Viewpoint

From the nexus
of multiple realities
each of us surveys
our own unique universe.

Compassion softens intersections,
while ignorance crystallises
fault lines
that shatter Cosmic balance.

Brahman’s Blink

Once upon a time-space continuum
an illusory universe flickered briefly
into existence.
In a distant corner of that illusion
there was a small blue-green planet
onto which evolved a life-form
that thought of themselves
as the centre of that universe.

Simultaneously, and separated
only by a mathematical concept,
endless other universes existed,
in which infinite illusory probabilities
played their variations
on a cosmic theme.

On the small blue-green planet
people invented gods
that gave power and control to some,
and death and servitude to others.
The various gods demanded exclusivity,
and abhorred tolerance,
preferring instead
sacrifice, obedience,
blind acceptance, and, often,
death.

Death was eagerly embraced,
and seen as an entry
to the magical kingdoms
of the multitudinous gods:
rewards for the faithful.

The history of the god inventors
was filled with strife,
with war and persecution,
with demonising of others,
with marginalising of many,
with famine in the midst of plenty,
with hardship for billions,
while thousands lived
a fantasy of obscene luxury.
A few controlled,
while the mass bowed servile heads.

One day Brahman blinked a cosmic blink,
and our illusion brushed against
one of the countless others,
and everything changed,
as Reality dawned
in a better Now.

A Senior’s Moment

Not the cane,
nor the shuffling gait;
not forgetting the day,
and often the date;
not the glasses,
nor my dimming sight;
not those dreadful times
when memory takes flight:
     these are not me.

Not the prostate,
too large for too long;
not forgetting the name
to my favourite song;
not missing the words
that my loved one says;
not the memories that crowd
from younger days:
     these are not me.

Not the wistful smile
upon seeing my reflection;
nor the amount of time I spend
on deep introspection;
not the sensitivity
to every new ache and pain;
nor the knowledge that
I’d do it all again:
     these are not me.

The real me is witty,
and alert, and bright;
that me can always find
the word that’s just right.
That me could converse,
and could dance all night long;
and knew the words
to every song:
     I remember me well.

So I go on aging,
day after day,
and sometimes forget
what I’m trying to say;
but that’s really not me,
for deep down inside
another me enjoys life
with eyes open wide:
     that’s who I am.

Diminished Responsibility

Her pregnancy, only minutes from term,
gave her the look of a tumbleweed
as she stumbled
through killing December cold.
Sally Ann band on windswept corner
marked the passage of one whose experience
was the cosmic opposite of their celestial joy:
''...crib for His bed
the little Lord..."

With labour pains almost constant
she turned into the alley,
sheltering in the shadow of
a green dumpster, which exhorted
a more affluent society to
"Keep our City Clean."
She squatted as her water broke,
and cursed her most recent companion
for throwing her out
when her condition
invalidated her use to him.
She blasted her last two rocks
in the lifeline of her pipe,
and suddenly
“God!”
it was done.

The investigative team
discovered the icy creche
near the area where
the Paras had found her,
collapsed,
in the street.
The rookie swore
when he opened
the dumpster,
quick tears freezing
on his cheeks,
while in the distance,
the Army concluded their ministry
with "O Holy Night."

The Christmas Tree Box

We have a plywood box that we had made in Abu Dhabi in 1984.  We use for storing our artificial tree purchased at Eaton's West Mall, Nepean, in 1983. We used the box (about 4 ft x 2 1/2 x 2 1/2 ft) to take with us in our 15 ft Piranha boat. We had a sponge cushion made so the box could act as a seat. When we left Abu Dhabi for Guyana, we packed our tree in the boat box.
Our tree had a home that lasted until this moment.
We unpacked the tree in Guyana in 1986, 87, and 88.
Dublin was home for two unpackings, in 1989 and 1990.
1991, 1992, 1993 saw the tree unpacked at our house on Orchid Lane, Diego Martin, Port of Spain.
1994 and 1995 saw the festivities at Craig Henry, Nepean.
1996, 1997, 1998, saw the tree unpacked in New Delhi. First at D7/9 Vasant Vihar, then in SQ D2 on the Canadian High Commission compound on Shantipath.
1999 and onwards sees our tree well set in its routine of jumping into the box after the Season is over, and resting quietly, while it thinks of distant Christmases, departed friends and family, and loved ones and family around the world.

Our tree doesn't dream of the baby Jesus, nor choirs of angels.
Our tree doesn't dream of little match girls, or snowmen flying through the air.
Our tree dreams a strong and powerful dream of Peace, and each year when we unpack that tree, Peace prevails throughout Greyhavens.

Incidental Travellers

Cherry Coke at the Fountain:
Late 1950s in Elliott Lake:
Everly Brothers, Bobby Darin,
lots of do wop, but Buddy Holly too.
....and then SNAP
back to a senior me,
stopped in the aisle of Sobey’s,
wondering,
“What?”

An elderly lady with permed grey curls,
cane nearby: waiting for her eye appointment,
mourning her diminishing vision,
.....then SNAP
Magic weekend at the cottage:
Kitty Wells, and “Amigo’s Guitar”
Moonglow and Theme from Picnic:
the lake, the moon...
“What?”

Quiet veteran, at the Mall
looking at blazers,
caught in a pause
by the intensity of remembered moments,
...and SNAP
Songs in the mess, with friends
who would die for you:
dances at the Palace
with girls who thought you looked
a bit like Cary Grant...
“What?”

Serendipitous travellers all,
caught by age
on the brink of the unknown,
overwhelmed often,
and suddenly,
by the glory of who we were:
we are stunned by the speed
we became who we are...
...SNAP...”What?”

Quantum Enlightenment: First Meeting

I am Me,
centred in a Reality that I observe.
...and...
You are You,
the centre of your observation
of Reality.

In different Illusions:
saint and slave, hero and coward,
sage and fool, sensei and saddhu,
lover and pariah, soldier and teacher,
     enlightened
     damned

But for me to predict,
  based upon the Now
   of our shared illusion,
just what I will become to you,
   would be precipitous...
observation affects outcome.

Then Came the Revolution

We have a troubled history
of repression, greed, and pain,
but never seem to learn from it,
so it happens yet again.

A church of greed and privilege,
as Martin Luther learned,
had no place in his belief,
and a mighty tide had turned.
     Then came the Revolution
     and a righteous fire burned.

“No taxation without representation”
became the order of the day,
as Americans rebelled,
dumping taxed tea in the bay.
     Then came the Revolution,
     and Empire passed away.

“Liberté, égalité, fraternité”
chanted the French masses,
tired of seeing ever more
aristocratic excesses.
     Then came the Revolution,
     and Louis’ power passes.

In October, on the Neva,
the Romanovs were swept away,
and the mighty Winter palace
was bloodstained on that day.
     Then came the Revolution
     to herald Communism’s day.

When Mao finished his Long March,
and Chiang was forced to flee,
the Chinese people waited
to see what now would be.
     Then came the Revolution,
     but still they are not free.

South Africa’s apartheid,
the crash of Berlin’s Wall,
the bloodshed of the Arab Spring,
strong lessons to us all:
     When comes the Revolution
     we all must heed the call.

Corporations tell us now
we must all spend and borrow;
and hired politicians lie,
and steal, and feign deep sorrow.
     Now comes the Revolution:
     it’s happening tomorrow!

           * * *
We have a troubled history
of repression, greed, and pain,
but never seem to learn from it,
so it happens yet again.

Temporal Reflections on Several Levels

“Because You are unlimited, neither the lords of heaven nor even You Yourself can ever reach the end of Your glories. The countless universes, each enveloped in its shell, are compelled by the wheel of time to wander within You, like particles of dust blowing about in the sky.” (Bhagavata Purana 10.87.41)

Temporal Reflections on Several Levels

Cops and robbers, Lash Larue,
Blind Man’s Bluff and Little Lulu,
Saturday matinees, and Gabby Hayes,
Gillies Lake on hot summer days:
childhood memories swirling down,
like autumn leaves fall to the ground.

Bright foliage from my tree of life,
leaves of joy, of pain, of strife;
the luscious fruits of autumn nights,
and hide-‘n’-seek neath dim street lights;
October days at Charlebois Lake,
fishing for pike, and bass, and splake.

In the many worlds within my mind
limitless stories and pathways wind,
and who is to say when each story is through,
when each act completed, if each word true?
      Past many Realities our Dharma may wend,
      for the Dance of Natraj is without end.

A State of Grace

Please note: To many of us a belief built upon faith, rather than logic, is incomprehensible:  logic seems the natural alternative to fantasy and imagination.

Speak not to me of the grace of God,
or the will of Allah strong.
Don’t talk of Buddha’s compassion,
or Natraj’s eternal song.

No misty-eyed redemption,
nor abject sinner’s tears,
with promises of salvation
that prey on primal fears.

No superstitious servitude
demanded by mere men
who put themselves above us
and claim God speaks through them.

What if today is all there is?
No manna, milk nor honey;
no dancing virgins serving wine
in Elysium, bright and sunny.

Let us take responsibility
to live our lives with love,
and not pass that duty
to something “up above.”

We can make each moment Heaven,
by doing all we can
to strive for global betterment
in this Community of Man.

Quantum Enlightenment: First Contact

Hello? Hello?
Hello there? Is anyone at all there?
Is anybody out there
thinking, acting, being, saying,
planning, living, loving, caring,
savouring each moment
as if it was forever?

Or is it all,
perhaps,
happening as we speak,
and Reality breaks
through the Illusion.
Aum.

A Toast for Autumn

It was cool on the verandah this morning. I had on my Commissionaire’s Three-Season jacket, so I was cool, in my own way. The autumn sun was shining through the haze down the harbour, and reflected in a harbour of burnished silver. The wind was northwest, and had a lot to say to the jackpines, who acted just a little giddy. Ranger sat on the eastern step of the verandah, overlooking the cove, and the place where the Torii will be: his devotion to the concept is inspiring. It was a perfect autumn day, wild, different, ever-changing. I saluted the season, and my Canada, with half a glass of Merlot.

May the autumn of my years
be like the autumn on my Shore:
headstrong and proud,
      tempestuous,
but sometimes
      possessed
of a strange
      triumphant
           beauty

.....and a period of
      perfect calm......

and then do it all over,
      yet differently,
      each and every
           Time.

Aum.

A Morning Walk in Late Summer, and a Lesson Taught

Walking with my dog this morning,
with fluffy cumulus clouds
scudding in the cool southeast breeze,
a lesson was given.

I wanted to stride,
to cover road,
to increase my pulse,
but the beagle insisted,
again and again,
that we take the time
to appreciate each fresh smell,
each clump of autumn vegetation,
and enjoy our Now.

Getting further down the road
was not being on our walk:
here and now was where we were,
and he was adamant
that I understand
the concept
of Being,
fully,
in this moment.

The day became more perfect
as I gradually understood
the importance of the lesson:
colours brightened,
the breeze became more sensual,
the texture of the road
showed myriad complex patterns,
and the morning stood still.

Thank you, Sensei,
lesson well taken,
...and well taught.

Late Summer Morning, and Other Dimensions

The dog had been feeling his age,
and curled up at the man’s feet,
feeling the heat of the shrinking sun.

The early morning light
had that brazen quality to it
that seems typical
of early autumn,
or the flames of Natraj’s Circle.

The fog shimmered down the harbour,
granting a lover’s caress
to the willing shore.

The dog thought of dinner time,
and favourite scents,
and pack.

The old man thought of the different dimensions
vibrating at the quanta level,
making us tenants
in Realities that we cannot yet see.

Echoes in the Fog

Driving over Lighthouse Hill
the fog awaited like a long-lost friend.
The old road by Betty’s Cove,
cloaked with alders,
whispered remembered sighs
of lovers’ trysts,
now long past.

Roll Burke’s garage shimmered,
just at the edge of memory,
with a remembered scent of gasoline,
and the heady teenaged joy
of pin-up calendar girls.

Marion’s Whatnot Shop sang its siren song
of China-made curios
for the infrequent tourists,
and the exciting birthday purchases
of children, spending hoarded
nickles and dimes.

At Wilfred’s Store long-dead giants
sat on nail kegs,
and discussed politics and weather,
haloed by the smoke from hand rolled Zigzag tobacco,
sweetened by the odd “tailor-made”
of the more affluent fishermen.
Penny candy, a cheddar wheel,
overhead cone of string
for tying brown paper wrapped packages,
bags of chips, and chocolate bars,
gave forth a psychedelic glow
in the minds of the children
picking up packages for Shirley,
Aunt Maude, or Grandmother Lottie.

Down the hill, the ghost of Gammon’s Store,
with weather-worn orange shingles,
gave forth remembered smells
of handline, Leckie’s boots,
and oilskins.
A small boy rowed happily across the cove,
to tie up expertly at the end of the wharf,
speaking to Syd Burke,
and exchanging greetings with Jim Henderson.

The cove was full of boats,
and ringed with wharves,
each with its own unique boatshed,
and a constant miasma 
of creosote and barrels of lobster bait.
The trap boats flanked the fishplant jetty,
and adventuring boys clambered over them,
examining sea eggs,
and other exotica.

The lobster factory steamed its way
into our collective history,
with noisy bustle
and a fragrant cloud of boiling lobster.
The wooden breakwater was sturdy,
safely sheltering the industrious cove,
and the good people working there.

Off through the fog, the sharp sound
of a “one-lunger” single piston fishing boat
disturbed the gulls
preaching on the fishplant roof.

A sudden ray of sunlight
pierced the fog,
bringing me back to the present,
and the depleted village
that made all of us,
in very large part,
who we are today. 

The Nature of Reality

I have recently read "The Dancing Wu Li Masters (An Overview of the New Physics)" by Gary Zukav, an incredible book that presents an overview of quantum mechanics in layman's terms. It is an eye-opener that affirms some of what I have been trying to say with my work "Jim's Guide to Enlightenment: The Complete Sutras", e.g. there appears to be a strong connection between portions of some Eastern religions and quantum physics.
For example: Sutra 3: See your reality for what it is, not for what you think it is: this is the first step to making your reality what you wish it to be.

Sutra 52: Multiple realities are a fact. A different reality exists for each of us. I am not the same in your reality as I am in mine.

Sutra 93: Do not speak to me of Reality: it is a personal concept that varies with the Observer.

Imagine my joy, then, upon reading the following passage:
"The languages of eastern mystics and western physicists are becoming very similar.
Newtonian physics and quantum mechanics are partners in a double irony. Newtonian physics is based upon the idea of laws which govern phenomena and the power inherent in understanding them, but it leads to impotence in the face of a Great Machine which is the universe. Quantum mechanics is based upon the idea of minimal knowledge of future phenomena (we are limited to knowing probabilities) but it leads to the possibility that our reality is what we choose to make it." (Bolded italics are mine)

It is a joyous occasion when one discovers that conclusions that are reached after a lifetime of reading and observation have simultaneously and separately been reached by others. 

Peace, and

Namaste

Wizard, Walking His Dog

The morning transformed us:
the path through the pines
became a glowing portal,
and we were gone.

The Wizard was alert:
the Dog sensed it
and voiced his concern.
The Path led through
shaded glades,
with just a hint of strange movement
within the shifting shadows.

Dog bristled,
stern warnings in his throat,
prompting the Wizard
to chant an arcane, but powerful,
spell to counter Chaos.
Waves roughened the darkening cove,
obscene shapes showing
through the foaming crests.

     Suddenly a sharp crack...
     the smell of ozone.

We picked up the Thursday flyers
from the foot of the driveway,
and, as the dog was exhausted,
sat on the verandah
     for a Time.

An Echo of the Sixties

The vibration of the Third Eye Chakra
gave a shimmering orange neon edge
     to the Reality of
     the quiet hill.

The jackpines meditated,
     and focussed
on the gentle sigh of their breathing;
the South Wind whispering
     tropical secrets
          of moonlight romance.

The shadows skipped
               forward
          and
      back,
as though we were stuck
     in a time loop:
an Escher mobiüs strip
     of Eternity.

Truth beckoned,
just an illusion away,
as Cosmic meaning
was revealed.

     This.

     Now.

Brane Storm

A Brief Introduction to Brane Theory

The central idea is that the visible, three-dimensional universe is restricted to a brane inside a higher-dimensional space, called the "bulk" (also known as "hyperspace"). If the additional dimensions are compact, then the observed universe contains the extra dimensions, and then no reference to the bulk is appropriate. In the bulk model, at least some of the extra dimensions are extensive (possibly infinite), and other branes may be moving through this bulk. Interactions with the bulk, and possibly with other branes, can influence our brane and thus introduce effects not seen in more standard cosmological models. ~Wikipedia

Brane Storm

A slight brushing sound,
and the jackpine was surrounded
with a crackling 
                          ferocious 
                                          blue electric aura:
sentient, living, feeling,
it communicated with its peers
in the small grove
on a sacred Hill.

Their light pulsed with wild appreciation
as they exchanged stories
with a visible orange breeze
that smelled of lime,
and spoke 
with a wind-chime voice.

A heavy grey luminescence
cloaked boulders in the garden,
enabling the earth to speak
with deep
               with resounding
                                         with echoing
voice,  
reflecting an inner joy,
communicated 
                        by 
                            harmonic 
                                   vibration.

All of this then,
only a brush away,
a brane away,
and only partly aware
of the old man,
and his dog,
watching, enchanted,
from the Reality
next Door.

Entanglement As Instruction

In this Reality
it was a foggy day,
     with misty droplets
     shimmering...   luminous
in the morning air.

My beagle pondered
entanglement theory
as we listened,
     enchanted,
to the infinite
names of Truth
     sighing through the pines.

Other Realities pulsed,
just beyond sight:
an ambulance screams
     across a cove so tranquil
that the sole loon is embarrassed
     by his laugh.

...and a small blue-green bubble
floated,
invisible,
through a cosmos too vast
to be called
     god.

Gasp! Globe and Mail Editoral is almost unbelieveable

I entered an alternate reality this morning when I read the following editorial in the Globe and Mail. What! Has the intellectual revolution begun?
To the barricades!

http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/opinions/editorials/marijuana-should-not-be-criminalized/article1984417/

The Mountain

“Keep climbing,” they said, not saying why.
“Don’t turn back, you have to try.”
So onward I trudged, though the path was steep,
without looking back at my valley deep.

I was born in the valley,
where it smelt of spring, and new-mown hay, and growing things.
In the valley, where the robin sings,
and every Sunday the church bell rings
sharp at seven:
where they talked of Heaven
     not hell.

I remember the school, and the dusty road
where I’d run to help father carry his load
of greens from the garden, or fish from the sea.
He seemed to stand taller when smiling at me:
and the smile never faded.

The days were long,
but short as the stay
of a summer circus,
or a rainy day
in grandmother’s attic.

Then I watched the travellers, and saw them walk,
and not all passed, for some would talk.
And they spoke at length of the mountain high,
and of golden temples that reached the sky.
And I heard
and spoke not a word.
      But thought.

Then joined them in their weary climb
and pilgrimage to heights sublime.
But our breath grew short as we reached a plateau
in a land of mist, where bitter winds blow.
I could see no more of the valley below.

“Upward,” they cried, and surged ahead.
They pushed those weaker.  They walked on the dead, 
     not seeing.
And I ran in terror from the crowd, 
and heard mad voices calling loud.
But the sun had come from behind its cloud,
and I saw the valley, with fields fresh ploughed,
     and ran faster.

I mended my nets and sharpened my hoe,
and forgot the mountain covered with snow:
and I watch the travellers passing by.
And once in a while, at night, I cry

     and wonder.

Pre-Spring Rant Number One

Perfect sunny Sunday, with temperature just above 10C, so Ranger and I walked down Dolby Hill Road (it used to be Dobie Hill, but the sign writers - surprise, surprise - misspelled it) to #7 Highway, then up to the Post Office, then back to West Jeddore Road and home.

What is wrong with people? The side roads were not too bad, but the side of the highway was littered with a sea of jetsam from the passing cars. A small sample of what we saw along the kilometre and a half of highway that we travelled (and, yes, I counted!):
3 26oz rum bottles,
1 26oz vodka bottle,
3 26oz miscellaneous alcohol bottles,
5 12oz liquor bottles,
8 beer cans,
3 beer bottles,
6 soft drink cans,
12 Tim Horton coffee cups,
16 other throwaway cups,
6 styrofoam fast food containers,
3 car oil plastic bottles,
4 car additive plastic bottles,
2 used condoms,
3 roaches,
over one hundred cigarette butts,
too many plastic bags of various sorts to count,
several small plastic bags full of garbage,
and a huge assortment of stuff that I was unable to recognise.

I really do not believe that this is sustainable. As the population grows, our average IQ seems to shrink, and with it our sense of environmental responsibility. What are the people who throw this stuff out of their cars thinking? First of all, the beer cans and alcohol bottles, together with the roaches, would indicate that a lot of people are driving impaired, and then there are the condoms! It would seem to me that, if you are going to use a condom in a car, you would at least pull off the road, and stop the car, and not just use it while driving. It is just wrong to multitask while having sex! Focus.

Consume, consume, consume, and then, of course, just throw it away. Who cares, right?

Sigh.

Oh, despite all of the above, Ranger and I had a good walk, and felt better for it, at least physically. Mentally? Well perhaps that's another rant.

The Hole in February

February gets us while we are weak and severely lacking in Vitamin D. The bleak whiteness drags at our spirits, erasing memories of spring and summer, and making us question who we are. Northern winds drive razor-sharp blades of ice at our exposed skin, and freeze the breath in our lungs. February is like a black hole on the edge of our cyclical lives that draws us closer and closer to our event horizon, permitting us to escape at the last minute solely so it can enjoy watching us suffer again next year.