“ 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 anmodak’ 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.