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Ramana Maharsh's Death experience and Yoga Nidra
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#2972 - Tuesday, October 30, 2007 - Editor: Jerry Katz
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After you meet those five people in heaven, you know what happens? They give you a coupon for a free drink at the local nightclub. You order your Miller High Life, some angel wings, and Budd Freed-man is on the P.A: "Ladies and Gentlemen, the sixth person you're supposed to meet while you're here, the lovely and talented, Vicki Woodyard." http://www.bobwoodyard.com.
* * * * *
Vicki Doesn't Live Here Anymore
(With Apologies to Alice)
I don't live in my mind anymore. I visit there, but only when I fall
asleep. I don't mean on the bed; I mean when I fall into a lower state
of consciousness than awareness. Awareness is my home and it isn't for
sale at any price. I would gladly list my mind but there would be no
takers. Who wants a ramshackle little piece of property that is gray
and divided into lobes. Not much chance of a makeover there.
For Sale by Owner: Dilapidated mind. Needs new roof and synapses. Can
be had for a song (the one that goes through my mind day and night).
I used to think that my mind was smart, even brilliant. Back in the
day it was. But now it can't even remember who's on Larry King Live
after just hearing it promoted thirty seconds ago. And yet it
remembers every injustice it has suffered since birth. And is waiting
to get even. Oh, my mind is a dangerous and stupid place to live. I am
sure there is lead paint on every window sill.
There is one room in my mind that has never been opened. It is called
The Room of Prejudice. Next to it is one with no door at all. It's The
Room of Resentment. It's used so often that one fine day I just took
the door off the hinges and threw it away.
I used to think that the mind was a terrible thing to waste; now I
know better. It's a terrible thing to use if you don't know what you
are doing. The only time you should visit your mind is when you are
accompanied by awareness. Then a very strange thing happens. It
disappears. Just like Judge Crater....just like Amelia Earhart and
Jimmy Hoffa. Just like a warm plate of brownies or clothes at a nude
I am not sure why I wrote this essay except out of gratitude for
finally moving upstairs. Of course, the mind still bothers me but I
just knock on the ceiling and tell it to shut the heck up.
* * * * *
Don't Push the River
I've been trying to push the river. Whew! Piece of work. I don't want
to push it far; in fact, I just want to prove to myself that I can. So
I'm standing here in the state of Tennessee with the river smack dab
in front of me. The Mighty Mississisppi....Ole' Man River. Forget
"lift that barge, tote that bale," I plan to push the whole shebang
(with apologies to William Hung).
My hands are wet and my clothes are drenched. The funny thing is that
the river knows just what to do, whereas I don't. What it does is
break up into pieces of wetness and these cannot be pushed. But I have
only just begun.
After pushing at the very edge, I wade out into deeper water in order
to push bigger pieces. The river, sensing my purpose, begins to take
the shape of waves. These wave pieces begin to wash over me. I have
not stopped pushing, however. I sense a deeper purpose is becoming
aroused in me. I want to make The Guiness Book of World Records for
having pushed the first river successfully.
I can see myself writing a book entitled How to Successfully Push the
River. I am, at last, getting into a groove.
Six hours later the moon has become a disco ball and I have become a
river dancer and not the Irish Kind. More like the Rumpelstiltskin
kind. I am babbling to the mighty brook about what I can do to move
it. I swear I thought I heard it say, "Can you sing `Misty'?"
"Well, that's just ridiculous," I said. I didn't mean to make you cry;
I meant to move you a silly milimeter out of your course." It was
about that time that I looked up and saw the cops. They could
certainly see me, what with the light shining in my face and all.
I decided to do the brave thing and resist arrest while pushing the
river at the same time. Let's just say it hurt. As they were dragging
me to the patrol car, I said "Give me a few more seconds; I just got a
good grip on it."
"Oh, sure, lady, I'll give you fifteen seconds....one Mississippi, two
* * * * *
There is nothing logical about anything. Once we leap over that wall,
we see that there is none. Now what do we do? Party. Not with booze
and paper hats but with the buddha. That fat man knew how to get it
on, didn't he? Oh, I know you were there when he realized
himself....grin. And then again. And then it was, oh, stop it
buddha-man, you are too good.
Life is a cabaret, a picnic, a walk in the park. The rest is the truth.
Tears, screams and Brittney Spears happen. Life larks on. Tell the
truth; it is breaking you.
Life is a bowl of cherries, Brad Pitt and Pittney Bowes. Walk on. You
can make it. Mary Tyler Moore did and she lost a child. So did I. Rock
Life is what you make it. Grab your paste and scissors. Edit it like
you mean it. Eat the paste and stick gold stars on your forehead. Life
Life is what cannot be explained but experienced. It hurt and then it
felt better. It felt good and then it hurt. Grow on.
Life grows on you like stray nose hairs and the now-famous omentum.
Don't let it. Cut it to conform or celebrate it. Shag-a-delic hairy
old life. Gotta love it.
Life is what you make it. Make it bigger and better. Then smaller and
softer. Sshhh. The secret is too big to share. Keep it to yourself.
It's more potent that way. Those who know don't speak.
Life goes on. It is a hullabaloo, a secret garden, a snowfall over the
Rockies. It is a pulsing salsa beat and a failing heart that
finally....stops. But life goes on.
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