Snow Day!
Growing up in New York, there were three things I found utterly amazing: the accents of people from other places, baseball, and snow days.
If you're from California, Mexico, or Hawaii, you probably know what the first two are all about. But the third? Allow me to explain.
A snow day, for those of you who have never experienced winter, is an unexpected day off from school granted by a benevolent universe. You go to bed at night, dreading your history test the next day, and wake up with three feet of snow outside your window -- your mother telling you (having just heard it on the radio) that school is closed.
It's a snow day!
Somehow, while you slept, the whole world shut down. Everything came to a halt. The only thing you can see out your window is a solitary bird looking for food and the kid next door, arms outstretched, making snow angels.
You jump for joy! Yahoo! Hallelujah!
Gone is the need to rush through breakfast. Gone is the need to catch the bus. Gone is the need to perform.
All bets are off. Your time is your own. You are free!
You look out the window and everything is white. The jagged edges of the world have been softened, curved, and relaxed. Everything is still, as if the God you've heard so much about in Sunday school has just hit the pause button.
You have time to slow down, time to admire, time to do nothing at all -- and feel really good about it. After all, this isn't a sick day, it's a snow day -- a complete and utter gift... an unexpected bit of grace... an inheritance you didn't realize was on its way.
For me, the experience of Maharaji's Knowledge is a bit like that.
And the ultimate beauty of the whole thing? You don't have to wait for an "Act of God," while you sleep, to enjoy its benefits. It's with you every second of the day, every breath.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 06:54 AM | Comments (1)
February 27, 2010When You Walk Into The Room
When you walk into the room,
all the poets
feel a sudden urge to praise,
all the dancers want to move,
singers ache
to raise their voices high
for all those times
they foolishly chose silence instead.
This impulse to express,
this surging forward into form,
is absolutely involuntary, tidal,
primal, pure.
The poet's fingers twitch,
the singer clears her throat,
the dancer moves inside her shoes,
already receiving roses
from the grateful choreographer of her heart.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 09:26 PM | Comments (0)
February 23, 2010The Great Mystery
Here is the great mystery:
My thirst is quenched
as much by my longing
to have it quenched
as it is by the waters that come.
Tell me, oh digger of the well,
which do I drink first?
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:07 PM | Comments (1)
February 20, 2010There's A Lot Here For You
Dear Heart of the Matter Reader:
First of all, thank you so much for taking the time to read this blog. Without you, there would be no reason to do this -- so keep on logging on and spreading the word to your friends and family.
And second of all, there are a lot of postings that you probably haven't seen yet. If you have a few minutes (or a few hours or a few days) and want to dig deeper, click on any of the links below.
Video
Poetry
Reflections
Personal stories
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 08:15 AM | Comments (0)
February 18, 2010Never Give Up
Fabulous new song by Geoff Bridgford.
"Never, never, never, never give up." -- Winston Churchill
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 04:50 PM | Comments (1)
February 17, 2010The Inner Technology
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 01:07 AM | Comments (1)
February 16, 2010He Tunes Me Like a Violin
He tunes me
like a violin,
orchestral
in his movements,
silent as music
still to be played.
Alone in my room,
fingers twitching slightly,
I pray
for a bow
and a sign
from the maestro
when to begin.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:14 AM | Comments (0)
Why Am I Always Waiting?
Why am I
always waiting
for you
to greet me
as if I had
just
gotten off a plane
from some
faraway place,
your eyes
opening wider,
your breath
coming faster,
your beautiful soul
moving closer
as if nothing else
in the world
really mattered.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:04 AM | Comments (0)
February 12, 2010SOS from Mexico!
If you are reading this, please help me. I need your help!
For the past eight days, I've been in Mexico, being deprogrammed. My captors are quite clever -- latino ninjas, I believe. They never show their faces. But they are definitely having an effect on me.
Two days ago, I completely lost my desire to log on to Facebook. I can't remember any of my passwords. Or the name of my insurance agent.
What in the world is happening to me?
And it's getting worse. Last night, after being fed some "fresh" guacomole, I found myself looking at the moon instead of my email.
Have you ever heard of such a thing? Is it reversible?
For a couple of days, I thought my shaky state of mind might be due to "something in the water," but then I remembered I've been drinking mostly margaritas and cervesa.
These deprogrammers are extremely accomplished. They stop at nothing. I don't know how they do it.
My ability to comprehend the basics of my life? Rapidly deteriorating. I have no idea how many hits my website got last week. I have no clue how the Knicks are doing. The sun is up. That I know. But the Dow? Beats me.
Please, help me!
Do you know anyone at the U.S. Consulate who can intercede? A website I might check out when no one is looking? Something! Anything! Please!
Wait... shhhh... can you hear it? There... off in the distance... church bells... many church bells ringing... Listen.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 11:50 PM | Comments (2)
February 11, 2010There Is An Infinite Amount of Poetry
There is an infinite
amount of poetry
in every drop of water,
an infinite,
always-being-written
book of psalms
in each and every breath.
There is milk and honey everywhere,
milkmaids, magic, and gypsies
who steal your heart,
then give it back
ten thousand times infused
with secrets that take
far more than a full moon
and a lifetime to decipher.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:56 AM | Comments (0)
February 10, 2010Standing in the Back of the Bus
I am standing in the back of a bus in San Miguel de Allende, just beginning to exit, when I notice a short, heavy-set woman behind me, her long grey hair tied in a bun and a smile that explained a thousand years of Mexican fiestas. How could I not let her pass?
So I take a step to the side and, with a downward sweep of my hand, indicate she should pass me -- that indeed, it would be my pleasure if she did. And so she does, her eyes opening wider, the many laugh lines around her dark eyes, deepening.
I have the impulse to follow, to exit next, especially since I had just given up my place in line, but the boy behind her is obviously on his way somewhere and his need to exit seems to be greater than mine and since I am already standing off to the side, I let the young muchacho do his young muchacho thing.
A man with a guitar passes me, as do two small children. I look to my left and see a lot of people standing up and starting to make their way to the back of the bus, me now feeling like an usher, perfectly placed to make their exit just a little happier today.
A dark-skinned man with fringes on his jacket passes by, as does a woman behind him whom I imagine to be his wife. She looks tired, 
like there are many chores waiting for her at the end of the day -- the same chores her mother and her grandmother still perform daily as an act of worship to a Jesus whose image hangs from the rearview mirror of her husband's 1973 Chevy, along with the rosary beads and dice.
Each of these people pass me and, as they do, I notice that more people are getting on the bus -- the same number, mas o menos, as those who have just gotten off. So I continue standing there, making way, and bowing to those who seem to be open to more than just a smile or nod.
And then, it dawns on me.
This is my work. This is what I was born for -- what my Buddhist friends like to refer to as "right livelihood" -- though I, in this moment, could not figure out how the universe could possibly compensate me for my service.
I didn't need to think about it for long.
Thirty minutes later, a woman with a turquoise barrette in her hair, brings me a grilled chicken in a plastic bag. Hot. Crispy. And ready to eat. And a 7-Up too, perfectly chilled.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 09:55 AM | Comments (3)
February 08, 2010There Is a Contest I Want to Enter
There is a contest I want to enter,
but I don't know what it's for.
I want to win something,
walk down the aisle
when my name is called,
mount the stage, take the mic,
and, in a courageous attempt to speak before tears take over,
thank God and my Master
for awakening me
to this moment of pure and perfect gratitude.
I will take a breath,
words beginning to form within me
like bubbles from the bottom
of a freshly poured glass of champagne,
but I will say nothing,
stunned.
In this oasis of love,
poised in perfect silence,
long before the first impulse to express,
everyone wins,
everyone receives exactly what they came here for.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 04:42 PM | Comments (0)
February 07, 2010What Is This Strange Forgetting?
What is this strange forgetting
that has taken hold of me lately --
this being unable to remember
that everything is
sacred, holy, and alive?
The absence of you, my Friend,
surely has something to do with it.
Your being gone has opened
a small hole in me,
a pinprick,
the kind blood brothers make,
but you are nowhere in sight.
Where are you?
Where have you gone?
Something is leaving me slowly,
there's a leak I cannot see.
A day's worth amounts to almost nothing,
a week's would barely fill a thimble,
but it has been months now without you
and I am beginning to notice, lurking
like a stranger in my own shadow
and sleeping just a little too long.
Hey! I've got an idea!
Why don't you cross the universe to me today?
Why don't you show up unannounced at my door?
I really want to see you.
We'll both enjoy the moment
and the stunned looks on the faces of my friends
who have been so diligently reminding me
that you are already here.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 04:05 PM | Comments (4)
February 03, 2010ZERO
Zero
is where
the real
fun starts.
There's too much
counting
everywhere else.
-- Hafiz
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:14 AM | Comments (3)
