Happiness

Ubiquitous yet surreal. This term has entered the lives of some while evading the understanding of most.

My understanding of the world is broadened by the scope of my experience and deepened by my understanding. While sitting back and looking inward, molds the shapeless mounds of knowledge and observations, leaning forward into this magnificent potpourri called the world is the other part of this little jigsaw puzzle called life.

In one of my previous blogs, I had written about the one thing that binds every single human on earth. His or her pursuit of happiness.

Trying to establish a uniform definition of this term is the most illogical act one could indulge in. How can there be uniformity in the experience of a sensation that is common to such a heady diversity!

In the field of politics, for instance... Everyone is trying to make someone else happy so that, somewhere down the line their own happiness is ensured. Is it?

Most of the ambitious people around me want to change the world. I find the world perfectly fine. Though I have absolutely nothing against their perceptions or existence, I wonder what drives them to desire changing the world then? Do they honestly believe that the world could be more peaceful, less bloody, more rational, less complicated, more happy, less tragic, more predictable, less exciting? Well, I don't. Call me a hopeless optimist, if you like! ;-)

So, what is this evasive concept of happiness? wrong question.

So, what is my concept of the pursuit of happiness? - To be.

It is this concept that connects people, builds understandings, nurtures relationships, breeds beauty, transcends conventions, unfolds passion and sparks new life.

Stop!

My body says stop... my spirit cries... NEVER!

We set our own limits. We run our own races. We fight our own battles. We bear the full weight of that sword... and when we are done running and fighting, we can look back and smile... smile at the passion, the glory, the sensations, the memories, the connections and then look into our hearts and smile at a life well lived.

I want to smile at death just as I smiled at life not because I believe in an afterlife but because I have been alive and squeezed every drop of life out of this journey. I have lived, loved, shared, grown, fallen, risen, hurt, been hurt, experienced, learned, feared, fought and stand this day facing my own soul, naked and proud, ready to put a full stop to a poem well written... But, not just yet!

Romance

What does this word do to you?

Do you think of love, bollywood and glitz?

or of a world... flushed with color and life, a world where the sky is a deep blue, interrupted only by the ragged gray mountains beckoning to your spirit, you look down to see a lush green welcoming you into its soft and endless bosom. The trees around are flowering and strong... You look down at your feet... just as strong, your arms... craving for action... you feel the breeze brushing against your naked brow, teasing your hair... the grass pushing through your toes and you realize that this is the moment you have been created for, this moment of ecstasy... just before flight... like a fountain that breaks through the rocks... like a child who learns to stand... like a moment of life multiplied a hundred times packed into a single instant.

Your pulse races as your feet lift off and you fly..... fly towards that endless horizon... a horizon blurred my seamless stretched of peaks... a horizon crying out with promise... the cries echoing in every corner of your soul... cries of delight, cries of victory, cries of passion...

Romance is wonderful!

A large part of the world would view it as baseless and fanciful. My question to them is this... Is the condition of the human spirit not a base? Isn't creation of a parallel realm of life a simple manifestation of the colors of your own soul? Why treat reality as a purely normative phenomenon?

The gift of expression is irreplaceable! Most importantly to understand yourself.

Siddhartha *

What is perfection? What is a balance? What is the essence of "me"? As I begun forming words to express my thoughts, i felt a strange sense of history reiterating the words I was creating in the present. Siddhartha.. Of course! He is the only other person who spoke these very words to me as I would to another.

These are my words through his mouth... a privilege I don't get to use too often.

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"Listen well, my dear, listen well! The sinner, which I am and which you are, is a sinner, but in times to come he will be Brahma again, he will reach the Nirvana, will be Buddha--and now see: these "times to come" are a deception, are only a parable! The sinner is not on his way to become a Buddha, he is not in the process of developing, though our capacity for thinking does not know how else to picture these things. No, within the sinner is now and today already the future Buddha, his future is already all there, you have to worship in him, in you, in everyone the Buddha which is coming into being, the possible, the hidden Buddha. The world, my friend Govinda, is not imperfect, or on a slow path towards perfection: no, it is perfect in every moment, all sin already carries the divine forgiveness in itself, all small children already have the old person in themselves, all infants already have death, all dying people the eternal life. It is nor possible for any person to see how far another one has already progressed on his path; in the robber and dice-gambler, the Buddha is waiting; in the Brahman, the robber is waiting. In deep meditation, there is the possibility to put time out of existence, to see all life which was, is, and will be as if it was simultaneous, and there everything is good, everything is perfect, everything is Brahman. Therefore, I see whatever exists as good, death is to me like life, sin like holiness, wisdom like foolishness, everything has to be as it is, everything only requires my consent, only my willingness, my loving agreement, to be good for me, to do nothing but work for my benefit, to be unable to ever harm me. I have experienced on my body and on my soul that I needed sinbvery much, I needed lust, the desire for possessions, vanity, and needed the most shameful despair, in order to learn how to give up all resistance, in order to learn how to love the world, in order to stop comparing it to some world I wished, I imagined, some kind of perfection I had made up, but to leave it as it is and to love it and to enjoy being a part of it.--These, oh Govinda, are some of the thoughts which have come into my mind."

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"Bent down to me!" he whispered quietly in Govinda's ear. "Bend down to me! Like this, even closer! Very close! Kiss my forehead, Govinda!"

But while Govinda with astonishment, and yet drawn by great love and expectation, obeyed his words, bent down closely to him and touched his forehead with his lips, something miraculous happened to him. While his thoughts were still dwelling on Siddhartha's wondrous words, while he was still struggling in vain and with reluctance to think away time, to imagine Nirvana and Sansara as one, while even a certain contempt for the words of his friend was fighting in him against an immense love and veneration, this happened to him:

He no longer saw the face of his friend Siddhartha, instead he saw other faces, many, a long sequence, a flowing river of faces, of hundreds, of thousands, which all came and disappeared, and yet all seemed to be there simultaneously, which all constantly changed and renewed themselves, and which were still all Siddhartha. He saw the face of a fish, a carp, with an infinitely painfully opened mouth, the face of a dying fish, with fading eyes--he saw the face of a new-born child, red and full of wrinkles, distorted from crying--he saw the face of a murderer, he saw him plunging a knife into the body of another person--he saw, in the same second, this criminal in bondage, kneeling and his head being chopped off by the executioner with one blow of his sword--he saw the bodies of men and women, naked in positions and cramps of frenzied love--he saw corpses stretched out, motionless, cold, void-- he saw the heads of animals, of boars, of crocodiles, of elephants, of bulls, of birds--he saw gods, saw Krishna, saw Agni--he saw all of these figures and faces in a thousand relationships with one another, each one helping the other, loving it, hating it, destroying it, giving re-birth to it, each one was a will to die, a passionately painful confession of transitoriness, and yet none of then died, each one only transformed, was always re-born, received evermore a new face, without any time having passed between the one and the other face--and all of these figures and faces rested, flowed, generated themselves, floated along and merged with each other, and they were all constantly covered by something thin, without individuality of its own, but yet existing, like a thin glass or ice, like a transparent skin, a shell or mold or mask of water, and this mask was smiling, and this mask was Siddhartha's smiling face, which he, Govinda, in this very same moment touched with his lips. And, Govinda saw it like this, this smile of the mask, this smile of oneness above the flowing forms, this smile of simultaneousness above the thousand births and deaths, this smile of Siddhartha was precisely the same, was precisely of the same kind as the quiet, delicate, impenetrable, perhaps benevolent, perhaps mocking, wise, thousand-fold smile of Gotama, the Buddha, as he had seen it himself with great respect a hundred times. Like this, Govinda knew, the perfected ones are smiling.

Not knowing any more whether time existed, whether the vision had lasted a second or a hundred years, not knowing any more whether there existed a Siddhartha, a Gotama, a me and a you, feeling in his innermost self as if he had been wounded by a divine arrow, the injury of which tasted sweet, being enchanted and dissolved in his innermost self, Govinda still stood for little while bent over Siddhartha's quiet face, which he had just kissed, which had just been the scene of all manifestations, all transformations, all existence. The face was unchanged, after under its surface the depth of the thousandfoldness had closed up again, he smiled silently, smiled quietly and softly, perhaps very benevolently, perhaps very mockingly, precisely as he used to smile, the exalted one.

Deeply, Govinda bowed; tears, he knew nothing of, ran down his old face; like a fire burnt the feeling of the most intimate love, the humblest veneration in his heart. Deeply, he bowed, touching the ground, before him who was sitting motionlessly, whose smile reminded him of everything he had ever loved in his life, what had ever been valuable and holy to him in his life."

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* Hesse, Hermann, Siddhartha, 1992

Moderation?

Madhyamaka is the vista to salvation. This is what Buddha believed. Madhyamaka must necessarily imply moderation of emotions and actions. Passion is not a moderate emotion... in fact, nowhere near the median!

Do I really want the madhyamaka? Am i ready for it yet? Have I experienced both extremes? How is one to understand the value of the middle path without knowing the extremes?

I prefer to dwell in my passion for now. Madhyamaka can wait.

Ulysses

Typing this simple word makes my hands shudder with excitement... "Ulysses" Every time I read this poem, it fuels my passion to strive, to seek, to find and not to yield... The very thought is Orgasmic!

With tears of joy that someone, somewhere thought this way and that I am not alone, I engulf myself in the intensity of these thoughts, feelings and words...

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Ulysses - Alfred Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife,
I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
Life to the lees.
All times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea. I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known,-- cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honor'd of them all,
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains; but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.


This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
to whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.


There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me,
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads,-- you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.
Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho
'We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.