Articles

1. Paradise is Right Here
2. Angel Breath
3. Living in the Paradox
4. Dog Darshan
5. The Naked Monk
6. Override Switch for the Mind
7. Mind-Created Suffering
8. Dancing Between Life and Death

Paradise is Right Here

Ram Dass once said, “If you want to know whether you’re enlightened or not, go
visit your family for a week. They’ll let you know very quickly.” (Ram Dass could have
added, “You’ll also know that you’re enlightened when you don’t feel you have to visit your family for a week”). Family visits are a test I’ve tried again and again and always fail. I end up like the Peanuts cartoon where Peanuts kicks the football for the umpteenth time and Lucy pulls it away at the last moment.

I have another litmus test for enlightenment, and that is to visit a local Walmart
store. Just like my family visits, I inevitably end up judging everyone and dying to get
out of there. Of course, I’ve yet to see a spiritual teacher master the Walmart store test—when is the last time you saw a guru shopping in Walmart? Anyway, on a cloudy spring afternoon I decide to give it another try.

After spending ten frustrating minutes driving around the huge Walmart parking
lot looking for a space, I know things are not boding well. I finally find a spot at the
outer edge of the lot. Already behind schedule, I walk purposefully down the endless
row of cars I fall in behind a family of three, walking along at a snail’s pace. There is a skinny older woman–who must be grandma–in a dirty green parka, with a kerchief around her permed hair and a cigarette dangling from her lips. Next to her is what looks to be her daughter, probably in her twenties. She’s hugely overweight and is wearing tight stretch pants. Walking next to her is her six-year-old son, hitting her on the leg yelling, “I want that video game! You promised! Gimme!” She ignores him, pretending not to listen. He keeps yelling. I repeat a mantra of forgiveness under my breath for all the nasty thoughts I’m having. I’m already in a bad mood and I haven’t made it to the front door.

The electronic door slides open and a blast of cold air hits my face as I step inside.
People are lined up at the return counter to my left; shopping carts are stacked a hundred deep on my right. I give a friendly smile to the Walmart greeter, knowing that someday this could be my job. I grab a cart and head down the main aisle past women’s clothing, groceries and stationery before turning left into a maze of side aisles. I walk down them, my empty cart in front of me, overwhelmed by the profusion of choices (just why do we need fifteen brands of laundry soap?). I finally reach the automotive section at the back of the store and find what I am looking for—black rubber floor mats for my car (cost: $9.88). The smell of the rubber is nauseating, but I throw them in the cart anyway. Of course, I can’t stop there. Since I’ve gotten this far, there must be something else I need to get. I find a value pack of 24 toilet paper rolls, a ten-pound box of Tide laundry detergent, and some plastic storage boxes, none of which I really need. With my chemical sensitivity, it doesn’t take long for the formaldehyde-laced products to trigger my chemical sensitivity. I start feelin dizzy and irritable. Soon I’m so disoriented I can’t tell which direction the exit is in.

As I wander down the shoe aisle (Men’s Workhorse Steel Toe Boots: $49.89) looking lost, I hear a deep baritone voice behind me saying, “Can I help you?” I turn to see a salesperson in his blue and red Walmart vest. He is a large man with a warm smile and kind eyes.

“Can you tell me where the exit is?”

He chuckles, “You lost?”

“Just confused,” I laugh.

“It’s a big place,” he says, clearly sensing that I don’t quite fit in here.

“Yeah.”

Behind our innocent exchange of words something else is happening. For no apparent reason, a profound sense of recognition passes between us, as if he knows—and I know—that we are both one and the same. My God, we really are brothers!

“It’s over there,” he says, pointing towards the far corner of the store.

“Thanks.”

“You have a great day now,” he says with a wink.

“You too,” I smile.

We both wave to each other as we turn and walk away. My mood has completely
changed. I feel blissfully happy.

I make my way to the cash register, my cart now full.

Standing in front of me in the checkout line is the family I saw in the parking lot.
The boy seems happy now, immersed in his video game, his thumbs masterfully pushing
buttons to kill enemy soldiers. The grandmother is keeping a close eye on the clerk as she scans each item. The mother is staring off into space—enjoying what I imagine to be a brief lull in her dreary life of cooking, looking after kids, and surviving from one day to the next. Suddenly my heart fills with compassion for her. Such a difficult life—she is doing the very best she can.

Perhaps sensing my gaze, she turns around. I give her a warm, knowing smile. She smiles back. All sense of separation falls away. In this moment there is nothing but grace, beauty, and love.

Even in Walmart, paradise is right here.

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Angel Breath

I take up my new role as gentleman farmer with enthusiasm. Having grown up a city-boy, at first I can barely tell one end of an animal from another. I feel just like Snoopy in my favorite Peanuts cartoon. Snoopy is out in the desert, leaning on a boulder with his fedora on, writing a letter: Gentlemen. I have decided to become a shepherd. Please send me a dozen sheep and a book of directions.

So I acquire a dozen sheep, two goats, two cows, and some chickens—a few more and I would have had enough for an ark. Before long I’m knee deep in the nitty-gritty of farming, giving the sheep their shots, trimming their hooves, docking their tails, castrating the males, mucking out the barn. If, at the end of each day, I haven’t gotten poop, urine, or blood on my hands, I feel disappointed (the blood is usually my own). After a few months I’ve helped in the birthing of a dozen lambs and midwifed in the birth of a baby goat. I become more adept at “throwing” sheep, a basic move to be able to do everything from shearing, to giving shots, to trimming hooves. It involves twisting their head back to one side, then lifting and pulling on their rear end in the opposite direction so they flip over onto their backs. One day I walk up to a big ewe named Emma,
who weighs in at over 180 pounds. I can see in her eyes that she knows exactly what I have in mind (talk about smart!). Somehow I end up on her back facing towards her rear, as she runs around the barnyard, with me laughing hysterically, before dumping me in a pile of manure.

To my surprise, working with the animals opens up a deep sense of joy and fulfillment.
There is something primal about it—connecting me with traditions that go back thousands and thousands of years. I find out that the sheep are a lot smarter than some people. A mother sheep can pick out her lamb from among hundreds of other lambs. They stick together in a group, not because they’re dumb, as most people think, but for safety. Within a year my dozen sheep have become two dozen. I get to know their individual personalities and habits, even giving them names (which shows I have a long way to go before being able to call myself a real farmer).

My favorite time of day is when I ring a cowbell, calling the sheep for their dinner. They all come galloping across the field, with the goats leading the way. When they get to the barn they wolf down their food (no pun intended), then head out to pasture to graze. Creatures of habit, they follow a well-worn path that takes them to the upper pasture. One evening, with the sun just setting behind the Blue Ridge Mountains, and the sky a luminous pink and gray, I take a deep breath in, smelling the the first signs of spring—the pungent smell of old leaves and damp, moist earth. Mmmm, what a smell! From the pond I can hear the magical sound of peepers, a sure sign that spring is on its way. After spreading out fresh bedding and filling their water buckets, I head out into the field to join the animals.

About a dozen sheep are grazing with their new-born lambs close by their side. The lambs are frisking and darting around, a sight I never tire of. As I approach the flock, they look up at me, then go back to their grazing. One lamb gets too far from its mother and lets out a frightened baaaaa. The mother responds with a load bleat and the lamb darts back to its side.

I sit on the sweet-smelling grass a few yards away and remain still. The animals check me out once more to make sure I don’t have any ulterior motives, such as rounding one of them up to check their teats, and seem satisfied that I am just here to enjoy their company. A few minutes later, my favorite ewe Isabel comes over and stands directly in front of me, her face in front of mine. I stroke the soft fur on her nose and under her chin while speaking to her softly, “Isabel, you’re so beautiful . . . you’re such a good mama . . . I’m so proud of you.” Last year her lambs were stillborn and she was the only ewe who didn’t have babies. This year she had twins. She remains perfectly still and looks at me with her big brown eyes, offering a transmission of pure love . . . a love that is beyond words. Then, without any fanfare, she turns and rejoins the other sheep. This is what real love is, I think in wonder. It’s purely impersonal. It’s being totally present with what is.

The three goats have been watching us. Even though they are a few years old, they are my “babies.” I helped bring them into the world and I once milked them, but now they don’t serve any useful function other than eating weeds and being mascots. When they see that I’m available for pets, two of them saunter over, eager to get in on the action. One of them, Princess, a brown and black Nubian, circles around to my right and comes up close so I can caress her long neck. Her coat is smooth and soft here, compared to the coarse fur on her sides. She stretches her head up and back like a deer, in a graceful movement that has me spellbound. Her eyes, with their horizontal pupils, look off into some unknown place. I am drenched in the sensuality of it all.

The other goat, Angel, a white Saanen, comes up behind me, out of my line of vision. I can sense her coming closer and closer as I continue to stroke Princess. First I hear the sound of her breath, then I can feel the warmth of it touching my ear. Her breath is so gentle, even as she brings her soft lips right up against my ear. All my senses are heightened. I can smell the fresh chives on her breath as she breathes directly into my ear . . . whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

I remain still, knowing that if she chose to, she could rip off my ear in a split second, like a leaf from a branch. She keeps on breathing, and her breath penetrates to the very core of my being. She knows exactly what she is doing. It feels like she is speaking to me in her language, saying, “You are safe, you are safe, you are love.” Something stirs within me. Suddenly there is just breath, nothing but breath—a holy communion of breath.

For a moment my mind stops. This is it. This is all there is . . . Angel breath.

The moment passes. Just as suddenly, both goats lose interest and start trotting back to the flock, which has moved a hundred yards away. I watch in dumbfounded silence as they suddenly stop and rear up on their hind legs, butting each other’s heads. Again and again they rise up, their forelegs tucked back, heads butting, then dropping back down, as if in some primitive ritual out of time. No wonder the ancients worshipped the god Pan! Then, as quickly as they started, they stop and continue on their way.

Alone now, I am enveloped in peace, totally content.

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Living in the Paradox

One of my great joys is sharing my love for truth with my son Peter, who is now in his thirties and living in Washington, DC. As a graduate of Georgetown University, the nation’s oldest Catholic and Jesuit university, he he loves to talk about philosophical issues and nail me for my often fuzzy ideas. He insists that my writing needs to have a more rigorous theoretical framework, and he’s right. I always got C’s in philosophy when I was in university. Mostly, our getting together is a heartfelt way for us to love and appreciate each other.

We’ve agree to meet at the Starbucks next to Crate and Barrel. As I come around the corner from the parking lot, I see him standing by the door waiting for me. We both give each other a warm hug. It’s a cool, sunny fall day in DC, and we’re dressed in jeans, sweaters, and running shoes. I’m always surprised to see how big he is when I hug him, taller than me and about forty pounds heavier, with a strong, muscled body. It’s hard to believe he’s now a mature young man with a wife and family. I follow him into the coffee house, and get an instant hit as I breath in the aroma of coffee, frothed milk, fresh croissants, and chocolate cupcakes. I’m in caffeine heaven. I follow Peter up to the counter, trying not to look like an addict going for my next fix.

Peter orders first.

“What can I get for you sir?” the cashier asks.

“Iced decaf venti skim latte non fat,” Peter says with surprising speed and authority. Wow. He sounds like the captain of a ship shouting out the order, “Four degrees to starboard!”

The cashier barks out the order to the coffee brewer, who mans complex equipment with levers and spouts that make hissing sounds.

“Iced decaf venti skim latte non fat!” the brewer shouts back. My God, the ship really is going to turn to starboard!

“I love the way they do that,” I say with admiration.

“Yeah, it’s a very efficient drug delivery system,” Peter says.

I order my cappuccino, and once we get our “drugs” (including a chocolate croissant to split between us), we find a table. The place is full, with some customers at their laptops, others sitting in twos, and a few on the couches reading The Washington Post.

I take a sip of my cappuccino, getting a buzz from the coffee, foam, cinnamon, and sugar hitting all my senses at once.

“Wow, this is all so unreal,” I say, shaking my head and looking out at the buzz of activity going on all around me. Living on a farm, and seeing nothing more than my sheep and goats most of the time, being surrounded by people is something of a shock.

“You’re always saying this is ‘unreal,'” Peter says, taking a sip of his iced latte. “But what do you mean by real and unreal?”

I knock back another mouthful of coffee, hoping the caffeine will jolt my mind into remembering the famous quote by Shankara, the granddaddy of nonduality, who lived over a thousand years ago in India.

“Try this on for size: God alone is real. The world as we know it, meaning Starbucks and all that is going on around us, is unreal. The individual self is none other than God or absolute consciousness.”

“Sounds like a Zen koan,” Peter says. “Tell me more.”

How amazing, he really wants to talk about this! He has such a hunger for the truth. It makes my heart sing.

“It’s the central teaching of Advaita Vedanta, or nonduality.”

“And tell me what Advaita is again. I always forget.”

“It literally means ‘not two.’ In other words, there is no ‘me’ and no ‘you’ that is separate from God, Source, Consciousness, or whatever you want to call it.”

“Not two. That’s a tough sell for mainstream America.” Peter is a VP in one of America’s top internet companies. He looks a lot like the other young, corporate types sitting around us, with his light brown hair cut short and a well-shaved face. I, on the other hand, have a beard and relatively long hair–an aging hippie. “Hey, you could call your book How to Become Not Two,” he winks.

“Yeah, the last self-help book you’ll ever need . . .”

“So what does ‘God alone is real’ mean?”

“It means that consciousness is all there is. There is nothing that is not consciousness. Everything else is unreal–a dream. When we understand that we are that Source–not separate from it–then we find the peace that has always been there.”

“And happiness? Peter asks, smiling.

“Permanently happy,” I say, holding my cappuccino up in a toast.

“Well, that sounds easy enough.”

“Actually, that’s the big joke. It is utterly simple. It’s The Truth About Happiness–sitting here right now in Starbucks, holding this cup of coffee, looking at you as my heart bursts open with love. It is the awareness that is seeing it through these eyes, these senses. You don’t have to look any further. This is it!”

“I still say it’s too easy,” he laughs. “It’s not built on solid scientific data.”

“What about quantum physics and string theory?” I ask. “Don’t they show that there are other dimensions beyond this three-dimensional world?”

“You’re right. They do. But we all have to live in the three-dimensional world.”

“That’s the challenge–to be in the world, but not of it.”

“So far this sounds like some dry, abstract philosophy–something you’ve read about in a book. I want to know what it means for you!”

Squirming uncomfortably, I pray for the caffeine to provide inspiration.

“Uhm, uhm,” I say, fidgeting with my cup and stalling for time. Damn, I always freeze up when he tries to get me to explain this stuff. It can’t be explained!

“C’mon Dad, you can do it,” Peter smiles, his dimples showing.

After a long pause, I say, “OK, OK. The way I experience it is that I have glimpses–and at this point they’re just glimpses–that this individual ‘Peter’ is not real. I’m not real in the sense of not being this individual ego that has a history, and wants, and preferences. The ego is just a bundle of thoughts. It doesn’t even exist. In the same way, you’re not real, the people here in Starbucks aren’t real, the tables aren’t real . . . what’s real is the awareness that is animating these bodies, these tables, these plants, and everything in the world around us . . . and it’s all completely impersonal. It’s just awareness expressing itself as awareness–an awareness so vast, so big, so filled with love that we can’t even imagine it.”

“Hmmm,” Peter sighs, taking it in.

“You’ll never get it with your mind.”

“So, how do I live in this ‘apparent’ world?”

“You do everything you are doing now, but you no longer identify with it. You become like a character in a play. You play your role, but you also realize that is not who you are.”

“Living in the paradox . . . holding both ‘realities’ simultaneously,” Peter says, his face lighting up in recognition.

“You’ve got it!” I say, hitting the table excitedly. God he’s good. How does he know this stuff?

“And how will that make me happy?”

“Because all our unhappiness comes from identifying with the ego–by believing it to be ‘real.’ You’ve seen the Jerry Springer Show. Look at how the contestants really believe in their stories and their dramas. They think they’re ‘real’ . . . and what suffering they go through!”

“So you’re saying that if I didn’t identify with my ego–or my story–I’d be happier.”

“Yeah . . . no story, no worry.”

We both laugh.

Getting warmed up to the subject, I continue, “But we all love our dramas. We don’t want to give them up. It’s too much fun–even if we have to suffer the consequences. I remember Ramana saying, ‘All unhappiness is due to the ego. To be the Self that you really are is the only means to realize the Bliss that is ever yours.’ When we no longer identify with the ego, all sense of separation falls away. We discover that our true nature is happiness.”

As if concluding a Socratic debate, Peter says, “So, getting back to where we started, if I recognize that God alone is real, and that this world–that I mistakenly take to be real–is nothing more than a dream, then I am no longer ‘two.’ Who I really am–beyond the ego–is nothing other than pure consciousness or God. It is the illusion of being separate from God that creates all my suffering. Once I get rid of that mistaken thought, I’ll be at peace.”

“Let the happiness begin!” I say, swirling down the last bit of foam.

“Well, I’m happy,” Peter laughs. “I have a 60 inch plasma TV and yours is only 42!”

Dog Darshan

Once I stop looking for anything, life becomes one surprise after another. Even mundane, everyday events are a reminder of what is truly important—and it’s never what I expect. What a surprise to watch it all unfold.

The other day my old Subaru was having problems, and I made an appointment to bring
it in to the dealership at 8:30 am. As usual, I end up running late, tearing into the service area at 9:20. Damn, I’m late for my appointment and I’ve got ten other errands. How am I going to get everything done? A woman service rep with an oval name tag saying “Cathy” greets me. “Just leave the keys in the car and it will be ready in about an hour,” she says with a smile.

In a nervous frenzy, I grab my book and head towards the waiting room. I’ve taken a few
steps before I remember that the dogs are in the back of the car. Oh my God, what am I going to do with them? They can’t stay in the car while it’s being worked on!

I go back to the car and pick up their leashes. Holding the door open, I say, “OK boys,
out you come.” They look at me quizzically, then hop out, ready for anything.

It’s bitterly cold out, so I take them into the showroom. I watch them perk up in
excitement, noses twitching as they take in the unfamiliar smells. They’re also picking up on my excitement . . . I’m a sucker for auto showrooms, with that new car smell and the cars looking like colorful, gleaming sculptures on the shiny marble floor. Luke is wagging his short little stub of a tail like crazy, trying to get my attention. Sky is pacing about like a wolf on a prowl.

Oh dear, what will I do if they pee on the marble floor?

“Peter,” a voice says. “What are you doing here?” I turn around to see Larry, a respected healer and Tai Chi teacher in Charlottesville, dressed in black pants and a shirt and tie.

“Larry! I guess I should ask you the same question.”

The dogs rush up to him and he pulls back in alarm to avoid touching them.

“Luke . . . Sky!” I say firmly. “Easy!”

“I work here,” He says, eying the dogs warily.

“Great! Now I know where to come if I ever need to buy a new car.” Things must have
gotten pretty bad for him to become a car salesman! I wonder if I could do that?

As we’re talking, a cheerful looking young woman comes up, wearing a heavy winter
coat. “Larry, what are you doing here?”

“Peter just asked the same question.”

The dogs start wagging their tails with this new arrival. She reaches down and pets them all over. “Oh, such cute dogs,” she exclaims. “They’re Australian Shepherds, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” I smile. “This is Sky. The other one, who’s a bit of a thug, is named Luke.”

She gives the dogs another pet and turns back to Larry. “What about your healing work?”

“Well,” he says, holding his body poised and erect, “someone has to bring light and
healing into places like this!”

Right, I think.

After a brief conversation we each go our different ways. I head for the waiting area
and sit in one of the blue plastic chairs with metal legs. The smell of stale coffee and motor oil permeates the area. The dogs soon settle down beside me. To my right is the door to the service bay, and before long a stream of people start passing by—mechanics, service managers, salespeople, and clients. When they see the dogs, a smile appears on their faces.

“What kind of dogs are these . . .?” one person asks.

“Are they friendly . . .?” a man in blue coveralls asks.

Over the next half hour at least six more people stop to talk.

“Oh, what pretty coloring. Are they blue merles?”

“I once owned an Aussie. They’re the best dogs ever . . .”

“Look at his eyes! He has one blue eye and one gray eye. Is that normal?”

I respond to each person with the usual banter about Aussies having different colored
eyes and being so intelligent, loyal, etc. It doesn’t take long for me to realize that something important is happening here.

I notice that the dogs greet each person as if they are the most important being on the
planet, with no preconceptions whatsoever. If they sense that person wants to pet them, they go up to them for a pet. If they feel the person is not interested, they keep their distance. Everyone walks away with a smile, feeling a bit more love in their lives.

A homeless person comes through the door, probably trying to get warm. He has a
weatherworn face, and is wearing dirty jeans and a grubby old black parka, with a huge knitted cap on his head. Please don’t stop, I pray, trying to remain invisible.

Sure enough, he stops right in front of me. “Beautiful dogs,” he says.

“Thanks.”

“They from ‘round here?”

Pointing at Luke, I say, “This one is from Virginia. The other is from Colorado.” I’m
very aware of my educated northern accent. I’m sure he is too.

“Real nice,” he says, giving Sky a pet. “Real nice.”

Then I notice the dogs are responding to him exactly as they do to everyone else. They
don’t make the same distinctions as I do about appearances.

I feel my heart softening and something starts to shift inside. I look into the man’s eyes
and suddenly see myself. He looks at me and suddenly there is a twinkle in his eyes.

“Well, y’all have a great day now. . . . like your dogs!”

For a while no one comes by and I start reading again. It dawns on me that all I have been doing is sitting here with two dogs. At least ten people have walked by and have somehow been changed by the experience. The dogs aren’t trying to do anything or be anything; they aren’t trying to change anyone or fix anyone. They accept each person as they are. They give healing just through their very presence. I finally get it. These dogs are embodying love. They aren’t making a story about it—they’re just being!

An older man comes by and notices Sky. “Do you mind if I pet him?” he asks.

“Go ahead, he’s friendly.”

He kneels down on one knee beside Sky. “I had a dog like this,” he says, his voice
trembling a little. “He died a year ago. I really miss him.” As he gently pets Sky, I see that his eyes are tearing up. Sky sits there, very serious, still as can be. He’s fully aware of what is happening in this exchange. The man caresses Sky’s head while Sky looks into some far off place. This is true compassion, I think, and it’s between a man and a dog!

The man silently stands up, nods his thanks, and walks away.

A moment later the perky service rep pokes her head through the door saying, “Mr.
Mellen, your car is ready.”

I don’t want to leave.

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The Naked Monk

Right from the start of my spiritual journey I was a sucker for the traditional view that true happiness and enlightenment could only be attained after years (if not lifetimes) of spiritual practices. The other belief I held was that seekers had to undergo impossibly difficult austerities to get there. This was reinforced at every turn, from books I read, to the example of my teacher’s teacher, who spent twenty years in silence, meditated every day for ten hours, and once fasted for forty-eight days.

Eager to find out more about the ancient traditions of yoga, in 1986 my wife Fran and I went on a whirlwind trip to India with Yogi Amrit Desai (who we called Gurudev) and a group of devotees. In a little town in Gujurat Province, we visited a Jain temple, home to several Jain monks. We were excited to hear that we could have an audience with one of the monks, a rare privilege. About twenty of us, both men and women, gathered around the monk. He was sitting cross-legged under a tree—totally naked.

We all listened intently as an overweight interpreter dressed in white described the swami’s life: “The swami has no possession. He has no home. He wanders barefoot from place to place except in the rainy season. He can only eat one meal a day. He can only eat while standing up and can not eat more than can be held in his two cupped hands.”

The swami peacefully sat in front of us while the interpreter talked, brushing away ants and flies with a feathered duster, not so they won’t crawl over his body, but because he doesn’t want to kill them. He’s taken a vow never to wear clothing,” continues the interpreter, “never to ride in a vehicle, and never to kill anything – not even a fly.”

I listen in amazement. Here is a man who fears nothing! He has given it all up for God and has been given everything. Look at his face – it exudes such extraordinary radiance! Slightly embarrassed, I glance down at his naked body. It is strong and exquisitely proportioned. His head is shaved and his eyes are sparkling with light; he is totally unselfconscious. How come he’s not skinny and starving with just one meal a day? Maybe we should make this the new American diet? He seems so at peace.

Gurudev has been watching all of this in delight and is clearly inspired by the swami’s example. “Look at this!” he says. “I’m going to take you through this. If you do only ten percent of what this swami does, your life will be transformed. You’ll see! I’m going to take you there!” Everyone nods enthusiastically.

After the talk, a few of us go up to the swami for a blessing. He taps everyone gently on the head with his feathered duster. I bow down before him and look into his eyes, my heart open in love. He gives a merry laugh and then whacks me twice over the head with the duster. A jolt of energy, like an electric shock, goes through me. I can barely stand up. What’s happening? I’ve been zapped! This is just what I prayed for!

Feeling lightheaded, I walk back through the temple to the bus. I think of what Gurudev said. If I could just do ten percent of all the spiritual practices the Jain monk does, perhaps I could someday experience the same extraordinary peace I see in him. I realize that austerity for this monk is not austerity at all. From his point of view, we are the ones practicing austerity by missing out on all that bliss!

When I return home to the United States I try my own version of austerities. At mealtime I limit myself to the food that I can pile on one plate (imagining the plate as my two palms). Unlike the swami, I eat three meals a day and don’t eat while standing up. No need to go quite that far. Every morning I get up at 4:30 AM and practice yoga and meditation. Unlike the swami I do wear clothes, because it is 35 degrees outside. Once a week I fast and give up ice cream, and for one long month I abstain from sex (now that was hard!). I jog half-naked in the winter snow and cleanse my nasal passages with a little “neti” bowl. I practice these austerities for four weeks – and nothing happens. I try even harder. And still nothing happens.

From everything I have heard, spiritual austerities are one of the most direct routes to enlightenment – if you’re into that sort of thing. There are stories of yogis doing what appears to be every bizarre form of self-abuse imaginable – not eating for years, standing twenty-four hours a day year-in and year-out, burying themselves underground for weeks on end. Did any of them find true happiness or enlightenment? I guess you’ll have to dig them up to find out.

The Buddhists also seem to have a penchant for extreme spiritual practices. In Cave in the Snow: Tenzin Palmo’s Quest for Enlightenment, a Tibetan Buddhist nun named Tenzin Palmo (who was also an Englishwoman) tells the story of the twelve years she spent meditating in a cave in the Himalayas at an elevation of 13,200 feet. The cave was only five feet by seven, barely enough room to stand up in. Tenzin slept in a meditation box (a three-foot by three-foot wooden box), in which she slept upright (in a meditation position) every night for twelve years. She lived through freezing winters with snow leopards as her only companion. In the first year she nearly starved to death, in the next year she was nearly buried alive in a snowstorm. For the most part, she survived on tea and turnips. Her only human contact was with a few visitors every year. Why would anyone want to go through this? Tenzin says she was following the instructions of her teacher, and her goal was to become the first Buddhist woman to become enlightened. Did she reach her goal? According to Tenzin Palmo, she still has a long way to go.

I’ve always admired those who take this particular path. There are some, though, who take up austerities for all the wrong reasons. As Adyashanti (a Zen meditator for fifteen years himself) points out, “They violently try to control their minds, their emotions, and their bodies. No one ever became free through such violence.”

After a few pathetic attempts I decide that austerity is not my path. I realize that I am more naturally aligned with the comedian W.C. Fields, who once complained that, “While exploring the wilds of Borneo we lost our corkscrew, and were forced to survive on food and water for days!”

I had to find some other way of reaching the peace I had seen in the naked Jain monk.

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Your breath is your connection to life. It is your link to your inner self. Many thousands of years ago the yogis discovered that relaxed, deep breathing corresponds with a calm mind, and shallow breathing indicates a restless, unfocused mind. Why is all this important? Your mind produces sixty-thousand thoughts a day. Some of these thoughts are obviously necessary and helpful, but the majority of them are little more than incessant chatter. You go over the same thing again” position. By focusing on the breath, you have an easy way to turn off the switch and free yourself from constant identification with your thoughts. It is only when your mind becomes quiet that you can let go into spacious presence.

Try this experiment:

• Wherever you are right now – sitting up or lying down – take a deep breath and exhale fully. Breathe in and out a few times without any effort. Now close your eyes and imagine you are filling your entire body with air, right down to your toes and fingertips. As you breathe in more deeply, don’t force anything. Let your in-breath be slow and easy. When you exhale, let go naturally, relaxing as you do so. Try this a few more times. The increased oxygen in your system may make you feel a bit dizzy.
• Now intentionally give yourself the message to relax even more. Let your breath return to normal. Don’t worry about doing it right. Close your eyes and notice your breath. Observe what is happening without feeling the need to change anything. After a few moments, open your eyes and follow the next set of instructions.
• This time when you breathe in, feel the sensation of the air moving in through your nostrils. Focus your attention on the air moving in and the air moving out. You may want to close your eyes to concentrate. After a few breaths you’ll probably notice your mind is very active. “Why am I doing this? Am I doing it right?”
• Close your eyes again and go back to the sensation of the breath flowing in and out. You may wish to repeat to yourself, “breath in” with each inhalation and “breath out” with each exhalation. Continue breathing and notice when your thoughts try to distract you from the simple repetition of “breath in/ breath out.” Gently override the thoughts, repeating, “Breath in/ breath out.”

Think of it as a concentration exercise. Your monkey mind has been in control for a long time. It doesn’t want to give up its power. However, if you are tired of beating yourself up with your thoughts, you may wish to make this exercise part of your daily routine. It can be done anywhere, anytime, and is particularly helpful when you are under stress. This simple exercise can bring some peace back into your life.

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For years I considered myself to be an expert on suffering. In my early twenties I saw myself as the tortured young artist and sat in Parisian cafes talking to friends about the virtues of suicide. Like Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights, I could whip up my suffering to an exquisite frenzy, banging my head against walls after breaking up with a girl friend. After years of therapy, the suffering evolved into just being miserable. It didn’t matter how much success, how much recognition, or how much stuff I had in my external life. The more I ran after happiness, the more unhappy I became. I was a husband, father, successful author, professor, filmmaker – and it still wasn’t enough. There was always some new desire that had to be satisfied, some longing that had to be fulfilled.

I now see that most of my suffering – and the suffering of just about everyone else – is mind-created. It is our thoughts and our thoughts alone that torment us. They won’t let us rest, even for a moment. We all know what it is like to lie in bed at night, tossing and turning as we relentlessly beat up on ourselves over some problem. “Why did I do it?” I should never have said that!” Yet the person we’re referring to isn’t even in the same room (though they may be sleeping next to us). When our mind has tyranny over us in this way, this is true suffering. There is no peace anywhere in sight. Once we solve one problem, another problem rears up to take its place, bringing us even more misery. How can we stop torturing ourselves so?

In the movie Babe, the duck says, “The way things are stinks.” The cow, being very wise, responds by saying, “The only way you’ll find happiness is to accept that the way things are is the way things are.” The easiest way to end our suffering is to accept whatever is showing up in our lives without resistance. The more we resist, the more it persists. This means dropping all expectations of how things should be, giving up all preferences, and letting go of how it will all turn out. This may sound easy – but when someone tells us we have a lethal form of cancer, or you have just been fired, the stakes get raised.

The second way put an end to the suffering is by not taking delivery of our thoughts. Just as we might say, “No thanks. Not today,” to a salesman knocking on the door, we can stop our thoughts at the door. We can stand back and observe the thoughts as they come in instead of grasping on to them. Instead of, “If only I had done that,” we can say, “Oh, there’s that thought ‘if only I had done that!’ Isn’t that interesting!” The more we can witness the thoughts as they come and go, the less they will have power over us. Our habit of following our thoughts is only a habit, and like any habit it can be changed. To do this takes focus and concentration. It can be done through meditation, self-hypnosis, mantra repetition, or (if you run out of ideas) counting sheep.

But if we really want to move beyond suffering, we must follow the thoughts back to their source. Who is it that is having these thoughts? Who is it that is suffering? The thoughts come and go within this greater reality. They don’t even exist. When we arrive at this awareness, a deep sense of peace emerges. We realize that it doesn’t matter if the thoughts are present or not. Then there is no longer any need to willfully still the mind. Thoughts are a natural functioning of the human organism. Once they no longer have any power over us, they lose their strength on their own accord. And our suffering ends.

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Dancing Between Life and Death

Several years later I find myself once again with Ram Dass, who is now living on Maui. Once a month he holds a gathering in his home, where fifty or more people cram into a living room to hear him speak. Like most events in Maui, it is like a costume party – musicians from the Hare Krishna group dressed in Indian clothing, women in colorful “divine goddess” robes, young earth-mothers in long, flowing dresses nursing their babies, and men with Rasta deadlocks tucked under their caps.

After half an hour of rousing chanting led by the Hare Krishna’s, Ram Dass begins by telling us he is having a reaction to some antibiotics and feels lousy today. He has just gotten out of the hospital. His leg is clearly swollen and he looks miserable. Over the next half hour people ask questions him about psychedelics and drugs and whether they can help bring about enlightenment. Ram Dass goes along with it, telling his familiar tale of giving his guru Neem Karoli Baba enough LSD to kill an elephant, only to have him smile and say, “Good medicine.” Then a young woman asks, “I was raised as a flower child and my parents took drugs all the time. I’m wondering if I should take them?”

“No,” Ram Days says. “For you I would say no – definitely not!”

I can’t stand it anymore. When Ram Dass finishes answering her question, I raise my hand. “Ram Dass, I’d like to talk about something more fun . . . like death.”

Ram Dass gives me one of his mischievous smiles. “Ah, death.” Everyone laughs.

“Two days before coming to Maui I had a stroke,” I say. “I was driving a car and ended up bashing into a truck in front of me. I was completely out of it and seeing double.”

“A stroke . . .” Ram Dass nods his head. His stroke happened over seven years ago. He is now in a wheelchair, his right arm and hand useless.

“Now I’m enjoying the delightful play of not knowing whether I am going to keel over and right now, five minutes from now, or a year from now.”

Ram Dass smiles.

I ask, “Can you tell me what you’ve learned from being on that edge of not knowing whether you might drop the physical body in any moment?”

He ponders my question a moment, looking up towards the ceiling as he searches for words. “You’re talking about being at home with your own death – and that also means being at home with your life. The two go together.”

“Yes, I feel that,” I say. “I make sure to put on clean underwear every day.”

Ram Dass laughs and everyone else howls.

“Be grateful for life, be grateful for death,” he says. “Live between the two: Life and death, life and death.”

“I do feel that gratitude,” I say. “I’m grateful for each day that I’m still here and grateful when I actually wake up every morning.”

“Yes, and grateful for each moment – grateful for life. You’re grateful here and now, for this . . .” He raises his good arm and sweeps the room.

I nod my head and smile. All the time we have been talking we have been gazing deeply into each other’s eyes. A beautiful, sweet recognition of love is passing between us – an empty space opening up between the chatter of words. This is what it is all about – not my question.

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