Excellent!!
--- In FairfieldLife@yahoogroups.com, tartbrain <no_re...@...> wrote: > > A young yogi was making his way south from the Himalayas -- where he had been > a close working disciple of a famous saint and yogi. He took his time, This > was newly post-British, post-partition India -- freedom rippled through the > air. He enjoyed the leisurely pace of hoping on the roof of a train -- > sometimes even splurging for a seat in 3rd class -- sleeping by rivers, > drinking chai in the morning in busy morning ad hoc market places - the ripe > bounty of nature in all of its colors and scents like a waterfall over the > senses. Life was good. Anything was possible. > > A thought arose of the West -- and the suffering there. Could he help the > devastating poverty of the soul in that desolate land? Silly thought. More > chai. Of course he could in theory -- having gained vast wisdom and insight > at the feet of his teacher. But westerners were not interested in pujas, > samadhi, caves of silence, the blazing light of the universe shining within. > > But several days later, a second thought of the west. "These incessant > thoughts! What! Did I eat something impure?!" Then his gaze landed on an old > copy of a British newspaper. He enjoyed the Brit journalists -- even as he > loathed -- in a dis-attached way -- the imperialsts of that little cold, > foggy island. They reminded him of college -- prior to his discipleship -- > when he had aspired to become an engineer - maybe a physicist - helping to > rebuild India to become again the beacon to the world -- the gateway to vast > prosperity and the Divine - together. > > His gaze was caught by some simple sketches. A series of little paintings. A > frustrated little boy, clearly with huge doubts overhanging in every > direction. A quite clever, self-assured guru-ma little girl -- "no, no, this > time will be good" she brazenly declared. "Come on, do it". The little boy > charged at this -- what, such an odd shaped soccer ball. HA! the little boy > kicks into air as the little yogini snatches the ball away at the last > minute. The boy is laid flat prone in the air. HA! I feel the thud of his > little back hitting the ground. The wind knocked out of him completely. > Nothing is at it seems. Foiled again. HA! > > Another chai, a bit of paan. And then, the Eureka light of God exploded > within. Thats the gateway to the west. And their ticket out of their > miserable poverty of the soul. Keep tricking them, until they get IT -- the > impermanence of everything. And what is left after that? > Vast, unbounded nothingness. > > Build them up, promise this time its for real -- and always, always snatch > the ball away from them. Promise them this, then give them that. With no > explanation. Let their little baffled heads explode in confusion until its > all emptiness -- and then fullness inside and outside. > > Yes! That is the message for the west. Promise them their wildest dreams, and > more -- then every time the goal is near, snatch that ball from under them. > Act surprised when questioned -- "ball -- what ball". Tell them to adore the > red ball. When its clearly a black ball. Tell them the ball is 12 feet tall, > when it is barely 12 inches tall. Let them scratch their head, dazed and > confused. Let them create all of their stories of why the ball really is 12 > feet tall and red, or why it really is not going to be pulled away at the > last minute. Let them tell their stories, over and over and over and over -- > until they run out of stories. About the ball, about themselves and about > life. Just emptiness remains. Just a hallow universe. Just fullness. > > He stood on a large rock at the riverside, began to talk about how he was > going to bring the west and the world out of darkness, how the glory of > inner and outer life would reign supreme again in India and the World. People > listened, people were inspired. The yogi's needs were met. A meal. A train > ticket. Finally a plane ticket to the west. > > He landed in Los Angeles and began to talk of great and grand things. And how > people could transform their lives and have everything they ever dreamed of. > And on and on. And then suddenly that 12 foot red ball disappeared. "Oh, oh, > not to worry, just a small understanding." And then the same grand story > again. Then wham -- 100 westerners flat on their backs. Again. It was too > hard to keep from laughing. So he did begin to giggle -- to let some of the > laughter out. Always giggling. > > The stories grew grander. The crowds grew larger. The ceremony of getting > ready to kick the ball became more elaborate. And always the same. whish -- > ball swooped away at the las minute. And the gullable crowd, even larger, > always came back for more. And always with more elaborate stories as to where > the ball went, why, that the yogi was the best ball placer in the world, even > if the ball always disappeared. Stories, stories, stories. You would not > believe the detailed, elaborate contorted stories why the ball really was > there all along. We just didn't see it right. It was our shortcoming, this > way or that. On and on. > > Until, one day, I kicked nothingness, went prone in the air, fell with an > echoing thud on the ground, and the stories stopped. Actually there never was > a story. >
