Gross National Happiness: A better indicator of national wellbeing? | Washington Times Communities

Gross National Happiness: A better indicator of national wellbeing? | Washington Times Communities

Excerpt: Gurus, Rock Stars & the Men In Between ch 1

I don’t profess any one spiritual path superior to another. I’ve always had a soft spot for Jesus, and my schools were denomination based in a saccharin-vanilla Christian sense. Regardless of cultural origins we remain unique. The innumerable available spiritual paths exist to accommodate our many flavored needs. Though raised on a blond, blue-eyed Savior, I’m finding my flavor, my reason, and my answer to life’s question in a saffron-soaked India. I don’t want to be a monk for the rest of my life. I do want to learn about the one thing I consider important, the one thing my religious school never taught. I want to learn about the elephant in the room. I want to learn the meaning of life.

I spend months traveling around the subcontinent. I hear of one Saint in the north, stay at that Ashram for a period where I hear of another, and travel thousands of miles south to stay with and learn from a new Guru. They are all great personalities and meaningful personal experiences, but it’s only the philosophy and tradition of Vaishnavism* that’s capturing my heart.

Each tradition is essentially a branch of Hinduism†, and as a whole they enjoy many similarities. The defining difference for me is that while the tradition of Guru exists in Vaishnavism, there is equal if not more importance given to God and philosophy. I’m not OK with a room full of people worshiping in a personality cult. I’m not saying that’s exactly and always what I experience at other ashrams. Though at times enough elements combine to send my spidey-sense off the Richter scale. What attracts me to Vaishnavism is the emphasis on studying ancient Vedic scripture, beyond simply listening to a mortal seated on high. God or self-realization is placed as most important, while the worship of Guru is in relational reverence and gratitude for a teacher revealing esoteric knowledge, and facilitating connection with the Divine.

Worship of the Guru personality alone is a dangerous cocktail. And I’m a cheap drunk. I want to be careful. I’ve come to India to learn the meaning of life, not find a new celebrity before which to fall prostrate. I see many Westerners fall into the Guru-worship trap. While the presence of Guru in Vaishnavism will inevitably produce fanatics, the scriptures offer a constant reminder this is an aberration.

The Sanskrit word ‘yoga,’ means to yoke or reconnect. Vaishnavism is the practice of bhakti yoga, the yoga of devotion. In bhakti yoga one can incorporate the other yogic disciplines such as hatha,* but these are not offered as the goal of spiritual practice. They are seen as favorable breezes on the path, designed to quiet the twitching mind and body, so one can practice spirituality peacefully.

The goal of bhakti yoga is to awaken perpetual love of God. It is the yoga of love, the simplest and yet most difficult form of yoga, because it requires saranagati: complete surrender of the heart. We are blessed in Western culture to have the life of Jesus as a wonderful example of saranagati. Rightwing Christians would nail me to the cross for that statement.

In fifteenth century India, a famous Saint ignited a mass movement of the bhakti faith across the continent. While the West was going through its Renaissance, rejecting the shackles of the Church in order to embrace art and science, India as usual, was doing the complete opposite. India was experiencing a spiritual reawakening. This Saint, Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, reintroduced the ancient art of kirtan, otherwise known as congregational chanting. The first obvious glimpse in the West was in the 1960s with the Beatles and the Hare Krishnas. So if you’d like to sue someone for the clanging symbols and exuberant dancing mob, that would be him. The inability of the Krishnas to gently proselytize or keep over enthusiastic devotees in line has at times overshadowed an otherwise beautiful, surprisingly widespread and conventional spiritual path.

Decades later, in cities all around the world, kirtan can be heard from yoga studios loud and unapologetically. Considered the chic of the über chic, it’s not uncommon to spot celebrities and professional juggernauts sitting crossed legged, eyes closed, thumb and pointer-finger joined, swaying in ecstatic throws of chanting. Hare Rama!

* A monotheistic, devotional faith
† A misnomer and legacy of colonialism. The real term is Sanatana Dharma.
* A prescribed set of physical exercises often simply referred to as ‘yoga’ in the West.

I’M BACK AND READY TO GO

It's a crack. I'm back. Yeah I’m standing on the rooftops shouting out.
Baby I'm ready to go. I'm back and ready to go. From the rooftops shout it out.

Ready to Go - Republica 1996

Not the most brilliant lyrics. They don’t have to be brilliant to make you feel brilliant. Though less accommodating with my own lyrics, when listening to other's music I’ll take simplicity over genius any day if the result is bliss. And right now, I’m in bliss.

I came over as soon as she called cause she’s a living doll. And she’s famous for nothing at all. She’s living life like a dream with a false sense of self-esteem.

I wish she’d trade places with me.

Five thousand dollars a day is what they pay my baby for her pretty face.

Supermodel - Juliana Hatfield 1993

I am officially having the best day of my life. Don’t ask me for a loan. I haven’t won Lotto. Haven’t even bought a ticket. Money can’t buy my bliss. Well that’s not true because it did. On Itunes. I finally got around to downloading a bunch of my favorite songs from the 90s. I already had some but was missing a key player – the goddess Juliana Hatfield.

Cut to today. I’m on Park Ave in New York City. Bloomberg has closed the road to traffic from the BK-side of the Brooklyn bridge up to Central Park South. Pedestrians, joggers, skaters and cyclists own the asphalt – as it should be. It’s one of those days that can only be described as perfect. The sun is warm but the air has a slight crispness, urging the sentient to hurry up and take that beach vacation because fall is only weeks away.

I am, well there’s not other way to describe it… strutting down Park Ave. Tall buildings either side give me a choice. Take the shade, or walk on the sunny side of the street? Lyrics to an old Broadway number whose purport I truly never grasped until I lived in NYC back in the 90s. It's a no brainer. Sunny side.

That I used to live in New York in the 90s is part of the reason why I am having the best damn day of my life. These were the days of Baby Gopal. We had a particular sound. The 90s had a particular sound. This particular sound was inherent in the bands of the day and right now I’m listening to some of the best female-fronted, what used to be called ‘college/alternative’ back in the day. Hatfield. Republica. Letters to Cleo. I apologize to no one. I’m singing out loud. These girls rocked my world then and they’re rocking it right this second.

The best days of my life (and yes I have many) are usually the result of a magic but simple cocktail of circumstances. August Bliss Martini: Gorgeous day. Strutting. Asphalt. Park Ave. College chick-alterna-rock. Singing out loud. Me. Alone. With. The. Universe. I like God again. I was pissed of at Him for a while.

I’m reliving the 90s. I’m blissfully happy. I am so happy that for some reason I want to call my ex. What the hell am I thinking? I can’t help it. He was part of it… until he wasn’t.

Wait it out. Don’t “drink and dial.” Don’t mistake a few sonically-induced errant endorphins for an intelligent idea. And stop being so damn sentimental.

Just living on a Sunday morning, got my toast and tea and I'm warm and I just thought I'd think about… all the things to get and keep getting, never enough, not enough and never ending. I just thought I'd think about....
And it might be...
The comfort of a knowledge of a rise above the sky, but could never parallel the challenge of an acquisition in the here and now, here and now.

Here and Now – Letters to Cleo 1994

Excerpt: Gurus, Rock Stars & the Men In Between ch 13

Strangely I am getting some of my sexual needs met through my classical Indian dance. OK, so that statement warrants elaboration. After my return from India and throughout my meltdown I continued my private studies in Mohini Attam and Odissi. This last year I added Kathak, a style from Northern India which is more upright, Mogul-inspired and features intoxicating fast turns that look like Sufis on crack. Clearly a naughty yogini in many ways, these post-Ashram years I’ve been getting my spiritual juice less from those aforementioned rules and regulations, and more through my dance and music. Particularly with dance I am satiated and lost in the sensuality and nuance of the different styles.

Classical Indian is part pure dance and part abhinaya (story telling). Through the use of gestures and mudras (hand movements), one recants stories of Gods and Goddesses that more often than not include the loving pastimes of Divine couples such as Radha and Krishna, Shiva and Parvati and so on. As a dancer matures the emphasis on the storytelling component increases to the point where it is possible and desired to lose oneself in meditation of the story being told. Between private lessons and my dance company’s choreography and performances, I lose myself in dance. This deep connection with my body, contemplation and active expression of esoteric subject matter helps me access and develop a deeply feminine side. Especially with the cutthroat business of real estate, this connection with the feminine is essential. I never want to become a high-powered super-bitch broker. I’m more than happy to let my job be the silent patron of my arts and nothing more.

New York in the summer

New York City in the summertime… I can’t quite tell if it’s heaven or hell. A bit of both I suspect. Hellish because of the extreme noise all the time, this place never shuts the hell up. After living in Los Angeles and by the water I realize what a luxurious necessity peace and quiet are. New York in the summer is also hotter than a lumberjack's armpit, and just as smelly. I don't recall it being this stinking hot when I lived here, but I guess the mind forgets.

On the flipside NYC is wonderful because it absolutely comes alive in summer with awesome free events throughout the city – perfect, because none of us are getting any sleep anyway. Thursday night I watched Hitchcock's Rear Window with Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly in Brooklyn Heights on the water's edge, overlooking lower Manhattan and the Statue of Liberty. These moments in the city are simply sublime. Last week I caught the Antlers and Dinosaur Feathers at Pier 54 on the Hudson River, and followed that with outdoor Salsa at 14^th and 9^th Ave, then a romantic walk on the High Line. Sweet stinking lumberjack, I’ll take the heat, the smell and raise you twice the noise. I want to do the free Shakespeare in the park, but not even the Bard can get me out of bed to line up at 6am in Central Park for tickets, which is what I hear it takes these days.

One last shout-out must go to the yoga studio winner YTTP. Yoga to the People is a donation-based studio with three NYC locations whose credo sums up what has been lost by corporate-run yoga studios, and what YTTP strives to maintain, i.e. yoga tuition that is accessible and available to all. All bodies rise! http://www.yogatothepeople.com/

Check out the links for just a few of this summer’s events:

Movies in parks, on Piers and rooftops

http://gonyc.about.com/od/summer/a/summermovies.htm

Concert series at Pier 54 http://riverrocksnyc.com/

The High Line is a park built on a section of a former elevated freight railroad spur, running along the lower west side between the Meatpacking District and the Westside Highway, starting at Ganesvoort St (approx 12^th St) running north to 20^th (eventually 34^th St). It’s gorgeous, low-key, and tastefully landscaped with flora native to the New York. I love it when a city gets it right! http://www.thehighline.org/

Excerpt: Gurus, Rock Stars & the Men In Between ch 3

Bizarre chemicals flow in my brain and in such a way as to take partial blame. I’ve contributed to his infidelity by being absent. Living my dream has left my man malnourished for love and attention, and his cheating is my punishment. Had I stayed, had I been with him and given him what he needed, he would not have been forced to look elsewhere. I’ve failed in my role as wife. I think about breaking up, but we don’t run in my family. We prefer to stay (and ideally, tear each other’s hair out). And he shows such sincere remorse. He likens his behavior to an addict forced to act against his will. He pleads repeatedly, this person, the one who cheats is not who he is or who he wants to be. The Rock Star wants to be a person of character, someone people can look up to. And that is who I want him to be. I need him to be a great man. I can’t accept that he is anything less. If I do, I might have to dismantle my world.

Our relationship has never been based on sex alone. Perhaps if our partnership started as most do, on the basis of sexual chemistry, this sacred bond that has been shattered would be enough for me to call it quits. It’s not like that for us. Sex entered the relationship so late that the physical is just another aspect of our deeper connection. A complex history with the shared nuances of our sabbaticals, the almost fate-inspired way in which we came together, and the work we’re currently doing creates a partnership that is about camaraderie first and foremost. With extreme poetic license, we are Bill and Hillary Clinton. I love my scoundrel. I imagine she does too. My Rock Star's affliction is his karmic burden in this lifetime. Every person is faced with a unique set of challenges to overcome in their life, and this is his. He could be an alcoholic or obese or suffer from cancer, all afflictions of the mind and body. As his spiritual well wisher and life partner, my role is to support him traverse and transcend a condition, which he sincerely appears to want to overcome. Of course cancer and obesity are not defects of character, but my naïve faith in the power of personal growth contributes to an unreal expectation for the possibility of change.

If he was showing no remorse, if he had snuck around and was only caught and had not candidly confessed, like ah… Bill, things might be different. His congenital Catholic guilt, and my codependent delusion that he can change are like a hand that has met its glove. I don’t think it’s diabolical, but somewhere in his life he has learned that confession leads to absolution. Clearly with me it does. But confession alone, without change, is like a dog barking at passing traffic. It has no impact.

The intimacy of disclosure is followed by great sex. Everyone knows makeup or breakup sex is better than mid-week doldrums sex, and we enjoy the same sick, heightened pleasure after his latest confession. It’s the only time I feel him emotionally present during our lovemaking, the only time when I feel our connection and his sincerity. Or is it the only time I feel mine?

Thinking of a million ways to help remedy the situation, and freshly inspired by my time out west, I introduce the concept of moving to California. Perhaps new surroundings and a healthier lifestyle can help us beat this demon. After six years in New York, the biting cold winters are becoming less quixotic. For an Aussie girl raised with surf and yearlong sunshine, the chilly winds find their way through my dozen layers of clothing and pierce me to my core. While I love the seasons, I’m almost certain winter hogs half the year. My retinas need more sunlight.

Bravo! to Bravo Network and Executive Producer Sarah Jessica Parker for "Work of Art: The Next Great Artist. Critics are worried it might prove too highbrow for a network whose audience enjoys the many incarnations of the "Real Housewives" of wherever. I hope they're wrong. Art is always subjective. I find myself arguing with the resident judges as they at times massage their critique to suit a certain modus operandi.

Last week the competitors were grouped into two, their mission, to create a piece of public art for a vacant lot in lower Manhattan. The "blue" group consisted of boobalicious Jaclyn, OCD-brilliant-heartthrob Miles, anger-issue Eric and perpetually-in-a-crazy-hat Peregrine. Their work was superior, far superior to the "red" group, but infighting between Eric and the others cost them the challenge. It's funny because resident judge Jeanne Greenberg Rohatyn was frank about the red group's neophyte installation calling it bad 70s art, but then backtracked in an attempt to prove the blue team the losers. The challenge was to create a compelling piece of art - something the blue team succeeding in doing. Why should they be punished for a lack of team cohesion? It's rare for true artists to be able to work in a team and under such extreme pressure. Regardless, I love this show!

August 14th is the date of the exhibition, unveiling the show's winner at the Brooklyn Museum of Art. I'll be there rooting for Abdi and Miles. And if Miles can show another flavor besides being the "comfort guy," my money's on him.