Showing posts with label Terry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Terry. Show all posts

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

RED CLOVER PRESS UPDATE

26.04.2016

Who is Terry Reis Kennedy?


My name is Terry Reis Kennedy. I was born in Bellows Falls, Vermont, and wrote my first story when I was three years old. Writing is my life. I have a B.A. and an M.A. in the writing arts and my writing has appeared in hundreds of publications including 6 books of poetry, one play, and three screenplays.

 My writing has drawn me to every state in the United States of America, including First Nation Territories, Puerto Rico, Nova Scotia, Canada, Mexico, Poland, Fiji, Italy, Switzerland, Spain, the Virgin Islands, the Caribbean, Australia, New Zealand Sri Lanka and India where I have a home. I have read from my anthologized essays, fiction, and poetry on radio, on television, and at places as diverse as prisons, public squares, cafes, Harvard University, Boston City Hall, and at Native American Indian Reservations. 

I love working with people who want to get their book or film projects out to audiences whether they are still in the idea stage or are finished but need some design, layout, editing, publishing, and marketing assistance. 

I support myself through my own work as a wordsmith and I know that I can turn your dream of publishing a successful book or documentary come true.

How do I help you reach your goal?


We work together—one on one.  Sometimes, I go to where you live and work with you there. Or you travel to another location.

Other times we work as a team of writers on our individual projects which I guide and oversee at a retreat center in Vermont or in the Connecticut River Valley—Heart Center of the Abenaki Nation. We include meditation, meals, readings and critique sessions as part of our development and completion of our projects.

Once a year we have a writer/ film maker session in Sri Lanka, Ireland, or Spain. We do not work in cities or suburbs.  We work in harmony with nature in country settings.

To know more, read my BLOG:

Or, join my official Facebook page ALL OUR RELATIONS:
https://www.facebook.com/pages/All-Our-Relations/894397783936561

Or, visit my official website RED CLOVER PRODUCTIONS:

Tuesday, March 22, 2016

READY TO START YOUR BOOK PROJECT?

GREETINGS,

READY TO START YOUR BOOK PROJECT?
WORK WITH TERRY REIS KENNEDY FOR THREE WEEKS IN VERMONT, OR ELSEWHERE.

SHE IS THE AUTHOR OF FIVE BOOKS OF POETRY, WRITES A BLOG WITH EXCERPTS FROM HER NOVELS, AN EDITOR, AND A PUBLISHER.

SHE HAS BEEN INITIATED BY THE WARM SPRINGS INDIAN NATION IN OREGON WHERE SHE CONDUCTED A WRITERS' RETREAT AND HAS PARTICIPATED IN A NATIONAL POETRY READING IN BISHOP, CALIFORNIA, AT THE TOIYABI INDIAN HEALTH PROJECT AND ALSO HAS WORKED WITH OTHER FIRST NATION PEOPLE.



Wednesday, February 10, 2016

MUDDENAHALLI PERSPECTIVE



By Diane Wells

I was in Muddenahalli twice: once before the Subtle body phenomenon and once after. I experienced Swami on my birthday the first time I was in Muddenahalli, which was one year after Murthy’s so-called “dream” about building a place for devotees to come and visit.

Baba showed up in the form of an old man in the likeness of a drawing I had made. I didn’t recognise him at first. Swami asked me how old I was. I said "Seventy years." As he shook my hand, He repeated "Seventy years! Very happy!" There were many children who wanted to wish me a happy birthday, six or eight, all the same height, who lined up and shook my hand. They were, in my mind, like little deities, since they were all the same height, with eyes filled with light and wisdom. Each one insisted on shaking my hand as I walked down the line.

When I went to Muddenahalli the second time, I came with a friend who was not a devotee. Many devotees were waiting for the program to start. We sat in the outside of the bhajan hall where Isaac Tigrett and Madhu and Murthy were speaking. Madhu came outside afterwards to give a ring to the Vedic musicians in the back of the veranda, just three feet away from me. I was feeling the devotion from the people inside and around me, but Madhu seemed stiff and in a trance to me. I have been surprised at the response of so many people as the teachings of our Lord Sai began to be ignored by this new phenomenon.

So many of Sai’s warnings have been overridden by the MH group that I have not embraced the so-called “subtle body” as so many of my old friends have. After all, in His lifetime, Sai urged us not to follow a form. Yet I remembered what Baba had said: something to the effect that the purity of feeling and belief of the devotee saves him, but the false guru accrues his own bad karma. The problem for me is that all of the western advertising gimmicks are being employed by the MH group: direct solicitation of funds by E-mail, as well as using Baba’s students to directly approach visiting devotees, gathering money in Baba's name--these are the main issues for me that keep me watching the worldly scenario. 

I have read the article by Bob Bozzani about his experience. What I wrote above is my experience. What he did not state clearly in his article was whether Baba had come to him in a dream or vision in his own form and said anything about Madhu being his new form. Bob talked about Baba accompanying Madhu as though he was actually seeing Him and described Swami as if he saw Baba in the flesh. I felt that he was simply giving words to the "feeling" or "belief" that he felt strongly that Baba was indeed walking beside Madhu or actually sitting in the chair set for Swami. To me, all of this seems to be the acting out of what Swami, in his form with us, cautioned and warned about over and over. It's happening in front of our eyes, but the devotees, in my view, are missing the warnings because of the influence of the dark forces at the end of the Kali Yuga age. Baba's old devotees are now following another form.

How ironic. This is how the dark forces work. Bob Bozzani did respond to my E-mail questioning this point. His response was focused, not on answering my questions, but rather on living in love, as God is Love – Live in Love. He reminded me that Swami has told us that we all are God. He said that each one should have their own thoughts about the subtle body, that we all are God, the only difference being that He knows it and we do not. I finally came to feel that this was more important to me at this stage of my life than engaging further in the MH controversy. Yet there may be some merit in sharing my main concerns with other devotees who are playing their roles on the worldly stage, perhaps caught up in the “mob mind” of blind acceptance, under the influence of the Dark forces, which ignores Baba’s warnings all during his lifetime, before he left the body. Though Baba has said to "Love my uncertainty," I am not convinced that he would go against his own teachings made while he was with us, in the Baba form we know and have experienced before the “subtle body” came on the scene.

My Baba friends are, on the whole, very loving human beings. I know that Bob Bozzani is truly convinced in his point of view, but I questioned where his discrimination has flown, under the influence of the dark forces. Many of us remember how Isaac Tigrett for years has been so fond of saying that Baba said to him "You are a magnet for evil." Tigrett announced at Christmas that he was going to open a casino in Las Vegas, the money which would go to charitable projects. Surely Isaac has not taken Baba's words about being a magnet for evil literally, but has viewed such an astounding statement by Baba as a positive thing. It seems to me that what Baba says is TRUTH. For Isaac to be told such a thing has put him in denial. Yet, can one not see how our LORD SAI would never have anything to do with using his name to collect money!...no matter what the intentions are. Isaac is penniless. Where do you think his money to build a casino is coming from? The Muddenahalli people own the Solar company Lotus. Business men. They are using worldly ways to get money in Baba's name! Sai Baba of Shirdi announced his next incarnation in another form. Sai Baba of Puttaparthi only announced his next incarnation as Sai Prem. He did not mention a word about any "subtle body" interim form. He did warn not to trust cheats who would imitate him, collect money in His name. Let them collect money under their own name, but not to trade on the impeccable name and reputation Baba spent a lifetime building. 

That the MH group has solicited funds from known donors and done it by E- mail violates everything Baba stood for. They are operating, not by the promptings of the hearts of the wealthy, but by every known western advertising scheme from the worldly sector. They are trading on the gullibility of westerners who are trusting and easy "marks" for charlatans, especially “devotees" who are under the influence of the "Dark forces," which tends to dull their discrimination and throw all of Swami's warnings about such charlatans out the window. Please know that I love and admire my friends who follow this MH charade. I still do. But I disagree with what they perceive to be a good thing. There are consequences on a spiritual level for the MH group. I hope my Baba friends and other devotees will open their eyes and use their intellect, their Buddhi, to reflect on these matters. They are now just following another form, and I do not think it is the one he left us with.

Baba insisted on students, office bearers and all devotees to know his teachings and to be able to speak in front of people. We all can talk of our experiences and repeat His teachings ad infinitum. It is also strange that Baba's policies regarding his Centres and officers demand that when two parties disagree, whether in Centres, the Sai organization, even his Schools and Universities, one of the parties must leave. A house divided against itself cannot stand. The MH group goes totally against Baba’s directives...and yet, the gullible devotees accept these infractions. I pray that we all wake up to what is happening. BABA IS WAITING FOR HIS DEVOTEES TO WAKE UP.

There is an old joke that goes something like this: a man dies and meets God in the afterlife. He complains about all the horrible things happening on earth...so many people starving, injustice everywhere, etc., etc.,—and why doesn't God do something about it? God replies: "I did. I brought it to your attention!"

Baba wants us to handle our own issues. He has given us the guidance and left us on our own to handle our own future. The split in our organization has been brought to our attention. It is up to Baba’s devotees to do something about it. Baba is waiting for us to wake up and see the reality. How often He has referred to our propensity for worshipping what is really “tinsel and trash”. All that glitters is not gold. BABA IS WAITING FOR HIS DEVOTEES TO WAKE UP. Money, comfort and flattery do not count in Baba’s estimation. Baba as the young Bala Sai admitted that he gambled once and it was a sin. Only money that is earned dharmically is acceptable to the Lord. Using gambling money profits for charity is a complete misdirection of intentions. The MH group is not acquiring money by dharmic means. This will destroy them and their efforts in time. I hope and pray that Baba’s true devotees will examine the truth of what lies before them and begin to see into and through the methods being deployed by the MH folks.

Tuesday, February 9, 2016

Dear Bellows Falls

I had just talked with my Mom, Blanche Reis, on the phone one morning.  She told me that things in Bellows Falls are about the same, but that her cousin Amelia Belzac, God rest her bountiful soul, had passed away and that the burial took place at Sacred Heart Cemetery Grounds with snow on the ground.

When I arrived home to my little house in India, after three months in New England, I had to take my shoes off and walk barefoot in the garden just to get myself readjusted.  It is so warm here right now with chickens pecking at worms in the soft soil and the parrots flying through the coconut trees screeching with glee.

I hoped that Amelia, who I loved dearly, and who I had spent many happy childhood days with might pass over my speck of the Universe on her Grand Journey to her resting place.  Would I feel her presence if she did?  I wondered.

Here in the spiritual India I inhabit, the emphasis is on the Soul.  People regard each lifetime as an increment in the Soul's journey towards final mergence with God, by whatever name they choose to call that Power.


When I was back in Vermont and studying about the indigenous Abenaki peoples who used to fish and camp alongside the falls in our sweet town I learned that the Abenaki  believe in the God spark in all living things, that part of the Great Spirit that is immortal….just like India.

It's such a beautiful world when we focus on the good and the positive around us.  For instance, I really enjoyed being in the snow back home in Bellows Falls and walking through the slushy streets, thinking of how everything would be so green come spring.  After all, that's how our state got its name, the Green Mountain State.

There is lots of snow here too, up in the north, especially in the Himalayas.  In fact, the northern state of Himachal Pradesh is named after the words Hima Challa which mean, Ice Heart.  It is said by the spiritual elders here that the person who develops a heart that is pure and cool as ice is someone who can best serve humanity.  In so many indigenous cultures, it is the heart that is regarded as more important than the head.  In other words, the feeling one has for life is genuine, while the head, the mind, the thoughts, can deceive.

I worship the Himalayas; they remind me in a colossal way of the Green Mountains of my heartland, covered in snow, the Soul of my native place.

It is often during the coldest parts of winter that I get my best insights, that I can go deeply within and commune with God.  This is why so many pilgrims flock to the Himalayas.  It is there, at the top of the world, that they feel close to the Great Spirit.  So many places of worship are there.

The town of Puttaparthi, where I live,  is waking up right now and people are hurrying off to the market to get the best of the fruits and vegetables that the local farmers have brought in from their planting fields.  Today I will buy bananas, three for a penny, some mandarin oranges, one for a penny, and a pound of potatoes.... a whopping 10 cents.  Later I will take my shirt to the tailor to be mended for less than a quarter.

I wish I could send all that is good about India home to you so that your lives would be more comfortable. And I wish that the special strength of character that resides especially in the hearts of the folks of Bellows Falls could be spread like maple syrup over some weary hearts here.

For now, I send heaps of sunshine and truckloads of my love.

Catch you later!
Terry Reis Kennedy






Tuesday, February 2, 2016

10 p.m. India Time

(Terry’s New Signboard)

I am going to retire early tonight without a book!
I need to find out what I am really feeling about life.
The flame from my altar will spread fluttering shadows onto the ceiling.
The tulsi and tuber rose garland hung on the water color painting of Sai Baba
with His Holiness the Dalai Lama will send it's fragrance across the room
to my bed, while the frogs in the lotus pond talk to each other like lovers.
When I wake up in the morning, the crickets will not be singing.
The moon will have disappeared and the shadows too.
In the mirror I will look the same, but I will not be the woman you left
standing in the doorway when you walked out......



Tuesday, January 12, 2016

Tenzin calls from Varkala

By Terry Reis Kennedy

Tenzin calls from Varkala in Kerala and tells me about his Seer who lives on the beachhead does predictions by reading the ashes he scatters on the sands from his hand stove.

Tenzin urges me to find out about my love life, says the women in ancient India used to read their husbands' faces looking through sieves. Aha, so this is where I get my obsession with sieves, past-life karma with straining tea leaves, poppy seeds and husbands.

I say I will go to the Super Bazaar later and buy more sieves for my kitchen window, to hang beside the knives. No need for hand stoves and Seers.



Tuesday, January 5, 2016

Early Morning

(Terry’s New Signboard) 

Early morning,
heliotrope sky
above the ashram.

From the inner sanctum
the harmonium breathes
as worshippers stir

You awake.
Temple bells ring.
Bird songs flood my heart.

So many creatures
praising You.
What of defeat, what of death?

I am ecstatic.


Tuesday, December 15, 2015

MUNDGOD MONK POWER

By Terry Reis Kennedy

Little lama Lobsang lives at Gajang Tsawa Monastery in Mundgod, Karnataka, South India.  He was born in Mon Tawang, India in the Himalayan region neat Bhutan.  He looks about five years old.  But no one can say for certain.  He is an orphan.

Now, little lama Lobsang is a full-time student of Tibetan Buddhism.  He was brought to one of Gaden Monastery's many shelter homes by elder monks for his protection.  He, like hundreds of other impoverished refugee children have survived by the loving action of senior monks.  Orphans or those whose families simply cannot afford to feed them are given to monks to take care of. Initially, the children were given over to monasteries in northern India, regions with climates similar to Tibet.  However, these monasteries too are  suffering financially strapped conditions and are jam-packed already. So, shifting the boy monks to Mungod is the present option. (Little Anis, girls nuns, are also received by convent communities.)

Lobsang may not understand why he now lives in a flat land of many farms, dry winds, intense heat and a few distant hills. Whether he remembers the alluvial plains beneath the snow-capped peaks of his homeland and the crisp, fresh air is irrelevant, perhaps.  For little he may not ever be going home to Montwang or to his culture homeland, Tibet again.  Communist Chinese continue to rule with a heavy hand and regard His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama, the god-king and spiritual leader of Tibetans as a "demon".

GajangTsawa Kangtsen is one of many Tibetan houses associated with monasteries in Mungod--a Tibetan refugee settlement about an hour’s drive from Hubli and a six-hour bus trip from one of India’s zaniest seaside tourist attractions--Goa.

Once ruled and, some say, savaged by the Portuguese, Goa with its western-style homesteads, churches and cathedrals, appeals to foreign tourists.  But the talcum-powder-like sands and warm-water swimming make the beaches of Goa even more appealing.

Over the years, Goa has gained a reputation--warranted or not--as a place where «anything goes.»  The anything allegedly includes nude bathing, lots of wild parties, plenty of drugs, brothels and no police hassles.

Juxtapose this scene against the prayer-filled atmosphere of Mundgod where about 4,500 Tibetan monks live in exile, detached from wine, women and weed, but with plenty of police surveillance, and you get an idea of the duel images of India that befuddle foreign visitors.

We can party hearty anytime at Goa, » said James from U.K.  « And we never have to show our papers to the police.  But we’re deterred from visiting the sacred gompas and monasteries of Mungod honoring Lord Buddha.  Why?  The government of India has declared Mundgod a restricted area.  It’s schizophrenic! » James complained.

Meanwhile, Lobsang is oblivious to police, tourists, and the problems the monastery officials are facing trying to keep up with the influx of new refugee arrivals and the alarming financial strain this is causing.

His days are full of new learning experiences: Washing dishes, washing his clothes, doing his school work, arriving on time for 6 a.m. daily group prayers, and keeping his tiny shoes properly tied.

The tasks may be endless, but it becomes obvious as you watch him from a distance that he is very pleased with his surroundings.  He laughs frequently and smiles at you engagingly--in a way that tugs at your heart strings.

A fair child, with darting, warm brown eyes that look up at you framed by long, soft lashes, he stands out as special.  Perhaps he is the reincarnation of a tulku (Divine Being) whose true identity will be revealed later--in the Tibetan Buddhist way.  Or maybe he’s just a kid, happy to have a roof over his head and food in his tummy.  At any rate, you could say he’s an angel.


At Gajang Tsawa, Lama Camp Number One, P.O. Tibetan Colony , Mundgod, North Karnataka, 581441, South India, there are no TVs, no bicycles, and no cricket fields.  Yet approximately 350 monks, ranging in age from five to 75, make this their home.  Conditions are over-crowded with up to seven monks sharing a single room.  There are no servants, no washing machines, no hot-water heaters  and sometimes no water at all.  The electricity is off most of the day.  And yet, though their lives are devoid of every material luxury--not to mention necessity--these monks radiate an ineffable strength, a sort of collective monk power that causes joy to erupt inside you when you are around them.

As busy as they are: Prayer work, school work, scripture studies, household chores, evening debates on philosophical issues of Tibetan Buddhism, chanting, meditating, performing special religious ceremonies such as prayers for the dead, and teaching, the monks at Gaden Jangtse Tsawa Monastery still find time to take long walks in the green meadows and pastures behind their home.  At sunset you can see them walking, their maroon capes fluttering like flags on the wind.

Likewise, Lobsang finds time for quiet contemplation.  At intervals throughout the day you can find him standing on the veranda of the second floor of the monastery outside the room he shares with four other boy monks and their teacher.

He contemplates the horizon, staring out across the yard where cows are pulling up clumps of grass, staring out across the eucalyptus trees to the faraway hills that can sometimes be seen when the wind blows just right and the branches bend just enough.

In this moment, the hilltops meet the skies and the racing white clouds wrap themselves around the peaks like katas--the white scarves of Tibetan Buddhism used for honoring the deities and for gifting devotees.

It’s a lovely sight to behold,  And little lama concentrates on this vision.  Perhaps he is ruminating on the long-ago, snow-capped Himalayas of his former life.

Relatively speaking, however, the intervals of reverie are short, for Lobsang--in addition to his chores and studies— must also learn to read and write  his native language.  Like scores of others, he meets the challenge with enthusiasm.

This phenomenon--displaced or orphaned Buddhist children being  brought to Tibetan monasteries as a sort of life-support system--has put a strain on the various khangtsens ( monastic homes) in Mundgod.  At Gajang Tsawa Khangsten, the situation is critical.

According to Geshe Dorjee Riochen, Geshe Thupten Wangyal, and the Venerable Dawa Gelek, in charge of the khangtsen, about 70% of the new arrivals face problems of health.

Since they have come mostly from poor families, these youngsters are often not in good physical condition when they arrive.  It is even difficult, sometimes, to provide tooth brushes, paste and soap, » one monastery letter of appeal stated.

Meantime, there are bigger problems to overcome.  According to the monks in charge, bore wells need to be dug to increase the water supply.  A solar system would alleviate some of the strain, they say.  And a couple of generators would keep the electricity flowing.  But the fact that the monastery has no medical facility, dispensary, or even a medical person on duty makes the administrators uncomfortable, they agree.

The nearest hospital is about 10 kilometers away, and there is no special vehicle to bring sick or injured monks there.  With more than half of the population of the house comprised of children, it’s a risky situation, the administrators said.

During the day Jeeps can be hired for transport and the walk to the Jeep stop is only about a quarter of a mile.  However, the Jeeps meant to seat five or six comfortably, often carry up to 12 or 14 passengers.  And late at night there is no way to get to the hospital without calling someone for help.

Tibetans, having been given asylum in India is something His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama always gives thanks for in his public discourses.  Without this boon, who knows what could have happened?  More than one and a half million Tibetans, nearly one third of their people, were entirely destroyed as the result of Mao Zedong's and continuing Chinese occupation of their country. Tibetans still in Tibet are continuing to be killed, maimed, tortured and imprisoned on a daily basis. 

It was when the Chinese invaded Tibet in 1959 that they nearly destroyed the Buddhist University, Gaden, which was founded by Je Tsonkapa Lobsang Dakpa in 1409, and from which the present Mundgod Gaden Monastery originates.

At the time of the invasion, there were approximately 800 monks living, studying, and practicing their religion at Gaden Monastery in Tibet.  Of those 800 monks, approximately 200 had already mastered the Five Great Texts of Tibetan Buddhism which, according to tradition, is the goal of all monks.  It takes up  to 30 years of study to become a master of these texts and to gain the revered title of « Geshe » which translates as something close to, but not exactly, a double doctorate in Philosophy.

Unfortunately, during the Chinese invasion, only 10 of the Gaden Geshes managed to flee to India. The remaining Geshes and the thousands of other monks continued to suffer torture and affliction.  Some were imprisoned.  Some died.  Some are still missing and unaccounted for.

Once the 10 Geshes arrived in India, His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama re-established monasteries for them.  It is due to their efforts that Tibetan Buddhist philosophy, dialectic, and the methods of debating used by the monks has been preserved at Gaden  Monastery in Mungod.

Lobsang will eventually learn about the Chinese invasion and takeover of Tibet.  He will eventually come to understand how the tradition of his monastery was upheld.  For now, he can study simpler things.

At night, for example, he sometimes sits on the dilapidated wooden chair with the sawed off legs on the veranda near his room.  With the moon as his lamp, he holds his prayer book in his two hands and recites the words in the traditional Tibetan Buddhist method of chanting.  Out of his approximately three foot, two inch body boom melodious prayers thousands of years old.  In time he will be able to chant this book and many others from memory.  Such is the power of the monks of Mungod.

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

Feed the Hungry

(Terry’s New Signboard) 

Even the rich and healthy can be starved for happiness. Add to the World Bank of Joy. Deliver home-baked items to those who no longer bake. For every muffin you give to a feeble soul, give two to an able-bodied person. Watch the Love interest compound daily!

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

Thanksgiving at Auschwitz

By Terry Reis Kennedy

It was Thanksgiving in the USA.  But in Poland no one was feasting.  It was the height of Martial Law there in 1982 and I had come to the country to witness and to write about the war atmosphere, the lack of basic food supplies, and to search for Lech Walesa, the leader of the Solidarity Movement which was gaining worldwide recognition as a force that was usurping the Communist regime.

The sun was out.  The leaves of the trees were gold and rust and umber. But the air was cold, as cold as a mortician’s storage vault.  I didn’t like the feel of it.

As the car chugged closer and closer to Auschwitz, I felt queasier.  I wished I hadn’t decided to visit the death camp. I wished I didn’t personally know people who insisted there was no such thing as the Holocaust. Long ago, though, I’d promised myself I would—because so many of my Polish relatives had died there—exterminated like mice in a laboratory.  And I wanted to gather evidence to hand over to the non-believers—a baby skeleton, at least, something to open their minds just a fraction—to let the light of Truth seep in.

In my own way, I wanted to pay my respects, not just to my ancestors, but to those millions of other souls whose last human groans were uttered there.  I wanted to give thanks, to acknowledge the sacrifice, to say the degradation, the humiliation, the mutilation, the annihilation were not in vain.  Silently, alone, on the threshold of some anonymous cell, I’d pictured myself admitting that the world had learned its awful lesson.  Never, no never again, would man’s inhumanity to man surface.

But how preposterous, I thought.  Looking around me was proof enough that my private Thanksgiving would have to wait.  As if synchronized by some overseer of the ominous, I began to feel trapped in images of World War II.

Suddenly, as my car approached the outskirts of Auschwitz, increasing numbers of communist paramilitary police—called Zomo Squad troopers—began to appear. These were Polish men serving lengthy or life sentences in prisons, set free to arrest their own mothers, if need be, to keep the might of the communist regime intact. The idea was to let the Polish criminals do the nasty work of the regime.


The Zomo ranks grew thicker as I got closer.  A new wave of bodies, seemingly exhumed from the celluloid cellars of Hollywood. Young. Rugged.  They carried machine guns on their backs and billy clubs on their hips.  I thought their grey, belted uniforms resembled those of Hitler’s SS.

I tried to distract myself with thoughts of the present.  Today, back home in Bellows Falls, Vermont, a once thriving paper-mill town on the Connecticut River, but now an impoverished community struggling to stay solvent, I guessed my family was probably still asleep.  But, in a few hours my mother’s table cloth with its scenes of Pilgrims and Native Americans would be blotched with gravy stains.  Once more the fading Mayflower would hulk in a sea of cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie droppings, and discount store champagne.

For years my mother’s holiday cloths had underlined our happy, unhappy, pathetic, and sometimes apathetic gatherings.  Now, 4500 miles across an ocean and light years behind an Iron Curtain, I was keenly aware of those cloths.  They waved across my memory like a parade of 4th of July flags and majorettes and senior citizens in V.F.W. hats.  For the first time in my life I felt homesick.

Then, without warning, Auschwitz sprang up in front of me.  The crow-black iron entrance gates spread like shadows across the baby-blue horizon.  I stared up at the inscription over the archway.  “Arbeit Macht Frei.”  Work Makes Free.  I wondered how many of the millions who actually suffered, died, and endured here had entered through these gates. Had my relatives?  Had the dry-cleaner worker in my New York neighborhood, the one with the Auschwitz tattoo on her wrist?  Had they seen the inscription and recognized the Hitler euphemism for the lie it was.  Or had they lied to themselves as they shuffled under its shadows?  Had they, like uncounted others, managed to deny  the smokestacks of the crematoria spewing black smoke and the stench of burning flesh, even to their own nostrils?

Denial is such a powerful psychological tool.  People who believe that the Holocaust never existed rely on denial, perhaps, because to believe that demonic forces are alive and operating on this earth would be too much for them to tolerate. Many have been spoon-fed anti-Semitism from childhood; it has been subtly mixed into their body of knowledge.  The will say things like, “Some of my best friends are Jewish,” which actually translates to—all other Jews don’t deserve the special status of best friend.  Not even the greatest gurus can wean them from this poisonous view.

I was horrified as I passed under the archway.  The immensity of Auschwitz was no longer something to be imagined. Here it was spilling over the country side for miles and miles until it flowed into the adjacent death camp of Birkenau. The site was bigger than the whole town of Bellows Falls, Vermont.  According to historians, when Hitler decided to build the death camps in the Polish Village of Oswiecim, he re-named the area Auschwitz.  Some say Auschwitz means, “lights out”.  Poles however, still refer to the area as “Oswiecim”.  I got chills when I learned Oswiecim translates, “that which enlightens.”

And, indeed, viewing the remains of the original buildings instructed me in startling ways.  It wasn’t just an awareness of my relatives’ presence.  It was more like encountering my own ghost.

For four hours I walked up worn, stone steps and down blood-spattered corridors.  Past stacks and stacks of shelves wide as operating room tables, long as coffins, but each one used as a bed for eight.  Past piles and piles of hair shaved from prisoners’ heads.  Past piles and piles of blankets made from that hair.  Blankets not to warm the prisoners, but to warm the bank accounts of those who marketed them.

Later, past piles and piles of crutches, canes, and wooden legs, all salvaged for re-sale, re-use.  Heaps and heaps of shoes.  Then, unexpectedly, in a mass of brown and back workers’ shoes I spotted on red velvet dancing slipper.  I wondered what romantic heart had been slammed into a box car on her way to the last dance.

Beautiful long-ago cousin, Maria, was it you?  My beloved Babcha Szysko told me a story once of how you’d heard about the Russian ballerina, Anna Pavlova.  How you admired her independence.  How you envied her startling talent.  How you yearned for just a pinch of her wealth.  How you loved to get up mornings and dance in the dawn light of your kitchen before you lit the fires.  Before you milked the cows.  Before you walked to the well to fill the water buckets.  Before you did the wash.  Oh, Maria, how you would have cherished such a pair of dancing slippers.  Red as the hummingbird’s throat.  Smooth as the underbelly of the cat.

Yes, for each romantic heart extinguished, there were 20,000 dedicated others.  Shoe by shoe, the future of the universe piled up like logs for the fire.  How could I replant dreams?  Rebuild whole visions?  Just what is it possible to do in retrospect?

Is it accomplishing anything on this frail planet for me to look, really peer through the keyholes of the medical experiment chambers in cellblock 10 and see hundreds of solemn doctors who had taken hundreds of solemn oaths to uphold life, slicing it out of countless wombs?  And if I picture myself amid the wailing women of cell block 10 who underwent this sterilization without anesthesia, will it matter?  I hope so.  I am counting on it.

And I don’t want to forget how I felt when I saw the two by four brick confinement boxes where prisoners who tried to escape were entombed—alive.  And I don’t want to stop imagining what each one’s last human thought might have been.  Was it, “God forgive them?  I hope so.  I am counting on it.

I am also counting on myself to forgive myself for what I’ve done to the self of others because there is a bit of Hitler still alive in me, I’m ashamed to say.  For I have seen myself interfering with another’s freedom to be and do whatever he chooses.  So, until I recognize that when I even think of holding back one man’s freedom, any freedom, I am only holding back my own.  Until I see, truly see, that other person as myself, I am getting nowhere.

Silently, alone on the threshold of some anonymous cell, as I promised myself, I gave thanks.  What’s more, I told myself I’d work harder at being the kind of person someone descended from these martyrs ought to be.  Before I can expect others to change, I must change myself.

As I retraced my steps under the archway to leave Auschwitz, perhaps forever, darkness crept invisibly over the horizon.  My shadow stretched in front of me.  Long and lean and Amazonian.  The trip back to Krakow was swift.  Once there, I was happy to see the lighted streets and windowed houses.

In the comfort of my cozy room I felt safe—almost free.  Outside, as the temperature plummeted toward zero, I heard the muffled voices of the Zomo squad troopers.  I lifted the shade and watched as they headed toward paramilitary headquarters.  They didn’t look as frightening as they had earlier in spite of guns and billy clubs.  In fact, they sounded like the young men they were.  Laughing, joking, their breath making tiny puffs of steam in front of them.  For a minute I thought the youngest in the group of six resembled my 19-year old bother.  Or was it my son?

Surprisingly, I felt quite at home.  What did it matter where I was celebrating Thanksgiving?  Bellows Falls, Vermont or Krakow, Poland—this frail planet, after all, belongs to each and every one of us—wherever we may be.

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

I Did Not Want to Die

(Terry’s Signboard)



































...................................................................................................................................

My name is Lobsang.
First I saw the fires,
then the people running with bags
on their heads, children in their arms.
An old monk hobbled past my doorway
saying that the Chinese military were obliterating the monasteries,
killing Tibetans, burning all the pictures of His Holiness.
There had been whispers, Mao Zedong was destroying Tibet,
eradicating Buddha to make way for a different kind of liberation,
the one that money buys.  His Nazis were called, 
The People’s Liberation Army.  His Gestapo
wore khaki and were using our sacred thangkas as toilet paper.
Even the tulkus could not escape.
I was 13 when the six soldiers found me hiding
under the cow dung pile with my little sister.
They raped her first, over and over, until she died.
When they sodomized me I felt my life fly away,
but I have lived to tell our story.

The old ones say I am immortal.

Tuesday, October 20, 2015

THE GOD OF MY UNDERSTANDING


By Terry Reis Kennedy

I started my day at the General Hospital here at the Abode of Peace, Sathya Sai Baba's ashram. A friend of mine had to have minor surgery on her foot. I walked up the hill from the main road to meet her, enjoying the beautiful flowers and bushes all around the hospital area. It was just past 7 in the morning and the grounds were full of patients waiting to be treated by the staff. Birds were singing in the trees, babies were smiling at me; village people spoke to me in Telegu. My heart was full of bliss, the kind that saints and mystics have described feeling after years of prayers and penance.

Yet here I am, a common sinner, a woman of no importance, and I have reached the heights of mergence with the God of my understanding. A few tears plop onto my cheeks as I remember all the days I have spent climbing up to this little hospital to get help for myself or for a friend.....25 years I have been freely served, I have gotten free medicine, I have witnessed people in stages of giving birth and I have watched people slip into death peacefully and quietly. How could I ever leave the little things that Puttaparthi has given to me through the grace of the God of my understanding?


I don't have words to explain when people ask, what do you do there. And now my day is ending. My friend's foot is healing. I have finished the work I left undone in the morning. The birds are back in their trees asleep. The flowers have closed their petals. The sweet aroma of the jasmine trees that rise above my roof waft down through my office window as I type. Thank you, Lord, for all the little things that brought me here and the Huge Love that holds me here.....

Tuesday, October 13, 2015

Too many years of Ashram Living

(Terry’s Signboard)

Too many years of ashram living
have turned me off to the herds
of fanatics that come for instant cures and miracles;
and who proclaim huge faith in spirituality,
but none in themselves.


Tuesday, September 22, 2015

SATCHITANADA INDIA: FLOODTIDE OF BLISS

By Terry Reis Kennedy

Glorious, raucous, untamable sub-continent of Asia!  According to my astrological cartographers, India is the worst place I could possibly live.

I laugh at this because coming to India was the best thing I ever did for myself. The self discoveries I have made, living here for over 20 years now, are priceless.  India has made me rich, in the true sense of the word.  Once, married to the beloved father of my children, Lee Matthew Kennedy, I had material wealth, but I was poor in spirit.

It was not my intention to stay in a place so far away from my origins.  In 1990 I only came for what I thought was going to be a short visit. But the Universe had other plans for me. Here in the village of Puttaparthi, in the Anantapur District of Andhra Pradesh, where I live in the proximity of my Guru, the Avatar Sathya Sai Baba, I not only found my life’s purpose, I also experienced transient moments of satchitananda among the cobras and the scorpions.
  
Here I was able to let go identity that had been imposed on me and let the God of my understanding reconstruct me. Transformation is an exciting process.  Through my spiritual practice of studying scriptures of various religions, living alongside people from all over the world from all castes, creeds, and walks of life, I was able to give up desperation and despair, to trade it in for happiness and peace of mind.  As a result, I have learned how to live in the mad, materialistic world, to participate in it, and love it, without becoming part of it.

In many ways I have liberated myself.  I now know that  I am the Creator, the Savior, the Formless Imperishable One,  that I was seeking from earliest childhood—not knowing then that the same ‘I ‘ dwells within all beings and all things known and unknown..


The view—from  my small brick dwelling, which   passersby often say looks like a fairy-tale house—is no longer the vast Atlantic, beyond the dunes of Duxbury, Massachusetts, no longer the Green Mountains, beyond the lawn of the Sacred Heart of Jesus Church, no longer the vast Mojave desert, beyond the alfalfa fields….  Instead, I look out large windows with fan-shaped tops onto a once-vacant lot that, by my own hand, I transformed into a garden—a garden that can be erased at any moment since I do not own the land.  Builders, eager to capitalize on the influx of tourists to this nationally designated pilgrim center, want to grab this space and construct another 10-storey high-rise.  However, the owners are not ready to sell.  But the very temporary existence of the plants and trees that I have tended on this plot for 18 years now makes me all the more enraptured by their beauty.

No matter what else is going on during my busy days, I never fail to appreciate the garden, to pay reverence to each and every ridge and groove on the bark of the various trees; I bow as I regard each tendril of the blush-colored blossoms of the oleander; and my pulse quickens when I note a new tree seed unfurling a bright green sprout.

  I listen intently to the abundant bird talk—able, at last, to distinguish the haunting moans of the mud-colored cuckoo from the manic chatter of the chartreuse parrot.  I can tell the frantic screams of the chickadee, when crows come to rob her nest, from the guttural cries of the finch, when the same fate befalls her.  The buzz of a honey-making bee has a different tone than the buzz of the industrious wasp. When a coconut branch falls in the night, it makes a slow swishing before it lands with a thud.  On the other hand, when branches from the tamarind tree fall, they make a nearly imperceptible sound, like a match being lit.  The very fact that in a split-second all this could be lost, like life itself, quickens my heart as I enter the beauty of the moment.

It is flood tide every day and every night and every second of my life here.  I am fully immersed in the wonder of unfolding life, fully immersed in the energy of creation itself. I am swimming in a Sea of God where I cannot be separate anymore.  The isolated, insular existence of my New England introspection has born fruit here. The past has exploded into cargoes of juicy mangos ripe and ready to be eaten, now. 

Here, I am merged, not just with the few passing clouds of family, friends, lovers…; I am merged with the infinite plentitude of my own Being.

My days begin early—about 4:30 in the morning.  At that time I can hear the singing of the song that “wakes up God,” coming from the ashram Mandir.  I can hear the songs of praise to God, emanating from the mosque nearby.  I can hear my own heart beating.   At first light, I enter the garden and just sit in the silence.  It is not so much meditation as it is entering the state of awareness.  I become hyper vigilant of my surroundings—outer and inner.

In Duxbury, the flood tide came to make exotic the mundane.   Once a year, love burst upon us and washed us clean of our longings.  Here, in the vortex of the flood tide of the world, I am no longer the doer, the seeker, the one who wants.  I am Love itself.

Yes, once I wore the labels of student, wife, mother, patient, poet, investigative journalist, lover, adjunct faculty, seeker… just as I once wore western-style clothes.  Now I dress in regional wraps, saris, dupatas, salwar sets….  But I am naked, a witness.  And I am married only to myself.  I am nobody and everybody at once.  I have entered the Flood Tide Night, Satchitananda India; may it last forever.

Tuesday, September 15, 2015

I Am Tibetan

(Terry’s Signboard)

I am Tibetan because the blood of the martyrs of Tibet spilled
into my hard heart and made it soft.

I am Tibetan because in our tent in Bodh Gaya,
the prayers of the refugees
to Buddha, to the deities, to the mountains, to the sky,
and to the clouds reached my ears.

I am Tibetan because the tears they cry for their Mother Land
fall out of my eyes. 


Tuesday, August 25, 2015

Dear Bellows Falls, Vermont, My Home Town

I had just talked with my Mom, Blanche Reis, on the phone one morning.  She told me that things in Bellows Falls are about the same, but that her cousin Amelia Belzac, God rest her bountiful soul, had passed away and that the burial took place at Sacred Heart Cemetery Grounds with snow on the ground.

When I arrived home to my little house in India, after three months in New England, I had to take my shoes off and walk barefoot in the garden just to get myself readjusted.  It is so warm here right now with chickens pecking at worms in the soft soil and the parrots flying through the coconut trees screeching with glee.

I hoped that Amelia, who I loved dearly, and who I had spent many happy childhood days with might pass over my speck of the Universe on her Grand Journey to her resting place.  Would I feel her presence if she did?  I wondered.

Here in the spiritual India I inhabit, the emphasis is on the Soul.  People regard each lifetime as an increment in the Soul's journey towards final mergence with God, by whatever name they choose to call that Power.


 When I was back in Vermont and studying about the indigenous Abenaki peoples who used to fish and camp alongside the falls in our sweet town I learned that the Abenaki  believe in the God spark in all living things, that part of the Great Spirit that is immortal….just like India.

It's such a beautiful world when we focus on the good and the positive around us.  For instance, I really enjoyed being in the snow back home in Bellows Falls and walking through the slushy streets, thinking of how everything would be so green come spring.  After all, that's how our state got its name, the Green Mountain State.

There is lots of snow here too, up in the north, especially in the Himalayas.  In fact, the northern state of Himachal Pradesh is named after the words Hima Challa which mean, Ice Heart.  It is said by the spiritual elders here that the person who develops a heart that is pure and cool as ice is someone who can best serve humanity.  In so many indigenous cultures, it is the heart that is regarded as more important than the head.  In other words, the feeling one has for life is genuine, while the head, the mind, the thoughts, can deceive.

I worship the Himalayas; they remind me in a colossal way of the Green Mountains of my heartland, covered in snow, the Soul of my native place.

It is often during the coldest parts of winter that I get my best insights, that I can go deeply within and commune with God.  This is why so many pilgrims flock to the Himalayas.  It is there, at the top of the world, that they feel close to the Great Spirit.  So many places of worship are there.

The town of Puttaparthi, where I live,  is waking up right now and people are hurrying off to the market to get the best of the fruits and vegetables that the local farmers have brought in from their planting fields.  Today I will buy bananas, three for a penny, some mandarin oranges, one for a penny, and a pound of potatoes.... a whopping 10 cents.  Later I will take my shirt to the tailor to be mended for less than a quarter.

I wish I could send all that is good about India home to you so that your lives would be more comfortable. And I wish that the special strength of character that resides especially in the hearts of the folks of Bellows Falls could be spread like maple syrup over some weary hearts here.

For now, I send heaps of sunshine and truckloads of my love.

Catch you later!
Terry Reis Kennedy





Tuesday, August 18, 2015

Do It - Terry’s Signboard

Do It…
(Terry’s Signboard)

Be so brave you scare the meek
into action.

Be so loving you shock the hateful
into remorse.

Be so happy you intoxicate the miserable
into compassion.

Sunday, May 24, 2015

Whole Ravi Iyer Blog in a Book

Whole ravisiyer.blogspot.com Blog in a Book

For those viewers/readers who would like to download and read a single pdf file of 326 pages having all the post content of my blog on Bhagavan Sri Sathya Sai Baba and other spiritual & religious matters, ravisiyer.blogspot.com or ravisiyer.blogspot.in, which is largely authored by me, here is that document having the content as of May 15th 2015: https://ravisiyer.files.wordpress.com/…/20150520-ravisiyer-…. The pdf was automatically created using the free service provided by the website www.blogbooker.com.

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

The day of Ratna’s funeral (Final Part)

Before throwing the last shovels of dirt onto the coffin we once more said our good byes. When my turn came I stood dumbly feeling the heat melting me.  I prayed to Ratna and promised I would never forget her smile, how she had been the joy and the light every time I was at the home helping the nuns.  Lost in remembering all that she who could not even move had done to fill up my empty life, my constant on the run existence, my perpetual motion to keep me from seeing the shallowness of my life, keep me from admitting how selfishly depressed I was because my desires were unfulfilled I experienced an epiphany.  I saw how self-centered I was, how focused on my own goals I was, how, yes, I certainly did service work but what was I doing to help myself.  I asked my Guru to forgive my behavior and I knew that Ratna, in some way, was helping me.


I moved away from the coffin and the rest of the soil was placed on it.  The burial was over.  Most ineffable though—my headache was gone and my dullness too.  I didn’t feel sick anymore.  I was whole once again.  Where had the missing part of me been?  It had become the witness, “She who watches,” and it had dissociated from the dream of life to be in the presence of God so that I could come back renewed and restored.

“She who watches,” what the Warm Springs Oregon indigenous people called the unseen force who sees all and explains all when the time is right, came to me with  the perfect ending to Holy Ratna’s story.  It happened on an ordinary Sunday at the Jyothi Seva Home.  Wanda approached the communion rail to receive the round white wafer that is a symbol for receiving God.  When the wafer was placed on her tongue by the priest and she swallowed it, she stood up from the kneeler and swooned.  She fell to the ground as if she had fainted.  Sister Agata ran up to help.  Wanda opened her eyes.  “I can see she said softly.  I can see.”


The Mother superior and the other nuns thought that maybe the strain of Wanda’s new life as a round the clock mother to her adopted daughter was too much.  They did their own tests trying to disprove that Wanda could see. But she did seem to pass each test.  Finally they took Wanda to her own eye doctor, the one who said that she would be blind for life.  Like the doctor who had diagnosed her when she was 10 and lost her vision, the Bengaluru doctor examined her very carefully.  He kept nodding his head in disbelief.  He did all the necessary eye examinations and finally reported.  “Nothing, absolutely nothing has changed with her eyes.  According to the tests she is as blind as she ever was.

“But there is no doubt that Wanda can now see.”  A hush fell over the room, the kind of hush we feel when we know angels are hovering.  Wanda smiled her bright Polish smile as dazzling as the summer sunlight on the fields outside of Warsaw.  “I told you I could see,” she said.

Of course, we do not read about miracles in the news much.  It seems the angels prefer the hush.  But when I learned about what happened to Wanda I remembered that in order for a person to be judged a saint, at least in the Catholic Tradition, the person prayed to had to grant a miracle to prove prayers were answered.

Later, I asked Wanda, Did you ask Ratna to help you.  Did you pray to her?’
“Yes I did,” Wanda said.  “I asked her to help me be a good mother, always.”

Saints, mothers, and nuns…..miracle workers every one.






Sunday, March 22, 2015

The day of Ratna’s funeral (Concluding Part 2)

The hearse that was waiting outside the Home was the black city van that we had used to bring Ratna’s body back from the hospital just a couple of days ago.  The driver was the same driver and now there was an attendant with him.  Kaleem, who had been present at the funeral Mass, got the rickshaw ready to drive us to the cemetery.  But I decided I wanted to ride with Sister Agata and the children with Ratna’s body in the van.  I climbed in and the van attendant closed the back door.  We were all jammed inside and the children were amazingly happy.  


Sister Agata led them in several songs, one of them, Ratna’s favorite, “When You’re Happy.”  I found myself singing along too and going through the various motions, “When you’re happy and you know it, stamp your feet.  When you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands…”  Even I felt it was an odd thing to be doing inside a Bengaluru city death van and I realized this was definitely some kind of historic moment—a spiritual breakthrough of some sort, maybe. But my panic would not dissolve entirely.

At the cemetery, we walked through un-mowed grass which came up to the tops of some of the children’s heads.  The goats used for eating up the grass had not visited this side of the cemetery for a good long time. When they saw the groups of children tramping along purposefully, the goats began to bleat and they came scampering towards us.  This delighted the children who reached out to pet them.


The closer I got to the open grave, the dizzier I became.  I was the first one standing at the edge of the dug out earth.  I could see, immediately, that the hole was not big enough.  The little casket was not going to fit.  Right away I had the angry thought that these sorts of mistakes happen more frequently than not in India.  Idiots, I puttered aloud!  Then I had to forgive myself for such hateful thinking.

Soon the nuns arrived with Kaleem and they understood my dismay.  How would the whole thing be rectified?  Meantime, Ratna’s body was in its fourth day out of the morgue refrigerator in the unrelenting heat of Bengaluru.  I shudder at the thought.  She must be buried quickly.

In those days we still did not have cell phones so Kaleem was sent to find a grave digger or someone in charge.  After standing in the heat long enough to realize there was no drinking water or toilet facilities, I just sighed.  Amazingly Kaleem returned with two men who both had shovels and the rest of the grave was dug out after a few trips back and forth to the van to see the size of the coffin again.

These same men carried the coffin through the sharp, scraggily grass and the goats bleated as if they were also sad.  By now the children had lost their zip and they were silent as the coffin was lowered into the shallow grave and the priest murmured prayers that I, for one, could not hear.

……to be continued in Final Part of Ratna Series.