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Messages Abound All
Around
A short while
after we *met* - knowing that I have yet to meet Moriya in person - she told me
about a symbolic message found underfoot, quite literally.
One afternoon, as she came out of her apartment building somewhere in
Jerusalem, Moriya noticed a little pile of yellow leaves on the ground but, as
she was on her way out, she simply walked on past.
On her way back, Moriya registered the presence of that little pile of
yellow leaves for the second time. She casually noted that the pile was smaller
than it had been but, again, she walked right past, through the entrance of her
building, and disappeared.
When Moriya came out the following day, intuitively, she felt that
something in her peripheral vision was different - something delicate,
something yellow, something was missing – something she knew she should
have paid attention to the first time she came across it – yesterday.
Her eyes
searched the ground and eventually found what they had been looking for: traces
of yellow leaves now scattered by the breeze and, to her surprise, Hebrew
characters in gold paint, each one carefully aligned next to the other from
left to right, over three lines.
The characters, she explained, spelt out “Hey, yafa” – Hey,
beautiful.
Every moment you spend
living for the future is a moment lost.
Moriya peered at the characters, wondering why anyone would have
bothered to graffiti Hey Yafa on the pavement near the entrance to an
apartment block and temporarily hide the artwork under an ephemeral cover of
yellow leaves.
Burnished
by rain on rainy days, bright as bronze on sunny days, the tidy yellow
characters on the bitumen weather it all.
Only
recently Moriya wrote, “You know, C.C., At yoda-at ma? Hey Yafa
is quite dusty at the moment because of the summer dryness here, but the letters
are as obvious as the first moment I saw it. And you know what? As the paint is
so robust, I deliberately step on the text every morning. And I smile.” *At
yoda-at ma = you know what?
Hey,
Beautiful.
Moriya
says that the smile on her lips lingers well after she has rounded the corner.
Every
moment you spend living for the future is a lost moment.
v
The
artist, whoever she or he might be, Moriya explained, as any artist, is only
ever a tool in the hands of very powerful forces we do not understand. Artists
are compelled to leave their messages wherever the paint will hold, be it on
canvasses or graffittied on wherever the paint will hold.
Where
ever and why ever and how ever they do it, does not matter. Even
the most acclaimed artists are unable to explain their art beyond saying that
they wanted to express themselves in such a way. Or that they felt *inspired*.
Oddly
enough, no one in the building Moriya manages has ever mentioned the graffiti
to her. When I asked her for whom she thought the message might have
been intended, she replied, “Who can know?” After a pause, she added, “Maybe
just me, since I’m the only one who seems to have noticed it.”
Indeed.
Reality
check: though spiritual messages
are there for all to see, only the one they are intended for will *truly*
notice them, which is why it is essential we all learn to decipher them.
v
The
point, here, is to understand that we can only begin to notice symbols - cosmic
clins
d’oeil - once we slow down - once we become aware of ourselves
within our surroundings, aware of ourselves within the present moment.
Time Away
Every plan
of a trip, a travel, a journey, a holiday – intended as an escape to a
different
panorama or to another world, be it for a few days or a few weeks - is always
*inspired* by the parallel need for a spiritual journey.
Days
in the mountains = an inner calling to purify ourselves, to ascend
and to aim for the summit.
v
Days
by the river = an inner calling to flow, to not *touch*, to not
resist, to not hold on. The body of water that flows past a specific point is
never ever the same.
v
Days
by the sea = an inner calling to regenerate ourselves, to reflect light – to
become expansive like the sea, like the sky and to cleanse ourselves.
Shells
remind us that it is inner emptiness, the clean uncluttered
*nothingness*, that defines the shape of the shell, not the patterns on the
shell, be they bright or dull. The
attraction to shells is the call to create such a space inside ourselves: a
mind, a heart free of emotional kish-kushim - as Moriya calls the
clutter of thoughts anchored deep into our past, and fears for a future, that
taint and dictate our automated responses to our present moments.
Surfing,
sailing = a search for inner balance - a need to connect with our Higher Self.
Floating
on our back - or suspended in a hammock = a yearning to be
held, to be supported as only our soul can hold us.
Floating on our back is also
about accepting and surrendering. It is about being honest with ourselves –
vulnerable but trusting.
It is only
when we are on our stomachs that, like any other mammal, we can touch, cling
and grasp – yielding to the compulsive nature of our ego-persona.
v
Sky
diving at 180 kph, held aloft by a wing suit, flying like an eagle streaking
across the sky – the closest thing to being a bird = emulating the flight of
the soul. It is about being *alive* and it is about actualizing the dream most
of us have had, that of flying like a bird, knowing that birds symbolize our
souls.
Snap and Shop till we Drop
Taking pictures = another
way to indulge our hoarding tendencies. We snap and
snap away to hold on to *the way we were* and to
*where we were*, missing the point that these moments belong to the past the
minute we press the shutter.
Pictures = this is
*me*, this is where *I* was. This is what *I* did, aren’t I clever?
Oops, this is a red face moment for me - I love
taking pictures!
v
Reality check: the urge to take pictures
[like all other urges] is triggered by my soul to remind me to be a part of
*that* moment, to understand that moment, to decipher the symbols it contains.
v
Days we shop till we drop =
opportunities to practise non-attachment to physical kish-kushim and to
monitor impulsive responses to our buttons being pushed - this typed by one who
loves nothing more than, when holidaying, to visit countries rich in
traditional crafts. * Kish-kushim = rubbish, clutter
My driving purpose then -
hypnotized by fantastic swirls of sounds, smells and dizzying color - is to
buy, buy, buy with the single-minded drive of a pirate plundering loot. Or that
which drove that beautiful
There he was, trotting by
the water line, tail wagging, tongue lolling, sniffing here, sniffing there,
burying himself chest deep into the soft sand of the dune before flipping
around to gallumph back to
the water line, sniffing here, there and everywhere. This dog was totally in
dog heaven - a heaven parallel to the one I am in when holidaying by the sea or
strolling through an exotic bazaar, snapping and shopping till I drop.
v
To be honest, I also have
to confess something akin to an addiction which, by definition, is something
that requires a considerable effort to control.
I love buying shoes.
And shirts.
And sunglasses.
And bags, mostly large
leather bags; the more pockets and compartments, the better. Interestingly,
leather symbolizes our persona, the skin we need to shed to reveal what lays
within and the larger the ‘space’, the more clutter we carry.
I now understand that my
attraction to such bags is my reminder that the clutter – emotional as well as
physical - I have accumulated over the past fifty years does take up a lot of
space and has slotted itself in many compartments. The enormous black Lonsdale
bag I tote to school, the model that has five outside pockets, confirms that I
do ruminate thoughts of the past and that there is a lot I need to shed.
Black symbolizes our self-absorption
in all that is *ours* - a sort of emotional tunnel-vision. Put this way, my big
black bag represents a cocktail of much that is toxic. In concrete terms, it
doesn’t mean that I need to lose this schoolbag and replace it with a bright
yellow lightweight backpack. It only means that every time I notice this large,
black bag, it becomes my reminder to free up my mindset of programmed
knee-jerks to push-button ‘scenes’ played out on my stage and to think pink
instead - not with my head but with my heart.
v
Admittedly, I have begun
practising *some* restraint while out in the streets, and in the morning as I
get ready for work - eyes set in a squint - I practise looking at the dozens of
shirts that hang tightly one against the other in any one of the three closets
they occupy.
Through the squint, their
identifying features become blurred and it is almost impossible to discern a
white shirt from another white shirt.
Whether one is a cotton
white shirt or a silk white shirt or a white shirt with an interesting weave,
through my squint, they all appear similar.
When it comes to objects, collectibles,
flowers and even, dare I say, friends, it is only our desire to possess that makes us think they are all
different – differently able to provide us with a new look, a different kind of
warmth, a different experience or garner us more attention – more love.
v
Hands up all of us who
dress to go to work or ‘out there’ only with comfort on our mind?
Personally, I believe that
most of us dress - even if demurely and in casual clothes - independently of
the value of the clothes, in a way that we think
will register as ‘nice’ in the eye of the many beholders with whom we will
cross paths in the course of any given
day or night – even strangers.
From 5 to 95 years of age,
I am ready to bet that ‘nice’ equates with ‘sexy’ because, in the tragic culture
in which we live, sexy = worthy of love and love is a commodity we all want but
don’t usually get.
v
It is our belief – as a
civilization - that it is through all and any factor exterior to our selves
that we can garner unconditional love, that has made marketing and the social
scene the triumphant arenas that they are.
As I have been questioning
my need for *more friends*, I have been asking myself a more clearly
materialistic set of questions: why buy yet another shirt that I do not need -
regardless of its color - just because it seems pretty and marginally different
from the ones I already have?
Why worry about whether my
shirt is pretty or not? Pretty to whom?
Questions well worth
asking, don’t you reckon?
Uncomfortable
Places
Our
reticence at strolling through such places as the slums of Kolkata coupled to a
tendency to be appalled and repelled by the hordes of beggars that swarm places
such as Marrakech, and the highly touristic Place Djemaa el Fna, are reminders
that we do need to open up our hearts, deeply, and do more than merely search
our pocket for a few coins that we toss under duress.
An uncomfortable exposure to squalor or suffering is a reminder that we need to practise giving from the heart and that, on the energetic plane, we need to give altruistically – not in exchange for any thank-yous or any gifts of appreciation that would reduce our deed to some kind of barter arrangement.