The Beautiful Truth Early 70's Life to Light Poetry
My first years in 3HO in the early 70's were filled with yoga classes, potluck feasts and music jams. It was lively group fun. We gathered in the evenings at our new House of Guru Ram Das bringing our instruments, like guitars, drums and my ocarina or recorder, and improvised songs on the spot. Yogiji's first student yoga teacher to tie a turban, Guru Singh, tried out new melodies and lyrics, which we harmonized into the likes of the Golden Temple Song about the holy man, Guru Ram Das, "who never put on airs." We eventually brought our music to the Terminal Island Prison, where I found inmates to be regular folks.
Yogi Bhajan's classes were food for my soul, my life quest of finding the beautiful truth. In my heart I knew Yogiji's teachings had the same origins as the angelic presence of my childhood. Although he rarely gave me personal advice or dictates, all his words held great significance.
If Yogiji looked at me when he talked, I took his words a thousand times more personally. And knew whenever I closed my eyes to sense his presence that even when he was ranting and raging at a student, the beautiful truth was he was immersed in Wahe Guru.
During my first two years of study with Yogiji in Los Angeles, I practiced stillness to deeply tune in. My eyes unfocused, focusuing on Yogiji's total presence, I would bring energy from infinity through the crown of my head inhaling "Sat," Truth, and out my eyes exhaling "Naam," God's Identity, to infinity. In so doing, our psyches interlocked, enabling me to experience a huge energy field filling the room with ethereal light, more vibratory, alive and totally present than anything on this earthly plane.
I began keeping a journal of poetry and prose in a rose red notebook in August of 1971 entitled, "A Book of Rose Leaves," following my first 3HO Summer Solstice in Paonia. Therein I struggled to find the beautiful true voice of my soul in the midst of my life's worldly trials, otherworldly experiences and sacred aspirations.
"A book of rose leaves Each a different God-free color Reaching to the sun to be seen to be Rose Leaves."
A BOOK OF ROSE LEAVES
The Sawhorse Bedroom
Some fellow UCLA
Kundalini Yoga classmates and I decided to start our own ashram in West
Lost Angeles. The married couple became the "heads" of the ashram and
single men took up the other bedroom. My bed was behind a sawhorse
divider, wherein my belongings were stored in an eight-foot wide
entryway between our flea-invested (!) sadhana room and the kitchen.
The following poem was composed August 16, 1971 from my bed:
Seeing what can be said From a peopletalk-surrounded bed The crisscrossed vibrations easy near to sleazy Make a humdrum wall Hear the hum drumming The drum humming The hum mumming It's all there It's all there (everywhere there) And I'm all hear all here (everywhere here)
People do talk but it is all our karma Unaware or aware Wishful or no Sender or receiver Frustration or flow....
We are each a different God-free color Reaching to the sun to be seen to be God-free.
A Babysitting Job
Looking into the eyes of a child We both know (no questions no answers) But that world out there My God--how confusing!
Give me simple child talk To speak a child's wisdom Big words and reasons circle round But never do they reach them.
The television tried to tell me about children and childhood-- The psychology, the data, the out of controls. Meanwhile two children are left without me. They broke the crayons--I can't even blame them.
Like a cloud leaving the sky to study the art of rain I nearly left their world dry.
My Body Shell
Everywhere I go I am I open my eyes and my body is with me It doesn't matter how or where I go If I take a bus it ends up with me If I go to my room it curls around me to rest If I fly away it waits patiently, anchoring me in. Always ready to serve, And dress my soul.
Each finger a little being in itself And they are all lovers
Whatever they do They love to tell you this, Working together Harmoniously.
I am planting a garden Green sprouts push against my skin Little seeds rumble, some pray I cannot help my voice--it only tells you What they say....
And already I feel myself to be Petaled with flowers and flowers The sun tells me, the wind, Earth and rain And each seed as it dreams.
Listening to the flow of music I feel like a forest, the wind blowing through me.
An Ashram Warming
3HO headquarters, or I should say the mother of 3HO, Shakti Parwha Kaur, did not consider us an ashram because we did not have an appointed "Head". But soon after opening, in April of 1971 we announced a house warming and Yogiji made plans to visit us. That would do it! Given his sanction we could become a real ashram.
An enthusiastic crowd filled our small home with beautiful vibrations--singing, guitar, violin and recorder music and warmth, waiting for Yogiji to arrive. We waited. And waited. And we waited some more. It must have been three hours, and still Yogiji did not come, so everyone feasted anyway! Then after more waiting and waiting the crowd tapered away--"Maybe he won't come?"
Yogiji finally arrived to a thoroughly warmed home, the party crowd gone. It was just us--a married couple, a couple of single guys and me, when Yogiji strode in the door. We made small talk, yet it was the first time he had ever spoken to me, so it was far from small for me.
He asked, "What is your sign?" as though it was very important.
"Pisces."
Then he wanted to know my moon, which I also knew, "Aquarius!" But when asked, "Do you know your horoscope?" I was embarrassed and I had to tell him, "No, I don't."
At that, Yogiji turned to one of his secretaries who was close to him and said, "The beauty of a Pisces is opposite to your beauty, but they are both very beautiful." A bit later in the conversation Yogiji went into beauty, saying he rarely tells anyone they are beautiful if he has been their teacher because it is ego. It is like saying, "You are beautiful because I have made you so."
When I looked into it and discovered that my moon and rising signs are both Aquarius, the sign of the New Age, I wrote,
The fantastic part of my encounter with Yogiji is that I communicated with him on a silent level of consciousness, beyond what people perceived, so beautifully powerful, direct and clear. To be given such company, to spend an hour with Yogiji--Wow! to do so more often! I had been feeling unable to truly relate except through music and felt detached, unseen, most of the day. Sharing a few words with Yogiji raised my consciousness to the reality of higher consciousness.
As my super ego is being realized my self-ego is still very much there, dilly-dallying around, seeing its relative impotence yet ever ready to slip around and crust the words my inner truth speaks. The person who reads this all must be willing to tolerate this crust as well as I, as I struggle with it, and then perhaps realize truths as I realize them.
Merging Yogis into Sikhs
On September 19th, 1971, we UCLA hippie yogis moved from our flea bitten home into a Brentwood mansion by the grace of the parents of one of our married members, the newly named and newly appointed Heads, Guru Liv Kaur and her french husband, Guru Liv Singh. He had become a powerfully spoken, wise yoga teacher, and grew to be the second Bhai Sahib of the Western Hemisphere. I used to sit at the top of the stairs to listen to Guru Liv Singh teach yoga classes, blissfully absorbed in his wisdom and radiant energy.
My roommate was a quirky musician, Wahe Guru Kaur, who wrote songs about Yogiji's teachings, albeit with a corny twist. 3HO women still sing a modified version of her song, "A Noble Woman," to remind us who we are.
On that first morning, September 19th, 1971, I woke up to start the Banana Fast in the ashram only to have Guru Liv Kaur tell me that Yogiji wanted to speak with me at the Los Angeles Sikh Temple.
The Sikhs from India at this temple had reached a point where they did not accept American-born yogi Sikhs because we were not born into the faith. Yogiji negotiated with them on our behalf so that we could at least take vows to be Sikhs. I attended that first initiation with a dozen others to see what Yogiji wished to say to me.
Yogiji did not actually speak directly with me.
While we chanted and sang, Yogiji stood behind the Guru's Manji, where the Siri Guru Granth Sahib lay, waving an elegant Chauri Sahib horsehair whisk over the Guru continuously, powerfully, rhythmically, evoking the feeling of "Wahe Guru" so we could feel the immediacy of the Guru's presence.
When Yogiji talked to those gathered he stressed the Nam, saying to vibrate it with your whole being, send it out to the universe and be open to receive also. Live in higher consciousness through selfless service, love and devotion. He went over all facets of what it means to be Sikh.
Then Yogiji asked those who wanted to take Sikh vows to step forward. I looked at him for some sign that I was supposed to take this vow. He looked directly at me then ignored me!
I went within myself and evaluated the commitment, "Hmm, of course I don't want to eat animals anymore--I love them! And getting up every morning before the sun to meditate--it is such a precious time--I will enjoy doing it the rest of my life. And I have become very adept at tying a rishi knot for meditation. You needed long hair to do that. No way am I going to cut my hair! Or use drugs. I will live as God made me. Hmm, I already am a Sikh!"
But I did not take the vow. That evening I wrote:
Hello ego, where have you gone? No longer shouting the world is wrong.
Live in higher consciousness Selfless service and Love and Devotion.
All that Yogiji said flowing through me Being me...life long devotion? I need only live the Truth Now And Truth beyond time will be.
Follow the Guru, the holy words... I do not know these Gurus all Or understand the Punjabi words all. My doubt is but a shadow-- I do not wish to live there.
Now to melt into flame Rather than be the feeble wax Dripping and fleeing away.
A week later I went with a few others to the Vermont Gurdwara and took the Sikh Vow from Baba Singh, our UCLA yoga teacher. The postponement forced me to flush the last remnant of doubt from my mind.
The
Banana fast is comprised of ingesting only bananas, oranges and yogi
tea from the New Moon to the Full Moon. During that time one goes
through many strange feelings, thoughts and emotions, cleansing the
emotional body--feeding some seemingly silly poetry!
TIME Make haste oh moon-- Eat your fill of sun! I've raced you to the full Of orange juice and bananas Yet you're only halfway done!
I feel like a banana float I feel like an orange Jesus.
I like to peek outside And look around at my face Cross-eyed when the sun shines there.
Separated by a cloud
All the things I could have said Or maybe even done Rest and coo in patient sleep Like dozing birds on branches.
In the accompanying drawing a tree trunk holds my third eye. It's
branches (with dozing birds, one with a halo, one an Easter egg) reach
up toward a cross-eyed sun where a tiny bird on top is crying, "coo
coo".
To God's music may we sing our songs in harmony. (It's good for the economy)
2 foots are better than no feet.
Tree--he leaves and dies a thousand lives
Gracious ~ if I lose much more weight I don't know where I'll go to.
I speak pretty haphazardly But when I write at least I hazard more happily.
Ong so hung Little song sung Ongsohung
I need a pair of pliers.
11th day of Bananas:
BREAD CLOUDS
When I am about to tell someone I don't understand this about me When this is that so deep and real beyond within me I can't even open my mouth to form the words. The only way to get around it Is to prance and play a game The half-lie, which I share The half-truth, which I retain. Were someone to catch hold of me (even me of me) And refuse to relate to the guise (negative or positive) But radiate pure SAT from soul and eyes It's like meditating alive.
God-free
And a bird flies To the sun To be seen To be God-free...
Waken to the sound of God flow Softly does the night lift her eyes Peering brightly Bringing color to the skies Softly does she let the morning breath Carry the colors inside They leave her tongue to rise In praise of our Lord Oh sun!
How the moon knows To fill the night with wonder A fortress in the universe Slowly unveiled and slowly surrendered Standing always the drift of time
How the earth knows An eye To catch the sun's reflection
12th Day of Oranges and Bandanas:
Sleep, sleep, sleep... When that is the time Dream and dream... Should that be the time Wake! Wake! Wake! When now is the time-- Live and live The time is.
This
is the type of page you send away on a dream breeze the first second
you wake up in the morning...to make it fly easy it might be wise to make
the pieces small and in the shape of tree torn leaves. Maybe toss in a
few banana strings to tie it all together again. My God--and the moon
refuses to bare her face till her own day and meanwhile there will be
all the more torn leaves to tie. It's all pre-tension tho.
* * *
The
Banana fast is to be followed by a diet of primarily mung beans and
rice. On the first day of mung beans and rice I drew a giant banana, a
giant orange, a little bee buzzing in-between, a cardamom seed (for
digesting bananas) and a puddle ("SPLIT yT") meaning spilled Yogi Tea,
and wrote:
My head feels like the moon, a Cheshire cat.
Mostly what I ate today was oranges and bananas. When ever I thought of food that just seemed the first in → mind. Gracious.
A round Moonday moon of all days. I felt so quiet inside, didn't mean to be Faraway-sad maybe seeming.
Only just reflecting the sun Not shining being.
(Woman as a moonman) woomoon.
My breath so strong tonight Soft alive flowing ...soft ...alive ...flowing my breath.
We are always more than we believe And less than we believe....
A War Veteran Friend Revisited
October 10, 1971 Back
to the old Veteran's Administration, which is just down the street now.
I've been feeling I should be going there a lot lately, and it was a
Sunday like before, so...
Winding my bicycle around the park
following my wheels and whims, then down a hill (is this the same
place?) I almost did not go. Just remembering the sinks, the old men
scrubbing their clothes--and the telephone pole. Then I saw him leaning
there as before like a sundial, his eyes staring at the sun, never
leaving "the source of warmth and divine glare."
I rode by the
easy men at the sinks--they must know the whys of why he stands there. One man
wordless, another at the hose, said something like, "You shouldn't get
too much of the sun--people just like to get tan. He
might have something wrong in the head too, you know."
I answered, "But I think he is just looking for God."
"Could be. Getting tan won't get him anywhere though."
I rode over to the old man. "Hello, came to see you, didn't really expect you to be here still. Remember, a few months ago?"
"Oh,
you are the girl with the bicycle. Yes, it's with me today. I remember
you.." He was friendly, talking friendly, gently, slow. "You are
looking more beautiful this time. You weren't very pretty before."
"How do you mean?"
"Austere...but very different today. You don't talk the same way..."
"But you are beautiful too. It is what makes you look at the sun that says you are beautiful..."
We
spoke freely back and forth. He told me stories and images he holds, "I
can't really see very well, but so much is happening in the sun!" On
and on we talked within the same peaceful shared glow. He is from
within me and I am from within him...and "The last time we met--a few
months ago?"
"No, a year! No sense of it here."
"Why do you look at the sun, do you wonder?"
"I can't say or explain."
"Nor can we say what God is."
"But when
I was fourteen I worked in a steel mill holding rivets in the glaring
white flame all day, and I hated it. Maybe this is working that out of
me. I stare at the sun, looking for one of those rivets to pull out.
People live their lives and never look at the sun. They walk down the
street and see a scrul (?) on the sidewalk and pass it by. Not like the
raccoon that would pick it up and turn it over and over in his little
paws examining every last detail and find it to be a silver matchbox.
People are unscrupulous. But me, I'm scrupulous. Disciplined."
So much was said and shared.
"I'm into yoga now, meditation, that sort of thing."
"Yes," he nodded his head.
Then
I thought to sing him the "Sunshine" song, a blessing we sing after
each yoga class. And he shared with me a beautiful song that is "old
fashioned, in all the old song books, but the person who wrote it had
personality."
Something divine was flowing between us.
"Do you know what's going on here, more than you're letting me think you know?"
"Yes, I know. I could write a book!"
Our conversation did not end there. We talked on and on in this way, touching on divine realities.
