The Ego and Selfless Service 2013

The Ego and Selfless Service 

I struggled long and hard with my Ego when I heard that grandma was very sick. I had my mind set on a 5-day kundalini yoga&art training which was set to start tomorrow (Saturday August 10). Its now the summer of 2013, two years following the death of my mother.

I had my flight booked, training registered and paid for and we had just finished out 4- week or 100 hour yoga teachers training. I felt I needed a getaway. And what better way to celebrate then to combine  yoga and art and share the lessons with our yalla yoga community. 

But during meditation I stopped dead in my tracks and heard the voice of the ego vs. the soul. I heard the voice of patanjali who reminded us never to get attached to objects of the mind which in this case manifested itself in an enriching art and yoga training: an opportunity to acquire new skills.

I also heard him remind us to cultivate compassion towards misery and contentment (santosha) in each and every moment. 

But how does one silence the ego and trust the soul when it seeks to serve without any reward?   

One trick in overcoming such distraction is to ponder on the opposite of each improper thought which disturbs the placitude of the mind. 

Thanks to meditation and patanjali I reversed my perception of the present moment and decided to stay home to support my family as my grandmother's days feel longer- like one long day of a repetitive sequence of activities that is paving way for the big finale. 

Read more here about patanjali's yoga sutras (http://www.sacred-texts.com/hin/yogasutr.htm) and  meditate on the sound of the soul. 

Snap Shot: What does missing the dead feel like?

Driving back home from work three days following a trip that I can only describe like so ---Relaxing in the the hot sun, meditating under water, dancing to sunset winds, diving with fish of all kind of sizes, textures and colours along deep and shallow waters, in and out of caves and shipwrecks, in the morning light and the darkness of the night, sleeping on the deck in the fresh breeze of night, clinging wine glasses with random strangers who soon became friends and teaching my first yoga classes to students eager to learn--my mind shifts in search for something missing. Slipping back in the rhythm of work is never easy for a human race that most often than not resists the changes in the flow of life.  So here I am driving home yet missing something. Perhaps its the fish or the breeze or the beautifully shaped landscape of mountains dotted with clouds or stars reflected in the deep red sea. Naturally created imagery that freed my mind of any ill-serving thoughts and emotions. But soon enough I realized that I was missing her, again.

It feels strange coming home with your father and sister after a week long vacation without running upstairs to fill her in about the details of the trip. It feels quite frustrating to say the least. The overwhelming frustration I felt urged me to write this blog to give you snap shot of what missing the dead feels like.

The first snap shot. "click, click". Sometimes it feels as though your locked up in prison. Have you ever considered how people feel when they get a life sentence. Guilty or innocent, I would presume that the prisoner experiences a sudden jolt that I like to call "go back in time syndrome" desperately seeking to traverse back in time to smell, hear, kiss, or touch something or someone one last time. Contrary to modern positive thinking approaches, when a prisoner realizes that positive thinking will not bring him any step closer to his dream, he becomes very agitated and frustrated. "I just wish" "one last time" and "why" are the questions whirling above his head. Filled with energy that refuses to accept reality the prisoner lunges forward grabs the bars of the prison and attempts to.........pull them out of the ground? Tare them to squeeze through? Impossible scenarios that reflect the truly delirious nature that the poor prisoner has reached. Soon enough, when his energy is released, he crouches to the ground and passes out. I suppose its a little like other stress releasing mechanism going for a run, a swim, smashing a tennis ball or punching a punching bag.

The second snap shot. "Click Click." Sometimes it feels as though you're in a world protected with a glass ceiling. Those outside can see what's inside but you can't see or interact with what's outside. Have you ever seen children surround an ice cream trucks, in the circus or on a merry-go round? Gleefully hoping beaming imagery and echoing sounds thats resonates beyond the glass ceiling. But on the other-side, people can only watch. They can't join even if they want to. They may feel a little like that prisoner. Or if we want to remain gleefully free then, perhaps, we can imagine that they-the outsiders- can share in our gleefulness despite being unable to participate.

What's the moral of this corny story? The choice is yours.  For the prisoner, accepting the life sentence is easier but acceptance in itself is an art that very few master.   As for the gleeful children, imagining that happiness lies both on the inside and outside of the looking glass is more comforting. But if the other side looks like a dark prison cell than are we in denial?

Depends on the prisoner. Is SHE the kind of person who would accept the life sentence or is SHE of the kind who would wail, shout and complain uncontrollably frustrated at HER inability to get what SHE wants- contact with the outside world?

Can you take a guess what choice my mother would have made?

Warrior Princess

Exactly 68 days ago her body perished and the particles inside her head that may have represented her soul in one way or another disintegrated, vibrated and vanished beyond sight, smell and touch.

“This is easy!” I thought to myself almost everyday for the past month.

“Life goes on. I don’t even think about her anymore” he arrogant thoughts continued.

Surely, she crosses my mind every now and then, but much like a cough or a sneeze, I don’t hold on to it. I let it go. I dust off the thoughts on my shoulders and they go away.

But today is different and this is why I am wearing a dress that belongs to her. The same yellow, blue, white and gold flower patterned dress that I courageously wore to her funeral exactly 68 days ago. This is why I will pack her rarely worn one-piece swim suits (although last time I remember wearing a one-piece, was probably was probably 14 years ago) with me on the 5-day-on-the-boat-diving-trip that my dad, sister and I are embarking on today.

In the shower as I crouch down on my knees under the shower head’s waterfall, I let the tears flow as thoughts of her last days come rushing back like a wave that thrusts you over a cliff.

Looking back at those last thirteen days, when her swollen liver blew up her stomach to the size of 3 watermelons barely uttering a word to anyone, its hard to imagine that we were all pacing around her death bed, sitting by her side waiting to the day to see her off to the coffin.

Reminds me of the image of a mother wavering her handkerchief ferociously at her daughter, the new bride, as she sees her off to a handsome groom.  Mother waved her hand at me numerous of times as I packed my bags and left to Montreal, London, and Vancouver. I liked to believe that those were tears of joy rushing down her face but in my heart, knew the truth. We just wanted different things in life.

Seeing off a Mother, daughter, sister or even wife to her coffin is an experience I would never want to wish upon anyone. Those seeking to comfort themselves may claim that we are seeing her off to Heaven, saints x, y and z, Jesus’ arms, or God. I am not about to make up a story to make myself feel better. I can face the truth and the truth is that I have no idea whether a soul exists and if it is does I have no idea where it goes after death. But one thing I am sure of, is that Mother is not longer physically suffering. But assuming there is a soul somewhere floating around, I am convinced that she is mentally suffering just like all her loved ones on earth are.  But this image of her flying around in heaven with angels and saints smiling down on us, is something I cannot accept because I know the truth.

On her last days, when the room was finally empty, I sat by her side and bravely asked her the questions no one else would dare. Are you afraid? Are you going to miss? Are you disappointed at God? Did you ever think this would happen? Are you looking forward to the next chapter? I could only ask her yes or no questions because she could only nod yes or no.

The truth is that she didn’t want to leave. She was very upset. She couldn’t believe that God was letting her down. She couldn’t believe that God was letting her sister down, the one who prayed endlessly and travelled from priest to priest in search of hope.  And for the last 48 hours of Mother’s life, only one person’s name was on my her lips, it wasn’t Jesus or God, nor was it Carol or Sandra, simply her sister’s name Suzy, the one who gave her hope and confidence that her life would not end. I’m glad that I never gave Mother false hope. I’m glad that I had the courage to speak the truth.

As the saying goes, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and I am not dead. Far from that, with small hands rolled into fists, teeth clenched and a roar, I welcome death and smell it at every corner.  Thanks to that dreaded experience, I welcome death my enemy and friend. In fact I strongly desire to experience its nearness because I know that can defeat it, without reliance on God, Jesus or anyone else. The power to triumph without false hope is what I learnt from the dreaded experience. And if I don’t defeat it so what? What’s the worst that can happen after seeing off your mum to her coffin? Trust me there is nothing worse and if there is, I will let you know.

Dearest Mother, thank you for making me braver than I ever was.  

On the Other-side of the Looking Glass

How does it feel to be on the other side Mother?

When I look at myself in the mirror are you standing on the other side, banging your hands and screaming, Sandra I’m here, look at me! Listen to me! Why can’t you hear me?!

That scene just reminded me of that movie Ghost. You know the one where the guy gets murdered and falls in his girlfriend’s lap (demi moore) and his soul follows her around to protect her from the murderer?

Only in this case, neither was mum murdered, nor does she have some unfinished business to deal with here on earth, thus her soul has floated and drifted to the other side...of the mirror or looking glass.

I was swimming in the sea today, freely floating on the surface of the water, trying to imagine what the other side looked like. This is what I could see.

Without a gravitational pull, Sea, Sun, Sand and Sky mixed together like a Tropical Colada. Souls freely floated like ice cubes in a drink, leaving behind streaks of white trails dotted with two big eyes and a banana shaped smile. Just how an elevator’s door slides open when you push a button, Matter splits in two creating a passage way that allows the soul move through. Trees, flowers, fruits and vegetables purely decorate the other side.  In resemblance to the earth, this other side is round, but incubated in a glass ceiling. Souls levitate to the top, without a space shuttle or rocket and observe our earth. Waving their hands from left to right at their loved ones on earth, who sadly can’t see of hear them. How do these souls feel? Just like I long for being with Mother, I am positive that she longs to be with me. The other side may be prettier. Indeed she may be floating and flying. She may be living a life unbound by time or space. But what’s the point of living when separated from a loved one? Indeed the connection will always remain but so will the frustration in inherent in our inability to communicate, separated by a glass ceiling. I know Mother, I wish I could break it too. 

The Supernatural State

Sometimes I can’t believe that you’re really gone forever. That I will never touch, see or hear you again. I’m well trained to think that you are always present in my heart and above somewhere, but do you have any idea how much work is required to be able to really feel the vibrations of another being’s soul?

It requires transforming from a daily humanly state that thrives on responding to desires of the flesh to a supernatural state that meditates on acquiring intangible virtues that lead to spiritual freedom.  A being that is, rather than does.  As I drive from state to state, I get the urge to roll down my window to ask for directions to the supernatural state? Follow your heart is the answer. Aaahh What does that even mean?!  Go left or right are much clearer instructions don’t you think?

Life drives us on a path that is not always straight. The straight path is the familiar one; the daily comforting routine; I brush my teeth, wash my face, practice yoga, shower, eat breakfast and drive to work. The road is filled with bumps, an angry phone call or disappointing email, requiring a reaction. Should I shift gears or hit the breaks? Can you imagine life without those little bumps on the road? Flying through life at great speeds of sound without once looking back to examine, contemplate or reflect.

The road less travelled is the one that meanders in a snake-like fashion. Not only is this one bumpy, but surprises us with twists and turns requiring one to check the map, slow down and take a make decisions, should I turn right or left?  I find myself turning to you, frequently, Mother. I am aware that the answers I hear are purely a projection of my subconscious, but those moments spent with you in treasurely transit are rewarding.

The straight path is too easy, comfortable, known and planned. It’s faster but Mother is absent. Lighter on the gas pedal, I thought, take the more curvature road, not only is it bumpy but also elevated, requiring much more self-discipline and effort. For you Mother, I would do anything. Hit the breaks. Shift gears. And drive along the road less travelled. That’s how I will find you. 

Down Dog; Up Dog

On my yoga matt thoughts of you rush back. In my down dog, I remember the times when I rushed to finish my yoga routine hoping to beat Mother’s wake up clock. We were in the hospital those days. I’d wake up well before you did, meditate, journal write and dive into yoga. I didn’t always finish on time. Sometimes my practice ran a little longer and you were awake. You would start asking for things, breakfast, tea, nurse, open the curtains pushing me out of half moon or the dancer posture.  I embraced the challenge of remaining in those poses you nagged. Rather than seize the opportunity to serve you Mother, I asked you to wait for a few more minutes while I finished my practice.

“Haram 3aleiky” you used to say. Why victimize yourself, I wondered.  “Patience Mother” I ignored. But on my yoga matt today, those moments rush back. I still hear your voice, calling me to serve you breakfast midst my practice. It’s no longer a nagging voice, but a sweet innocent lullaby and two big almond shaped eyes twinkling a morning smile. Only sweet memories of you left behind. But, seduced by your appearance I am not. I remain steadfast in each posture. Some things just don’t change.

Splash Sea Sun; Can a soul swim?

The wind blows, brushing my cheeks and shoulders, hair flies over my eyes unveiling rays of sunlight that brightly illuminate the clear blue sky.  Dearest Mother, are you shining your rays to guide me?

The palm tree dances in the distant and birds flutter their wings across the deep blue sea. How do you move, I wonder. Are you fluttering your wings up above me?  Or are you floating like cloudy smoke?

The waves roll over the beach with a roar, sweeping away the golden sand grains, just like you were swept away.

Mirror, Mirror on the wall, where oh where is Mother’s soul?

We pretend that you are in a better place right now because you are no longer suffering bodily, but what about mentally? Are you suffering from mental trouble? It’s easier to pretend that soul no longer feels.  She doesn’t get angry that she can no longer taste deliciously appetizing food. Nor does she long for an ice-cold beer as she watches the waves of the sea sweep up the beach to touch my toes as I sit on the sand sipping my beer. She isn’t disappointed that she can no longer feel the waves splashing against her body as she swims in the sea. Mother, was always a fantastic swimmer. She bravely and energetically swam across to the other side of the pier, so far that she was invisible to the eye of those on the beach.  Today, rather than swim she watched me swim across the deep blue sea, frantically looking for her soul yet enjoying sensational seclusion, a skill Mother had acquired and graciously passed down onto me.

Neither a mirror or thermometer, nor a microphone or hydrophone will allow me to measure how you feel. An emotionometer is what I need.