Peace Path Warrior, Tibetan Lama Tenzin Deleg Rinpoche
By Terry Reis Kennedy
I’m on the peace path again! Please join me. You can help by spreading the Truth. You are not impotent as many would have you believe, unable to do anything but accept things that you could change.
Peace does not mean non-reaction. It means nonviolence. I, for one, believe you’ve got to do something when you see your fellow earth travelers being persecuted. Jesus said: Turn the other cheek, when the bully slugs you. He did not say: Pretend the bully isn’t there. I don’t really know what Buddha might have said about tactical police maneuvers that eviscerate human values. But I say broadcast the crimes against humanity.
So, I’m resorting to my megaphone tactics. On December 18th I received information about the Chinese government’s continuing oppression of Tibetans. This time, the people of the Tibetan area of Kham defied a security crackdown to demonstrate in support of a long-imprisoned Tibetan high lama, Tenzin Deleg Rinpoche, 60, who is a revered religious teacher and peace path warrior.
According to sources, “Increased numbers of armed police and troops have been stationed in towns and villages where protests occurred –in an area that is already tense since demonstrations against Chinese rule spread across Tibet in March 2008. The movement of people in protest areas is now restricted and in one area soldiers have warned local people that they will shoot to kill if necessary.”
The fact that Kham-area protests continue during this time of crackdown indicates the influence and popularity of Tenzin Deleg Rinpoche. His supporters are not only Tibetans but they are Chinese Buddhists as well, along with thousands of peace-minded people all over the world.
Before he was arrested and detained in 2002 on alleged bombing charges which he denies, Tenzin Deleg Rinpoche’s humanitarian projects gave hope to his devotees. For example, he founded schools for nomad children, set up homes for the aged, worked with local officials to protect forests and was well-known for his efforts to preserve Tibetan culture. He was like the sun on the Tibetan flag, a bright symbol in a dark time.
Now he is wasting away in Mianyang Prison in Sichuan. “There are fears for his welfare as his health is poor,” sources state.
Following peaceful protests involving hundreds of people on December 5, 2009, a group of local lamas appealed to the county government to allow his followers to see their beloved Tenzin Deleg Rinpoche, fearing that if this request was not granted, Tibetans in the area might “rise up in protest.”
And this appears to be exactly what has happened. But who has the power to dim the sun forever? No one.
Yes! Bullies everywhere are waiting to be subdued. It really is hard to transform the self, let alone sadistic hordes. But I refuse to be hypnotized by a global war consciousness. I’ve got my megaphone and my prayer beads and I believe that following the path of peace, the Truth really will set us free—and Tenzin Deleg Rinpoche as well.
-30-
Ms. Terry Reis Kennedy is a poet, journalist, and Tibetologist.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Tibetans say thank you to India for 50 years of refuge
Tibetans Host a Heartfelt Thank You to Mother India
By Terry Reis Kennedy
“Jai Bharat!” shouted Mr. Kunga Dorjee, chief representative of the south-zone office of the Tibetan Government in Exile in Bangalore. He had just finished conducting the inaugural function of a recent three-day event commemorating 50 years of Tibetans living as refugees in India.
Hundreds gathered at Chitra Kala Parishad function center in Bangalore on the 22nd of November to join the inaugural festivities. Though the speeches were generally positive and conducted with grace, it was impossible not to remember the dark days that had brought thousands of Tibetans to the sanctuary of Mother India.—days of torture, imprisonment, and mass murder conducted by the Chinese communist administration under Chairman Mao Tse Tung during the takeover and occupation of the independent country of Tibet—dark days that are still continuing in the land known universally as The Rooftop of the World.
But no one spoke of the continuing acts of barbarism, the ethnic cleansing, and the absence of religious freedom in the country of holy lakes and mountain gods. Instead, it was a day full of smiles, handshakes, and much bowing while the songs of birds in the trees, and the fragrance of plumeria blossoms wafted through the air. The sun was as bright as the one on the flag of Tibet. Beautiful young Tibetan women in colorful native dresses moved like dazzling flowers through the crowds. The speakers told of the peace that comes with living in the free country that India is. But the old Tibetans with tear lines etched on their cheeks and malas entwined in their work-worn hands stood as silent testimony to their blood-drenched homeland, to their ancestors and to their families still trapped behind the Ice Curtain.
People from the five Tibetan Settlements in Karnataka, one-third of the Tibetan population in India, were present. Monks, nuns, farmers, along with V.I.P.s, and Mrs. Kesang Y. Takla, Honorable Minister of the Department of Information and International Relations for the Central Tibetan Administration in Dharmasala, were joined by their loving supporters: Indians, Greeks, Germans, other Europeans, Iranians and a lone journalist from the United States. All had come together to celebrate the occasion, and to remember the great kindness of India at the time of Prime Minister J. Nehru—letting the Tibetans who were escaping Chairman Mao’s “Cultural Revolution” come rushing across the border into the sacred heart of Mother India.
With divine synchronicity, perhaps, at the time of the opening event, His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama was attending a Gandhi-focused event outside of Delhi. The 74-year-old Tibetan leader and Nobel laureate told the audience at the international conference of the Hind Swaraj Centenary Commemoration that he was a son of India because Tibetan Buddhist culture and Buddha are from India. “India is the land of religious harmony,” he said. “So many different communities live together there, practicing such diverse religious traditions.
“My body is Tibet, but my mind is India.” He told a New Delhi TV reporter.
And then as if hearing the very words of the Chief Guest, Shri. N.L. Narendra Babu, member of the Legislative Assembly, Karnataka State who stood at the Bangalore dais chastising U.S. President Obama for not putting an end to the continuing oppression of Tibetans in Tibet today, His Holiness said to the Gandhi lovers up in Surajkund, “Obama is not soft on China; he just has a different style.”
A different style, a new way, this is what is happening right now. Obviously, the old ways no longer compute. Love, not hate, is the reigning emotion. Referring to the future of Tibet, Mrs. Kesang Y. Takla said, “The truth shall prevail. It always does.”
____________________________30__________________________________
Ms. Terry Reis Kennedy is a poet, journalist, and Tibetologist living in India.
By Terry Reis Kennedy
“Jai Bharat!” shouted Mr. Kunga Dorjee, chief representative of the south-zone office of the Tibetan Government in Exile in Bangalore. He had just finished conducting the inaugural function of a recent three-day event commemorating 50 years of Tibetans living as refugees in India.
Hundreds gathered at Chitra Kala Parishad function center in Bangalore on the 22nd of November to join the inaugural festivities. Though the speeches were generally positive and conducted with grace, it was impossible not to remember the dark days that had brought thousands of Tibetans to the sanctuary of Mother India.—days of torture, imprisonment, and mass murder conducted by the Chinese communist administration under Chairman Mao Tse Tung during the takeover and occupation of the independent country of Tibet—dark days that are still continuing in the land known universally as The Rooftop of the World.
But no one spoke of the continuing acts of barbarism, the ethnic cleansing, and the absence of religious freedom in the country of holy lakes and mountain gods. Instead, it was a day full of smiles, handshakes, and much bowing while the songs of birds in the trees, and the fragrance of plumeria blossoms wafted through the air. The sun was as bright as the one on the flag of Tibet. Beautiful young Tibetan women in colorful native dresses moved like dazzling flowers through the crowds. The speakers told of the peace that comes with living in the free country that India is. But the old Tibetans with tear lines etched on their cheeks and malas entwined in their work-worn hands stood as silent testimony to their blood-drenched homeland, to their ancestors and to their families still trapped behind the Ice Curtain.
People from the five Tibetan Settlements in Karnataka, one-third of the Tibetan population in India, were present. Monks, nuns, farmers, along with V.I.P.s, and Mrs. Kesang Y. Takla, Honorable Minister of the Department of Information and International Relations for the Central Tibetan Administration in Dharmasala, were joined by their loving supporters: Indians, Greeks, Germans, other Europeans, Iranians and a lone journalist from the United States. All had come together to celebrate the occasion, and to remember the great kindness of India at the time of Prime Minister J. Nehru—letting the Tibetans who were escaping Chairman Mao’s “Cultural Revolution” come rushing across the border into the sacred heart of Mother India.
With divine synchronicity, perhaps, at the time of the opening event, His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama was attending a Gandhi-focused event outside of Delhi. The 74-year-old Tibetan leader and Nobel laureate told the audience at the international conference of the Hind Swaraj Centenary Commemoration that he was a son of India because Tibetan Buddhist culture and Buddha are from India. “India is the land of religious harmony,” he said. “So many different communities live together there, practicing such diverse religious traditions.
“My body is Tibet, but my mind is India.” He told a New Delhi TV reporter.
And then as if hearing the very words of the Chief Guest, Shri. N.L. Narendra Babu, member of the Legislative Assembly, Karnataka State who stood at the Bangalore dais chastising U.S. President Obama for not putting an end to the continuing oppression of Tibetans in Tibet today, His Holiness said to the Gandhi lovers up in Surajkund, “Obama is not soft on China; he just has a different style.”
A different style, a new way, this is what is happening right now. Obviously, the old ways no longer compute. Love, not hate, is the reigning emotion. Referring to the future of Tibet, Mrs. Kesang Y. Takla said, “The truth shall prevail. It always does.”
____________________________30__________________________________
Ms. Terry Reis Kennedy is a poet, journalist, and Tibetologist living in India.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
WHY WRITING IS IMPORTANT
Writing, the Heart of the Matter
By Terry Reis Kennedy
Who describes the ethereal flight of the butterfly? Who embraces the whizzing salt-spray sound of the sea? Who smells the grass and compares it to the scent of crushed violets? It is the writer.
While hunkering down in the trenches of war, while studying grand vistas from mountaintop perches, while sitting at the bedsides of their dying loved ones, great writers become our eyes and our ears. They are more than the camera and the tape recorder, they are spies for God.
A world without writers would be like the heavens without stars.
It is not just the poet who delves deep into the human psyche and puts into words the longings of the soul, who exposes the cowardice as well as the courage of humankind. It is also the journalist, collecting bones, sorting through ashes, and delivering the truth that sets us free.
A world without writers would be like a rose without fragrance.
Let us not forget the notebooks of the scholar, attentive to the grand design, putting each piece of the puzzle into place until it becomes a mirror.
And remember the saint whose diary reveals the spark of Divinity pulsing in each of us.
Clap with joy for those writers who send us into convulsions of laughter over the absurdities of life, and in so doing lift us up out of our trials and tribulations.
A world without writers would be like a bath without water.
-30-
Terry Reis Kennedy can be contacted at treiskennedy@gmail.com
277 Prince Rogers Way, Marshfield, MA 02052 (in US)
3-882 Coconut Grove, Prasanthi Nilayam, AP (in India)
Only phone number: 0091 08555 287953
By Terry Reis Kennedy
Who describes the ethereal flight of the butterfly? Who embraces the whizzing salt-spray sound of the sea? Who smells the grass and compares it to the scent of crushed violets? It is the writer.
While hunkering down in the trenches of war, while studying grand vistas from mountaintop perches, while sitting at the bedsides of their dying loved ones, great writers become our eyes and our ears. They are more than the camera and the tape recorder, they are spies for God.
A world without writers would be like the heavens without stars.
It is not just the poet who delves deep into the human psyche and puts into words the longings of the soul, who exposes the cowardice as well as the courage of humankind. It is also the journalist, collecting bones, sorting through ashes, and delivering the truth that sets us free.
A world without writers would be like a rose without fragrance.
Let us not forget the notebooks of the scholar, attentive to the grand design, putting each piece of the puzzle into place until it becomes a mirror.
And remember the saint whose diary reveals the spark of Divinity pulsing in each of us.
Clap with joy for those writers who send us into convulsions of laughter over the absurdities of life, and in so doing lift us up out of our trials and tribulations.
A world without writers would be like a bath without water.
-30-
Terry Reis Kennedy can be contacted at treiskennedy@gmail.com
277 Prince Rogers Way, Marshfield, MA 02052 (in US)
3-882 Coconut Grove, Prasanthi Nilayam, AP (in India)
Only phone number: 0091 08555 287953
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Congressional Gold Medal of Honor to 87-year-old WASP Jeanette Rhamsey
Hi, Friends,
I'm hoping you will join us in a very happy project.
I am requesting your guidance on behalf of our beloved friend, 87- year-old Jeanette Rhamsey, of Tracy California.
Jeanette was notified by Texas Women's University (TWU), repository of Women's Airforce Service Pilots --WASP-- archives and memorabilia, that she and other WASP would be receiving Congressional Gold Medals of Honor in recognition of their service to our country, during World War Two. These awards are the result of President Obama's wishes to honor unsung heroes of that period.
More than 50 newspapers have run features on WASP activities, as a result of the March 13, 2009 announcement that Jeanette and her fellow pilots will be receiving what many feel to be long-delayed accolades.
Some of us here in Puttaparthi, south India, where Jeanette lives part of the time, would like, very much, for her to be able to travel to Washington to receive this award, which is scheduled to be handed out sometime soon. Due to her present limited income this is an expense she cannot afford. It is already necessary for USA citizens to leave India every six months, travel to a nearby country, and return, if they want to stay in India longer. So the cost of travelling to the USA for such an honor is beyond Jeanette's means. A few of us here are donating for her ticket, but we need assistance. For such a long journey we would like to send her by Business Class as she suffers from many minor ailments.
I would be so appreciative of any guidance you could give us on finding US sources that might help sponsor Jeanette's trip to Washington and making a dream come true for a brave and pioneering woman, a lady who continues to be an example of love in action to those of us who know her.
Or maybe you would just like to drop something in the Donation Hat. Let jeanette know by contacting her at yojeanette@yahoo.com
Yours most enthusiastically and appreciatively,
Terry Reis Kennedy
I'm hoping you will join us in a very happy project.
I am requesting your guidance on behalf of our beloved friend, 87- year-old Jeanette Rhamsey, of Tracy California.
Jeanette was notified by Texas Women's University (TWU), repository of Women's Airforce Service Pilots --WASP-- archives and memorabilia, that she and other WASP would be receiving Congressional Gold Medals of Honor in recognition of their service to our country, during World War Two. These awards are the result of President Obama's wishes to honor unsung heroes of that period.
More than 50 newspapers have run features on WASP activities, as a result of the March 13, 2009 announcement that Jeanette and her fellow pilots will be receiving what many feel to be long-delayed accolades.
Some of us here in Puttaparthi, south India, where Jeanette lives part of the time, would like, very much, for her to be able to travel to Washington to receive this award, which is scheduled to be handed out sometime soon. Due to her present limited income this is an expense she cannot afford. It is already necessary for USA citizens to leave India every six months, travel to a nearby country, and return, if they want to stay in India longer. So the cost of travelling to the USA for such an honor is beyond Jeanette's means. A few of us here are donating for her ticket, but we need assistance. For such a long journey we would like to send her by Business Class as she suffers from many minor ailments.
I would be so appreciative of any guidance you could give us on finding US sources that might help sponsor Jeanette's trip to Washington and making a dream come true for a brave and pioneering woman, a lady who continues to be an example of love in action to those of us who know her.
Or maybe you would just like to drop something in the Donation Hat. Let jeanette know by contacting her at yojeanette@yahoo.com
Yours most enthusiastically and appreciatively,
Terry Reis Kennedy
Monday, September 7, 2009
SURVIVING ANOTHER HUMILIATION
By Reverend Doctor Linda Logan
Hemet California
I am a 71-year-old African American woman living in Hemet, California. In all of these years I have lived through many ugly, racially-charged events in this country that I call Home.
I have survived the humiliations that have been heaped upon me, even in my home state of Minnesota. Racially provoked lynchings, assassinations, and marches in this country have all left me with emotional scars that I have attempted to heal by believing that surely, surely time would allow humanity to realize that we are here together and that working as one cohesive unit is the only means for our survival.
However, today my heart began to bleed again. Here in the year of 2009, my 10-year-old grandson arrived home from school with a permission slip to be signed by his parents as to whether he would be allowed to listen to the speech next Tuesday being given by the President of the United States, one Barack Hussein Obama.
After reading this, I was unable to speak, I felt as though I was being strangled by some unseen hand. The insult was so obvious and painful that I found it difficult to breathe. Nothing had changed. The fact that the Hemet Unified School District or any other would deliver such blatant disrespect of their president and then, by implication, channel it into their students who are 90% Hispanic and a10% blend of Caucasian and African American creates, in my opinion, a feeling in them of being questionable and inferior.
I have no recollection of students being given an option as to whether or not to listen to the first President Bush.
Maybe only a few want to play the ‘race card’ but it seems to be the only deck at this time. Let’s be honest and admit that this over-the-top desire to bring our first black president to defeat is racially charged.
I had prayed that my grandchildren would not have to wonder if their black skin was their greatest detriment. I see that I must keep up my personal work with them of being proud to be Black Americans.
Racism has pushed the rocks away like a huge sleeping serpent. It is alive and well and slinking through America. When will those who nurture cruel concepts that cripple the progress of this country realize that they are blind sheep being led by politicians who have no concern for their constituents other than to be re-elected, on a suicide march over a cliff?
I say WAKE UP before this vitriolic, hateful and self-defeating current is the end of what could be a great and noble society, a truly United country.
By Reverend Doctor Linda Logan
Hemet California
I am a 71-year-old African American woman living in Hemet, California. In all of these years I have lived through many ugly, racially-charged events in this country that I call Home.
I have survived the humiliations that have been heaped upon me, even in my home state of Minnesota. Racially provoked lynchings, assassinations, and marches in this country have all left me with emotional scars that I have attempted to heal by believing that surely, surely time would allow humanity to realize that we are here together and that working as one cohesive unit is the only means for our survival.
However, today my heart began to bleed again. Here in the year of 2009, my 10-year-old grandson arrived home from school with a permission slip to be signed by his parents as to whether he would be allowed to listen to the speech next Tuesday being given by the President of the United States, one Barack Hussein Obama.
After reading this, I was unable to speak, I felt as though I was being strangled by some unseen hand. The insult was so obvious and painful that I found it difficult to breathe. Nothing had changed. The fact that the Hemet Unified School District or any other would deliver such blatant disrespect of their president and then, by implication, channel it into their students who are 90% Hispanic and a10% blend of Caucasian and African American creates, in my opinion, a feeling in them of being questionable and inferior.
I have no recollection of students being given an option as to whether or not to listen to the first President Bush.
Maybe only a few want to play the ‘race card’ but it seems to be the only deck at this time. Let’s be honest and admit that this over-the-top desire to bring our first black president to defeat is racially charged.
I had prayed that my grandchildren would not have to wonder if their black skin was their greatest detriment. I see that I must keep up my personal work with them of being proud to be Black Americans.
Racism has pushed the rocks away like a huge sleeping serpent. It is alive and well and slinking through America. When will those who nurture cruel concepts that cripple the progress of this country realize that they are blind sheep being led by politicians who have no concern for their constituents other than to be re-elected, on a suicide march over a cliff?
I say WAKE UP before this vitriolic, hateful and self-defeating current is the end of what could be a great and noble society, a truly United country.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Forgiving Brutish Actions
Forgiving Brutish Actions
By Terry Reis Kennedy
I was furious. I intended to rename British Airways, Brutish Airways, after a recent trip from the US to India.
We boarded flight 0214 out of Boston on schedule. Customers needing assistance, those traveling with children, and a few big spenders swept through the open doors. Then, the rest of us were herded into the skinny end, passing a nearly empty first class, on through a fairly vacant business class.
Stuffed into our mini seats, where most of us would definitely suffer circulation restrictions, I wondered how we would endure the hours to London’s Heathrow, and on to India.
Being a short woman, I could at least move my feet. Luckily, I had booked my seat on the aisle. I had done the preliminaries on-line, including issuing my own boarding pass which was the suggested method —to save time. Theirs!
My mind really was justifying my angst. Humph! Such a fuss made about the weight of our luggage, while some crew members are more than hefty. And where are they when you need help loading overhead luggage in shoebox-size compartments?
Jammed in like chickens going to slaughter we prepared for take off. But just as the sweat began to drench our faces, due to the extreme heat, the captain announced that wouldn’t fly. We had a failed communication system, not allowing contact with London, he said.
Outrage erased my dregs of inner peace. Don’t they check these details out before they load us on? I tried to calm myself, remembering my years of spiritual teachings. Babies fussed, reminding me that even the sinless were uncomfortable. Obviously, they were not karma free, either.
I roamed up to first class hoping I might find an open door to catch a breeze. When I saw the two passengers there drinking champagne and being served snacks by chatty flight attendants my Ego triumphed. I thought, how unjust! Back in the stinky steerage tail of the malfunctioning aircraft we had begged for drinks. Eventually, we were served dismal-looking lukewarm water—in plastic.
After about two hours, we took off in spite of our over-loaded tail end and the popping champagne corks up front.
At Heathrow, things got less brutish and more bratish for those of us heading home to Bharat. We were delayed over five hours while the damaged engine of flight 0119 was repaired. De-planed we waited in the pricey innards of Terminal 5.
Soon, serious complaints began. As compensation for our troubles we were issued food vouchers worth five pounds each. Meanwhile, it costs nearly five pounds for a cappuccino there. However, we found a relatively affordable sandwich shop that let us use the vouchers combined with our own money to purchase what we could. I had dry feta cheese on brown bread with chlorinated water.
After much investigation, we located the duty manager, Mr. Michael Clok. He was a charming and well-coiffed young man who looked like a teenager. He said he was sorry but he could not do more than issue us food vouchers. The company rule was a five-pound voucher per passenger per two-hour wait. We could be issued another one if we stayed another two hours, he said. We could claim it at Bangalore.
We arrived at Bangaluru too tired to ask for the second voucher. And there we were accosted by hospital-masked workers who collected our health forms, filled out earlier. The masked men took our temperatures, checking us for Swine Flu symptoms—which I’m sure they hoped we weren’t carrying.
Obviously, we were delayed even more. Where is the justice in this story? I had to dredge it up from deep within. I had to forgive everyone involved. Love all; serve all, I had been taught this for too many years to count.
Soon I was laughing. We are One: the tired, over-worked British Airways crews, the masked workers afraid of being contaminated by germs, the travelers who had to endure the delays. Nobody escapes their humanness; yet the divine shines within each of us.
And putting the experience in a spiritual perspective, I could see how blessed I really am—able to fly from one place to the other, able to complain without fear of losing a job, able to meet new friends in cramped quarters.
God, forgive me for not remembering the millions who would have been thrilled just to have my dry feta cheese sandwich and my luke-warm water. I am sorry for my brutish ways.
By Terry Reis Kennedy
I was furious. I intended to rename British Airways, Brutish Airways, after a recent trip from the US to India.
We boarded flight 0214 out of Boston on schedule. Customers needing assistance, those traveling with children, and a few big spenders swept through the open doors. Then, the rest of us were herded into the skinny end, passing a nearly empty first class, on through a fairly vacant business class.
Stuffed into our mini seats, where most of us would definitely suffer circulation restrictions, I wondered how we would endure the hours to London’s Heathrow, and on to India.
Being a short woman, I could at least move my feet. Luckily, I had booked my seat on the aisle. I had done the preliminaries on-line, including issuing my own boarding pass which was the suggested method —to save time. Theirs!
My mind really was justifying my angst. Humph! Such a fuss made about the weight of our luggage, while some crew members are more than hefty. And where are they when you need help loading overhead luggage in shoebox-size compartments?
Jammed in like chickens going to slaughter we prepared for take off. But just as the sweat began to drench our faces, due to the extreme heat, the captain announced that wouldn’t fly. We had a failed communication system, not allowing contact with London, he said.
Outrage erased my dregs of inner peace. Don’t they check these details out before they load us on? I tried to calm myself, remembering my years of spiritual teachings. Babies fussed, reminding me that even the sinless were uncomfortable. Obviously, they were not karma free, either.
I roamed up to first class hoping I might find an open door to catch a breeze. When I saw the two passengers there drinking champagne and being served snacks by chatty flight attendants my Ego triumphed. I thought, how unjust! Back in the stinky steerage tail of the malfunctioning aircraft we had begged for drinks. Eventually, we were served dismal-looking lukewarm water—in plastic.
After about two hours, we took off in spite of our over-loaded tail end and the popping champagne corks up front.
At Heathrow, things got less brutish and more bratish for those of us heading home to Bharat. We were delayed over five hours while the damaged engine of flight 0119 was repaired. De-planed we waited in the pricey innards of Terminal 5.
Soon, serious complaints began. As compensation for our troubles we were issued food vouchers worth five pounds each. Meanwhile, it costs nearly five pounds for a cappuccino there. However, we found a relatively affordable sandwich shop that let us use the vouchers combined with our own money to purchase what we could. I had dry feta cheese on brown bread with chlorinated water.
After much investigation, we located the duty manager, Mr. Michael Clok. He was a charming and well-coiffed young man who looked like a teenager. He said he was sorry but he could not do more than issue us food vouchers. The company rule was a five-pound voucher per passenger per two-hour wait. We could be issued another one if we stayed another two hours, he said. We could claim it at Bangalore.
We arrived at Bangaluru too tired to ask for the second voucher. And there we were accosted by hospital-masked workers who collected our health forms, filled out earlier. The masked men took our temperatures, checking us for Swine Flu symptoms—which I’m sure they hoped we weren’t carrying.
Obviously, we were delayed even more. Where is the justice in this story? I had to dredge it up from deep within. I had to forgive everyone involved. Love all; serve all, I had been taught this for too many years to count.
Soon I was laughing. We are One: the tired, over-worked British Airways crews, the masked workers afraid of being contaminated by germs, the travelers who had to endure the delays. Nobody escapes their humanness; yet the divine shines within each of us.
And putting the experience in a spiritual perspective, I could see how blessed I really am—able to fly from one place to the other, able to complain without fear of losing a job, able to meet new friends in cramped quarters.
God, forgive me for not remembering the millions who would have been thrilled just to have my dry feta cheese sandwich and my luke-warm water. I am sorry for my brutish ways.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
My Sanctuary
RAMBLINGS ON MY SANCTUARY
By Sue Ellen Lucia
A cause for celebration! This morning, on a sunny 52 degree day, up on my beloved Drummer Hill, within the protected confines of the tall fir trees surrounding My Pond, I enjoyed my first al fresco brunch of 2009. The snow that had covered my sitting rock since December had finally evaporated and the seat was mine again. Just me and the birds, the sound of water going over the little dam at the end of the Pond, and an intermittent soft breeze - a cool spring breeze that is unlike any other breeze. It even smells different.
Drummer Hill seems to me to be Keene’s most undiscovered jewel. Only on occasion do other hikers cross my path. For ten years now I’ve called it my mountain. People scoff at that because, after all, it is Drummer Hill. To me, though, some of the trails there are steep enough and rise high enough to term it a mountain. Logistics of title aside, it is my place to escape city sounds and pavement and everyday frets and fumes, and to unite with the Source of All. It is one place where it’s easy to be in the Now, the precious Present, to unburden one’s mind of the ego battering that seems a life constant.
Every time I enter the woods, my first thought (which I say out loud) is “Lord, you’ve done it again. You‘ve created this spectacular day“. No matter the season or the weather - rain, hail, sleet, snow, cold, sunny, beautiful - here’s another day I have to be grateful for the legs that carry me to where my soul longs to be. And grateful for my senses that I can take in the sights, sounds, smells, and touches of my forested earth. And, in fact, grateful for everything that is.
In spite of not being a particularly adventurous person, I have followed a calling to explore a myriad of trails, with only the presumption as to where they might lead. These trails are mostly single-track, carved out of the woods by creative and intrepid mountain bikers who I almost never see. It’s difficult enough to scale and descend a few of these trails by foot, so steep are they; I can’t imagine them being navigated on a mountain bike.
Little by little over the years I’ve delved deeper and deeper into the inner sanctuary of this blessed forest, repeating each trail walk until it becomes a best friend, my favorite trail, until I hike the next one which then becomes my favorite! Sometimes before I fall asleep at night, I visualize the details of a trail I may have enjoyed that day and think of one I might trek tomorrow.
The quiet solitude I feel on my mountain is balm like no other. Especially sitting on the bank of My Pond, I feel safer than anywhere I can think of. The canopy of trees overhead creates a feeling of protected-ness akin to being cuddled in a mother’s embrace. I feel no loneliness there, as the Divine Presence is in everything I see, and I know nothing can hurt me on Drummer Hill. Some would argue that, but I have a Knowing that makes it my truth and reality. So to them I say, “ Quit calling me naïve or foolhardy.”
How many times have I spent how many tears there over how many trauma dramas of my life? How many times have I prayed for all kinds of things and bled gratitude for many more? And how often have I just looked around me and tears come simply because it’s so beautiful, such a nice day, so quiet, so perfect.
Many times; many, many times.
By Sue Ellen Lucia
A cause for celebration! This morning, on a sunny 52 degree day, up on my beloved Drummer Hill, within the protected confines of the tall fir trees surrounding My Pond, I enjoyed my first al fresco brunch of 2009. The snow that had covered my sitting rock since December had finally evaporated and the seat was mine again. Just me and the birds, the sound of water going over the little dam at the end of the Pond, and an intermittent soft breeze - a cool spring breeze that is unlike any other breeze. It even smells different.
Drummer Hill seems to me to be Keene’s most undiscovered jewel. Only on occasion do other hikers cross my path. For ten years now I’ve called it my mountain. People scoff at that because, after all, it is Drummer Hill. To me, though, some of the trails there are steep enough and rise high enough to term it a mountain. Logistics of title aside, it is my place to escape city sounds and pavement and everyday frets and fumes, and to unite with the Source of All. It is one place where it’s easy to be in the Now, the precious Present, to unburden one’s mind of the ego battering that seems a life constant.
Every time I enter the woods, my first thought (which I say out loud) is “Lord, you’ve done it again. You‘ve created this spectacular day“. No matter the season or the weather - rain, hail, sleet, snow, cold, sunny, beautiful - here’s another day I have to be grateful for the legs that carry me to where my soul longs to be. And grateful for my senses that I can take in the sights, sounds, smells, and touches of my forested earth. And, in fact, grateful for everything that is.
In spite of not being a particularly adventurous person, I have followed a calling to explore a myriad of trails, with only the presumption as to where they might lead. These trails are mostly single-track, carved out of the woods by creative and intrepid mountain bikers who I almost never see. It’s difficult enough to scale and descend a few of these trails by foot, so steep are they; I can’t imagine them being navigated on a mountain bike.
Little by little over the years I’ve delved deeper and deeper into the inner sanctuary of this blessed forest, repeating each trail walk until it becomes a best friend, my favorite trail, until I hike the next one which then becomes my favorite! Sometimes before I fall asleep at night, I visualize the details of a trail I may have enjoyed that day and think of one I might trek tomorrow.
The quiet solitude I feel on my mountain is balm like no other. Especially sitting on the bank of My Pond, I feel safer than anywhere I can think of. The canopy of trees overhead creates a feeling of protected-ness akin to being cuddled in a mother’s embrace. I feel no loneliness there, as the Divine Presence is in everything I see, and I know nothing can hurt me on Drummer Hill. Some would argue that, but I have a Knowing that makes it my truth and reality. So to them I say, “ Quit calling me naïve or foolhardy.”
How many times have I spent how many tears there over how many trauma dramas of my life? How many times have I prayed for all kinds of things and bled gratitude for many more? And how often have I just looked around me and tears come simply because it’s so beautiful, such a nice day, so quiet, so perfect.
Many times; many, many times.
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