Diving In Deeper
If you are new to Heart of the Matter, chances are good you've only seen a small percentage of what's available to you here -- more than 200 postings of all kinds: videos, slide shows, excerpts and reports from Maharaji's events, stories, personal reflections, poetry, humor, a talking puppet, links to cool resources, and much more.
You can always access the most recent 30 postings by logging onto the site and scrolling down. For the rest of the content, you'll need to click on the archives (in the sidebar beneath "Recent Entries"). But since you're already here right now, all you need to do is click the link below for a hot-linked list of all past postings. (If you find something you like, please feel free to forward it to friends, acquaintances, family, or neighbors. That's how word about this blog is getting out.)
Heart of the Matter Monthly Archives
October
September
August
July
June
May
April
March
February
January
Photo by Durango99
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 05:12 PM | Comments (0)
November 13, 2008Waiting for Maharaji
I have been a student of Maharaji since 1971. For the past 37 years, inspired by the feeling of deep peace and gladness he has awakened in me, I have been attempting -- in various unsuccessful ways -- to describe who he is.
In the beginning, my descriptions were extremely effusive. Borderline inflated, you might say, and tinged with a hint of the zealot -- not unlike the poetry of one in love for the first time and badly in need of an editor. Charming? For sure. Engaging? You bet. Attention getting? That, too. But also confusing to anyone sincerely wanting to understand what the big deal was all about.
In time, like wine, I have mellowed, no longer ruled by the need to label, define, and explain. It's a game I choose not to play any more. What does Maharaji say when people ask him who he is? "Just a human being" -- a mirror that helps people see their true reflection at that moment in time.
This has been my experience completely. Allow me to be more specific...
The year was 1983 and I was living in Los Angeles. Although I had enjoyed some wonderfully casual moments with Maharaji throughout the years, most of my contact with him had been at big programs, him on stage, me straining to see from the mezzanine, wondering how to get a better seat. Like most of his students I wanted "special" time with him, away from the crowds.
And so when a friend asked me to be a waiter at a party Maharaji was throwing for his neighbors in Malibu I jumped at the chance. I rented the outfit. I shined my shoes. I showed up early. Nobody but my mother could have guessed I wasn't a waiter by profession.
And then, with a signal from the caterer, my adventure began -- silver tray of hors d'oeuvres in my left hand -- spreading out with the rest of the waiters among the guests, each according to our designated areas.
The first thing I saw was Maharaji. Technically speaking, he wasn't in my "area," but since none of the other waiters were approaching him, I decided to fill the void. This was my chance, I reasoned -- especially since I hadn't talked to him for three years.
"Hors d'oeuvre?" I asked, extending my tray of goodies in his direction.
Maharaji pulled his head back, looked away, and extended his hand in a slow, downward motion as if to say, "Keep that thing away from me!"
I smiled and continued on my way, wondering if his refusal had any kind of cosmic significance. Was it me or the pizza puffs? Was he seeing some deep, ancient flaw in me? Was I hopelessly uncool?
Fortunately, the day was too beautiful to obsess on my thoughts for long and so I kept moving until I located my area in the field behind his house.
From where I was now positioned, there were absolutely no sight lines to the party, no chance to see, I thought, Maharaji. The only thing interesting to look at was the ocean and the sky.
And so it was: Every 10 minutes or so a few guests would make their way back to my area, surprised to see a waiter, umbrella in one hand, tray in the other, standing in a field so far from the party.
It took about ten guests to empty my tray. After that I would head back to the waiters' shed for refills. This must have happened at least 20 times during the day and each time it did, Maharaji would somehow enter my field of vision -- standing, talking, eating, walking, and doing all the things that a person does at a party. And though I could never predict what he was going to be doing when I saw him, I could predict the feeling I would have.
"Jazzed" is how I would refer to it. Pumped. Buzzed. Blissed. I was a curious hybrid of boy seeing Santa and a Grateful Dead groupie with a lifetime back stage pass. "It's "him," I would think to myself again and again. "Him!"
This little scene played itself out several times during the day. I could have gone on like this forever. But then something curious happened.
About the 20th time I saw him, I felt nothing. Zero. Nada. Zilch. An unwelcome sense of normalcy began to take me over. Seeing him was suddenly no big deal. I wasn't awed. I wasn't amazed. Neither was I captivated, astounded, excited, glad, grateful, inspired, delighted, or energized. I wasn't anything.
My concept of Maharaji was being deconstructed before my eyes. My "mental model" wasn't working. Something I had counted on for years -- that seeing him would always be uplifting -- was no longer operational.
Was it him? Was it me? Was it both of us? Neither? Something else?
One conclusion I could have easily drawn was that Maharaji was nothing special -- a Wizard of Oz made great only by my own neurotic projections. Yes, if I wanted proof that he was nothing but my own self-invented hype, now I had it. But having received Knowledge from him 12 years earlier and having experienced the many benefits of his guidance in my life, I could not bail out at such a simplistic conclusion.
Something else was clearly going on.
Looking back, my 'buzzless' series of waitering moments at Maharaji's party felt like the unceremonial end of my extended honeymoon with him -- that formerly delightful time of spiritual romance in which I had been protected from (or blinded to) the moments in which one's "significant other" does not appear very extraordinary.
In marriages, this either marks the beginning or the end of the painful acceptance of the apparent mundane -- the time when the husband no longer seems heroic and the wife is no longer recognized as goddess.
It was confronting to admit it, but the part of my relationship to Maharaji that I had fabricated was becoming undone. Without knowing it, I had become a fan and a groupie in addition to being a student. Like my previous strategy in my personal life of creating short-term love affairs to keep me feeling studly, I had been orchestrating my relationship with Maharaji to provide well-timed payoffs. Did it work? Yes it did. But it went only so far.
I was not alone.
In my experience, lots of Maharaji's students have set him up in this way. Ruled by the very human need to define and categorize, we turned him into many things: a superstar, a hero, an Avatar, an anthropomorphized version of our own private God -- projecting all kinds of images on him, not unlike small children do with their parents or teachers.
Inevitably, this leads to disappointment. Which leads to doubt. Which leads to anger. And it is this anger, born from the gap between who he is and who we imagine him to be, that is often the reason why some students of Maharaji eventually reject him. "He is not who I thought he was," they claim. And of course it is true, because, in many ways, it is impossible to know Maharaji (or anyone else for that matter) through the medium of thought.
More relationships are ruined, I believe, by expectations than by anything else.
Husbands do it to their wives. Wives do it to their husbands. Parents do it to their kids. The Master/Student relationship is no exception. Somehow we get it into our heads that a Master has to be a certain way. Casting directors in our own "B" movie, we patch together our favorite stereotypes and create a picture of how the Master should be -- and then proceed to compare everything he does to that picture.
Of course, we're going to be disappointed. How could it be any other way?
The alternative? Live and let live. Be who you are and let Maharaji be who he is. Give up the addiction to having everyone and everything fit the Procrustean bed of your spiritualized imagination.
Allow the simplicity of love to be the fulcrum around which your life revolves. Appreciate each breath. Be grateful. Live and let live. Savor the opportunity to be alive and enjoy all the many blessings in your life. Take off the rose-colored glasses and those rose-colored explanations. You don't need them anymore.
PS: If you like this story, you'll probably like this one, too, one more waiter experience -- 14 years later in Amaroo.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 11:15 PM | Comments (2)
November 01, 2008Sweeping the Path
As a middle class American male with a healthy dose of resistance to household chores, the broom has never been one of my favorite tools. While I've certainly appreciated its timeless design and universal appeal, the act of sweeping has always felt like somebody else's job.
This belief radically changed for me one fine Spring day in 1980. That was the day I got word that my teacher, Maharaji, was coming to visit the house I was living in -- a funky old dwelling on Detroit Street in mile high Denver, Colorado.
Clearly, my housemates and I weren't ready. The kitchen was dirty. The bathrooms were a wreck. The lawn needed mowing. Mucho stuff needed to be done.
My task? To sweep.
Grabbing a broom like some kind of over-caffeinated Clint Eastwood on steroids, I pushed open the front door, surveyed the scene, and got busy.
The porch was a piece of cake. A few flicks of the wrist, a few energetic downward strokes in both directions and I was done -- leaves, twigs, and dust sailing over the edge onto the waiting lawn below.
Now it was time for the front walkway.
A sweep to the left. A sweep to the right. A sweep to the left again -- me a human metronome in tune with something beyond time. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
I paused to view my handiwork. "Not bad, not bad at all," I thought to myself.
But though the porch and walk were much cleaner than before, my increasingly perceptive sweeper's vision was seeing things it hadn't noticed just ten minutes ago: a pebble stuck between cracks, a rusty bottlecap, a flattened piece of wax.
Whoosh to the left. Whoosh to the right. Whoosh to the left again.
It felt good getting ready, good preparing the way for the man who, nine years ago, had shown me -- in a heartbeat -- what life was really all about.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
Ta da! The porch was clean! The path was clear! All was right with the world! But wait! The sidewalk, in front of the house, was a complete mess. Bits of paper were everywhere. Plastic spoons. Shards of glass. And dirt, dirt, dirt.
Obviously, I had more work to do.
Whoosh to the left. Whoosh to the right. Whoosh to the left again.
I closed my eyes. I took a breath. I opened my eyes again. But wait! The road in front of the house was a wreck -- the very same road Maharaji would need to cross if he parked his car on the north side of the street. Cigarette butts, oil spots, and leaves were everywhere. My hands began to twitch. My mind began to race. Wherever I looked, nothing was ready to receive him. Nothing was good enough. The world, it seemed to me, was one gigantic mess.
I wondered how far onto Detroit Street I needed to sweep -- how far I needed to go to prepare the way. At this rate, I might never come back.
And then, like one of those moments I used to read about in Zen Buddhism books, it hit me.
It wasn't the front porch that needed sweeping. It wasn't the path... the sidewalk... or the street. It was me. I was the one that needed to be swept -- swept of my clutter, swept of my assumptions, swept of whatever junk stood in the way of being able to receive my teacher in a way that was clean.
I didn't need to sweep the porch. I didn't need to sweep the street. I didn't need to shine my shoes... or cut the grass... or buy a suit... or lose five pounds... or iron my shirt... or paint the house... or wash the car... or buy a dozen roses. I could, of course, if I wanted to. I could if these things really needed to be done. But something else -- much more central to my life -- was going on. And that something was me getting ready for Maharaji -- the one whose gift of Knowledge had, long ago, opened my eyes and my heart.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 06:09 AM | Comments (2)
October 26, 2008The Diamond Cutter's Stroke of Love
This morning, on a weekend jaunt in New York City with my wife and two kids, getting ready to go out for brunch at an overpriced West Village restaurant and obsessing about cash flow, U.S. politics, and the sound of my two kids bickering in the kitchen, I clicked on a 20 second mp3 of Maharaji.
"Listen and try to have that bond of affinity with the silence that is so simple, so precious. Try to have that relationship with the eternal. If a little rubs off on you, that's a good thing."
This is one of the amazing things about Maharaji -- his ability to cut through the Gordian Knot of my own illusion and awaken the very best of WHO I AM in just a few seconds.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 04:33 PM | Comments (0)
October 17, 2008The One For Whom It All Makes Sense
I have written a thousand poems for you
that have never left my room.
They fill the pages of notebooks stacked high on a shelf
no one can reach.
Orphans they are, beggars afraid
they are not noble enough for the King,
would never make it past the guards.
I make a vain attempt to dress them up,
disguise their ridiculous origins,
but still they smell bad.
There are times, late at night, however,
when they think I'm asleep,
I can almost hear them talking to each other,
conjuring ways to make it to your court.
Oh, the arguments they have! The barroom brawls!
Some of them actually think a shower and a shave
is all they need.
Others insist on practicing, all night long,
the perfect way of greeting you.
There is much to be said for these backroom bards,
these arm wrestling vagrants from another world.
Indeed, if I was dead,
my ambitious biographer, after paying his respects
and asking permission of my dear, sweet wife,
would borrow them just long enough to search for pearls
and find the perfect turn of phrase, the verse,
the sudden storm of brilliance
even my harshest critics would have to praise.
He'd think of clever titles for the tome,
describing, in his carefully written way,
the "man who left his muse too soon"
or some such thing that might make you wonder
why I never gave these poems to you --
the one for whom it all makes sense even when it doesn't.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 08:29 PM | Comments (0)
September 30, 2008Thirst Quench Thirst
Hello... You can hear nothing but the sound of my voice.
You are lovingly placing your cursor over the hotlinked phrase below, clicking once and buying at least one copy of my new book of poetry, Thirst Quench Thirst.
Do not concern yourself about whether or not you actually like poetry, read poetry, or have ever heard of me. Those concerns, while certainly understandable, are beside the point. Sometimes you just need to trust your instincts. Like now, for instance.
Some of the poems in this blog are excerpted from the book, so if you're still not sure, simply scroll around and read.
Oh, I almost forgot to mention, the book is only $15.00. At 72 pages, that's only $20.8 cents a page (1/18th the cost of a Starbuck's Frappucino). Such a deal!
Still need proof it's worth the money? Click below and check out the reviews:
Thirst, Quench Thirst evokes a memory of the deepest longings of the soul. Reading Mitch's poetry reminds me of what I already know, but often forget." -- Joan Apter
"This poetry has touched the deepest recesses of my heart." -- Dermott Philpott
"Mitch's poetry touches a universal human longing; the ache for internal connection to the divine. He speaks in a personal, simple, accessible way about things that are ancient and deep." -- Erika Andersen
"Most great love poetry baffles the mind, but delights the heart. And great love poetry cannot be written without great love. Mitch Ditkoff's poems are intoxicating." -- John Adorney
"This is the kind of nourishment that penetrates to the core of Divine Love, and if deeply imbibed, its sweet nectar can be savored for a lifetime." -- Jamie Delay
"Mitch mixed the most profound -- almost indescribable -- with the kind of simplicity that somehow manages to capture a feeling. Lovely stuff!" -- Candice Wilmore
"This book of poetry, delightful and charming, takes me right to the heart of the matter gently, often with wonderful humor! I read and re-read these poems just to take the ride." -- Kim Greene
"Not bad, but buy this book anyway so I can get a higher allowance." -- Jesse Pouget Ditkoff
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 05:23 PM | Comments (0)
September 22, 2008FLORIDA UNBOUND: No Word for Thesaurus
Did you know there's no synonym in the thesaurus for "thesaurus"?
And that's exactly how I feel right now as I try to describe what it was like being with Maharaji this past weekend -- once in Miami and once in Gainesville.
When I got back home, two friends asked me what it was like. Though I felt quite divine, my response was cro-magnon at best.
Um...er... uh...ah... uh....
This is precisely why dancing came into existence. Yodelling, too.
And so, in honor of Maharaji and my own inability, at this moment, to string two sentences together, here's a list of metaphors that approximate what it was like being there this weekend.
What It Felt Like Being With Maharaji This Weekend
1. Landing on Free Parking in Monopoly
2. Being rebooted
3. Coming home
4. Going back to Square One, only to discover there was no square. The sides of the square had been removed or were never there in the first place.
5. Being at the most incredible party in the world
6. Finding buried treasure in my own backyard
7. Letting go of everything
8. The first day of Spring
9. Sunbathing on the roof at the top of the world
10. Unplugging from the madness
11. Following the yellow brick road
12. An early Thanksgiving
13. The cherry on top of the sundae I felt no guilt about eating
14. A cool breeze
15. The eye of the storm
16. Falling in love for the first time
17. Putting down my heavy load
18. Opening a present I didn't think I deserved
19. Pushing "pause" on the universal remote
20. A spa for the soul
21. The space between in breath and out
22. Being kissed by the infinite
23. The music Mozart listened to when he was done composing
24. Effortlessly experiencing the virtues all religions espouse
25. The promised land
26. Consciousness revealed
27. A grand slam home run in the bottom of the ninth
28. Happiness squared
29. The breath within the breath
30. The answer to every Zen koan ever asked
31. The blissful breaking of my pinata
32. A diamond cutter's stroke
33. Knocking on heaven's door, only to discover I was knocking from the inside
34. Experiencing that each step is also an arrival
35. Discovering a secret room in my house
36. Receiving a very large inheritance
37. The happy marriage of laughter and tears
38. George Carlin, Mel Brooks, Jonathan Winters, Groucho Marx, Steve Martin, Robin Williams, Billy Crystal, Whoopi Goldberg, Lily Tomlin, Steven Wright, Peter Sellers, Sid Caesar, Jerry Seinfeld, Henny Youngman, and Chris Rock all laughing at a joke no one told.
39. Surfing Hawaiian waves of love
40. These two whirling dervishes walk into a bar
Feel free to add your own, by clicking on "Post a Comment" below...
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 10:10 PM | Comments (2)
September 19, 2008On My Way to See Maharaji Today
Okie dokie. I'm heading to the airport in an hour to fly to Florida. Going to see Maharaji at an event in Miami on Saturday, then again in Gainesville on Sunday. If you make it to either of these events, I hope to see you there.
Next week I'll do my best to post something here from both events. Until then... count your blessings, have fun, enjoy, breathe deep, and know the only thing not subject to bank closings, stock market crashes, spin doctoring, or mortgages crises is inside you.
That "thing" is what all great teachers from the beginning of time have been talking about. You already have it. The only thing left to do is discover it... pay attention to it... and enjoy it.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 09:09 AM | Comments (1)
September 15, 2008What's in a Name?
Whenever a person who has received Knowledge from Maharaji tries to describe their relationship to him, they usually end up using one of the following five words: student, devotee, follower, friend, or premie.
I'm sure you've heard at least a few of these words before in one context or another.
Each of them describes an aspect of my relationship to Maharaji, but only an aspect.
None of them describes the whole shebang. In fact, each of these words has been known to confuse, distract, or repel since each one carries a kind of cultural baggage.
Allow me to explain.
If I tell you that I am the son of Barney and Sylvia, you will instantly know what I mean. If I tell you I am the husband of Evelyne, I need not explain further. If I tell you that I'm the brother of Phyllis, the friend of Scott, and the father of Jesse and Mimi, you catch my drift.
But when it comes to describing my relationship to Maharaji, language comes up short.
Which brings us back to the five words noted above: student, follower, devotee, friend, and premie.
It's clear to me, that if you're reading this blog, it's only a matter of time before you hear one of Maharaji's _____________ (fill in the blank, folks) use one of the above-mentioned words to describe their relationship to him. And when they do, I want to make sure you don't run for the hills just because the word they use doesn't quite make it for you.
1. STUDENT
"Student" is perhaps the most politically correct way to describe my relationship to Maharaji. Simply put, he's my teacher and I learn from him. All of us understand the concept of teacher. It's embedded in our culture.
But this is where some Knowledge-sniffing people might decide to bail out.
Yes, we've all had teachers, but some of our teachers have disappointed. Some, in fact, were awful -- manipulative, fear-mongering, narrow-minded, and boring. Plus they gave us homework. Ouch!
The word "student" also conjures up, for some of us, images of school. School? Does anyone really want to go to school? To my kids, school often feels like prison. They'd rather be playing.
"Student" also conjures up images of big books with small print that have to be read by Thursday when it's Springtime outside and all you really want to do is roller blade. Study? Give me a break. Who wants to study?
Here's the paradox. I'm a student of Maharaji, but I'm not in school. I'm a student of Maharaji, but I don't study. I'm a student of Maharaji, but I follow no curriculum. I'm a student of Maharaji, but he never tests me. I'm a student of Maharaji, but I pay no tuition.
And yet, believe it or not, I've learned more from him than anyone else on planet Earth. By at least a few light years.
2. FOLLOWER
In the 1970's when Maharaji's arrival on the scene was being carefully tracked by the media, journalists referred to people attracted to his teachings as "followers" -- as in "the followers of the boy Guru from India."
No wonder why so many Time and Newsweek readers (my mother included) got turned off.
"Followers" conjures up images of sheep walking off cliffs... of weak-willed people... of glassy-eyed, hopelessly uncool wanabees. Hey, who wants to be a "follower?" Isn't that a sign of nerdhood? It's leaders we want! Take charge people! Alpha men and women! Superheroes!
Here's a slightly different way of looking it.
When you're trying to get somewhere you've never been before, it's not uncommon to follow directions. (Are you giving away your power because you follow a map or the instructions of the gas station attendant?)
I'm guessing you've followed your instincts from time to time. Yes? And if you're a sports fan, you've undoubtedly followed a team or two -- fascinated and uplifted by what they did and how they did it. And if you've ever been in love, I'd venture to say that somewhere along the line, you told your Beloved you'd follow them to the ends of the Earth.
Following is not a sign of weakness -- not if what you're following is worthy of your pursuit. Maharaji, by the way, doesn't ask people to follow him. People follow him for the same reason they follow their instinct, their team, a map, or their significant other. For love. For results. For enjoyment.
This is not a blind following. This is an informed following. This is not a following that disempowers. This is a following that strengthens, empowers, and delights.
3. DEVOTEE
There are two ways of saying the word "devotee" -- the first one rhymes with "clay," the second rhymes with "tea." I prefer the second. Devotee. The first one reminds me of an upwardly mobile fashionista in LA or NY who calls everyone "dahling." They are, on Mondays, at least, a "devotay" of this or that. But what they're devoted to this week will invariably change into something else next week and so on ad infinitum.
Their devotion, if you will, is really just a thinly veiled emotion -- their circumstantial focus on something or other for a limited period of time until they either get bored, distracted, or convinced by a much hipper and better-dressed friend to be a "devotay" of something else.
I'm not talking about that.
I'm talking about the second word -- the one that rhymes with "tea." Devotee -- whose root is "devote."
We're all devoted to something. Some of us are devoted to family. Some of us are devoted to country. Some of us are devoted to work. Still others are devoted to skin care products.
And so it goes...
Why is it that some people refer to themselves as "devotees" of Maharaji? Because he's shown them something worth being devoted to. He's shown them what devotion really is. Not blind devotion. No herd devotion. Not trendy devotion. Something very different -- the unconditional, soulful commitment to the core of life.
4. FRIEND
Many people who practice Knowledge, refer to Maharaji as their "friend." And yet, they may see him only once a year. They may never have even said a single word to him. They never go bowling with him or share a pizza or double date, but still they use the word "friend" to describe him.
How can this be? How can you call someone a friend who you rarely ever see?
It's simple.
A friend knows you. A friend is there when needed. A friend is non-judgmental. A friend has your best interests in mind. A friend is someone you can rely on. A friend surprises you with love when you least expect it.
All of these describe my relationship to Maharaji. And when I look into his eyes -- or he looks into mine -- I feel, in a heartbeat, that he is a Friend with a capital "F."
"F" for fearless. "F" for fun. "F" for fabuloso.
For some of us, however, the word "friend" is troubling. Friends have sometimes let us down. Friends sometimes take more than they give. Friends have borrowed tools and not returned them. And so, it's not at all surprising that calling Maharaji my "friend" may not work for you.
OK. Maybe the next word will work better for you...
5. PREMIE
I'm guessing you've heard the word "premie" before. It's Hindi for "lover" and was the most popular way that students/followers/devotees/friends of Maharaji referred to themselves in the 1970's and '80's.
One of the great things about this word, to Westerners, is that no one had any concepts about it -- no previous associations. And it's translation was cool. Lover. Who could argue with that -- especially since one of the outcomes of practicing Knowledge and being around Maharaji was a steady infusion of love.
At least that's the way it was -- and is -- for me.
Looking back, it felt right to use the word "premie" to describe my relationship to Maharaji. After all, the word came from the same country he did -- India -- and it translated as "love." And his first name is "Prem."
Seems kind of like a no brainer, eh?
Of course, there's an equal and opposite way of looking at this, too. After all, as Paul Simon once said, "One man's ceiling is another man's floor."
I'm sure for some people, it's a turn off to hear the word "premie." It seems so foreign -- so not "made in the USA." And, as if that wasn't enough, it sounds a lot like "preemie," every mother's worse nightmare -- someone not quite fully formed.
Well, then, maybe "premie" isn't the best word to describe someone who practices Knowledge and loves Maharaji. Maybe the word should be "Bubeleh," or "Tootsie" or "Fred." You tell me.
Ultimately, it doesn't matter what word I use to describe my relationship to Maharaji. What matters is this: Maharaji is the real deal. My life has majorly flourished since I met him. His message is ancient and timeless and real. His gift of Knowledge is a treasure.
Shakespeare had it right, methinks:
"What's in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet."
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:41 AM | Comments (4)
July 18, 2008The Falcon and the Falconer
NOTE: This song of praise to Maharaji is best read aloud...
I am the falcon, you are the falconer. Always I am coming back to you, my soaring skyward just a strategy to gather speed for my ultimate return.
How you have trained me is a mystery -- the way you've tamed my restless heart. It is not with fear. I do not fear you. It is not with food. There is prey enough for me everywhere I fly. It is more the way you offer me your arm, a place to land, a second skin scented with the wild musk of one who waits for me, what I would be if I would be a man.
It is a wonderful game the two of us play -- this coming and going, this circular ballet. Each time you loose the loops around my legs and signal me to fly, I remember what it is to rise for the first time. It is here I find my rest, my home. Untethered, still I do not move, needing only to be close to you, my falconer.
It is this that beats my wings, releases me to sky, rides the unseen currents of the air, and though I notice other things: the tops of trees, a cloud, a nimble rabbit on the ground, all I see is you, holding out your arm to me, even as a thousand other falcons overhead, each within your view, circle closer, spiral down, descend.
Still I know that I am next and this is the perfect moment of my return.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 04:26 PM | Comments (1)
July 11, 2008WAITING DOWN UNDER: A Timeless Moment in Amaroo
When asked to explain his highly abstract Theory of Relativity, Albert Einstein made it comprehensible in just two sentences. "Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute," he said, "and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute."
I can relate.
There are entire years of my life I can barely remember, but singular moments that seem eternal. The birth of my first child was one of them. So was the birth of my second... as was the first time I saw the woman who would later become my wife... and the time I almost drowned.
"Peak experiences," they're called, moments when time seems to stop and we connect with something timeless -- moments when thinking gives way to feeling and we realize, without words, what life is all about.
And though the catalysts for these moments are different for each of us, the experience is universal.
Something takes us over. Something opens up. A Red Sea parts and we feel totally alive, far beyond the usual ways we measure the world, our worth, and life itself.
I've had my share of these moments and am grateful for each of them. But the most memorable ones have been in the company of my teacher, Maharaji.
Being around him brings out the best in me.
I laugh the loudest, feel the deepest, and experience the kind of spaciousness within that contains everything. Home sweet home. Free Parking in Monopoly. The peace that passes all understanding.
Maharaji, for me, is an amplifier of all things good, a human tuning fork vibrating at the frequency I most love to frequent -- the frequency of love.
Which brings me back to the reason why I began this article in the first place.
Last September, I attended a five-day event with Maharaji, in Australia, along with 3,500 other people from more than 30 countries.
It took me 27 hours to get there, but it seemed like a minute.
Life was simple in Amaroo. I lived in a tent. I went to bed when the sun went down. I woke with the birds. I had no cell phone, no laptop, no worries, and nothing to do but listen to Maharaji -- twice a day -- hold forth beneath the vast Australian sky.
I was a happy camper.
On the fifth day of the event, I began to feel an old melancholy creeping in -- the kind I used to feel as a kid on Sunday afternoons when I knew the weekend was coming to an end.
Ah... the paradox!
On one hand, I was immersed in an experience that left me wanting nothing. On the other hand, the more this awareness grew, the harder it was for me think about leaving.
And so when I bumped into Michelle, an old friend of mine now working at Daya's Fine Dining, the on-site restaurant Maharaji was known to frequent, I asked if there was any way I could get in tonight -- my chance, I thought, to see him one more time before I flew home.
"All the reservations are taken," she replied. "But we still need waiters. If you meet me after the event, I'll introduce you to the woman in charge of personnel."
Fast forward a few hours.
The next thing I know a very focused woman is introducing me to Carl, the Head Waiter -- a well-dressed gent oozing confidence, purpose, and five-star restaurantiness.
Quickly, he explains my role, the difference between salad plates and dessert plates, when to bring the bread, when to pour the water, when to open the wine, when to take an order, how to take an order, where to find the spoons, how to fold the napkins, when to present the check, where to get the checks, what the consecutive numbers of my tables were, and a thousand other things that went over my head like an empty thought bubble in a Homer Simpson comic I had no time to read.
I wanted to take notes, but couldn't find a pen. I wanted to ask questions, but there wasn't any time. I wanted to confess my ignorance, but no one was available to play the priest.
I still didn't know where the kitchen was.
And then, before you could say "What are the specials tonight?" the doors open wide and the guests come flooding in.
I go to my section. I meet. I greet. I pour. I nod. I try to remember how the pork is prepared.
So there I am, walking across the room, carrying a chilled bottle of an Italian mineral water I couldn't pronounce if my life depended on it, when the entire restaurant becomes totally still.
Not the sound of a fork. Not the clink of a glass. Just pin drop silence and everyone looking in the same direction.
This, I knew, could mean only one thing.
There, at the threshold of the room, stood Maharaji, radiant, buoyant, completely present. He is looking in what I think of as "my direction," (though I'm convinced he's looking at someone else over my shoulder.)
"Hey Mitch!" he calls out. "So it's come to this? You've been demoted to a waiter!"
Everyone laughs. It's funny. But more than that, it has opened the floodgates. He's broken the ice and opened my heart with only 13 words.
It's clear that Maharaji is talking to me, not that mythical dude over my mythical shoulder. It's also clear that, standing halfway across the room, I'm much too far away to be having a meaningful conversation with him.
I should be closer. Much closer.
And then... I have one of those moments Einstein must have been referring to, years ago, when explaining the Theory of Relativity to people like me.
Time twisted. A second became a lifetime. A lifetime became a second.
Next thing I know I'm standing next to Maharaji.
I have no clue how I got there. Technically speaking, I walked, but not really. I didn't move an inch as far as I could tell. I was moved -- as if the entire restaurant had just been tilted in his direction... and I simply slid towards him.
Effortlessly.
Now next to him, before any other conversations in the room had a chance to begin, we continue the thread of what started as his humorous ice-breaker. I look at him and smile. He looks at me and says something about ADI, the new magazine he likes so much. I respond with news of my recent meetings with Ole, the editor. He says something else. So do I. Small talk, you could say, but for me it wasn't small at all.
It was huge.
Now everyone in the room is getting into the act. The guy at Table 12 (Trout Almondine and the broccoli soup) asks Maharaji about a new software program. The couple sipping champagne at Table 9 talks about music. Someone asks about this. Someone asks about that. And he is totally gracious and present with everyone -- as if each person speaking was the only one in the room.
Me? I'm just standing there next to him, soaking it all up.
And then, just before he continues on his way, he turns and, out of the blue, says something kind about my writing.
Then he pivots and is gone, schmoozing forward into the next room where more people who love him are waiting patiently. I follow behind, a self-appointed member of his entourage, but I know my moment with him is over. I have people to wait on, wine to pour.
And so I return to my station.
Everyone seems a bit different now than when they first came in. Lighter. More expansive. And no one is asking about food.
Of course, that moment passes, too. Soon someone is asking for more butter. Someone else complains about the bread.
The odd thing?
If you look at this story from the outside, it doesn't seem all that extraordinary. OK, so I fly to Australia, live in a tent, don't use my cell phone, and listen to Maharaji for five days. Then I dress up like a waiter, walk across the room, and have a seemingly mundane conversation with him.
"That's it?" one could easily conclude.
Ahhh... This is precisely where the great mystery kicks in, my friends -- the mystery of the off-the-grid relationship between Master and devotee.
It's never about the what. It's all about the who and how.
When you're in love it doesn't matter what's happening. Everything you do, everything you say, everything you don't do or don't say is infused with a feeling.
And that feeling is what it's all about.
My moving across the floor at Daya's Fine Dining took just a few seconds. My conversation with Maharaji took just a few minutes. But the feeling of it all will last a lifetime.
This is what Knowledge is all about. This is what we were born to experience: the timelessness of love. And it is available to each and every one of us every single second of our blessed lives.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
PS: This posting is actually one of two articles on this blog about being a waiter for Maharaji. To read the other one, click here. If either of these move you in the slightest way, please consider forwarding them to a friend or (ahem) a...relative.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 11:14 PM | Comments (1)
July 06, 2008So Far Beyond the Blues
OK. Here's the scene. It's December 3rd, five days before Maharaji's 50th birthday event in San Diego, when the phone rings in my kitchen. Its Kate, one of the program coordinators, wondering if I'm available to be the "back up MC."
"Back up, MC?" I ask. Kate laughs and deftly explains that Maharaji has already selected the MC for the event, but they always like to have a back up, "just in case."
"In case of what?" I'm thinking. "A heart attack?"
Two thoughts race through my mind. One is the wow-amazed-humbled-honored-what-a-beautiful-opportunity thought that spontaneously arises from deep within the heart of someone who loves Maharaji and wants to be of service in any way possible.
The other?
"Oops! Someone must have made a terrible mistake. I'm not exactly who you think I am. I'm in way over my head and will surely screw up Maharaji's event for thousands of people, proving, once and for all, that I am a complete idiot impostor.
I think you get the picture.
So there I am on the phone, metaphorically breaking out in hives and maintaining the last remnants of my rapidly disappearing persona, when Kate -- picking up on my obvious mini-meltdown -- goes on to tell me that there is very little chance that I will actually be needed as the back up.
"Hey, this could be the best of both worlds," I'm suddenly thinking to myself. "I'll get a great seat, feel extra good about myself for being chosen, and maybe even get to see Maharaji at the dress rehearsal.
"Sure," I say to Kate. "Count me in."
Kate thanks me and proceeds to tell me what Maharaj said he wanted from the MC at the event. It all makes sense.
I hang up and start floating around my house like some kind of astral bodied Marx Brother. I'm pumped. I'm psyched. I'm pooping in my pants.
The next day I get to thinking about what Kate said Maharaji wanted from the MC and suddenly, I get an inspiration.
"Hey!" I think to what's left of myself, "I could write a funny blues song, poking fun at premies! I can send it to Kate and she can give it to the real MC -- and he can decide if there are any good lines in it to include his opening remarks.
Service!
Cool! Whew! The pressure's off! I like creating new things -- especially blues songs I won't have to perform. The best of all worlds!
It's a work day for me and I only have 30 minutes to spare, so I write some lyrics on the fly. Done! I email them to Kate -- and just as quickly forget about them, getting back to the business of working.
A day goes by. Then the phone rings again. It's Kate.
"So...," she says, without much need for a segue to the second part of her sentence. "You're going to be performing your blues song at the San Diego event."
I heard what she said, but didn't quite understand it. Performing? Blues song? San Diego? Me? She says it again just for good measure and goes on to explain that, after reading the lyrics and laughing loudly, she showed them to someone on his way to Maharaji's residence who also found them funny, so she gave him a copy and he showed them to Maharaji who read them immediately, laughed, and said something like "Good! Let's have Mitch perform this song at the event."
I am stunned. Dazzled. Baffled. Befuddled. The weird thing? In times gone by, I've spent years working on a piece of writing for Maharaji and never heard boo in response. Now, after 30 minutes of parody blues writing, I'm getting an invitation to perform for him and 5,000 people at his birthday event. Huh?
"But Kate... I'm NOT a musician. I'm NOT a singer. I don't have a blues band."
Kate talks me down from the ledge -- explaining that I didn't really need to sing the song, I could talk it -- like the talking blues -- and I didn't need a band -- a blues guitarist was being located to accompany me.
In over my head, I am praying my heart will show up soon.
Kate assures me that everything is going to be fine and that, hey, my blues performance won't happen until the party which is going to be on the afternoon of the second day when everyone is going to be so blissed out that I could read the San Diego phone book and people would probably applaud.
The next two days go by very quickly. I seem to be working. I seem to be a husband. I seem to be a father. I seem to be packing. But I'm actually imagining myself performing a blues song in front of Maharaji and 5,000 people from all around the world. "Be here now?" Not exactly. It's more like "Be there then."
So there I am in my San Diego hotel room, the day before the day before the event, munching on chocolate covered almonds from the overpriced mini-bar, when the phone rings. It's Kate again, mumbling a few pleasantries before cutting to the chase.
"So... it looks like you're going to be the MC," she explains. "The MC couldn't make it. Something came up. Oh," she adds, "Maharaji wants you to start the event with the blues song!"
"Medic! Mommy! Man overboard!"
I didn't sleep too well that night -- sort of like a baby tuna flopping around the deck of a very expensive yacht.
The next day was rehearsal time in Kate's room. Picture it. Me, the non-black, non-musician, pinch hitting, balding Jewish guy getting in the groove with the recently drafted classical guitarist -- Manuel Iman.
Now, I don't know about you, but there's a moment in everyone's life when you are not only uptight, but everyone knows you are uptight and they don't want you to be uptight (because they love you or are depending on you to be cool for a particular purpose) and they approach you and start massaging your shoulders so you will be less uptight, but the very act of them approaching and massaging you is such a dead giveaway that you are hopelessly uptight that even if their massage was perfect, the fact that they've identified you as someone who needs a massage makes you even more uptight in a way that no massage could ever be enough to relax you.
That's the condition I was in, sad to say, during the first part of our rehearsal.
And so it goes...
"I woke up this morning,
I got off the plane,
I went to the airport,
My suitcase went to Spain."
OK. Fast forward. It's half an hour before the program is supposed to start. I'm looking snappier than usual in my dark blue Hugo Boss suit, suitably sitting in the front row, patiently waiting for my cue, when the Hanuman-like Scott Cronin brings the newly blues-riffing Manuel and I a rather large tuna on rye.
"Are you hungry?" he asks.
Yes, we are, not having eaten since 8:00 am, but since it's obviously not elegant to be eating a tuna sandwich in the front row just minutes before the program, Manuel suggests we slip behind the curtain and have our pre-program repast backstage. Voila! We open the curtain to find a place to munch and there, just 15 feet away, is Maharaji, casually talking to a few smiling premies.
Manuel and I become very still. Time stops. Space stops. My attempts to think of cool metaphors to describe the moment stops. We're in the eye of the storm. But there is no storm -- only the impossible-to-translate experience of standing in the effortless radiance of Maharaji.
And then he turns and looks at me.
"So, Mitch, how are you feeling? Are you ready to MC?"
"Maharaji, I'm feeling really good," I say. "Yes, I am ready to MC."
Whatever residual nervousness or self-consciousness may have been clinging to me evaporated in that moment.
The next thing I know, the program has started and I'm onstage singing the blues...
"I woke up this morning,
I got off the plane,
Went to the airport,
My suitcase went to Spain,
They told me not to worry,
They'd bring it to me soon
'Soon coming' is a phrase I've heard
that could mean the end of June.
I woke up this morning,
Maharaji on my mind,
With oh, so many premies,
Would I have to wait in line?
Would I find myself a good seat
Or be stuck in the mezzanine?
I've heard of getting high,
but that's not really what I mean.
Maharaji, you're almost 50
Not to mention timeless, too
Can you tell me where's the usher
Who can seat me next to you?
I woke up this morning,
I practiced for an hour,
Did all techniques in order,
Then took a nice, hot shower,
Watched the news and checked my email,
Then brushed my last three hairs,
But I couldn't find my Smart Card,
Couldn't find it anywhere.
Maharaji, you're almost 50,
And five decades are complete,
Can you tell me where's the usher
Who can help me find my seat?
I woke up this morning,
Went down to the lobby,
Saw all of my friends,
Billy, Joe, Pam and Bobby,
Billy weighed 500 pounds,
Bobby had "special needs,"
Pamela had a triple chin
And Joe... could barely breathe.
But hey, they ain't my problem,
Don't matter what they do,
I came to San Diego, boss,
Only to see you,
So I ran straight to the program,
Dashed across the street,
Focused only on your birthday
And a front row seat.
Maharaji, you da man,
You da Hanuman of Love,
You da best friend that I got,
You da mezzanine above,
You da reason we have come here,
You da universal glue,
Maharaji, happy birthday,
Maharaji, we love you!!!!
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 06:18 PM | Comments (3)
June 25, 2008I Want to Tell You About My Master
I want to tell you about my Master, the one who teaches from within, that like a heartbeat longing to be heard becomes the twin I never knew I had.
Him! That one! He is calling me, not with music, that would be too easy, but with laughter -- that's his choir!
I cannot describe this man, my words only exclude. Better simply to say, "The one I love," answer to a prayer much too subtle for anyone else to hear. Keeper of the flame, who I am, was, and will be when there's no one left to remember my name. Why you like candlelight, want a child, dream.
The one with no other master plan but love.
I have met this man, or should I say observed, struck dumb by his simplicity and the unspeakable glory of seeing what these eyes first opened for.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 10:27 PM | Comments (0)
June 21, 2008May I Stay Here Forever
May I stay here forever
in this perfect place of peace with you --
the sacred space between in breath and out,
the final coming home,
timeless moment before the need
for anything has risen,
Buddha enjoying his late afternoon nap
with no one around
to extract any meaning from it.
First, there is a breath,
and then, there is a second.
This is how I begin my
long walk with you by the water's edge,
cool white sand beneath both our feet.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 11:41 AM | Comments (0)
June 10, 200834 Reasons Why I Like Being with Maharaji
This past weekend I attended a two-day event with Maharaji at the Palace Theater in Albany, NY. As always, I enjoyed the experience immensely.
On the way home, I started thinking about why, specifically, I enjoy being with him as much as I do -- and how I might describe these benefits to others, especially those intrigued by Maharaji's message, but not totally sure if it's really for them.
Well... at the risk of trying to explain the unexplainable, here goes:
34 Reasons Why I Like Being with Maharaji
1. I breathe more deeply
2. It becomes very easy to savor every moment
3. I stop judging myself and everyone else
4. Time slows down
5. I listen from a still place inside me
6. I feel like I'm dancing when I walk -- or at least, gliding
7. I laugh uncontrollably
8. I cry tears of joy
9. I stop worrying
10. I like what I see when I look in the mirror
11. I have a lot more fun than usual
12. I experience timelessness
13. Everything seems perfect just the way it is
14. I let go of being self-conscious
15. I feel like I'm being massaged from the inside out
16. I move in tune with a hidden music
17. I see how peace is possible for the entire planet
18. I feel like he's talking just to me
19. I am grateful for everything
20. I want to serve
21. I feel whole and complete
22. I feel a vast spaciousness
23. I live in the present moment
24. Everything is profoundly simple
25. I rededicate myself to the practice of Knowledge
26. I stop trying to improve myself
27. I lose my need to gain anyone's approval
28. I am content
29. I come from my heart, not my head
30. Life feels like a party
31. I let things come to me -- and they do
32. I feel more authentic
33. I realize I have no problems
34. I feel like I'm totally home
PS: Feel free to add to this list by posting a comment -- your own "reasons" why it's good being with Maharaji.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 08:56 AM | Comments (8)
June 05, 2008How to Listen to the Master
First of all,
give up everything you know
about listening --
it has nothing to do with your ears.
That kind of listening
will only take you so far.
If you really want to hear,
you will need to leave your ears at the door
and while you're at it,
your head.
Then, take a seat,
breathe deep,
and become, if you can,
a flower opening to the sun.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 07:31 PM | Comments (0)
May 20, 2008The Joy of Heckling
If you talk to a thousand people who are (or have been) students of Maharaji, you will get a thousand different impressions of who he is and what he does. Your guess about the accuracy of their perceptions is as good as mine. But if you really want to know the answer, you will need to have your own experience, while being mindful of the words of Anais Nin, "We don't see things as they are, but as we are." Allow me to be more specific.
ACT 1
When Maharaji was 16, he married -- not to an Indian woman chosen by his parents, but to a 24 year old American stewardess. This troubled some of his devotees -- especially those who had chosen celibacy as part of their path to enlightenment. How could Maharaji get married, they reasoned. Marriage was so mundane... such a distraction... so unspiritual. And so, when Maharaji said "I do," a bunch of these folks said "I don't" and split the scene.
Other students of Maharaji had a different response. They thought his marriage was cool -- more proof that he was totally free of concepts -- a liberated move that only deepened their love and respect for him. His actions, they concluded, were a kind of divine permission to do the same. And so they did. Got married, that is.
Still others, with no absolutely no desire to stop practicing Knowledge or settle down with a soul mate, had yet a different response. They sent wedding presents. They sent gardenias. They sent roses and cards and effusive telegrams.
Me? I was happy for Maharaji, wondered what kind of gift I should buy, figured I couldn't afford it, and did nothing -- thinking my long distance thoughts would somehow be enough.
ACT ll (three years later)
As far back as I can recall, Maharaji used to conduct "instructor conferences" -- intensive retreats for handpicked groups of his students on how to best represent him in the world. Like many of his students, I wanted to be invited -- not only for the sheer joy of being with him, but for what I imagined was undeniable proof that I was "getting somewhere" with Knowledge.
Eight years passed. My love for Maharaji and Knowledge continued to blossom. Not once, however, was I invited to attend.
And then, out of the blue, one unofficial day -- VOILA! -- I got the word. "Get down to Miami, Mitch, you've been invited to an instructor conference... but not as a candidate -- as a guest."
A guest? Now I was really confused. I mean, Maharaji was inviting me, but he was also not inviting me. Huh?
I went.
For three days I sat in the back of a large conference room and watched Maharaji, like some kind of improv laughing Pied Piper Buddha, in perfectly creased pants, bring everyone to a place of exquisite attention, learning, and relaxation at the exact same time. A magician he was. A conductor of joy. A man on a mission.
And then, before I knew it, the conference was over. Or at least I thought it was over. It wasn't. There was one more thing still to come -- a "Celebration Dinner" (something I envisioned being a kind of modern day last supper.)
The first thing I noticed when I walked into the dining room were the champagne bottles -- one on each table. "This is gonna be interesting," I thought, amused by the fact that 98% of the people in the room were abiding by the "ashram diet" and hadn't had anything stronger to drink than a smoothie in the past few years.
Someone led me to my table. It was next to Maharaji's.
Feeling suddenly mid-western, I surveyed the room in a noble attempt to figure out what I was supposed to do -- how I should act. Clearly no one had a clue. Things were just happening. There were no reference points, no sign posts, no correct courses of action -- only the sound of corks popping and a palpable wave of joy.
Good guest that I was, I raised my glass and drank, occasionally sneaking glances at Maharaji like some kind of wide-eyed tourist.
The next thing I know, he's asking if anyone has a good joke. There's the usual self consciousness... the pregnant pause... then someone stands up, mounts the stage, and begins. The joke isn't funny, but it breaks the ice. In a flash, someone else mounts the stage, only this time the joke is a lot better and X-rated, to boot. I look at Maharaji to note his reaction. He is laughing. Of course he's laughing. The joke is funny! A third person gets up. Then a fourth -- each joke raunchier than the one before -- and everybody crazy with laughter.
At the telling of the fifth joke -- fueled by the champagne and three days of being with Maharaji, I shout out a heckle like some kind of wise guy from Brooklyn. Irreverent. Unrehearsed. And way funnier than the joke itself.
"Who said that?" Maharaji asks, looking in my direction.
"I did, Maharaji," I say.
Maharaji laughs and points at me, "One point for Ditkoff!"
Now here is where all logic breaks down... where what I am about to say may seem as strange as my son's fascination for Pokemon. I got completely ecstatic. In a blink of the eye, a major concept of mine had evaporated and I felt infinitely lighter. After years of trying oh so hard -- in oh so many futile ways -- to have my "special," timeless, sacred, holy, cosmic, blissful, meaningful moment with Maharaji, I finally have one -- and it's for heckling an aspiring yogi at a dirty joke contest.
Go figure.
ACT lll (18 years later)
Just six months ago, I read an account of this very same event by someone who was also there -- someone once very close to Maharaji. This particular fellow described the contest accurately. The only thing different, from my recollection, was the conclusion he drew. For him, the contest was inappropriate, off-putting, poorly timed, and in bad taste. For me, it was perfect, divine, liberating, and transcendental -- exactly what was needed for that particular group of people on that particular night, so focused on the "path" that they had forgotten to smell the roses... or accept themselves for simply being human.
Looking back, it's fair to say that I learned more in those few moments about life -- my life -- than I did from years of meditating and reading holy books. A Red Sea parted. For me, it parted. Not for that other guy. He had a different experience. He tells a different story now. Which, of course, is his right, but does not make him right. That's just one of the amazing things about this life. We all see it differently -- based on where we're coming from at any particular moment in time.
The benefit of having a living Master? He makes it infinitely easier to be coming from the place that recognizes how absolutely beautiful this life really is -- in all its profusion of forms. And I thank Maharaji, from the bottom of my heart, for all the extraordinary ways in which he is helping me realize this miraculous experience every single day of my life.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 07:09 PM | Comments (1)
April 27, 2008The Falcon and the Falconer
I am the falcon,
you are the falconer.
Always I am coming back to you,
my soaring skyward just a strategy
to gather speed for my ultimate return.
How you have trained me is a mystery --
the way you've tamed my restless heart.
It is not with fear. I do not fear you.
It is not with food.
There is prey enough for me
everywhere I fly.
It is more the way you offer me your arm,
a place to land, a second skin,
scented with the wild musk of one who waits for me,
what I would be if I would be a man.
It is a wonderful game the two of us play --
this coming and going,
this circular ballet.
Each time you loose the loops around my legs
and signal me to fly, I remember
what it is to rise for the first time.
It is here I find my rest, my home.
Untethered, still I do not move,
needing only to be close to you, my Falconer.
It is this that beats my wings, releases me to sky,
rides the unseen currents of the air
and though I notice other things:
the tops of trees, a cloud, a nimble rabbit on the ground,
all I see is you, holding out your arm to me,
even as a thousand other falcons overhead,
each within your view,
circle closer, spiral down, descend,
yet still I know that I am next
and this
is the perfect moment
of my return.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 07:54 PM | Comments (0)
April 11, 2008Just This Crazy Laughter
Now that you have ruined what I thought was my life,
what do you want me to do?
Sing your praises?
No can do, I'm mute.
Shout something timeless from the rooftops?
Sorry, I cannot move.
Write poetry? Impossible,
my hands are shaking and so is the ground.
Oh Friend,
it's clear my life is very different now
than what I thought it would be when first we met.
An ocean of unexpected tears I have become,
a fool,
a lunatic walking on moonlight,
singing, singing, singing.
This is not at all what I thought it would be
the first time I saw you.
It's a billion times better than that.
Even if my story could be told no one would believe me.
I have no proof,
not a single shred of evidence,
just this crazy laughter
and the kind of late night sighing that comes
when there is nothing left to say.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 07:55 PM | Comments (0)
