December 02, 2008
The Whisper

Just like water takes many forms, Maharaji delivers his message in many ways: videos, live presentations, webcasts, DVDs, CDs, websites, blogs, magazines, brochures, casual meetings, one-on-one conversations and... er... whispering.

Whispering?

Yes, indeed. Allow me to explain.

The year was 1980 something and Maharaji was giving a 3-day program at the Miami Beach Convention Center. My service, at the event, was to be a lobby usher -- a simple task requiring mostly common sense and knowing where the bathrooms were.

I was just exiting the ladies room (after restocking the paper towels) when Doug Bernard -- one of the event organizers -- approaches me with a sly smile on his face...

"Hey Mitch," Doug blurts, "Maharaji asked a few of us to come up with a list of possible speakers for tomorrow night's program and... uh... we put your name on the list."

I can see that Doug is talking, but I'm not really sure what he's saying.

Unphased by my lack of comprehension, Doug continues. "So...Maharaji picked your name."

Doug is obviously speaking Swahili. What he's saying makes absolutely no sense to me.

"I suggest," he says, "that you take a break from your service, return to wherever you're staying, and get a good night's sleep. You'll need to be in the Hall tomorrow at 8 am for a meeting with Maharaji."

Huh? What? Me? Speak?

Doug doesn't linger to explore my confusion. I'm left alone, like a weightless astronaut on the ceiling, thinking someone has just made a terrible mistake. Me speak in front of Maharaji and 10,000 people? You gotta be kidding. First off, I wasn't feeling particularly inspired at the moment. Neither was I feeling particularly clear, devoted, connected, coherent, fluent, confident, or anything else I imagined a person should feel before speaking at one of Maharaji's events.

It was a short ride back to where I was staying, but a long night. My attempts at practicing Knowledge were totally dwarfed by the recurring thought that not only was I the wrong man for the job, but I was less than 24 hours away from ruining Maharaji's event.

In the morning, my friends feed me breakfast and send me on my way.

I flash my pass at the security guy and am escorted backstage. Joan Apter and Charnanand -- the other two speakers -- are already there, looking very relaxed. We make some small talk, then Maharaji makes his entrance, smiling, buoyant, alive. He looks at us and asks how we're doing. Then he pulls out three vomit bags and hands one to each of us.

"Just in case," he says.

Call me Puke Skywalker. Not only does Maharaji's gesture break the ice, it completely diffuses my anxiety.

The rest of the day? A blur. Though I talk to a lot of people and do a lot of things, I can't relate. Every conversation I have, every thing I do is dwarfed by what I know will happen later that evening -- my walking the plank into a very large ocean.

Aye, matey! This was the high seize -- waves of love followed by waves of fear followed by waves of love followed by waves of my inner Woody Allen looking for a way out.

Now it's an hour before the program begins. There is no turning back. Joan, Charnanand, and I are ushered backstage to a waiting area where we're supposed to cool out. I see a chair. I sit. I breathe.

Two sound technicians walk by, looking purposeful. Two lighting guys adjust something. Then Doug appears, explaining I'll have 20 minutes to speak, but shouldn't worry about the time because someone will flash me a red light when my turn is up. I ask if Maharaji has mentioned anything about what the three of us should talk about.

Doug flashes me an enigmatic Zen smile and continues on his rounds.

"Oh, I get it. I'm the warm-up act. Yes, now I see... I'm supposed to kick things off... then charismatic Joan will take it from there... then Charnanand, the sage, will wrap things up. Makes perfect sense."

Doug signals Joan to stand and take the stage.

What? Joan's first? Wasn't I the warm up act?

With Joan now halfway through her satsang on the other side of the curtain, I close my eyes and turn within. The next thing I know, someone is whispering in my ear. It's Maharaji.

"Hey Mitch," he says, "Joan just used all your good lines."

Suddenly, I'm all ears.

Maharaji continues whispering.

"Remember, you don't need to talk about what's supposed to happen. All you need to talk about is what's already happened."

And with that he walks away.

I feel lighter now, as if some kind of psychic surgery has just taken place. In just three sentences, Maharaji has freed me of the concept I had to say something meaningful, ancient, deep, and holy tonight. What a relief! I didn't have to be an oracle. I didn't have to be a sage. I didn't have to be a spokesman for the Master. All I had to do was be myself and talk about what had already happened to me since receiving Knowledge.

The good stuff. The real stuff. The heart of the matter.

That's what Maharaji loves. That's what the 10,000 people in the hall love. And that's what the other six billion people on the planet love. Freedom. Real freedom. The genuine feeling of life.

Yes, I had my turn to speak that night. And yes, it was something I will cherish forever. But the real meaning for me, the real experience, was what Maharaji whispered in my ear.
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If YOU have a "Moment with Maharaji" story to share, click here. I'm not guaranteeing it will be published on this blog, but you'll never know unless you try.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 11:32 PM | Comments (0)

November 29, 2008
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

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Photo by Durango99

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 05:12 PM | Comments (0)

November 15, 2008
Golfing in Jaipur

Thanks, again, to Loring Baker for sharing his reflections from India...

Today I participated in the first Delhi TPRF Golf tournament. About 54 people played, including many young Indian Golf pros. I believe almost $100,000 was raised for TPRF. Major hats off to the people who organized the event, a simple example of focus + fun = more fun + fruit.

In a way it seemed surreal playing golf in India. But then I thought about it. Why does it seem surreal? It is just my idea about India. For the people who live there, playing golf is quite natural.

Hmmm... I wonder how much of my view of "reality" is defined by the limits I place on it.

For sure, my definitions have done quite a number on today -- creating a tired little box -- compared to what today was really all about. I guess that's why I came to India, in the first place, for this three-day visit with a demolition expert.

Does that sound terrifying? It's not. Actually, it's a great feeling to see where I'm really at and what I really have.

The walls of my house haven't been demolished. The big bay window has just been cleaned. Now the sun is shining in and once again I remember the door is wide open, there's no homework to do, and the playground awaits!

Whatever concepts we have about Maharaji, be they lofty or not, are probably surreal, but one thing is certain -- he has the power to help us see how full and free we really are.

Being with him, we only grow in gratitude and awe at what we really have.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:19 AM | Comments (0)

November 13, 2008
Waiting 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, 2008
Sweeping 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 23, 2008
The Ten Commandments for Visiting a New Age Ashram

During the past two decades, a curious phenomenon has swept this nation. Inspired by the teachings of several Master souls from the East, an unusually large number of ashrams and retreats have made their appearance on the scene -- spiritual centers designed to provide seekers of the truth with a focused environment in which to practice their particular spiritual path.

While most people who spend time in these places are extremely dedicated and sincere, there still remains a goodly number who, in their attempt to have "an experience," miss the point completely.

Seduced by the Western notion of cause and effect, they somehow think that spiritual attainment is related to the way they act -- as if God were some kind of transcultural Santa Claus looking for good little boys and girls to bring his shiny red fire trucks to.

Not surprisingly, the spirit of the law is all too often traded for the letter -- a letter that, no matter how many stamps are put on it, is continually returned for insufficient postage. Surrender is replaced by submission; patience by hesitation; and humility by timidity.

Alas, in the name of finding themselves, our God-seeking brothers and sisters have tended to lose the very thing that makes them truly human -- their individuality.

And so, with great respect to your personal God, your Guru, your Guru's Guru, and your favorite tax-deductible charity, I humbly offer you the following soul-saving tips should you decide to visit (or move into) the ashram or spiritual center of your choice. Take what you can, leave the rest, and remember -- it's not whether your shoes are on or off, but if your heart is open.

1. Do Not Change the Way You Walk
Most visitors to a spiritual retreat think they have to change the way they walk if they are truly going to have a meaningful experience. Somehow, they believe there is a direct correlation between the way they move their feet and the amount of "grace" or "blessings" about to enter their lives. The "spiritual walk," is actually a not-too-distant cousin of the "museum walk," the curious way a person slows down and shuffles knowingly, yet humbly, past a Monet (or is it a Manet?), silently getting the essence of the Masterpiece even as they move noddingly towards that incomprehensible cubist piece in the next room.

If you like, think of the spiritual walk as the complete opposite of the on-the-way-to-work-walk or the exiting-a-disco-in-New York walk. Simply put, the spiritual walk is a way of moving that practitioners believe will attract small deer from nearby forests -- deer that will literally walk right up to them and eat from their hand -- more proof to anyone in the general vicinity that they are, in fact, enlightened souls, humble devotees, children of God, or the so-far-unacknowledged successors to their guru's lineage.

Ideally, the spiritual walk should be taken in sandals, though Reeboks or Chinese slippers will do in a pinch. Cowboy boots are definitely out, as are galoshes, high heels, and Chuck Taylor Converse All-Stars.

2. Do Not, Under Any Circumstances, Succumb to the Spiritual Nod
Closely related to the spiritual walk, the spiritual nod is routinely practiced in retreats the world over. And while no one completely comprehends it's divine origins, many believe it began when a blissful brother simply forgot the name of his roommate on his way to the bathroom. Instead of issuing the familiar Sanskrit phrase of the week, our trend-setting friend simply tightened his lips, looked at the ground and... well... nodded. Now, every time you walk by someone at the ashram, you are half-expected to flash them the nod, the non-verbal equivalent of "Hi! I know you know, and you know I know, and you know that I know that you know, and in my knowing, I know that I know you know, and by so knowing, need not speak, since words are finite and cannot express the knowingness which the two of us (being one) share from such a knowful place. Know what I mean?"

3. Do Not Judge Anyone, Including Yourself
This is the hardest of all commandments to obey. Why? Because spiritual environments not only bring out the best in people, they also bring out the worst. And while the worst is often more difficult to detect than the bliss of people wanting you to notice how blissful they are, the higher you get, the easier it is to notice -- that is, if you are looking for it.

Of course, it would be very easy to spend your entire spiritualized retreat noticing all the subtle ego trips going on around you. Resist this temptation with all your might! Do not, I repeat, do not, focus on the stuff that would make good material for this article. You have no right. In fact, you have absolutely no idea why anyone is there, what their motivation is, or how they will learn the kinds of lessons you are absolutely sure they need to learn.

In reality, you are most likely seeing your own projections -- those disowned parts of your self that you've refused to acknowledge all these years: your spiritual groupie, your brownie point collector, your junkie for more experience, your suburban yogi , your guilty seeker of God, your con man, your eunuch, your resolution maker, your ass watcher, your closet fanatic, your glutton for humble pie, your too poetic definer of ecstasy, your flaming bullshit artist, your know-it-all, your have-it-all, your spring-headed bower towards anyone with more than two devotees.

All of them are you! Every single one of them! Don't judge them. Love them! Bring them tea! Rub their feet every chance you get!

4. Do Not Think That This Is the Only Place Where It Is Happening
Spiritual retreatants have a marked propensity to think that the grounds they inhabit are somehow more blessed than any place else on earth -- that they are privy to a special command performance by God, revealing himself in thousands of exotic ways for those lucky enough to be there, while thousands, nay millions, of George Bush-like souls are stumbling around in uncool places recently vacated by the Power of Life so a very cosmic thing can happen here and only here this weekend.

Life, in fact, is often perceived as so good in the "Center," that the rest of the world becomes eerily cast as the "booby prize." Indeed, to new age seekers, everything else is simply referred to as "the world," much like Manhattanites speak of New Jersey. In short, the new age retreat comes to represent all that is good -- about God, about the Guru, about life itself.

Somehow ("and I don't know how, but you could ask anyone who was there this weekend") flowers seem sweeter there, the moon seems fuller, the air seems cleaner. Even the bread tastes better. If you glimpse a shooting star at night, it's the "guru's grace." If you see a double rainbow, it's directly over the meditation hall.

I guess it's all in how you look at it. The same shooting star convincing you that your guru is, in fact, the Supreme Guru, was also seen by a plumber named Leroy who just happened to be drinking a beer in between innings of the Mets game. His conclusion? The Mets were gonna win 20 of the next 25 and bring the pennant home to Flushing!

What do the signs in the sky (or what we perceive as signs) really mean? Isn't the whole world our ashram? Isn't the real issue one of appreciating what is happening all around us? The flowers? The stars? The beggars asking for spare change? Flowers aren't any sweeter on retreat. It's our willingness to breathe deeply and enjoy them that's different. What's stopping us from being in this place right now? What's stopping us from realizing that the very ground beneath our feet is the promised land -- wherever we happen to be at the time.

5. Don't Put a Red Dot on Your Forehead If You Don't Want To
Unless you've been living in a trailer park your whole life, you probably already know what the red dot thing is all about. That's right. The third eye. The sixth chakra. High holiness. INDIA!! While sometimes mistaken for a beauty mark or a random bit of watermelon, the little red dot is actually a useful reminder to focus one's attention on the space between the eyebrows, which, for some people, is where God lives (or if not lives, at least vacations). Nothing wrong with that, now is there?

Still, you have to concede that the third eye isn't the only spot on the human body that's sacred. What about the earlobes? The belly button? The nipples? They come from God, too -- not too mention chakras #1 - 5 and the highly under-represented center of consciousness at the crown of the head. Sacred, every one of them!

Don't you think that, if the body is the temple of the soul, it follows that our entire physical structure is sacred? Shouldn't we be covered from head to toe with little red dots? And if so, why is it that we routinely quarantine people with measles -- the very people who have selflessly chosen to manifest disease just to remind us to honor our body's ultimate holiness?

6. Play With the Children
The only sentient beings free from the collective mentality of spiritual seekers are the children. Children visiting "holy places," in fact, behave the same way the world over no matter what adjectives their elders use for the unspeakable name of God. When they're hungry, they eat. When they're tired, they sleep. They cry when they want to, laugh for no reason, consume ice cream without guilt, and rarely wonder why your picture of the Master is bigger, newer, or better framed.

7. Fart At Your Own Risk
If you fart, and there's no one around to hear it at the ashram, did it happen? And if it did happen, does that mean you've been disrespectful? Is the resident Guru able to hear you? And if he or she is meditating, out of the country, or dead, is their guru or their guru's guru able to hear you? And if so, so what? Will you be reborn as a gerbil? Does the Guru fart? And if it's OK for him or her to pass wind, why not you?

OK, so it's their place and you're a guest. But after all, aren't we all guests here? Even the Guru? Who do they answer to? And if it's not the same one you're answering to, what the hell are you doing getting up at five in the morning and sitting in the lotus position?

Maybe the real question isn't whether or not it's permissible to fart on holy ground, but how you fart. For instance, if you're farting out of a blatant disregard for the Master's teachings or the sincerity of his or her followers, you might want to reconsider where you're coming from. However, if your farting is just a random release of gas, relax! Give yourself the benefit of the doubt. You see, a typical visit to a spiritual center quickens one's ability to "let go" -- so what you call "farting" may, in fact, be a timely sign of your evolving spiritual condition.

8. Do Not Think You Are Higher or Lower Than Anyone Else
One of the favorite pastimes of people visiting a spiritual retreat is comparing themselves to everyone else. "See the guy over there carrying firewood? He's a very old soul -- way older than me. Been on the path for years. And that dude laughing hysterically in the corner? That's Shiva. Oops, he can probably see through me, maybe I better walk around the other way."

Want to save yourself some time? Don't try to figure out how "on the path" anybody else is. It's impossible. Stare into the eyes all you want, watch for tell-tale signs of liberation, but when it comes right down to it, the only conclusion you'll reach will be your own -- one that may have absolutely nothing to do with the anything but your own projections.

Face it, how accurate is your assessment going to be when 99 percent of humanity couldn't tell that the carpenter from Galilee had something special going for him? Indeed, it's not at all unlikely that the beer-bellied, first-time visitor you met this morning at the ashram is, at this very moment, being treated like a spiritual mongoloid by everyone who meets him (repeatedly being asked if "this is your first time") when, in fact, the beer-bellied, first-time visitor is actually the reincarnation of Buddha.

9. Do Not Think That You Are Going to Get Something
Many people visit a a spiritual retreat because they want to get something. They want "clarity" or "contentment," "enlightenment" or "grace," "blessings" or "peace of mind." At the very least, they want their business to improve or their marriage to be saved. Alas, they miss the point completely: If you try to get, you will lose, left only with the sinking feeling of having just bought $300 worth of lottery tickets only to learn that some electrician from Staten Island just won the whole thing.

Look, it's really very simple. You don't go to a spiritual center (or a Big Time Teacher, for that matter) to get. You go to give, to let go -- to relax your grip on the very thing that's been separating you from getting all these years: Your grasping. Your fear. Your well-rehearsed strategy to realize God.

10. Do Not Feel Compelled to Change Your Name
OK, so your name is Joey. Ever since you were knee high to a can of Cheese Whiz, everyone called you Joey -- as in, "Hey, Joey, what's goin' down, bro'?" Yeah, you grew up in Brooklyn, cut school once a week, and dated a chick named Angela with very big boobs. Great. So, here you are at the ashram and ba-bing, you run smack into a bunch of dudes with names like Arjuna, Govinda, Namdev,Shanti, Krishna. "Hey," you think to yourself, "maybe they got something I don't."

Guess what? They do. They have spiritual names given to them by their Guru -- names that make their mothers somewhat close-lipped around the canasta table. And while these names are clearly given with a purpose, the fact of the matter is -- they are irrelevant. Do you think the people in India who have spiritual experiences get their names changed to Eddie, Gino, Stacey, or Shirley ?

Hey, what difference does it make? You are not your name -- even if your namesake was enlightened. It doesn't matter what they call you, when it's time to go, you're gone. The only name worth knowing at that time is God's name -- and that, my friend, no matter how many mantras you've memorized, can never be pronounced.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 05:57 PM | Comments (0)

October 16, 2008
The Best Archer in All of China

All of us try so hard to DO stuff, to ACCOMPLISH things, to leave our MARK. We sweat, we strain, we hustle -- all in an attempt to get a result we feel good about. That's all well and good, of course, but sometimes, in the act of accomplishing a goal, we lose touch with who we are. We forget that we are human beings not human doings. The following story, adapted from an old Zen tale, elaborates on this curious phenomenon.

Once upon a time there was a man named Wu Li, a most gifted archer. Time and again, Wu Li would enter archery tournaments and win. He won so often and so convincingly that word of his accomplishments soon spread throughout the land. By the time he was 22, Wu Li was known as the best archer in all of China.

One day, upon returning home from yet another victory, Wu Li found himself rushing through a marketplace and bumping into an old man carrying a basket of potatoes. Potatoes went flying everywhere and the old man fell to the ground with a thud.

"Old man!" shouted Wu Li, "Get out of my way! Don't you know who I am?"

The old man looked up, squinting.

"Oh yes. I know who you are," he replied. "You are Wu Li. Second best archer in all the land."

"Second best?" bellowed the gifted one. "Second? Not so! I am the best. There is no one in the world who can beat me."

The old man smiled as he stood, slowly gathering his potatoes. "Yes, you are great! But there is one even greater than you!"

"Greater than me?" replied Wu Li. "Impossible! No one has ever beaten me. No one can beat me. Who is this imposter? Where does he live?"

"Oh," the old man said slowly, as if entering a temple. "His name is Master Po. He lives many miles to the North -- high atop Mt. Fuji.

"Then I will challenge him!" the archer exclaimed. "And put an end to such nonsense."

Pushing his way past the old man, Wu Li stormed off.

For 60 days he travelled. Through underbrush and overgrowth. Through overbrush and undergrowth.

When he finally arrived at the foot of Mt. Fuji, the young archer could not believe his eyes. The mountain was sheer rock face, covered with ice, and pitched at a 90 degree angle straight to the top, hidden by clouds. A lesser man would have ended his journey then and there. But not Wu Li.

He climbed.

On the 8th day of his ascent, the young archer found himself at the top, seeing what appeared to be a little old man sitting on a blanket.

"Welcome wayfarer, I have been expecting you."

The young archer took a deep breath. "I... am... Wu Li... best archer in all the land and I... I challenge you!"

The old man smiled, bowed once, then looked to the sky. "Very well, as you are my guest, please go first."

Without a second's hesitation, Wu Li grabbed an arrow from his quiver, notched it on the string of his immense bow, closed an eye, tilted his head, looked up, drew the string back and with all of his might, let the arrow fly. As it neared the top of its flight, he pulled a second from the quiver and shot it high, halving the first in two and, in a rapid succession of ten, continued, each arrow splitting the one before it, arrow halves landing in a perfect circle around the seated master and making the ancient sound of "Hmm," upon entering the ground.

"Hmm," said Master Po. "Impressive. Most impressive. Now, I believe, it is my turn."

Reaching behind him (where there would have been a quiver if he had a quiver), he pulled what would have been an arrow (if he had an arrow), notched what would have been a string on what would have been a bow, closed one eye, pulled slowly back, paused for what seemed like eternity, and then -- in slow motion pantomime -- let go.

Smiling ever so slightly, he turned to the puzzled challenger.

"You, my friend," said Master Po, "have mastered the art of shooting with a bow and arrow. I, on the other hand, have mastered the art of shooting without a bow and arrow."

Excerpted from Awake at the Wheel.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 10:27 PM | Comments (0)

Selma Speaks

My mother, Sylvia, was a Jewish mother. She played canasta. She ate bagels. She got her hair done once a week. And, knock on wood and spit three times, she thought I could do no wrong.

That is, until my 24th year when I received Knowledge from that "boy Guru," Maharaji.

Bottom line, my mother had no way to relate to the whole thing. First of all, Maharaji wasn't Jewish. Second of all, he was from India. And third of all, see reasons #1 and #2.

Of course, my over-the-top proclamations about Knowledge and Maharaji's perfection didn't help matters in the least. Nor did my sudden habit of lighting incense in my parent's home.

It wasn't enough that my girlfriend wasn't Jewish (a shiksa!) -- now I had an Indian Guru.

As they say in the old country, "Oy Vey."

All of which led my mother, one fine Spring day, to forbid me -- for all time -- from ever speaking about the Guru in her home.

"No problem, ma," I replied, affecting my best suburban yogi's attempt at being non-attached. "Mum's the word."

Five years passed. I said nothing to her about Maharaji. And had no plans to.

Life was good. I was practicing Knowledge. I was happy. And my adolescent need to convince my parents of anything had vanished.

Then I got word that Maharaji was coming to Miami for a weekend event, one that I absolutely wanted to attend. This, I figured, my parents didn't really need to know, so I simply told them I was flying in to visit them that Sunday. I didn't want to push their buttons.

As usual, when the golden boy, Jewish prodigal son returns home, his parents invite their friends to celebrate the return. All the regulars were there: Blanche, Shirley, Ellie, Irving, Bert, Seymour, Solly, and some new friends of my folks I hadn't yet met.

Just having seen Maharaji, I was feeling especially alive and in the moment.

Taking a deep breath, I knocked on the door and let myself in, surveying the room and enjoying that sweet moment of arrival before the slightly deflating reality of visiting one's parents truly sinks in.

An elderly Jewish woman in the back of the room stood up and smiled at me -- someone I'd never met before.

"Oy gevalt, Mitchell," she said. "Wasn't Maharaji beautiful? I could have plotzed!" (I later found out this woman, Selma, had received Knowledge three years earlier).

I looked at my mother. My mother looked at me.

"Hey, Mom," I said, shrugging. "She's your friend. I didn't say a thing."

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 06:16 PM | Comments (4)

August 27, 2008
The Reward

Well... I just came back from visiting my 93-year old father in Florida. He's one tough man, but he's on his way out -- suffering these days from congestive heart failure, lymphoma cancer, loss of hearing, and increasing kidney problems. We were sitting in his living room, Beijing Olympics turned off, when he turns to me, his arms black, blue, and purple from all the blood tests and says...

"These days it's all about doctors and needles. Where is the reward?"

Father of two, grandfather of five, great grandfather of four, he could not -- at that moment -- find any redeeming grace in his life, any proof that his life was well-lived. He could not identify the "reward" for all his many heroic efforts.

Several times, over the years, I've done my best to bring this topic to the table, in words he might understand, with not a whole lot of success. Now, at the end of his days, we were both sitting there in the stillness, his question echoing in the room:
"Where is the reward?"

One thing I've learned is that answering this question is not easy. Words do not cut it. Nor do books, pep talks, poetry, or procrastination. The answer to my father's question needs to come from within. When I stop and reflect on my dad's question, the answer I get is that the reward people are seeking is the experience of LOVE and GRATITUDE in the present moment.

For some of us, "reward" has come to mean retirement or recognition or financial security or comfort or the promise of heaven. Um... I don't think so... and only have to look into the eyes of my dying father to know that for sure.

And so, dear friends known and unknown, I humbly invite you to reflect on my father's question today: "Where is the reward?"

If you are waiting for it to come, you may want to reconsider your approach. As far as I can tell, the reward is already here and always has been. Indeed, the ultimate reward is being able to recognize and appreciate that the reward we've been seeking is already here.

Each one of us already has it. The inheritance has already been given. No lawyers are needed to help us fill out papers. No notary public is needed to stamp them.

All we need to do is feel it and give thanks.

In terms of eternity, my dad is leaving just a second sooner than the rest of us. Each of us will get our chance. As the Buddha said, "All things made of component parts eventually return to the ONE" -- be it your business, your marriage, your house, or your body.

So, while we're here, let's do everything we can to enjoy that reward. This very moment.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 09:36 AM | Comments (0)

August 26, 2008
Keep It Simple!

"Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated." - Confucius

When I was in my 20s, I worked at the University of Virginia Medical Center. Initially, I was impressed when I heard the interns and residents spicing their diagnostic conversations with impressive sounding Latin words. It made me feel like I was in the presence of experts -- people in the know -- professionals to whom I could entrust my life should I ever get really sick.

In time, it became clear to me that the Latin name dropping routine was just a game -- a way that insecure medical students could instantly feel better about themselves, somehow justifying all those long nights of studying while, at the same time, raising their perceived value in the eyes of their overwhelmed patients.

It's not just medical students who are enamored of complexity. We all are. Somehow, in our over-caffeinated, multi-tracking, digitally-assisted life, we have come to equate complexity with wisdom.

Complexity is not wisdom. Complexity is complexity. Simplicity is where it's at.

All the savvy people I know have a knack for keeping things simple. They demystify. They speak in the language of the people. They cut to the chase in a way that cuts no one in the process.

My invitation to you today? Keep it simple -- no matter what path you're on. You will feel way better at the end of the day -- and so will all the people around you.

Want to know what Einstein, DaVinci, Tolstoy, and others had to say about the topic? Keep reading...

"Everything should be as simple as possible -- but no simpler." Albert Einstein

"Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication." Leonardo DaVinci

"Our life is frittered away by detail... Simplify, simplify, simplify!" Henry David Thoreau

"Simplicity is the final achievement. After one has played a vast quantity of notes and more notes, it is simplicity that emerges as the crowning reward of art." Fredrich Chopin

"There is no greatness where there is no simplicity." Leo Tolstoy

"Nothing is true, but that which is simple." Goethe

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 08:59 PM | Comments (0)

August 15, 2008
At the Threshold

A few years ago I found myself standing in my closet, madly searching for clean clothes in a last minute attempt to pack before yet another business trip, when I noticed my 4-year old son standing at the entrance. In one hand, he held a small blue wand, in the other -- a plastic bottle of soapy water. "Dada," he said, looking up at me, his eyes wide open, "do you have time to catch my bubbles?"

Time? It stopped. And so did I. At that moment, it suddenly made no difference whether or not I caught my plane -- I could barely catch my breath. The only thing that existed was him and that soulful look of longing in his eyes.

For the next ten minutes, all we did was play -- him blowing bubbles and laughing. Me catching and laughing, too. His need was completely satisfied. His need for connection. His need for love. His need for knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that absolutely everything was perfect just the way it was.

He is 13 now. His bubbles are digital. But his need is still the same. And so is mine -- and yours, I would venture to say. Scratch the surface of our differences, remove the cultural masks, and all of us -- regardless of age, religion, politics, gender, or astrological sign -- are seeking the same thing.

And this "thing" is a feeling -- a feeling of contentment, a feeling of peace, a feeling of deep freedom, fearlessness, and joy. Spiritual practitioners have been attempting to name this feeling for centuries, but ultimately it doesn't matter what it's called.

This sweetness is the place all journeys end. My son's took him across the living room to the threshold of a closet. Yours will take you other places. But no matter where it takes you, one thing is for sure -- what's moving you has moved millions of others since the beginning of time. Yours is an ancient quest. Primal. Tidal. Pure. As basic as breath itself.

For the moment, let's call this driving force "thirst" -- the innate quest each of us has for meaning, love, and fulfillment. Why poets wait beneath a moon for words. What dancers feel before they leap. Why birds fly halfway around the world to the place where they were born.

This thirst is not the same thing as "desire." Desire is wanting what you don't have. Thirst is wanting want you do. Desire assumes the emptiness you feel can be filled by getting -- as if the world was a giant puzzle and all you needed were the pieces. Thirst assumes nothing. It's all about being -- not getting or having.

The good news? You don't have to go to the Himalayas to find what you're looking for. You can start today, wherever you are. The pilgrimage you need to take is actually quite short -- merely the distance between your head and your heart. That's the so-called path.

Your guide on this journey? Thirst. All you need to do is feel it. And if you don't, then at least want to feel it. And if you still don't, then at least want to want to feel it.

Pretty simple, huh?

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 06:56 PM | Comments (1)

August 07, 2008
THE BEST INVITATION YOU'LL GET TODAY: Moments with Maharaji

If you've been reading this blog for a while, you've probably noticed that some of the postings describe memorable moments I've had with Maharaji over the years -- interactions that taught me something useful, fascinated me, or further connected me to the joy of life.

If you have received Knowledge, I'm guessing that you've had your own moments with him -- however subtle or dramatic they may have been.

Maybe you've shared these moments and maybe not. If not, I wouldn't be surprised. It's definitely a challenge telling these stories in a way that conveys the power of their meaning to others.

True. But there are moments that can be described -- remembrances that can provide others with a catalyst for exploring the sweetness of the relationship between Maharaji and those who love him.

And so... you are hereby unofficially invited to share one of your own moments with Maharaji for possible publication on this blog. Sound good?

If so, take a few minutes now to review the following guidelines.

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

1. Write in your own voice -- how you say things.

2. Write for a general audience -- not just people who have received Knowledge.

3. Stay away from words, phrases, or references that would make no sense to the general public.

4. Focus mainly on your story -- less so on your commentary about your story -- though it's fine to include reflections on what your moment with Maharaji meant to you.

5. 1500 word maximum.

6. Be careful not to preach, moralize, or proselytize. Let your story deliver the message.

7. Be conscious of your use of superlatives. Saying that your experience was "incredible" or "amazing" may mean something to you, but it won't necessarily mean anything to the reader. How was it incredible? How was it amazing?

8. Include enough details about the setting of your story to give it dimension. Remember, you're writing a story -- not a treatise, discourse, or sermon.

9. By submitting your story, you are granting me permission to publish it on this blog. If your story is selected for publication, I may end up editing it. If I do, I will send you the edited version for your approval.

Please forward this invitation to anyone you know who may want to submit a "Moments with Maharaji" story for publication on this blog.

Here are some examples of these kinds of stories already on the blog: here and here and there and over there... and this one, too.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 11:59 PM | Comments (0)

August 05, 2008
Three Questions

Some years ago I attended a 5-day conference, in Miami, with Maharaji and 50 other people.

On the first morning, during his opening remarks, Maharaji explained that he wanted everyone at the conference to feel absolutely free to ask their questions whenever they had one. Made perfect sense. After all, we were there to learn.

The first morning passed in a questionless mode for me. Everything Maharaji said was absolutely clear and I was content simply to sit, listen, and enjoy the feeling of being in the room with him.

The afternoon was a different story.

About an hour after lunch, Maharaji said something that baffled me. No kapish. I had a question. But I also had something else -- and that was the fear of asking.

One part of me -- the respectful part -- thought I'd be interrupting him if I raised my hand. Another part -- the educated part -- thought I should already know the answer. Yet another part (hey! how many parts did I have?) didn't want to be the focus of attention.

My right hand twitched, but hung at my side like a slacker. Then I remembered what Maharaji said the day before: "If you have a question, ask."

I raised my hand and asked.

"That's the stupidest thing I ever heard," he replied.

Ouch!

Now it was official. I was a fool, a moron, a complete idiot -- something I'd always suspected, but now had all the proof I needed.

I could feel myself shrinking, slinking back into my chair.

Maharaji answered my question, but I barely heard a word. My mind was out to lunch, but had no idea where the restaurant was. A hundred over-caffeinated PR guys inside me, hell bent on damage control, did their best to save the day, but their efforts were a joke.

I didn't sleep well that night.

The next morning I took my seat with an extra dose of humility and some last-minute effort to gracefully manage my emotional meltdown from the day before.

Thirty minutes into Maharaji's presentation, he said something that made only partial sense to me. I kind of understood it. I mean, I sort of got what he said, but not really.

I had a question.

No way was I going to ask it. No way was I going to reveal yet another questionable side of my questionable self -- not only to Maharaji, but to 50 of my peers, some of whom, I knew, already had their doubts about me.

But then I remembered what Maharaji had said on Day One. "If you have a question, ask."

I raised my hand.

"That," he replied, "is a really good question."

Hallelujah! I was back in the game -- now hanging ten in my semi-comfortable hotel chair, waiting for Maharaji's response to my now, officially-declared, good question.

I barely heard a word he said -- consumed, as I was, by his acknowledgment of my question being "good." I could see he was talking, but I was suddenly deaf. My mind, once more, was out to lunch. OK, maybe not lunch, but out for a meal. Like... maybe breakfast.. or a light snack.

Day Three came quickly.

I woke, took a shower, practiced Knowledge, drank coffee, ate a bagel, and took my seat.

The morning session was smooth as silk. Maharaji spoke, told some jokes, showed some slides -- me enjoying my new found status as a question-free human being.

The afternoon? Don't ask.

An hour into it, I felt an old familiar feeling coming over me. I wouldn't exactly call it cluelessness, but I was clearly in need of a clue.

I took a breath. I raised my hand. I asked.

Maharaji listened. Then he spoke. His response, this time, was neutral. My question wasn't good. My question wasn't stupid. It was just a question.

Three days. Three questions. Three different responses.

Looking back at this conference with Maharaji, the metaphor that comes to mind is one a friend shared with me some years ago.

"Imagine yourself," she said, "as a sword in a stone. It's stuck and won't come out. You pull to the left. You pull to the right. You pull to the left, again. Back and forth, back and forth you go between the extremes: good and bad, up and down, black and white, rich and poor, this and that. With each movement between the extremes, the sword gets looser and looser until it gets loose enough for you to pull from the stone. That's how it works some times -- all this going back and forth, until we're finally free!"

I'm glad I took Maharaji up on his word and asked my questions. In a curious way, I may have learned more from the act of asking than I did from the answers I received. That's one of the cool things about being in relationship with someone like Maharaji. Every interaction is amplified. Every conversation has the potential to reveal something extraordinary.

I'm glad I didn't play it safe with him. I'm glad I didn't hide behind my simulated mask of understanding. Yes, it's a risk to speak up. But a risk to what? Only that self-serving, legend-in-my-own-mind character more concerned with other's opinions of me than the experience of truth.

Did Maharaji know that the three different ways he answered my questions put me through some changes? I doubt it. But it doesn't really matter.

Maharaji is not a mind reader. He is not a psychic. He is not a therapist. He merely holds up a mirror. What we see -- and what we do after we see what we see -- is completely up to us.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 09:57 PM | Comments (2)

July 28, 2008
Draw a Breath, Not a Line

Throughout history, inner-directed people on the so-called "spiritual path", have had a tendency to perceive the world as "maya" -- the fancy sanskrit name for "illusion."

I used to feel this way a lot.

Back in the early days of my adolescent quest for meaning, I had a curious habit of drawing lines in the sand. On one side of the line was the "inner life" -- the place where God lived (or if not lived, at least vacationed). On the other side of the line was "the world." You know -- the laughable detritus of life on planet Earth: relationships, shopping malls, money, politics, ego, organized religion, high school geometry, taxes, Frosted Flakes, and anything I didn't understand, agree with, or like.

Somehow, it made me feel good to draw these lines -- not unlike the way Democrat and Republican spin doctors strut their stuff on CNN after each political debate.

Well... I would like to take this late night blogospheric moment to humbly apologize to all of those whose lives I somehow judged by my habitual line-drawing behavior.

I see things differently now -- kind of like that old Zen story...

Two young monks, one fine day, found themselves existentially arguing over whether it was the wind or the flag that was moving. Unable to agree, they sought the counsel of their teacher.

"Master, oh Master" they asked, "is it the wind or the flag that is moving?"

"Neither," the Master replied. "It's your mind that is moving."

And so, dear friend, if you find yourself judging anyone these days, including yourself, chill. It's a total waste of time to judge -- especially when you could be enjoying the very thing you were born for.

Draw a breath, not a line.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:22 AM | Comments (0)

July 26, 2008
The Reception

The year was 1986. Or maybe it was 1989. Or 1990. I really don't remember what year it was, but it doesn't matter in the least because my story has nothing to do with time.

Maharaji had just spoken to a few thousand people at a venue in Queens, NY. I was on my way out of the building when an old friend comes up to me and mentions there is going to be a small reception for Maharaji, immediately after the program, at the Carlyle Hotel in New York City.

In a heartbeat I'm out the door, zipping through traffic, and pulling up to the hotel entrance.

A smiling usher greets me in the lobby and points to the reception room on the second floor.

I bound the stairs three at a time and enter, fully expecting last minute preparations to be in full-frazzled swing. They're not. Maharaji is already there -- standing quietly in the middle of the room and talking to someone...

My first instinct is to rush across the room, go right up to him and say hello... or shake his hand... or thank him profusely... or offer an hors d'oeuvre... or ask if he needs help ... or volunteer for something... or remain inscrutably silent... or attempt to blend in like I'd been attending these kinds of gatherings with him for years.

At the same time, I want to respect his privacy and not hassle him in any way. (Ah.. the paradox of love!)

So I do what any good guest at an elegant reception in a fancy New York City hotel would do. I sidle up to the buffet.

By now, it's clear I don't know how to approach Maharaji, but I do know how to eat. And though I'm not all that hungry, eating, I reason, will give me something to do as I wait for my opening to get closer to him.

The crudite looks good, but too much like a picture from a magazine I wouldn't read in a dentist's office. And besides, carrots and celery are nowhere near my "celebration foods" -- the stuff I eat whenever I'm feeling really good.

Ah...look! Over there by the olives! Cashews! I love cashews! The perfect finger food! Nothing to drip on my shirt!

And so I grab a few and eat -- doing my best, at all times, to sense where Maharaji is in the room -- a curious kind of modern day yoga not yet featured in Time or Newsweek.

The cashews are good. Very good.

They are also, I discover, very salty. This is not good because my right hand -- the one I'd be using to shake Maharaji's should I ever get close enough -- was now completely greasy.

I pick up a napkin to wipe off the salt, but succeed only in further spreading the salt over both my hands. I think of going to the men's room to wash them off, but then I'd be leaving the room Maharaji is in and who knows how much longer he'd be there?

Trusting the moment, I quickly take my leave, wash both hands, and re-enter the room. Maharaji, I'm relieved to see, is still there, now talking to someone else.

And then... in a classic, pre-verbal, pure instinct, swallow-back-to-Capistrano mode, I find myself spontaneously migrating towards him, stopping only when I'm about an arm's length away.

He is talking about radio conversations he's had with Russian fighter pilots when piloting his plane.

I do my best to stand there without standing out.

He continues, making some kind of reference to the apocalypse, which triggers, for me, the following response:

"Maharaji, I've heard it said that the only thing that will remain after World War lll will be a McDonald's milkshake."

"No," he replies. "Cockroaches."

COMMENTARY:

There are many ways a person could interpret the preceding story.

One could easily conclude that what I experienced at the Hotel Carlyle reception with Maharaji was simply a function of my own mindset and mood that night -- the quirky way I see the world and the choices I make based on those perceptions.

Show three people a sharp knife and you'll get three different reactions. Someone's going to think of a stabbing... another, the number of carrots they can chop in three minutes... still a third, how much they could get for it on eBay.

"We don't see things as they are," said Anais Nin, "we see things as we are."

I'm guessing the other 75 guests at the reception told very different stories the next day -- none of which had anything to do with cashews, salt, or Russian fighter pilots.

"Motivation affects perception," explain the psychologists.

Still, I'd venture to say that everyone in the room that night, at the root of their own story, shared one thing in common.

And that was a feeling.

Not a thought, not a concept, not an opinion, projection, abstraction, comparison, analysis, or conclusion.

A feeling.

A feeling of love and freedom far beyond the specifics of what they experienced at the reception that night and how they told their stories the next day.

This feeling is why I was happy to be at the reception with Maharaji. And it's why I'd be happy to be in a desert with him. Or a bus station. Or a hallway. Or a field far away from here.

What Maharaji connects a person to is a place beyond the story of their life -- a place that cannot be found on a map.

A place that can only be found in the heart.

Intrigued? Click here or here or...hey...over here.

Not intrigued? Got other fish to fry? No problema. May you enjoy all the rest of your days no matter what you do. May you count your blessings. Then lose count. May you have the grace and the courage to let go of whatever is in your way -- and if you can't let it go, then at least kick it aside. If there's not enough love in your life, take a breath and look within. That's where you'll find it.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 10:54 AM | Comments (0)

July 23, 2008
The Ten Commandments for Visiting a New Age Ashram

During the past two decades, a curious phenomenon has swept this nation. Inspired by the teachings of several Master souls from the East, an unusually large number of ashrams and retreats have made their appearance on the scene -- spiritual centers designed to provide seekers of the truth with a focused environment in which to practice their particular spiritual path.

While most people who spend time in these places are extremely dedicated and sincere, there still remains a goodly number who, in their attempt to have "an experience," miss the point completely.

Seduced by the Western notion of cause and effect, they somehow think that spiritual attainment is related to the way they act -- as if God were some kind of transcultural Santa Claus looking for good little boys and girls to bring his shiny red fire trucks to.

Not surprisingly, the spirit of the law is all too often traded for the letter -- a letter that, no matter how many stamps are put on it, is continually returned for insufficient postage. Surrender is replaced by submission; patience by hesitation; and humility by timidity.

Alas, in the name of finding themselves, our God-seeking brothers and sisters have tended to lose the very thing that makes them truly human -- their individuality.

And so, with great respect to your personal God, your Guru, your Guru's Guru, and your favorite tax-deductible charity, I humbly offer you the following soul-saving tips should you decide to visit (or move into) the ashram or spiritual center of your choice. Take what you can, leave the rest, and remember -- it's not whether your shoes are on or off, but if your heart is open.

1. Do Not Change the Way You Walk
Most visitors to a spiritual retreat think they have to change the way they walk if they are truly going to have a meaningful experience. Somehow, they believe there is a direct correlation between the way they move their feet and the amount of "grace" or "blessings" about to enter their lives. The "spiritual walk," is actually a not-too-distant cousin of the "museum walk," the curious way a person slows down and shuffles knowingly, yet humbly, past a Monet (or is it a Manet?), silently getting the essence of the Masterpiece even as they move noddingly towards that incomprehensible cubist piece in the next room.

If you like, think of the spiritual walk as the complete opposite of the on-the-way-to-work-walk or the exiting-a-disco-in-New York walk. Simply put, the spiritual walk is a way of moving that practitioners believe will attract small deer from nearby forests -- deer that will literally walk right up to them and eat from their hand -- more proof to anyone in the general vicinity that they are, in fact, enlightened souls, humble devotees, children of God, or the so-far-unacknowledged successors to their guru's lineage.

Ideally, the spiritual walk should be taken in sandals, though Reeboks or Chinese slippers will do in a pinch. Cowboy boots are definitely out, as are galoshes, high heels, and Chuck Taylor Converse All-Stars.

2. Do Not, Under Any Circumstances, Succumb to the Spiritual Nod
Closely related to the spiritual walk, the spiritual nod is routinely practiced in retreats the world over. And while no one completely comprehends it's divine origins, many believe it began when a blissful brother simply forgot the name of his roommate on his way to the bathroom. Instead of issuing the familiar Sanskrit phrase of the week, our trend-setting friend simply tightened his lips, looked at the ground and... well... nodded. Now, every time you walk by someone at the ashram, you are half-expected to flash them the nod, the non-verbal equivalent of "Hi! I know you know, and you know I know, and you know that I know that you know, and in my knowing, I know that I know you know, and by so knowing, need not speak, since words are finite and cannot express the knowingness which the two of us (being one) share from such a knowful place. Know what I mean?"

3. Do Not Judge Anyone, Including Yourself
This is the hardest of all commandments to obey. Why? Because spiritual environments not only bring out the best in people, they also bring out the worst. And while the worst is often more difficult to detect than the bliss of people wanting you to notice how blissful they are, the higher you get, the easier it is to notice -- that is, if you are looking for it.

Of course, it would be very easy to spend your entire spiritualized retreat noticing all the subtle ego trips going on around you. Resist this temptation with all your might! Do not, I repeat, do not, focus on the stuff that would make good material for this article. You have no right. In fact, you have absolutely no idea why anyone is there, what their motivation is, or how they will learn the kinds of lessons you are absolutely sure they need to learn.

In reality, you are most likely seeing your own projections -- those disowned parts of your self that you've refused to acknowledge all these years: your spiritual groupie, your brownie point collector, your junkie for more experience, your suburban yogi , your guilty seeker of God, your con man, your eunuch, your resolution maker, your ass watcher, your closet fanatic, your glutton for humble pie, your too poetic definer of ecstasy, your flaming bullshit artist, your know-it-all, your have-it-all, your spring-headed bower towards anyone with more than two devotees.

All of them are you! Every single one of them! Don't judge them. Love them! Bring them tea! Rub their feet every chance you get!

4. Do Not Think That This Is the Only Place Where It Is Happening
Spiritual retreatants have a marked propensity to think that the grounds they inhabit are somehow more blessed than any place else on earth -- that they are privy to a special command performance by God, revealing himself in thousands of exotic ways for those lucky enough to be there, while thousands, nay millions, of George Bush-like souls are stumbling around in uncool places recently vacated by the Power of Life so a very cosmic thing can happen here and only here this weekend.

Life, in fact, is often perceived as so good in the "Center," that the rest of the world becomes eerily cast as the "booby prize." Indeed, to new age seekers, everything else is simply referred to as "the world," much like Manhattanites speak of New Jersey. In short, the new age retreat comes to represent all that is good -- about God, about the Guru, about life itself.

Somehow ("and I don't know how, but you could ask anyone who was there this weekend") flowers seem sweeter there, the moon seems fuller, the air seems cleaner. Even the bread tastes better. If you glimpse a shooting star at night, it's the "guru's grace." If you see a double rainbow, it's directly over the meditation hall.

I guess it's all in how you look at it. The same shooting star convincing you that your guru is, in fact, the Supreme Guru, was also seen by a plumber named Leroy who just happened to be drinking a beer in between innings of the Mets game. His conclusion? The Mets were gonna win 20 of the next 25 and bring the pennant home to Flushing!

What do the signs in the sky (or what we perceive as signs) really mean? Isn't the whole world our ashram? Isn't the real issue one of appreciating what is happening all around us? The flowers? The stars? The beggars asking for spare change? Flowers aren't any sweeter on retreat. It's our willingness to breathe deeply and enjoy them that's different. What's stopping us from being in this place right now? What's stopping us from realizing that the very ground beneath our feet is the promised land -- wherever we happen to be at the time.

5. Don't Put a Red Dot on Your Forehead If You Don't Want To
Unless you've been living in a trailer park your whole life, you probably already know what the red dot thing is all about. That's right. The third eye. The sixth chakra. High holiness. INDIA!! While sometimes mistaken for a beauty mark or a random bit of watermelon, the little red dot is actually a useful reminder to focus one's attention on the space between the eyebrows, which, for some people, is where God lives (or if not lives, at least vacations). Nothing wrong with that, now is there?

Still, you have to concede that the third eye isn't the only spot on the human body that's sacred. What about the earlobes? The belly button? The nipples? They come from God, too -- not too mention chakras #1 - 5 and the highly under-represented center of consciousness at the crown of the head. Sacred, every one of them!

Don't you think that, if the body is the temple of the soul, it follows that our entire physical structure is sacred? Shouldn't we be covered from head to toe with little red dots? And if so, why is it that we routinely quarantine people with measles -- the very people who have selflessly chosen to manifest disease just to remind us to honor our body's ultimate holiness?

6. Play With the Children
The only sentient beings free from the collective mentality of spiritual seekers are the children. Children visiting "holy places," in fact, behave the same way the world over no matter what adjectives their elders use for the unspeakable name of God. When they're hungry, they eat. When they're tired, they sleep. They cry when they want to, laugh for no reason, consume ice cream without guilt, and rarely wonder why your picture of the Master is bigger, newer, or better framed.

7. Fart At Your Own Risk
If you fart, and there's no one around to hear it at the ashram, did it happen? And if it did happen, does that mean you've been disrespectful? Is the resident Guru able to hear you? And if he or she is meditating, out of the country, or dead, is their guru or their guru's guru able to hear you? And if so, so what? Will you be reborn as a gerbil? Does the Guru fart? And if it's OK for him or her to pass wind, why not you?

OK, so it's their place and you're a guest. But after all, aren't we all guests here? Even the Guru? Who do they answer to? And if it's not the same one you're answering to, what the hell are you doing getting up at five in the morning and sitting in the lotus position?

Maybe the real question isn't whether or not it's permissible to fart on holy ground, but how you fart. For instance, if you're farting out of a blatant disregard for the Master's teachings or the sincerity of his or her followers, you might want to reconsider where you're coming from. However, if your farting is just a random release of gas, relax! Give yourself the benefit of the doubt. You see, a typical visit to a spiritual center quickens one's ability to "let go" -- so what you call "farting" may, in fact, be a timely sign of your evolving spiritual condition.

8. Do Not Think You Are Higher or Lower Than Anyone Else
One of the favorite pastimes of people visiting a spiritual retreat is comparing themselves to everyone else. "See the guy over there carrying firewood? He's a very old soul -- way older than me. Been on the path for years. And that dude laughing hysterically in the corner? That's Shiva. Oops, he can probably see through me, maybe I better walk around the other way."

Want to save yourself some time? Don't try to figure out how "on the path" anybody else is. It's impossible. Stare into the eyes all you want, watch for tell-tale signs of liberation, but when it comes right down to it, the only conclusion you'll reach will be your own -- one that may have absolutely nothing to do with the anything but your own projections.

Face it, how accurate is your assessment going to be when 99 percent of humanity couldn't tell that the carpenter from Galilee had something special going for him? Indeed, it's not at all unlikely that the beer-bellied, first-time visitor you met this morning at the ashram is, at this very moment, being treated like a spiritual mongoloid by everyone who meets him (repeatedly being asked if "this is your first time") when, in fact, the beer-bellied, first-time visitor is actually the reincarnation of Buddha.

9. Do Not Think That You Are Going to Get Something
Many people visit a a spiritual retreat because they want to get something. They want "clarity" or "contentment," "enlightenment" or "grace," "blessings" or "peace of mind." At the very least, they want their business to improve or their marriage to be saved. Alas, they miss the point completely: If you try to get, you will lose, left only with the sinking feeling of having just bought $300 worth of lottery tickets only to learn that some electrician from Staten Island just won the whole thing.

Look, it's really very simple. You don't go to a spiritual center (or a Big Time Teacher, for that matter) to get. You go to give, to let go -- to relax your grip on the very thing that's been separating you from getting all these years: Your grasping. Your fear. Your well-rehearsed strategy to realize God.

10. Do Not Feel Compelled to Change Your Name
OK, so your name is Joey. Ever since you were knee high to a can of Cheese Whiz, everyone called you Joey -- as in, "Hey, Joey, what's goin' down, bro'?" Yeah, you grew up in Brooklyn, cut school once a week, and dated a chick named Angela with very big boobs. Great. So, here you are at the ashram and ba-bing, you run smack into a bunch of dudes with names like Arjuna, Govinda, Namdev,Shanti, Krishna. "Hey," you think to yourself, "maybe they got something I don't."

Guess what? They do. They have spiritual names given to them by their Guru -- names that make their mothers somewhat close-lipped around the canasta table. And while these names are clearly given with a purpose, the fact of the matter is -- they are irrelevant. Do you think the people in India who have spiritual experiences get their names changed to Eddie, Gino, Stacey, or Shirley ?

Hey, what difference does it make? You are not your name -- even if your namesake was enlightened. It doesn't matter what they call you, when it's time to go, you're gone. The only name worth knowing at that time is God's name -- and that, my friend, no matter how many mantras you've memorized, can never be pronounced.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:32 AM | Comments (4)

July 11, 2008
WAITING 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 08, 2008
Looking for the Real

See that guy to your left?

Looks a little intense, eh? Must be on some kind of spiritual trip. Or maybe he's just protein deficient. I'm guessing he's into Eastern things. Probably reads the Bhagavad-Gita and doesn't make enough to pay taxes. Maybe he lives in a tent. Fruitarian? Macrobiotic? I really don't know for sure.

Wait a minute! That's me! 36 years ago. (Now you know why my parents were so freaked out when I was in my 20's.)

After all, I was their golden boy, the carrier of the family name, the hope for the future. According to everyone, I was supposed to be a doctor, a lawyer, a dentist. Maybe even a rabbi.

I coulda been a contender.

What happened? Why the long hair, the sallow cheeks, the penetrating I-can-outstare-anyone look?

Growing up in the suburbs of New York, you'd never think I would have gone off what some people referred to as the "deep end."

After all, I had it good. I had my own room, my own TV, a good looking girlfriend, a dog, excellent grades, played varsity basketball, and went to summer camp. And though my father, unlike Buddha's, was not the King, he had enough money to send me to a fine college -- where I majored in English and existential despair.

No matter. Still, I graduated with honors and went on to graduate school. Not in medicine, law, teeth, or the Talmud -- but poetry.

So there I was, in some fancy-schmancy Ivy League grad school -- hair and shadow growing longer by the day, when I get this invitation to an ultra hip, faculty-student party -- the kind where everyone is either drunk or stoned. Or both.

Feeling especially bold that night, I approached each of my professors and asked a simple question: "If you could be anywhere on Earth, at this precise moment, where would it be?"

Each of them, glad for the audience, began waxing poetic on their favorite place -- the nearest of which was 2,000 miles away.

Doh! No one wanted to be where they were! Everyone wanted to be somewhere else!

And me, the wise-ass, longhair, full of poetic-potential, Vietnam-phobic, draft-deferred 22-year old enduring Beowulf, Wallace Stevens, and iambic pentameter homework assignments was aspiring to be one of them?

I saw the future and it wasn't pretty.

I'd be 45, bearded, smoking a pipe, sitting in this same room being asked by my much younger alter ego where I wanted to be at that moment in time and it was going to be some place very far away.

Ouch!

Enough said. I decided to quit.

Thus began a series of adventures and accompanying odd jobs "beneath my station" that left my mother somewhat speechless around the canasta table -- dish washer, waiter, cook, hotel desk clerk, house painter, day care teacher, and food stamp collector.

Thirsty for less, I moved to an island in the ocean -- a pristine place where I could really get away from it all.

And so I did.

I grew vegetables. I grew a beard. I grew further disillusioned with "the world." I fasted. I chanted. I prayed. I read the Gita, the Tao Te Ching, the Upanishads, the Dhammapada, the Aquarian Gospel, the Zen Teachings of Huang Po, the Old Testament, the collected writings of Chuang Tzu, Meher Baba's discourses, the Life of Milarepa, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, and anything else that addressed what life was all about.

I was living in paradise, but I wasn't happy. Not even close. To the casual observer, I had it all -- the house in the country, the girlfriend, the dog, the friends, the fresh baked bread, the mellow job on a 200 acre farm, but it wasn't enough.

I plastered my house with pictures of all the enlightened beings I could find -- Buddha, Jesus, Krishna, Shiva, and Meher Baba. I prayed to them all.

And then I got the letter -- the letter from my best friend, Ed.

Ed was the real deal -- a practicing Zen Buddhist, a calligrapher -- a kind of spiritual big brother to me. Five years older (and maybe several lifetimes, too), Ed was deep, soulful, authentic, and cool.

He was also a minimalist. Preferred one flower in a vase, to many. Was a man of few words. Had a huge BS detector and always had a twinkle in his eye. A full tilt individual, he was not the easily influenced kind. Nor was he a joiner of anything that smacked of group think.

I trusted him.

Which is why I was so intrigued to get a letter from him one fine Summer day. Ed, the man of few words, had a lot to say in this missive. Apparently, since the last time I'd seen him, he'd "received Knowledge" from a 13 year old "boy Guru" from India -- someone named Maharaji.

Hmmm...

The first thing I did, after reading the letter, was stuff it in a drawer. Something in me knew the jig was up -- that all my seeking was about to come to an end. But I didn't want to give it up. I liked seeking. Seeking was cool. Seeking was exciting. Seeking was spiritual... familiar.. and a proven way to pick up chicks. Seeking gave me an identity -- the seeker.

Finding, on the other hand, was... well... confronting.

Flash back to high school: Seeking is to dating as finding is to... um... er... uh... marriage!

MARRIAGE! Help! Who, in their right mind, wanted to get married? Certainly, not me. Marriage was so... so... final... so entrapping... so end of the line.

And so I procrastinated as best I could.

I knew, in my gut, that Ed's letter was a direct response to a deep prayer within me, but the immediacy of it all made me anxious -- like when a really good teacher called me to the front of the room and asked questions I didn't know the answers to.

But Ed was relentless. He was not about to concede to my procrastination. Two weeks later he called me, inviting me to visit for the weekend.

I went.

The first thing I noticed in Ed's apartment was a framed picture of Maharaji. I found it odd -- especially since my image of "The Guru" was very different than the one in Ed's frame. Where were the sallow cheeks? Where was the long white hair? The robes? The ancient look in the deep-set eyes as if to say: "Come my son, I know you have waited lifetimes for me to incarnate, and here I am -- crossing the universe to come for one of my favorite (and most humble) disciples of all time."

In reality, the picture of Maharaji in Ed's apartment looked more like a second string fullback for a little known high school in New Jersey. "That's the Guru?" I thought to myself. "That's the guy who's created such a stir?"

It made no sense.

Ed, God bless him, didn't care in the least. He just kept on talking and laughing and smiling. When we went for a walk, I couldn't keep up with him. He was a ball of fire -- radiant, glowing, buoyant, alive. Gone was the Zen minimalist shtick. Gone was the dude who mindfully chewed his rice 100 times before swallowing. In its place? Radiant, child-like wonder. Fun. Mojo. Elan. And something neither of us had talked about in any of our esoteric conversations -- happiness.

When I returned to my home on the island, I had a lot to think about.

Could it be? Could this young boy from India be the ONE (at least for me, that is)? Could all of my chanting and praying and fasting and yoga and reading and attempts to meditate have invoked this moment in time? Was Maharaji's appearance on the scene in direct response to my inner calling?

I didn't have to wait long for the answer.

Two weeks later Ed called to tell me that one of Maharaji's emissaries was going to be in Boston and that, if I wanted to receive Knowledge, I should come. The cost? Nothing. Zero. Nada. Zilch. Ed explained there was no charge because what I was about to receive I already had.

Sounded good to me.

I went. I asked. I received.

It was, looking back, the most extraordinary experience of my life. Like coming home. Like waking up. Like discovering I was made of pure love. Everything became so simple, so perfect, so full of essence, energy, and peace.

I could have pulled Redwood trees from the ground.

These, of course, are only words. If you ask a hundred different people who have received Knowledge (and practiced it), you'll probably hear a hundred different descriptions. But all of them will be spoken with the kind of feeling that will catch your attention.

What I'm trying to stay is this:

What you are looking for is within you.

Your thirst to experience this will guide you on your way.

What you will get guided to will be a direct response to your thirst.

You will need to trust your thirst and that which it guides you to (even if I'm not supposed to end this sentence with a preposition.)

For me, this thirst led me to Maharaji and his gift of Knowledge. His invitation is the same now as it was 37 years ago. He's still here. And so are you.

Now that you know, what do you want to do? It's your move.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 01:01 AM | Comments (5)

July 06, 2008
So 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 28, 2008
A Stroke of Insight

This 20 minute video is extraordinary. It's the story of a brain scientist, Jill Bolte Taylor, who had a severe stroke and, in the process, experienced the true essence of who she was. She makes a compelling case for the choice we all have -- separateness or unity, struggle or peace. Well worth watching. In the words of an old song whose name escapes me at the moment, "You are not your body, you are not your mind..."

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 02:46 AM | Comments (1)

June 18, 2008
PASSAGES: A Video Retrospective of Maharaji's Message

Billy Fairchild just sent me this link to a fabulous series of eight online videos (repackaged for the internet from the original PASSAGES video produced by Kate McGowan and John McNelly in 2001