sell it to Penn and Teller! thanks for sharing!
________________________________ From: authfriend <jst...@panix.com> To: FairfieldLife@yahoogroups.com Sent: Sun, 18 July, 2010 5:41:06 PM Subject: [FairfieldLife] Re: Sat-Guru Lucy 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. >
