who people the lands around the
Mississippi.
For me, perhaps, the
significance has a different color. Or rather, a range of
different colors. For I call the Big River the American Ganges.
Yesterday when Swami Nagendra was here, and he wrote a Shaloka
in the Big Black Book, he had just finished a ‘ Greh-Shanti puja’ complete with
all the offering of flowers, and I had shown him the cover of the India
Today magazine which had a photo of a recent archeological discovery of the
city of Cambay, sunken, into the ocean near Gujarat on the West coast of India, and being dated 7,500 BCE making it
the oldest civilization in the world.
I take the liberty to
mention these Vedic notes, but the heritage of the Vedas is what I bring to The
Institute.
Last Wednesday, was Ash
Wednesday.
Public history and
Private history can be powerful beyond all reasonable measure.
3.1.2002.
It is appropriate for me to give a brief explanation about the Vedic rite
performed as well as the Sanskrit ‘ Shaloka’
or couplet that Swami Nagendra wrote here, on the 20th.
in Sanskrit:
“ Astoma Sadgamaya. Tamsoma Jyotiha Gamaya.
Mrityuhma Amrityumagamaya. Om Shanti Shanti
Shanti. “
“Let us go from Untruth towards truth.
Let us go from Darkness towards Light.
Let us go from Death towards Immortality.
Let there be Peace, Peace, Peace. “
The Vedic rite: or “ Greh- Shanti” refers to the rite in invoking peace in all the 9
planets that effect an individual or a place.
“ Shanti” means
Peace. “ Greh” means the
planets. The Vedic rite involves flowers and fruit to be offered. The most
important thing is the Sanskrit Mantras. Mantra is vibrational
sound. They have a powerful effect. It is vital that they are said and
pronounced with accuracy, precision and exact phonation. This is where the skill, art and expertise of
the Swami or Pundit comes into play. The vibrational sounds remain in the atmosphere.
This is the Belief.
However, as all Beliefs, it is in the act of believing that the validation
occurs.
It is fascinating, among
other matters, to note how the Sanskrit Mantras first identify the place as the
rite begins; and, since we are along the Mississippi banks, the Swami
skillfully draws all positions and place identification with the geographical
location where the rite is being conducted. In other words, the Mantras and the
‘ Service’ if
you wish to term it thus, are adjusted precisely to this land – where we live
and where I now write.
I quote Mark Twain:
“Unquestionably,
the discovery of the Mississippi is a datable fact which considerably mellows
and modifies the shiny newness of our country, and gives her a most respectable
outside aspect of rustiness and antiquity.”
Life on the Mississippi.
3. 3.2002
In these days of
electronic texts it has been reputed that data, if it is has not been kept
abreast of technological advances, will be lost in about five years. Although
this undertaking of creating a handwritten manuscript may sound medieval and
elaborate, but it holds in its original form and reveals itself to its readers
regardless of technological changes. Nor does it eliminate those who are
unschooled in these advances.
Words, as words in a
language as a means of communication, will always remain. They may grow and
meanings may change but the word and its intended meaning will communicate its writers intent to the reader. Certainly ambiguities will
occur in interpretation. But those are the reflections of the reader. The word once written, reflects the moment when it was written. The author
who selects the word does so with an intent particular to its meaning. The
author might then choose other words to reflect his or her change in
perspective as growth occurs. But the word, once written, carries a permanency
with it.
Being handwritten and
its original form, this manuscript will carry with it a certain charm that is
reserved only for original art where the wealth of the writer is richly
displayed and unthreatened by the possible loss of ‘data’ .
Additionally, there is a
sense of complementary antiquity. The Old River. And Old communication of humans. Both in
rhythmic balance in their solidity. Both remain unchanged, and yet
remain forever changing.
The
Mississippi, whom I loving call The American Ganges, for I come from a land in
which the River is worshipped as the Divine Goddess, as Mother. And I
call forth the permanency of that image of the giver of life-sustaining water this time of this manuscript and writing.
As such, this manuscript
is as a collection of flowers – each flower complete, and perfect, in itself. Each flower true and natural. And each flower spontaneous. Carrying its truth with it.
7.21.2002
The pressure I keep
getting put to me, directly and indirectly, is:
Why don’t you leave this town ! Why don’t you
go someplace where there are more like you?
Someone very dear to me
asked me: Why do you stay in America? I had answered him without missing a
beat: Because I love living in America where History is being made. Microsoft
gets on the Dow and it has a ripple effect across the world.
The first question was
again brought before me – very obviously. And I examined it again. This I will
attempt to answer now. Once and for all.
We live along the banks
of the Mississippi,
in an industrial, manufacturing town that has produced great industry and great
men and women that supported the industry.
The Mississippi is a
river. It is also a place. It is also an experience. There is a certain solidity in
it that rivers do not have. Like the Ganges, it is beyond time. And yet, always new.
Always a new experience.
Why do I continue to
live here? That is a good question. First, before I attempt to answer that
question, a mention about why I even attempt to address this in these public
pages.
For what I experience,
in some form or the other, is experienced by other immigrants. This is the land
of immigrants. This was once the Wild West. The Frontier.
And such questions were surely asked of the newly arrived and born overseas.
Certainly, as I have, so they must have asked themselves the very same
question. Certainly, there is a similarity and a familiarity in immigrant
experiences. Also, as I have just learnt from my friend Ed Pashke, that an artist can
never edit himself or herself. Art
cannot be edited. Yes. That is true. And this book reflects the various moments
that are arranged into the pattern from which The Institute is evolving.
So why do I continue to
live here? Because this is where the work began. This
is where the conditions are right for it to flourish.
“
Unquestionably, the discovery of The Mississippi is a datable fact which
considerably mellows and modifies the shiny newness of our country, and gives
her a most respectable outside aspect of rustiness and antiquity.” Mark Twain in Life on the
Mississippi. I quote this here again.
As we are going into the New Era – the 21st
C. and forward, the newness is in the discovering of new ‘ waters’ within the
old. Waters where rivers of knowledge and age are connected.
There are the physical rivers and then the rivers that exist on a separate
plane to parallel or sometimes shadow the known physical river. There is a lot
this river has given to me. But now , there is
something that I can, perhaps, bring to it. I connect my heritage with these
waters.
Since I am actively
involved with The Institute and am constantly pushing it – some of The Questions brought
before me, and to me, are mentioned in this Book. I include them with
deliberation. For such is
Life on the Mississippi, and such are the challenges of The
Institute.
On
Friday July 19th. 2002, I decided I will not sell The Moline
Commercial Club that houses The Institute and will continue to run it for a
period of at least 5 to 7 years more while I monitor The Institute and see how
it evolves. I had The Moline Commercial Club building for sale. There had been
a good offer. One that would carry the ideologies of The
Institute. But they tried to play nerve games that I was not willing to
play.
Will,
lost in a sea of trouble, rise
Save
yourself from the whirlpool
of the enemies of
willing.
Courage
exposes ambushes.
Steadfastness
destroys enemies.
Keep
your victories hidden.
Do
not sulk over defeat.
Accept
good. Bend before evil.
Know
the rhythm that binds all men.
-
Archilochos 7th.
Century BCE.
Sept. 13th. 2002
There are waves on The Mississippi as
it ebbs and flows. There are waves within these waves as it swirls and turns
and swirls and turns in perfect rhythm and harmony. The Mississippi establishes
its superiority. Its spontaneity is within its own boundaries, within its
control. It moves its waters this way and that, which way it wants, how it
wants, when it wants.
And in its essence, it
pulls in waters from other lands.
What is it pulling
together now? What has it planned for us? What is it pulling together? Is it planning something for us? Or has the plan already been made and only
that much revealed as we, the one who carry the waters within, cannot see.
Rather – as we can see. What we cannot see but know to be there and feel it to
be true.
Yesterday was the
beginning of the 7th. Year. The Institute
enters it 7th. Year. It was as if The Mississippi
itself danced strong masculine steps, delicate feminine ones, swirling around
creating forms that are suddenly still and suddenly moving. All at its own will. It danced with the ripple of sparkles that
were droplets of water catching the sunshine and ripples of bells on his feet
as they moved to its rhythm and its harmony and its demand – the ripple of
delicate sounds sometimes strong, sometimes soft, sometimes forceful, sometimes quiet. Yet always, always under his instructions,
under his direction,. Always under
the speech f his direction.
Till this moment I
constantly wavered between the feminity of the river –
ingrained as it is in me to see the river in a feminine form as the Ganges. Or the Yamuna. Or the Sarawati.
Now, as the images of the dancer float before me and I see his swirling form
and structured stillness and his quintessential grace I recognize the ‘ Old Man River’. And The Mississippi takes on, finally, in
my mind a male form: The only river in the world that has a masculine essence
in its land and its people around it, around him. For no longer do I need to
escape The Mississippi’s gender reference
- For he expressed himself in
the dance form personified by the dancer Prashant
Shah.
Prashant
is in Chicago, in between his sojourn in India and Europe and Latin America
where he has been giving performances in the old dance form of Kathak - the
classical dance form taken from the Ganges to the Moghul
courts and now, brought to the Mighty Mississippi.
We bring our waters, as
The Mississippi demands, to his shores. It is His direction. Yesterday, there
were people who brought to him the essences of France, of Ecuador, of Spain, of India,
of Portugal, of Israel, of Washington State – the furtherest
part of America that entered this room
where you are either an Independent Scholar or a co-learner or sometimes both.
Prashant
was born in Ahemdabad, Gujarat, India – the land that
gave birth to M.K. Gandhi. And Kathak.
We had an excellent
turnout and the initial reading from “ Life on The
Mississippi – The New Millennium” was given. David read his section, I read
Tom’s section and mine, and Roald read his.
And then the Mississippi
danced ~~~~~~
June 4th. 2003
“The water panther is an
animal that is halfway between an otter and a mountain-lion. It is found in the Amazon. I do not know what
it is called. But the one that is seen here is a spirit. It is a spirit of the Mississippi.
It is the guardian of the Mississippi; the reason why you can’t see it is
because it is a spirit. The spirit will let you see it when it wants to. They
sent for professional lion-hunters three times, I think. But they never found it. They say they found
chicken bones and feathers. But mountain lions eat the whole thing. They do not
leave chicken bones and feathers. The mountain lions like dogs and cats. These
are a delicacy to the mountain lion. There were none reported eaten. Besides, a
mountain lion would not live in a city like this. That’s why I believe it is a sprit. Because they have seen it
off and on for now 3 to 4 years. They have seen it in Rock Island, in
Moline, in Silvis. In Rochelle area. In Clinton in the Iowa
side. Davenport, also, though I am not sure. Spirits have the power.
They can let you see them if
they want to. The water panther has been seen off and on for
thousands of years. Its
always been here. It will always be here. I am not afraid of it. I don’t know about people.
Regarding the Arsenal:
“
there was a white swan in the particular area. It was the spirit of the
Arsenal Island. When the ‘ white man’ came, the swan
went into the cave and never came out again. The cave was the one holding the
swan. The cave closed up by itself.
Nobody plugged it up. It sits underneath the
fort on the arsenal. This swan is
the guardian of the Arsenal Island. When the life cycle of the Earth ends, it
will come out - just
before it ends, it will reappear.”
Preston Duncan, Muskwaki Shaman. As dictated to me.
“ The
Mississippi is sacred to my people. There are many spirits of the Mississippi.
And we were the Guardians of it until the Europeans came. And the tributaries are just
as sacred. There are symbols along the shores, along the Rocky cliffs. They are
our symbols.
I can only
speak for my tribe. “
Preston
Duncan, Muskwaki Shaman. As dictated
to me.
July 30th.
2003
Some of us write just our names
here, and no more. Some of us write a few lines impromptu and unrehearsed. Lines that will remain unvisited and forgotten by the ones who
wrote them. Lines that will be remembered by those who wish to remember
them. Lines that will be revisited again and again by those
who need them and when they need them. And then there are some of us who
write concepts as they reveal and realize the concepts. Some of us think of
vignettes as we see the river and some of us write some of the vignettes here.
Some of us decorate these pages with designs that flow from impression that
remain sometimes clear and sometimes blurred.
Some of us look at the designs and feel our hearts lift with the joy of
recognition – feeling someone putting into words what we know intuitively but
cannot express. And, some, a few, will arrange a design complete in it pattern
and colors, thinking out the details, covering the angles, tightening the
forms, adjusting the tone, testing the depth and then, letting it sit with them
till they are satisfied that it is final and ready to be seen by others and
then, only then, do they present it here for public eyes to see.
Like the river, there is no definite
line in permanence at the borders and what is contained varies with every shade
and every wave. Every thought and every words and every voice is within its
boundaries. Its borders expand and contract according to the volume and weight
of the content. Where are the voices of these waves deep, where are they
shallow, where are they wide, where are narrow? These are questions for the
perceivers’ vision, which, by the very wave it perceives, changes to respond to
its own perspectives.
Each growing with
their own time and their own need.
And what was the need that was expressed
yesterday evening with the large gathering?
What is the time that has indelibly changed?
You tell me.
For I
do not know.
I only know this - that a shift has occurred. An
unfolding happened. A need was met. And Time responded to a demand felt.
There were many times that, in the
past, I would feel a sense of vexation and keen disappointment when I looked at
the room with only 2 or 3 people in it and a perplexed presenter wondering if
the presentation is worth giving after all. And at those times, I would
remember the words of a Fulbright scholar who came to speak on Chinese Art and
calligraphy. There were no more than 4 or 5 people present and I was trying to
look for reasons why there was not a better representation from the community. And she gave me a concept that I have kept
close to my heart and often revisited. She said: “ The
Chinese characters are a community. And in a community each stroke matters.”
I have never forgotten her words and
have repeated them often to encourage others as much as I have repeated them to
stem my own discouragement at an empty or near empty room facing an excellent
presentation given by a brave and sporty presenter. And always the words had
the consistent effect of uplifting the listener, of making our struggles seem
worthwhile; of through the eyes and ears of an ancient philosophy, giving
purpose and heart to an idea and project that would sometimes feel so lost and
failing. Her words have given us strength so often.
Her name was Judith Sutherland from
the Iowa Humanities Council. Now I realize my despondency was lame and weak. For I did not recognize the play of the waves and the shadows, of
sound and of silences. Those came who were interested. Those who felt the need. Those who were
searching without questions or directions. Those who had questions that
needed to be answered. Those whose questions only found answers that led to
more confusions. And those who came for more questions
and sometimes for neither questions or answers – only for comfort and solace
and the reassurances that only resonating souls can bring. Why should I despair if there are few and
rejoice if there are many? The need is answered consistently. The waters are
there – in their waves and in their stillness. And they are always there, regardless of the
need within the rivers’ boundaries. Numbers are merely academic. And academics
are important. For academic reasons. But it is in the
presence that the need is satisfied. It is subtle form or in the gross form –
the presence is perceptible.
No longer will I be disturbed by the
numbers of attendees nor demand a large audience consistently. I will merely
observe, in this wonderland that Alice saw on the one hand and Sita saw on the other side of the world – saw in the ‘forest’ and I will report here, among these
waves of pages, with utmost glee rejoicing like a child.
And so, last night – they kept
bringing chairs, adding them to the end rows till the room spilled over into
the entry foyer. And that was too far. So the people came forward and stood
along the edges of the room. No one left in the middle of a 2 hour long
presentation. There were two women who were moved to tears. I watched the
faces, and no one observed me watching them. So rapt were they all in the words
flowing from the presenter over the room and into the listeners’ hearts.
July 30th.
2003
Often, imitation is seen as a
compliment. In a sense, I suppose, of an intuitive recognition of some form, be
it in concept form or in physical form, that is
superior in its truth. Recently, someone introduced to me the idea that
imitation is a kind of fear; or that it is born of fear. I can’t remember
which. I focused on the link between imitation and fear ,
and my mind was intrigued by the connections and their implications. I have not
yet decided if I accept that statement - connecting imitation with fear.
There is one advantage, however, in
this particular incident that follows: the Midwest Writing Center has announced
that it is collecting stories from people who live along the Mississippi. And in a following announcement, a note saying that a journal will
be provided. The Midwest Writers’ Center is run on the same lines as
Independent Scholars’ Evenings that the Institute sponsors. It was started by Roald
Tweet, who has been a director of The Institute.
The advantage is obvious – the rivers’ grandeur is
increasing in its celebration.
For the power of the River is beyond
its physical aspect and appearance. The Mississippi has other dimensions to it.
Or rather, to him. Some , I
have seen. The other, I have yet to see. Some I have known. The other, I have
yet to know. And, on the surface of my vision is the experience of the Ganges.
You can see the Ganges well. And you can know the Ganges, if you are so
inclined to do so. And other is the Yamuna. – the
tributary river that merges with the Ganges. At the place where they merge is
the river Saraswati. The river Saraswati
you cannot see. But you can know of its presence. Sarastwati,
the third river at the confluence of the waters of the other two, is an underground river. It is the river
of Knowledge. No one has seen the river Saraswati,
but they all speak of her and can tell you where her waters come up and merge
with the waters of the two rivers you can see.
Then there is the fourth river – the
Mandakini. That’s the river up in the Heavens,
somewhere. Few know of the river. And ever fewer have seen it
. I wonder if it is the river of Consciousness.
The power of the
Mississippi in in his manuscripts. Who of us
can read them? ……
The manuscript already begun has
opened its pages.
Oct. 20th.
2003
This is the season of Ladybugs !!! One can hardly open the door and ladybugs ‘ attack’ us. They climb in. they fly in. They crawl in –
any open space. A car door is opened for a minute, and they are in. Ladybugs.
Yesterday, at the Herbert Hoover
Presidential library, Roald Tweet gave a reading of
what the Mississippi is in our area and about the early communities that
settled here, along his banks. He mentioned about how the river flows from East
to the West. ‘ Not East-West West –East
as they say in the Quad Cities,’ he said ‘ a disease I seem to have caught!’
This was a beautiful 80F Sunday
afternoon and there was a large crowd that had turned up to hear Roald speak.
He spoke of the 27 communities that
have settled along the banks of this 14-7miles where the river turns west. He
spoke about how the more prosperous communities were on the west side of the river. He spoke about how
the rapids were so dangerous that there had to be special pilots, who had been
trained in these rapids, to help negotiate the river. And - this is the first time I have heard
anyone officially mention it – he officially, at the end of the podium on the
stage at the Herbert Hoover Presidential Library, mentioned the Vortex. There are several
energy centers, he said, where spiritual energy is highly elevated and they are
known as Vortex. He mentioned Peru and Chile. And then said that with the movement of this
river, in our area, this is a Vortex in North America. He mentioned how people
who came here stayed. They stayed way past their original intention of ‘1 or 2
years’, as in some cases, or ‘a short time’ in others.
After his
talk, I was outside the library talking with Dick Stahl and his wife. Dick Stahl, the poet laureate of the Quad
Cities for the previous,
and the First term, originating the series, had just handed over
charge to Rebecca Wee, the current poet laureate of the Quad Cities. The sun
was bright. There was a warm, embracing breeze. The trees were the rich autumn
colors of Purple and Red and Gold and Brown and Pink
and Green and Amber and Indigo in splashes and streaks around us. It was late
afternoon. A Ladybug somehow appeared on his glasses - on the right lens of his
glasses. I watched it crawl around for a
bit – the same Golden Brown rich autumn colors.
It started bothering Dick Stahl – he couldn’t see clearly through that
lens, with the Ladybug crawling all over it. ‘ Make a
wish as it flies away, ‘ I said. ‘Make a wish and as it flies away it will
become true.’ He looked at his wife and said, ’ What
wish is here left?’
‘Ah! Yes.’ I
said.’ They have all come true.’
This satisfied contentedness, this
quiet happiness, this warm embracing breeze of fulfillment..
what people struggle for and so easily found here
along these quiet waters with deep, deep unpredictable currents that few can
see with the untrained eye.
The Ladybug had flown away and we had
not even noticed when it left our sight.
Oct 31st
2003
Dr. Vazquez from Augustana
gave a very thought-provoking discussion on the power of language – to coerce,
to manipulate, to convey ideas that may or may not be interpreted according to
the writers intent – The accuracy of information –
what a powerful search. Either the reader does not know; or if the Reader knows, the Reader must know accurately.
Dr. Vasquez talked of the different
style of presentation of language from men and women.
That is an open question. It is a
hard question to resolve with the body of knowledge and the wisdom that exists
in the history of the Human already. Did the men and the women borrow from each
other? If they did, was it more in a certain genre of knowledge? Literature perhaps? Was there a difference between Eastern
and Western written expressions in addition to the differences of gender?
These are questions for an expert to
answer. If they need to be answered.
My concern is more with how
knowledge is subject to the integrity of the one who receives the body of
knowledge. I am fascinated by how you can give a sentence containing a deep
underlying concept and have it totally, or partially,
understood regardless of how clearly it is stated. How it can be misunderstood,
or twisted depending on the innate nature and motives of the listener? In that fine yet strong line exists and entire world. A
world in which people, if they are so inclined, will take a whole idea or concept and turn it against you – turn it
on its own head and use it for destruction.
A good friend of mine – a highly
evolved Buddhist nun – had once told me, while warning me about someone who was
then around me , - that : ‘ be careful of her.’ Referring to the woman who was then around me. ‘ She understands high ideals but does not have the courage
to achieve them. Such people will bring the ideal down to their own level in an
attempt to deal with their own frustration, their own weakness.’
Yes. A whole world lives in the fine
line between statement and comprehension.
And it is not gender related.
The capacity to comprehend is
subject to the listeners internal journey of the soul.
This is what I believe.
And I had noticed this a few years
ago – when I had attended the discourses of the 14th. Dalai Lama as he would give
talks in Minnesota, Los Angeles, Madison, Wisconsin. I had noticed that he would speak
at different levels - I had identified
four - and the audience would understand
according to their own knowledge or wisdom.
It was very, very cleaver and extremely beautiful. There is no way I can
repeat it. I do not have that skill. It is as music – the
different strains, the different thoughts, the different messages, all
intertwined to carry the gift of ‘communication.’
Yes. There is a whole world that
lives in the fine line of statement and communication.
And a world in which great danger
also exists.
The danger, not of misinterpretation
– for that can be easily rectified. But the danger of
insidious and deliberate mis-use of information.
I will bring two parallel concepts
here that are from recent history of our human society. One is the virus of Aids – that will
enter the body, learn the knowledge of its host cells, become like it and then
destroy it: the host’s body.
In a similar way, with a parallel
method, those who destroyed the World Trade Center in 2001 had entered the
society of the host, learnt about the host, become like the society of the host
till they could not be distinguished, and then proceeded
to attempt to destroy their host.
It is the intent and insidiousness
of the receiver of
knowledge. That is key.
Obviously, the closing of barriers
in both these cases are neurotic and self-defeating. Obviously, also, the
question of these two parallel examples being part of the same intelligence is
a matter for another discussion.
My focus here is on the question of
interpretation – of the listeners honor and wisdom.
There is another potential danger
that, in my vision, has appeared on the hear horizon: the information of the
esoteric knowledge of Rikki being used without wisdom by being put into
the hands of people of low integrity and little honor.
‘For Knowledge is proud
that she knows so much.
And Wisdom is humble
that she knows no more. ‘
This is a
couplet I have learnt in my college days in India and have never forgotten .
The fact that the host country could
not be destroyed, and will never be destroyed by the viruses of infiltrators,
is testimony that wisdom is a growing phenomenon.
In conclusion of this passage here I
raise a question of the Buddhist concept of compassion. That can be a
self-defeating and unmanageable concept if not understood correctly. To those who are wise in their tenderness to examine the
ramifications of compassion it is advantageous to keep this charming incident
in mind : I had been visiting Gesa Sopa in Madison, Wisconsin. I would often visit him for
discourses in philosophical nuances of Dharma-issues, during the time of my
internal strife. Somehow, I can’t for the life of me, remember why I mentioned
the word ‘ shoe’ in our conversation. And he said: “Yes. There is an interesting
thought about shoe. The world outside the ground has so many stones and thorns,
broken glass, nails and sharp pointy objects and twigs. These things can hurt
your feet as you walk on them. You cant
cover the whole world with leather. So you put leather on your feet. And
protect your feet.”
Yangste Rinpoche gave me the concept - Wisdom with Compassion. Wisdom with Knowledge.
Everything you do, he is, is with wisdom. Yangste
Rinpoche is the Abbot in training to take over from Gesha Sopa at Deer Park, near
Madison, Wisconsin.
11.12.2004
The poetry of
motion. The poetry of sand. The
poetry of water. These are the three that divide and unite – swirling as
they go forward. Always going forward – the essence of belief of all philosophy; transcending
hope. The certitude of knowing, the
certitude that transcends hope: The poetry of motion. Of
sand. Of water. The interrelationship between
these there – their interconnectedness, their separateness: Each in isolation and in togetherness. Always
present from the beginning of time. Everything has changed in this swirl.. and yet, nothing has changed.
11.13.2004
The war is between Islam and
non-Islam. It is time for Islam to figure out what Is
not Islam. And therein lies the solution.
On the cover of ‘The Economist’ is
the face of George W. Bush with sad and
tired and wizened eyes and with a tight- lipped, closed deeply widened smile on
his face – some might say it is the look of satisfaction. The magazine was on
the table under a vase of star-gaze lilies. I picked up the magazine and as I
sat to look at the cover picture, and looked at the face with eyes looking into
the distance, I saw there were beads of orange and golden pollen sprinkled over
his forehead: Pollen from the star-gaze lilies. It did not take the sadness
away from his eyes. Nor the tiredness. Nor the lights that sparkled as he looked into the distance – his
smile strong and quiet. The words written above his head say ‘ Now, Unite us.”
I wonder how his eyes will change as
these words unfold themselves in the moments ahead – the moments that link
together to form on the shifting sands – the permanence of happenings which
unfold and reveal themselves in what some might call history at some time in
the future.
The making of history – a grain of sand – with another
grain of sand and together, sometimes a few will be put into a bag and tied up
and placed against each other to protect
a people, a person, an edifice, a
monument. Perhaps piled up together in a group to guide
motion in the passage of time, or in the drops of water. Drops of water
that make a body.
The river passes us – slowly going
west. The sun is setting, or will be soon.
The late afternoon shadows lengthen, and the light is weakened.
On the pedestal, in front of me, with the windows
behind, full of sunlight, is a statue made of yellow and amber glass. It is of Ganpati – sitting on a throne with his hand raised in blessing
and an ‘modak’ a honeyed
flour ball, in the other hand. He sits in a half-lotus, and the fold of his dhothi fall
gracefully. The details are complete, delicate, exquisite.
The sunlight comes through the glass coloring it, placing shadows, accentuates
highlight, revealing the form in all its exquisite beauty. Ganpati. Glowing
in the sunlight. Beauty in its presence. Beauty in its precision. Beauty in its
coloring. Beauty in its shadings. I can barely
see his eyes. Yet, I know that they are there.
There was a little passage in The
Economist, a little paragraph indicating the detailed report in a later part of
the magazine. I read the paragraph and could not read any more.
May 22nd.
2005
“After all,”
as Roald Tweet had said, “ The
Mississippi is a manuscript – a manuscript which is never complete.”
History, as we
know, grows with old buildings.
For the past
has a force of its own.
The past foretells the future.
When I bought the old building, I had
inherited the past – it came with the building. By restoring it, I had brought
it, workable, into the present, and together with its inheritance, it is
unveiling the future – The force is very strong - of the past and the present.
Once, when I was a young girl in
India, I was walking with my friend in a dry river bed. My mother was sitting
on the bank of
the dry river bed, watching the evening. Suddenly, we heard yelling
.. a man was running towards us, waving his
hands over his head and yelling. Being young, we doubted his intentions and
were afraid of him - until he came closer and we could make out
his words. He was yelling: “Get out of
the way, the water is coming…” and we
looked behind him and saw a wall, a rolling wall of water, with sticks and
twigs and small stones in it, rolling fast towards us and the man running ahead
of the water, pointing his hand behind him, towards the water and yelling.
We ran and scrambled up onto the
bank, and just as my foot came on the bank, I heard the rush of water and I
turned around and looked at the river bed, dry no longer, full of brown,
churning, muddy water……
The river bed was no longer an empty one,
but a full river, tearing down the path it had made for itself in earlier
times….
…….. in the Past
For the Past has a force of its own….
It, the past, the old path, guided the
new path of the force in the water; which, in itself, is the most powerful of forces.
That is why the Taoists use water as
their symbol. It is the most powerful of forces. It goes around obstacles,
under obstacles, around obstacles – it can be gentle – it can be strong. It can
be destructive. It can be playful – and, like the air we breathe, we cannot
live without it. In face, without water, we would be
parched and dead.
I am Alice and this is Wonderland – and I
watch the story being unfolded. I can’t help myself. I am fascinated
: by this book unfolding before me. I had absolutely NO idea about this
all when I bought the building: as to
how the building would reveal itself.
As Alice in this Wonderland, I ma the little girl in the dry river bed, watching the water
tumble towards me and getting out of the way of its destructive force to where
it does not destroy me; and, on safe ground, watching the river flow in all its
power and glory.
There is an unveiling – and its isn’t only of the future. The past makes its presence
known as and when it sees fit. Someone, once had
likened memory like a pebble in an ocean. It makes a ripple and what stirs,
coming to the surface, is what is relevant to the moment. The moment is memory
– the past, present and the unborn future all contained in one drop – in time.
I write these, here, in these public
pages, so that all who read it can get the spatial sense of the story
being unfolded – that neither you, the reader; not I, the writer, know about.
We do not know the ending. That is unplanned and it is unrehearsed. Neither is
it limited to the dimension of a mortal life.
We merely, watch it flow as we
watch the river flow.
TIME LINE - entered 5.22.2005
I will endeavor to maintain a time
line in different ink, ( if I remember !) The advantage being for the
reader who is scanning the pages.
This time-line, thus far, of the
introduction of The
Moline Commercial Club to Modern times is as follows:
The concept, initial concept, of the
restoration was spoken of informally when I discovered that the building was
indeed built for the Commercial Club after purchasing it in 1990 and after some
fieldwork with the Rock Island Historic Society.
I designed the project with a three
phase development, first the restoration of the building then the active
business and finally the revival and restoration of the Commercial Club as a
culmination of the project. The Institute evolved in-between for various
reasons: The first two phases took
longer than expected because of myriad complications in the restoration and
cleansing of the building to make it available to the public for their private
use. After the first two phases were completed, and steady, we began working on
the third phase last year.
A first session on Charles Deere’s
work and life, being circulated in the public, was at the Institute at an
Independent Scholars’ Evenings on Nov. 11th. 2004,
with the presentation by Neil and Jeremy Dahlstrom.
They presented their work : “ Beyond the Legend” about
the life of John Deere and Charles Deere. It was on that evening where we made
the formal announcements to the audience that we would be, in the near future
re-opening The Moline Commercial Club as the final stage of the restoration of
the entire building. The modern and restored Club would inculcate the highest ideals
of commerce in American thought and practice. This would be done through
networking as well as with the circulation of those concepts. Patty Lane, wife
of the CEO of Deere and Company, Robert W. Lane, was present at the meeting on
Nov. 11th.. Later, she and I had tea, at
the same venue : the 2nd. floor of The Moline Club, home of The Independent Scholars’ Evenings on
Thursday evenings, and the home of The Moline Commercial Club to be re-opened
soon. She asked me to tell her more about The Commercial Club, which I did, telling her about the scope and the goals, about how I
felt its significance in history is at this time. We spoke a little about the
legacy of Charles Deere. She noticed that we had his picture in many places:
along the building wall, at the entrance, on the table of The Institute’s
signing book, in the kitchen on the wall, In the business-center also The
Institute’s office.
On April 22nd 2005 I
contacted Jim Collins, the community representative for Deere & Company,
mentioning to him the ideologies of The Moline Commercial Club. He offered to
contact Mr. Higley who is responsible or the downtown area – specially the John Deere Commons.
I has spoken
with Prof. Depak Jain, Dean of Kellogg School of
Business, regarding the restoration and the larger goals of The Moline
Commercial Club. He mentioned to me he would be visiting the area in June and
we would discuss it further.
And as an extra: by chance, it was not thus planned: IT occurred to mw
while I was standing in line at the University of Chicago, Graduate School of
Business:
Jack Welch, retired C.E.O. of General
Electric, as at the University of Chicago School of Business, GSB Center, for a lunch,
discussing his book and signing books for the guests who had bought them. The
book is called “ Winning”
I mentioned to him about The Moline
Commercial Club and its ideals. He lit up “” His eyes brightened and he was
delighted. Obviously familiar with the name of Deere & Company and John
Deere, he was very interested. I noticed he dated the signature. He did not
date the others. Jack Welch signed the first book for The Moline Commercial Club commerce library
on 4/22/2005
July 25th 2006 THE WEDDING QUILT.
Last week, on a Thursday evening, my
daughter stopped home to be with me for the evening. She had been working on a
quilted square. Needle pointing, for the past 45 days, a 12” by 8” piece that said the words:
‘When two hearts in love unite
The road is short and the burden
light.”
The finished square, with a
needle-pointed rose and ribbons and stars, is to be one of 8 pieces.
In the
center is to be a wedding square. And
the Maid of Honor
is to put all the pieces together.
It will, then, be ‘The Wedding
Quilt’.
Completed by the
Brides maids and the Maid of Honor.
The tenderness of love, the
camaraderie , the togetherness, the values that make humans and humans, who are
superior in a civilized race, the unbroken everlasting pact of friendship with
love sown together in each stitch to form this quilt of warmth and love.
This is the Beauty of Life along the
Mississippi, in this little River town in this New Millennium, the glorious 21st
C with all of its advancements and gadgets and gizmos and high flown ideas that
have spun a sparkling web in the clouds, and in that basic harshness of war and hate lies still alive the emotions
that give rise to the love that makes this wedding quilt. It is this thread that stictches
these pieces together and weaves a pattern on the face of fabric that weaves a
confirmation that Love still lives.
And those hopes that make us alive
are still throbbing in the warmth of Joy in a Love and happiness that IS:
unquestioned and unchallenged like the elemental essence of life.
In the middle of everything: this
still is.
And, somehow for me, I see the
permanence. Like the River, before the beginning of human time, this warmth and
love flows. Uplifting.
Binding. Reassuring in its
Permanence. Telling all who see that what IS will be, will continue,
will withstand, will hold. – Now, when those who give and those who
receive begin a new life. For the
Wedding is not for the One only who is to marry, or for the Spouse who is being
married to, but for all those who, like the Wedding Quilt, share each others lives, growing with the changes and reflecting the
change in their own lives. Like the pattern that is embroidered, these lives
are woven together, embroidered one into each other. And when the one changes,
all the others change too.
July 26th.
2006
There is a continued thought that
stays with me still, as I contemplate the Beauty of this Wedding Quilt being sown
now. This thought brought forth a couplet from an
eastern scripture. .I will write it in the Romanized script here, and then
translate it and you will understand why I mention it:
Deen Darad Nivar Thakur,
Rake Jan Ke Aash,
Taran Taraan Har Nidh,
Dukh Na Sake Viyap.
Take away my
impoverishment and pain, Thou who keeps the hope of all
As I swim
every day ( through the waters of Life)
let not sorrow envelope me.
I had mentioned this entry to my
daughter, telling her about this manuscript, and the significance of the
Wedding Quilt along the Mississippi. She said: “ it
isn’t a cultural thing along the Mississippi. No one else has done it. Its not known. “
‘Well,’ I said,’ it is now.’
I mentioned to her that during the
Quad City Rotary meeting held at The Moline Club, I had responded to the
question: What are you happy about this week?
By telling the Rotarians about The Wedding Quilt for which my daughter
had been needlepoint for 45 days and her coming over for sewing, about the
perfect mother – daughter moment.
She was taken aback: “ Don’t tell anyone about who its
for.’ She said ‘Lindsay doesn’t know about it. It’s to be a surprise. And if she finds out
and its not a surprise
you’ll get killed. And I won’t be the one killing you.”
A surprise.
All this enormous work is being done as a surprise. This adds a further quality
and depth to the Beauty of the meaning of the Quilt.
Lindsey doesn’t know.
And she will know.
How deep that emotion is – of silent
love, and planning. Of the giving of Joy.
It is even more meaningful, as a
happening along the banks of the River since Lindsey is to marry here and the
reception is to be held at The Moline Club on Sept. 9th. 2006.
Sept 11th.
2006
Five years. What has transpired
since, the time that changed awareness. The line that
separated the ‘before’ and ‘after’ in one aspect: in the perception of this
world. Before – here in America – we did not know. After – here in America – we
knew. Or, at least, are beginning to
know.
Five years ago, the suicide bombers
brought their cruelty, their extreme selfishness, their closed myopia into the
world of the innocent American. “ Why?” the ones who
are so young in the old world said, “ Why?” The hurt, the
fear, the alarm, the sheer perplexation showing
through their words and reflected in their eyes. ‘Why
us?” Some said, “ we did not know we were hated till it happened.”
“Why us?”
This is a question that remains unanswered completely. But the process of
answering is revealing. During the examination many worlds have been
revealed. Worlds with different existences, with realities complete for
themselves, but one that is totally outside the reality of America and its innocent laughter and
sparkling waters and golden grain ripened in a generous sun.
Like a thread in a knitted sweater,
when one stitch falls, and the thread is broken, like a moment in time
shattered, the unraveling begins ,and slowly, slowly, in inconsistent speed, sometimes fast, sometimes slow,
sometimes in flashes of insight,
comprehension sets in. Each one of us will understand at different levels, at
their own pace and at their own capacity. Each one of us will take the pain and
the fear to process it as they are able. The entire myriad of human emotion is
revealed as the thread unravels, the stitches ‘ unloosen,’
and we cling to whatever warmth is available. Both in our
minds and in our surroundings. Then all the thread is random and still
where it fell.
“Why us?”
How many of us will hurriedly buy,
acquire or knit another garb of warmth to comfort our hearts and keep us warm
and find laughter again? How many of us
will pick up the blindfold and the veil and retreat into comfortable forests?
How many of us will stand, unshod, and unclad, and remain unfallen,
facing the cold glare, and within it, finding the warmth of laughter and love.? And of hope.
How many of us will know
determination?
An episode from the epic, the
Mahabharata: Kunti , the mother of the defense side, tried to stop the war
about to begin. She went to Gandhari, the mother of
the perpetrator side, and tried to remove the blindfold that Gandhari had worn since her marriage to a blind king, and
while trying to remove the blindfold said: “ Look
about you. With a spark of courage. See things as they really are.” And Gandhari stopped Kunti’s hand
from removing the blindfold saying: “ They are my
sons.” Kunti
then turned and left Gandhari’s rooms. She went to
her rooms and said: “
Fight until you win. “
Fight Until You Win.
Kunti did
not say fight as the best you can, she did not say fight as you are capable.
She did not define any perimeters. She said: “ Fight
until you win.” The Mahabharata,
then, began.
SEPT. 24TH.
2006
Tonight, distraught, I went again to
the river for solace. The sun had already set. The lights along the river were
bright. It was a clear night. Very crisp and sharp. Nothing to cloud the lights before and around me. The cold
had not yet set in. I did not need a jacket. I took the convertible and parked
it along the side of the road on River Drive. Then, I did what I have done so
often; Walk along to the edge of the water and look -
Look at the barges. I have become so
fond of the barges. Their search lights, specially, tonight. I watch their
search lights, their head beams seeking out their path ahead. The immediate
point first, then
the one to follow, then the one after that.
Skimming the face of the river; very quickly, casting a careful,
surrealistic eye, checking if all is in place, for certainly it has seen this
before. Checking to see if there is anything new, for certainly the new is to
be expected. Checking to see how to proceed forward, for certainly there is a technique
and a method. Checking to see when the
turn arrives – both the turn in the river, as well as the turn in order of
priority for proceeding forwards. If there is a wait, then the waiting will
take place at a specific place: A place
that the searching eye will seek out.
There was one silently waiting in
the side lines. Along
the edge of the river. It was a long, quiet, almost imperceptible
one, looking like the edge of the river were the earth
sits before the water. It
was almost unnoticeable. There were no lights. Except in the
little white cabin that was meant to be seen and to see: Where management turns
the lights on for perception.
Oct. 4th.
2006/
As, in the River, there are droplets
of water, the sum total of which make up the River – both in its body and its
perimeters; so is it with life. These threads or droplets get introduced, then become apparent, noticeable for a while before they get
hidden again. Another comes forward. Our vision is filled. Then it retreats
again. Some become, like currents, strong and obvious. Some, like, whirlpools
hold their own,
becoming a pattern onto themselves. Distracting us. Sometimes fatally.
In that light, here is an artery of
strong red blood, with all its healing rejuvenating powers, strong, robust, full of laughter, ambition, idealism and desire. And Beauty. Immense, unlimited,
unpredictable sparkling Beauty. Insistent on liquid, flowing boundaries. Dam it, and it will merely rise. How high can you go? Constructions of obstacles to contain such power is impractical and expensive.
There is more on the project “South-
East of the River” in these pages as they develop, Unfolding the currents,
revealing their droplets: As the artery
breathes.
11.11.2006
The wind howls outside.
Inside, the colors of the plants and
their cheerful arrogance speak of the defiance that warmth creates and the
confidence it, warmth, gives to face the harshness of Life, of Nature, of
Nurture.
How did the Pioneers ever live? In their naiveté? The
Indians knew how to balance their distance and closeness from this – that howls
outside – the harshness of life, of Nature. They knew the Dance.
Outside the Black Squirrel plays
with abandonment. Oblivious of the harshness of Nature. And Nurture. The Grey Squirrel is a friend.
They play together. They eat together. Acorns. Under the old wizened oak tree. Providing
bounty and strength. Someone had told me that the Black Squirrel had
been brought in by some trader long ago. In the distant Past, and that this was
the only place they lived. And flourished. Becoming part of Nature. And Nurture.
I had taken the information at a
literal level. And discarded it. Or rather, shelved. It. It was a fact. As are many facts in life – irrelevant. I
only see the naturalness of their play and frolic. I see its charm and abandon.
I see them eat together. And wonder that they do not feel the cold. I see them
stretch with a long grace that would make a cat envious. They are, like the
flowers of the artist’s Mind, a natural expression of the Creative Genius.
I had bought a blue Dragon in the
year of the Metallic Dragon – 2000. And it is pregnant with Life.
It watches me as I write.
There is a diamond in his forehead.
As an expression of the Third Eye
It is iridescent Blue. With purple and green overtones.
It is inside, in the warmth.
11.13.2006
Here: where the river runs west for
43.5 miles, the energy is in keeping with the change.
The last big tornado that occurred
in March 2006 and devastated Iowa City came toward Rock Island, and it splint
in two, dissipating its fury and force. Then it gathered again and tore through
Springfield. There is the flow of energy here which the Mesquaki
and the Fox knew. That is why they chose
this area, I am thinking, for their resting place. It is hallowed ground.
What is the significance of the
Vortex? There are a few in the United
States and then into Peru. Sedona, in Arizona, is reputed to be a powerful
vortex. And we have one here.
I had never heard of a Vortex until
I came to America. But then, I have never heard of many things until I came to
America. I was young, then, when I came to America. I have learnt much since I
came to America.
I have learnt about the Vortex. I
live in a Vortex. The energy, I am told, goes either way. It opens up and it
pulls down. So those who live in Vortexes can go either way. And
quickly. It is a repetitive movement.
Sometimes, I feel the energy. It
pulls me. It makes me distracted. The smoothness with which we go forward on a
steady pace shifts and we have to change course. Those who can keep their
balance in this sudden shift; keep their focus, keep their course are able to
function here. The others struggle as in a quick sand pit.
What are the
skills of life in a Vortex? What is required? For therefore,
it can be taught.