Looking out the bedroom window. Ken, is 96 and is eating breakfast and I am picking up the theme that started this morning.

I think about my facebook friend community. Many new friends this year. All are on a path of discovery, sharing excitement and love and sometimes loss. Everyone trying to learn about life and share the learnings with friends, hoping for some future where Life is functioning at a much more integrated and progressive level.

In my life, the journey of discovery, at least for the past 13 years, has come in association with and as a devotee of Adi Da Samraj. And I. like you have shared some of that discovery.

Mindfulness, Gestalt Awareness, Political Justice, economic justice, food, health and overall Planetary Consciousness & Enlightenment are some of the common themes we speak to each other about.

Speaking this way to you, takes into account, the feeling intuition, that not only are we all connected, but that ultimately there is only One Person. (We were talking the other day of the confusion that comes from understanding there is Only One Person–that there is no separate self, but living mostly as if separate self life is true. )

The last 6 months or so, I have been organizing events that introduce Adi Da to those interested. The core of that presentation is “Reality, Truth & Consciousness Light”, a 65 minute video. It attempts to explain and give evidence of the profound Wisdom and Event of Adi Da.

Each time I see and watch the video, I become more and more whole bodily & spiritually educated about This Great Mystery. And because the video speaks it’s truth, without ideology and with integrity–that Truth is felt and seen. I continue to be amazed at responses people have of being in the Room with Adi Da, through the video and then in conversation with devotees. You know how it is to sit in the energy of truth and intimacy and utter gratefulness. That’s how I come out of all of these events.

There’s nothing to believe in, but It Is Here and Happening.


devastating content and prose. I just had to copy and type it to share.

Introduction to CAPITALISM, A GHOST STORY, by Arundahati Roy

The minister says that for India’s sake, people should leave their villages and move to the cities. He’s a Harvard man. He wants speed. And numbers. Five hundred million migrants, he thinks, will make a good business model.
Not everybody likes the idea of their cities filling up with the poor. A judge in Bombay called slumdwellers pickpockets of urban land. Another said, while ordering the bulldozing of unauthorized colonies, that people who couldn’t afford to live in the cities shouldn’t live in them.

When those who were evicted went back to where they came from, found their villages had disappeared under great dams and dusty quarries. Their homes were occupied by hunger—and policeman. The forests were filling up with armed guerillas. They found that the wars from the edge of India, in Kashmir, Manipur, had migrated to its heart. People returned to live on city streets and pavements, in hovels on dusty construction sites, wondering which corner of the huge county was meant for them.

The minister said that migrants to cities were mostly criminals and, “carried a kind of behavior which is unacceptable in modern cities.” The middle class admired him for his forthrightness, for having the courage to call a spade a spade. The minister said he would set up umpire police stations, recruit more policemen and put more police vehicles on the road to improve law and order.
In the drive to beautify Delhi for the Commonwealth Games, laws were passed which made the poor vanish, like laundry stains. Street vendors disappeared, rickshaw pullers lost their licences, small shops and businesses were shut down. Beggars were wounded up, tried, by mobile magistrates in mobile courts, and dropped outside the city limits. The slums that remained were screened off, with vinyl billboards, which said, DELHIciously Yours.
New kinds of policeman patrolled the streets, better armed, better dressed, and trained not to scratch their privates in public, no matter how grave the provocation. There were cameras everywhere, recording everything.

Two young criminals carrying a kind of behavior that was unacceptable to modern cities escaped the police dragnet and approached a woman sitting between her sunglasses and the leather seats of her shiny car at a traffic crossing. Shamelessly they demanded money. The woman was rich and kind. The criminals heads were no higher than her car window. There names were Rukimi and Kamali. Or maybe Mehrunissa and Shahbano. (Who cares.) The woman gave them money and motherly advice. Ten rupees to Kamli( or Shahbano). “Sahre it,” she old them and sped away when the lights changed.
Rukimi and Kamli, (or Mehrunissa and Shahbano) tore into each other like gladiators., like lifers in a prison yard. Each sleek car that passed them, and almost crushed them, carried the reflection of their battle, their fight to the finish, on their shining door.

Eventually both girls vanished without a trace, like thousands of children do in Delhi.
The games were a success.

Two months later, on the sixty second anniversary of India’s Republic day, the armed forces showcased their new weapons at the Republic Day parade: a missile launcher system, Russian multi-barrel rocket launchers, combat aircraft, helicopters, and underwater weapons for the navy. The new I-90 battle tank was called Bhishma. (The older one was Arjun.) Varunastra was the name of the latest heavyweight torpedo, and Nareech was a decoy system to reduce incoming torpedoes. (Hanuman and Vajra are the names painted on the armored vehicles that patrol Kashmir’s frozen streets.) The names from the Bhagavad Gita, the Ramayana, and the Mahabharata were a coincidence. Date Devils from the Army’s Corps of Signals rode motorcycles in rocket formation: then they formed a cluster of flying birds and finally a human pyramid.

The army band played the national anthem. The president took the salute.
Three Suhkoi fighter jets made a Trishul in the sky, Shiva;s Trishul. Is India a Hindu republic? Only accidentally.

The thrilled crowd turned its face up to the weak winder sun and applauded the aerobatics. High in the sky, the winking silver sides of the jets carried the reflection of Rukimi and Kamli’s (or Mehrunissa and Shahbano’s) flight to the death.

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