The Bohemian hiked 11 miles, bringing this cutting home to me, saying it was ‘my flower’. At the time it was a stem with leaves. Now it roots in a jar on our kitchen counter and these two precious buds have recently revealed themselves.
I’m guessing this plant is related to the hibiscus, but it’s a bit of mystery until I see the flowers in full bloom. Here’s to the unfolding!
I keep thinking about the clown and the saint.
It’s a story shared in Jan Frazier’s “When Fear Falls Away” about an evening when Baba Muktananda (a spiritual teacher and master) was offering darshan (a blessing that is given from a guru to a disciple). Devotees were lined up to have a turn to kneel before Muktananda and receive his gift. A whisp from the feathers he held, fanning the air of enlightenment that circled him, and one could possibly be opened to a window of new consciousness. A heightened connection to God, bestowed.
So in Frazier’s telling, there was this darshan taking place, an air of reverence there for all devotees in this sacred ceremony. Everyone dressed to their best as they prepared to come into the presence of this Master. And as the line moved along, each person making their way to Muktananda, there came into view a clown. Yes, a bonafide clown. Or at least a man dressed up as one. Bright polka dot suit, ruffled collar, white face paint and those huge, red, painted-on lips. His eyes, thick, with expressive clown make-up.
As the story goes, when the clown came before Muktananda, people began to laugh.
“…Everyone in and around the darshan line was laughing…everyone, that is, but Baba. Baba was just swishing his peacock feathers over the crown of the curly orange wig bent before him- just as he did with anyone who came up in the darshan line. Now the clown had raised up on his knees to face Baba. The guru was looking into the clown’s eyes, into the pupils at the centers of the bright red circles like bull’s eyes, looking deeply into this man who had made himself (for whatever reason) into a clown.
Finally, Baba sat back in his chair, seeming a little confused by all the laughter. He leaned down to {his translator} and asked her in their native tongue what everyone was laughing at.
{The translator said} ‘Why Baba, don’t you see? The man is dressed as a clown!’
Then Baba looked again at the man- looked, it may be, with his ordinary eyes, his merely organic eyes. It was only then that he saw the external of the person- the clown costume of him. And then Baba laughed, joining the others in the good time.
…{initially} when Baba looked at that man, he really and truly did not see a clown.”
(excerpt from Jan Frazier’s “When Fear Falls Away“)
This story of the clown and guru keeps coming back to me as I contemplate perception. Was Baba Muktananda looking with his third eye? What was he seeing when he looked at the clown? What was he seeing as he lived his days on earth?
What do each of us see through our own unique filter of perception? Quite possibly, very different worlds, often living the assumption that everyone sees what we see.
As I’ve pondered this clown story, the tune of a little song comes trailing to my mind. Its origins melded with childhood memories, its source, unknown.
That’s about the size
where you put your eyes
that’s about the size of it
With technology on my side, the world-wide web and a search engine bring me to an old segment from Sesame Street. I don’t recall the visuals, I only remember the chorus of the song that I heard as a child on television, probably, 25 years ago. I think Sesame Street was on to something. And I’m glad to see that the sentiment took root within me, still profound today.
Who would have thought that clowns, Sesame Street, and ascended masters could all connect to deliver a profound message on perception. Goes to show…that’s about the size…
It’s true, I’m officially published. Not by clicking my own button here at WordPress, but through an anthology put out by the Pacific Writer’s Connection, called Ho’olaule’a (roughly translated as “celebration”).
Not only am I honored to have shared numerous weekend workshops with many of the writer’s highlighted in this compilation, I feel fortunate to be included in this work. But I’ll be honest, it’s not exactly what I expected.
Ok, I’ll admit, when it came time to submit work for consideration for this publication, I was in the chaotic throes of motherhood and work life. I was in a burgeoning romance with the Bohemian. My attention was scattered in a smatter. So I squeaked in by the deadline with a few written pieces I was proud of, though they were perhaps, not my best work. For good measure, I uploaded a few photos to go with my submission, as PWC was also soliciting images for review.
Well, none of my writing made the cut, but I have four photographs included in this beautiful book.
Someone commented recently that these things can often shift our focus and change our course of direction. Am I a photographer, not a writer?
I’m smiling, because I know I’ll never stop writing. And I think that any of the writers in Ho’olaule’a could appreciate my candid questioning, here. Perhaps every artist will occasionally pause to ponder something like this.
For now, I am simply grateful for the Pacific Writer’s Connection for making yearly writing retreats possible here on my little island. I’ve been under the tutelage of Kim Stafford, Kathleen Dean Moore and Hope Edelman, who have honed my writing skills with incredible insight. I have shared rough drafts and polished pieces with the many writers who come to this annual event, year after year. Their work is now highlighted in this enriching book.
The anthology is soon to be available for purchase, and I have a sense editions may be limited. Check out the experiences, conveyed with exquisite detail and open heart, from writers here in the Pacific.
Here’s to celebrating!
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