The One That Is Left

We Leave Traces

I had forgotten about my father’s statues.  They were in the basement in a box.  I didn’t know what to do with them, so that’s where they ended up.  One day last week, Melissa was cleaning and rearranging the house while I was at work.  When I got home, she had created a Buddhist shrine with these lost statues.

There are 6 of them.  They’re about eight inches tall.  They’re carved of wood and stained a dark cherry color.  Each one is a different character.  One is a man holding two buckets, each suspended from and end of a staff he holds on his shoulders.  One is a man carrying a large grassy pack on his head.  One is a crouching woman grabbing a rice plant in her left hand, her right hand now missing the scythe that is racing down to cut the grain.  One is an old man with a beard and a large hat, sitting.  One is a man holding a huge pack on his back.  The last one is a seated Buddha.

I never heard the story of how and why my father purchased these statues.  He bought them in a market from a local artisan and sent them home to his mother from Korea in 1973.  About 30 years later, my grandmother gave them back to Norman.  When he died, my mother gave them to me.  One day not that long before he died, I asked him about them.  He was a very stoic man, at least to me, so when he spoke, I listened.

We were sitting in the living room of the old house.  The television was loud, a western.  I was just visiting, watching westerns with him.  I remember now it was Petticoat Junction.  What was the fascination with the westerns?  I thought it must’ve been some comfort zone from his childhood.  I got into them with him, and smelled the dust of the tavern.  The thick whiskey smell mixed with horse manure and gunpowder.  We watched a few episodes and then I tried to talk to him.  I had to ease into it.

As long as I can remember, I thought my father knew something I needed to know.  I was very inquisitive with him, even as an adult.  I thought he possessed some arcane spiritual knowledge that had made him quiet and I wanted to know what it was.

I asked him about the statues and he got the faraway look in his eyes.

“I’ll do you one better.  Check this out. ”

He was actually a little exited about whatever he was about to unfold.  His bright blue eyes flashed.

“When I was in Korea, we were forever doing ftx.  Field Training Exercises.  We were always scouting out the countryside.  It was beautiful, Joshua.  All the rice fields and mountains and old gnarled up trees.”

“And the people.  They looked just like those statues, working out in those fields and in the villages.  I mean, they were poor, dirt poor.  But there was something special about them.  They just seemed really happy, especially the poorest ones.”

“There were Buddhist shrines everywhere.  I mean, they were into it.  I remember once, we were out on ftx in the mountains, way up there.  We were walking on a cliff dirt path.  It was really narrow, and off to the right was a deep canyon.  It was scary shit.  And we were carrying our rucksacks full of gear. ”

“But I remember, we kept going on this path and I looked up.  There was this huge, huge, huge Buddha statue, carved right into the side of this mountain.  It had a real weird feel to it.  The whole area was just quiet. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

I don’t know what I said.  I thought this might be one of those moments I was waiting for, but I didn’t know what I was missing.  Something, though, from the look in his eyes.  I did know what he was talking about, but I didn’t know what he wanted to hear or what to say.  he seemed hurt and I thought he might be mad for being dumb enough to open up to me.  We watched another western in silence then it was time to leave.  I gave him a hug, and told him I loved him.

Wherever you are Dad:  Thank you.  I miss you.  I love you.

When I played Basketball

When I was 13, my father got deployed to Korea. Usually that is a lone assignment for a U.S. Army soldier, but because of his rank, we all got to go. It was a land of many strange sights, sounds and smells that we’ll experience together somewhere else. This story is about something another topic: It is the story of how I learned to hate basketball.

I have two brothers. I’m the oldest and still the tallest, but not the most coordinated. They were always better than me in basketball. We spent endless hours playing in the courts at the apartment house down the street. That was back when we lived in Aurora, Colorado, and were occupying a lot of our time with committing small time misdemenors. Reasoning it out, it may have been my parents who strongly encouraged our basketball playing. Maybe in an attempt to keep us out of trouble.

I was never very co-ordinated or fast, but I was tall. That got me chosen in the pick up games. I could shoot a decent three-pointer, but I really belonged posted up near the basket on defense, blocking the sun.

My brothers were fast and co-ordinated and good. They weren’t short, they were just eleven. They were also something I never have been. Competitive. I liked to play, but I didn’t care who won or lost. Or who was better at basketball.

We landed in Taegu, Korea and as a thirteen year-old there was a lot of trouble for me to get into. I had my first beer at a Korean club. The people I was running with had some kind of ties to the Korean Mafia, or at least their parents did. They were the progeny of American Soldiers and Korean Citizens. I guess I was in with a rough crowd. It got so bad my father wouldn’t let me out of the house.

I was not interested in trying out for the basketball team. Baseball was my sport anyway. I was more cerebral and less athletic. My brothers were trying out for the team my father told me I should try out too. I told him I didn’t want to.

So there we were at the tryouts, in the locker room putting up our stuff. They separated us right away into height groups. My group was very small. Koreans are not known for their height. My brothers were in the group with all the other shorties and I snickered at them. I felt special to be in the exclusive tall group. My brothers looked dejected.

The name of our school was Taegu American School. I made friends so easily there. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before. It was as if they said, “Hey, we know you’re a weirdo. We understand. We are too.” I had never lived on the Army base before. I didn’t even know I was an Army brat.

The basketball team was not like that. The candidates and the coaches were all out for blood. It was very militaristic, and I was not ready for that.  We probably did about 10,000 push-ups each practice. I remember running down the court on my rubbery duck-walked-to-death legs and then someone passed the ball to me. It was coming straight at my head. I tried to raise my arms but they had become lead weights. I almost got my hands up to my shoulders when the basketball struck me right in the eye.

It knocked my contact out and gave me a shiner.  I couldn’t move my arms. I was not allowed to sit out the rest of the practice. Even in my impaired state, they made me play. My contact was stuck in the northwestern corner of my eye. My whole body was immovable jelly. And I didn’t even know what they were talking about with their positions and drills .

My brothers, on the other hand, were wiz kids. They often looked as though they had been born with a basketball in their hands. Their excellence was fueled by their hatred for eachother, born out of Leonine sibling rivalry. They were gooooood. And full of the perfect, hot blooded jealous rage. I just wanted to get out of there and find some real trouble. When that first practice was over, I celebrated. It was the happiest moment of my life. I just knew I was never going back there again.

When we got home, my brothers were exited and fighting with each other about who was better and who would make the team. My father enjoyed seeing their competitiveness and sporting spirit. It was the stuff dreams are made of. As for me, I was pitiful. I told him I couldn’t go back.

“They’re trying to kill me, Dad! I can’t even move my arms.”

He laughed with deep satisfaction.

He assured me I would be going back. And I would probably make the team. I went back, as did my brothers. The tryouts were over a three day period. It never got any better for me. I was gangly. I tripped over my own feet. I was uncoordinated and lazy. My brothers were sleek and fast and ON THEIR GAME. Here’s a twist for you: after a three day tryout, I made the team. 

My brothers didn’t. I think they cried. I did too. I have always wondered how it happened.

As I write this, I believe Command Sergeant Major Crawford, my father, called the school and talked to just the right person who could make it happen. The Joshua problem was solved. I travelled with the team on a bus to Seoul and other places. I even played a little bit. It was miserable. When the season was over, I was grounded again. You wouldn’t have pegged me for a basketball player huh?

Our Trip to Atlanta ,October 2011

This was my second trip to see Esther Hicks; it was Melissa’s first. We drove down to Atlanta Friday evening and stopped by Phoenix and Dragons. This is the infamous store where Melissa bought her first Vishwavajra (Double Dorje). P & D had assumed mythic proportions years ago to me as a result of Melissa’s often said juicy rendition:
“I walked into a dusty back room where one bare lightbulb hung from a wire in the ceiling…and there, under a pile of random trinkets, lay my dorje…”
That is a Geminian exaggeration of the actual story, but suffice to say, I was anxious to see what all the hubub was about. I can say this much: I found my Shamantabudhri statue. For a reasonable price. Enough said, right?
Just kidding. There was a lot to this store. They had a very eclectic mix of metaphysical items, with an emphasis on stones and eastern mysticism. I was into it. We actually thought of something later we meant to buy but didn’t. I called them monday and that item was shipped to our house on Tuesday. Awesome store.
After our jaunt at Phoenix and Dragons we arrived at our hotel. It was late. We were both tired and hungry. We got room service and it was excellent. The lady who brought our food was strong but pitiful. We tipped her well, as she smartly claimed to be working alone and she was extremely pleasant. I thought later that she may have been lying. Melissa said: “What if all the other waitresses are attending to Abraham?” Her answer was more Abrahamean, so we went with that. And went straight to sleep.
The Abraham show had the place in an uproar. There were little pug dogs everywhere, leftovers from a pug dog convention. There was notably a woman who carried a fine pug dog oil painting on the elevator. I pointed it out to Melissa as I admired it, but she would not laugh. Abraham even worked in a comment about someone “hiding 300 little dogs…” Melissa and I belly laughed for hours about that.
Melissa and I had different experiences at Abraham. During the first part of the show, we were both overcome with emotion. My emotion was of being in the presence of greatness or even holiness…it was how I felt in the presence of a certain Indian Holy Mother Avatar…which I remembered later was a disempowering structural belief. But hanging with Abraham allowed me to wallow in that reverence for a little while. It was bittersweet, not unlike most Coldplay songs.
Melissa was also emotional, primarily from anticipation. And she got to ask her question-it was about her daughter. She believed Abraham would clarify a situation she’s been working on. But Abraham couldn’t or wouldn’t do that. It was strange. We both felt as if her question had been dodged…but after the show was over, and during the breaks, things got stranger.
People kept coming up to Melissa, crying, thanking her for asking her question and telling her how much Abraham’s answer had helped them. There were more than a dozen of them…We’re still a little baffled.
On the way back home we stopped by the Tulles Science Museum in Cartersville, Georgia. It was formerly the Weiman Mineral Museum, which was another hot spot I had heard a lot about from Melissa. We spent 4 hours with our mouths wide open, amazed at the mineralogical specimens in the gift shop and museum. I got a Rosacite, which is supposed to be supportive of mantra work. Melissa got a specimen of Selenite with Azurite growing right on it. Within the museum, there were ultra high grade stones from meteorites to fluorescent black lit stones to cathedrals you can drive a car through. I really liked the gold nugget case especially. Melissa thought the Dioptase collection was notable. Everything was. If you’re ever down that way…

Basic Training Letter From When I was 18...thanks Sissy!

Ganesha, Christ, and Cosmic Consciousness

 This blog represents the fruits of my meditation this morning; I spent the entire time meditating on the archetypal energy of the Deity Hindus refer to as Ganesha.  Ganesha is one of many deity forms, each of which represents a universal energy that human beings work with, and are immersed in, on a daily basis.
     The main reason spiritual ideas have been conveyed by stories historically is their versatility.  Depending on the hearers’ disposition, perspective, and level of understanding, the meaning imparted to them will be different.  There are always many layers and levels to mythology, spirituality, and religion: just as many different perspectives on the story as there are people who are there to hear it.
     The meditation this morning that begged to be chronicled was regarding the parrallel stories of the Christian Jesus and the Hindu Ganapati.  There are many similarities; the differences in typical understandings of each of each individual story bear lucrative understandings that inform each other on brand-new levels.
     Ganesha was born solely from his mother, Shakti, or Prakrti.  His father, Shiva, was not involved whatsoever.  Jesus was born of a virgin, Mary, with no involvement whatsoever from his father, Joseph.  In Hinduism, the Goddess, Ganesha’s mother, represents the phenomenal world and all aspects within it.  She represents all physical attributes of everything, as well as any aspect of any experience, whether it is a thought, feeling, emotion, or any type of movement.  In Hinduism, the father represents the unseen and unknown counterpart to all phenomenon, the remote, unknown, and the unknowable, perfect equanimity and stillness.
     This perfect equanimity and stillness does not exist on this earth plane in which we live.  The father of Hinduism, much as the father of Christianity, is not for this world.  Even though the father does not exist here on this plane, he is a living experience within us.  Even though, in our outer world, we never see the total silence and stillness of the father, we still understand that he exists.
     Ganesha was murdered by his father, beheaded, and then resurrected, becoming an intercessor for humankind, between the earthly realm of experience, represented by shakti, the mother, which keeps us constantly off balance, and the heavenly realm of perfect stillness and equanimity, which is represented by shiva, the father.  As the intercessor, we understand the unattainablity of the father is the play of all manifestation, the imbalance and growth that the mother, shakti, is.
     Jesus was murdered by his father, by crucifixion, against his will.  He was then resurrected by his father, and became the intercessor for the humans on this world, and the stillness of the heavenly realms of existence on the plane of the father.
     This aspect of ourselves, represented by both Ganesha and Jesus, is the aspect that allows us, at a higher level, to see and experience the interplay of the movement of our mother and all her infinite manifestations against the backdrop of the subtle and overwhelming stillness and peace that underlies all this growth.  These two represent the living ideal for a human, who understands and lives the truth that all growth and manifestation is the imperative and mirror reflection of the stillness and peace we all seek.  This archetypal energy, when mastered allows one to create, through the enlightened perspective, heaven on earth, and earth on heaven, right now in this very moment.  From this perspective, we never see any deficiencies, we never see any problems, we only see manifestations on the backdrop of perfect stillness.
     Jesus and Ganesha are one and the same, the energy of the Lord of Cosmic consciousness, the unity of our earthly and heavenly nature, and the essence of what it means to be a human who has mastered the earth plane.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/vasingh/90547849/