A few weeks have passed since I dipped my toes in the water and attempted to address some of the flotsam and jetsam that still bobs in the sannyasin ocean in the fretful wake of the demise of the Rajneeshpuram experiment more than 30 years ago.

Refreshing my salt-encrusted memory, flotsam represents debris not intentionally tossed from a vessel but which has wound up in the sea as a result of a shipwreck or accident. Conversely, jetsam describes debris deliberately thrown overboard by the crew of a ship in distress, usually to lighten the ship's load. I would like to say I chose this metaphor with great deliberation but the truth is it simply popped into my head after I returned from a refreshing dip in the sparkling waters of our local beach.

You probably get the drift. For many of us, ejection from the commune in late 1985 felt like a freak accident. How had it come to this, after all the years of creative toil and laughter and sweat and intensity? Certainly the script we had been handed in Poona did not countenance such an ending.

For others, it was as if we had been deliberately cut loose – chucked overboard, not so much to lighten the ship’s load, but to see whether we were capable of swimming on our own – or flying, if that imagery suits you better.

Whatever the case, there has been – and continues to be, a considerable wash-up. Conversation and correspondence are testament to this. In present day parlance, there has been much to ‘process’.

I have been heartened by the range and depth of responses to my article. About a third of my Facebook connections have a sannyasin background and I expected most of the interest would stem from those folk. That was true to some extent but a good many friends and relatives who do not share this past have since contacted me to say I opened a window into their understanding of what went on. Certainly, the blog entry ushered in some interesting and lively conversations.

As you might expect, there have been very few responses from those who might disagree with my assessment. With a couple of exceptions, most are silent. One correspondent maintains my commentary ‘would make everyone who didn't have the guts to be in the Osho commune have their hearts swell with satisfaction’. I take this to mean the people to whom he refers would rejoice in my critique (as it supports their hostile position). These people, in his eyes, lacked courage and by implication remained outsiders. Reading between the lines, this correspondent infers the ends justified the means, as he goes on to say there is no basis for comparison with what went on in Poona and Oregon with what happens in the wider world of ‘sex, fraud, legalized theft, rotten politicians and ….discrimination of all nature’.

While I have some sympathy for his analysis of the big, bad world I think it is myopic to exclude the Rajneesh episode from close scrutiny. You can still rejoice in how that immersion might have changed your life for the better but be clear-eyed about the pernicious elements. My wife – a perceptive reviewer of my scribblings – suggested the apparent dichotomy between ‘enlightenment’ and ‘shadow’ needs to be mentioned. At one point we may have assumed that a spiritual Master, having awakened to his or her true nature, would have had a light shone upon all aspects of their being – including the dark places that appear to reside in humans. Taking it a step further, an ‘en-lightened’ person would see clearly into their own shadow and not act from that place. Nowadays, many of us see ‘awakening’ as a work-in-progress – not as an end state resembling perfection. Greater discernment – which usually arrives well down the spiritual highway – enables us to recognise aspects of shadow in ourselves and others – including spiritual teachers. (And if we don’t see it in ourselves we sure as hell hope we have a true friend who will be prompt to oblige.)

Another correspondent is appreciative of my piece but states I have omitted one major element – namely that ‘Sheela lied to everybody, including Osho’. This stance goes to the heart of the never-ending argument about who was responsible and for what. I have not read in any detail the court documents the correspondent offers in support of his argument but I can’t imagine anyone would be surprised by the reference to ‘lies’. You don’t have to delve very deep into the written and spoken trail left by Osho, Sheela, and others to unearth a litany of untruth, deception, omission, and creative fabrication. For those of you who may have hoarded old copies of the Rajneesh Times, a quick perusal will uncover enough fake news to fill an auditorium.

Be that as it may, the underlying intention of my article was not to rake over coals but to present a personal perspective and pose some questions about what can be learnt.

Most of us who were there (at the coalface) are now various shades of grey. Whether or not wisdom goes hand-in-hand with the ageing process is moot. In fact, looking around, it’s hard to make a case that maturity and advancing years are necessarily in lockstep. And I’m talking about human behaviour at large, not only about those who have a proclaimed spiritual interest.

I guess the notion of behaviour is a fundamental ingredient in the basket of maturation. For me, theory and ideology follow in its wake. Human history, time and time again, has been swept along on the tide of ideology until it all ends in tears on a rocky shore. Charismatic teachers and leaders are powerful influencers of human behaviour, for better and for worse. They are also exemplars and Osho is no exception. Many of us who laughed at the absurdity of his multifaceted contradictions, acted out or excused far too much. While we often became more open and loving around one another and towards one another, we tended to push away anything that seemed to be at odds with our Great Dreaming. If there is anything to be learnt, it is that denial or avoidance of behaviours that strike an arrow at the core of our integrity will catch up with us, whether we are aware of it or not.

I tend to bang on about behaviour because of my own experience and what I have observed in others. Many of us have had a strong taste of Oneness (for want of a better word). We have had experiences that go beyond the usual identification as a body-mind organism. In our meditation we have rested in stillness. We have entertained blissful states. We know at a deeper level there is more on offer than a materially-oriented and conditioned life. And yet we live out our human lives as embodied entities and must embrace all this entails. Otherwise, our so-called spirituality may be a cop-out.

‘I’m an ordinary man’, said Osho. We smiled, as we gazed up at him, splendidly robed in his chair on the podium. If only. If only that ‘ordinariness’ had translated into his actions and attitudes. The wash-up may well have carried an altogether different flavour.

I can sense some of you squirming. ‘Ah, you’re missing the point. He knew what he was doing – trying to provoke us into a serious quest for transformation.’ Maybe.  Just maybe. But if you turn your gaze and look at his legacy, nearly three decades after his death, you might surely wonder how much was achieved, both individually and collectively. Maybe I’m colour-blind but I don’t see a whole heap of evidence of the ‘new man’ or the ‘new woman’. Sure, there seem to have been transformations among some former disciples (particularly, it appears, where they have embraced other teachers and/or practices). Sure, there has been a proliferation of Osho–style group leaders running psycho-spiritual gatherings – and many are extremely adept in what they offer – but we can wonder whether their day-to-day behaviours are all that different from the population at large? And assuming most of us don’t fall into either of these elevated camps, we can still re-examine our lives and evaluate our debt (or otherwise) to Osho. I reckon most of us would be in credit, especially where the plunge into sannyas kick-started our journey. There is a place for gratitude here – not an easy place for some to find but one borne out of taking responsibility for our choices and of accepting that apparent obstacles, deviations and cul-de-sacs seem part of the fabric of every worthwhile path of discovery.

Which brings me back to the present.  While we can ‘Be Here Now’ - what do we ‘Do Here Now’? Specifically, how do those with a spiritual interest – and the plethora of latter-day teachers – act towards themselves and others?

My contention, as you will have gathered, is that no amount of transformative experience or profound insight counts for much unless the person in the frame exhibits behaviours that are congruent with integrity and compassion. Otherwise we may get a cleverly-disguised power trip – an ego adventure that ultimately does not serve the person or his or her audience.

A few years ago I was invited to write an article for a sannyasin magazine. In the course of the article I wrote that I bumped into a well-known devotee with whom I had a short conversation. When I told her I had sat with a new teacher she looked at me in consternation. ‘You haven’t dropped sannyas, have you?’ The question caught me off guard. I later wrote that it felt as if I was talking to a nun from an established religious order, such was her conviction and apprehension.

Needless to say, the article did not see the light of day. One of the editors emailed back to tell me I should be ‘more meditative’.

Sadly, this form of censorship pervades the official sannyas scene. Nothing critical of Osho – at least to my knowledge – emanates from the ashram in Poona or from centres in other countries. Osho is revered, treated with kid gloves and the stories submitted by followers or former followers are tailored accordingly.

On an individual level, I know it’s possible to have a dialogue with people who are connected to these organisations but when it comes to making views public, there are exclusion zones. This is a pity because if Osho’s legacy is to stand for anything, the man himself could and should be the subject of robust debate.

There is something else that arises out of the group discourses on Facebook – an important consideration that is germane to the whole notion of building bridges and healing past trauma. I am talking about apologies. As we have seen here in Australia and elsewhere, the power of a heartfelt apology can be profound. Societies that show genuine remorse for past atrocities towards indigenous populations, abused children, and other groups affected by government actions and powerful interests, are showing the way towards healing and self-respect. Honesty – and the humility it often entails – can be one giant step on the road to reparation.

The same is true in spiritual circles. Osho is with us no more but most of those who were close to him and who carried out his wishes can still be found (although some don’t appear too anxious to show themselves). In my previous article I said that those who came too close to the sun tended to be the ones more severely burnt. This may in part explain their reticence to acknowledge their roles in the whole fandango. Some deflect responsibility onto others. Some minimise their involvement. Some remain mute. But rarely have I heard about commune leaders who have publicly acknowledged what they did or did not do, or offered any deeply-felt apology to those who they may have harmed or belittled.

If there are examples that contradict my understanding, I would be happy to hear of them.

By the way, as some of those with whom I have been intimate or in close friendship might testify, I am no paragon of virtue when it comes to past behaviour. Where possible, I’ve tried to make amends. And in the softening there is richness and a meeting place - a mutual readiness to embrace our essential connectedness.

As was once said to me: ‘Always act from your highest value’. I got it at the time – and just as quickly forgot it – but these were wise words and well worth remembering.

On this sultry summer’s day in Fremantle, I am transported back to music group in Poona and the incomparable voice of Anubhava:

There is so much magnificence………
Near the ocean…………..
Waves are coming in…………Waves are coming in……………..Waves are coming in………………..
 

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I can’t say I have a love affair with social media. Twitter, Instagram and Snapchat continue to elude me and I remain ambivalent about Facebook. Keeping up with family and friends, through their trips and shifts, carries a fleeting appeal – particularly where photographs are posted – and occasionally there are dashes of humour or referrals to subjects of interest. But when folk begin to pontificate and argue with one another the commentary quickly becomes polluted. I’m sure I’m not alone in sharing this sense of exasperation – not so much because there is anything intrinsically wrong with the medium but mainly the problem lies with the message and how it is delivered.

So it was with some trepidation that I began to read the unravelling discussions occurring within two Facebook groups – Poona One and Rajneeshpuram Residents. Neither group is open to the general public – you need to have spent time as a Rajneesh sannyasin, either in the first incarnation of the Rajneesh ashram in Poona (1974 – 1981) or in the Oregon commune, known colloquially as ‘The Ranch’ (1981 – 1985). As at the time of writing – January 2018 – the former group has 2401 members and the latter a total of 810. Potentially, this suggests an extensive readership and a variety of contributions.

Having now scrolled down the entries and tried to follow the various conversational ‘threads’, I can say my trepidation has been replaced by a sense of appreciation – both for the raw honesty of many highly personal disclosures and for the determined attempts to grapple with some of the issues that arise when one casts one’s lot with a guru or spiritual teacher. At last, I find myself mumbling. At last, a semi-organic and collective effort to shine a light on the events of the past and invoke a discourse that carries the possibility of understanding, clarity, and in some cases – the healing of lingering wounds.

But I have hesitated to join this discourse. It’s not that I haven’t any personal revelations of my own. It’s not because I have had little to say about these matters (as many old friends would attest). It’s not that I don’t have opinions. No, my hesitation has more to do with the nature of the Facebook discourse – a discourse that in rare moments can rise to great heights but for the most part staggers around the ring like a couple of punch-drunk fighters, jabbing ineffectively at one another or ducking blows, imaginary and real.

Even if my metaphor is a bit over the top, you get the drift. And Facebook is just another vehicle – a medium if you’d like – to enable us humans to engage in the delicate art of communication. We often kid ourselves we have mastered this art. We may consider ourselves careful readers or good listeners. We try to express ourselves both clearly and concisely and we are sure – or try to be sure – we are understood. We may have learnt how to be assertive rather than aggressive. We recognise the importance of language – how a misplaced word can give unexpected offence. If we are engaged in this particular ‘sannyasin’ discourse, we have probably meditated – perhaps for many, many years, and we consider ourselves self-aware, at least to a reasonable degree. There’s a fair chance we’ll have done our share of therapeutic work and we understand a bit about denial and projection and the futility of blame. We may even get to the point where we take full responsibility for our actions and not just lug it around as a nice idea.

Why am I banging on about this? I hope it will become clear to those of you who are motivated to follow this meandering contribution, wherever it leads. In short, though the Facebook conversation has provided a wonderful prompt – even an excuse if you like – I think the issues that are raised are incredibly complex and call for a careful and caring exploration into what each of us is trying to comprehend or achieve.

Let me begin by giving some kind of context for my own involvement. In 1977 I’d been married seven years and worked as a lawyer in Fremantle, Western Australia. We owned a house in a middleclass neighbourhood and lived within a short drive of our parents. My wife was a stay-at-home mum. Completing the nuclear family were our two young boys, aged five and three.

Neither Sue nor I were religious or consciously ‘spiritual’. Politically we were armchair left-wingers and socially we’d channeled excess energy into helping set up a Montessori school and a neighbourhood food co-operative (which was run from our garage). Out of the blue, through friends, we met orange-clad folk and heard about an Indian guru who they called ‘Bhagwan’. On cassette tapes we listened to his talks. We read his books – the transcriptions of these ‘discourses’. We attended a centre on the outskirts of Perth where we engaged in a smorgasbord of meditations and group work. Within a year we'd both ‘taken sannyas’ (much to the shock and horror of family and friends). Within another year we made separate visits to Poona; I quit work; we sold our house, donated the net proceeds to Rajneesh Foundation, and caught a plane to India. By that stage we were effectively separated. Our boys came with us.

Fast-forward seven years. I am on a yellow school bus, leaving the cowboy country of central Oregon for the coastal city of Portland. Light snow is falling. I am with my partner of one year. Accompanied by my two boys – now 13 and 11 – we are headed for San Francisco and then on to Sydney. Finally, in Perth, we will attempt to resurrect a life outside the commune. The commune – the magnificent dream – has imploded. Our leaders, with prosecution hovering, have flown the coop. The guru, arrested after attempting to flee the country, has been allowed to leave after some fancy legal footwork known in the trade as plea-bargaining.
Like others whose spiritual voyages will be in some ways similar, we experienced incredible highs, periods of deep stillness, great camaraderie, and challenges to mind and body, as we embraced an unfolding love affair with our guru and all he appeared to represent. The carrot of enlightenment dangled. We envisaged ourselves as the harbingers of a new society – an inexorably spreading community of the ‘awakened’. A ‘New Commune’ that would give rise to the ‘New Man’ (and by implication the ‘New Woman’).

Alas and alack it was not to be. Euphoria gave way to perplexity, confusion, disillusionment and, for some, a profound fear. Our own dark night of the soul, accompanied by perceived betrayal, mistreatment, anguish and heartbreak.

Over thirty years have elapsed. Bhagwan – who became Osho – is dead. His ashram in Poona has morphed into a Meditation ‘Resort’. Sincere folk, mostly from affluent countries, rock up. Some still ‘take sannyas’.

Those of us who were there in the early times have our memories, such as they are.  For a significant number these were halcyon days – never to be replicated. Such folk are usually immune to a conversation which endeavours to examine the other side of the coin – the shadow side of sannyas and the guru experiment. It is their right to do so and they are probably not the ones who have followed these threads on Facebook, let alone inclined to contribute their own two bob’s worth.

And then there are those who still have an unyielding belief in the omniscience of an ‘Enlightened One’ and/or a vested interest in holding Osho and his legacy at arm’s length from any criticism or critiquing. It is disappointing yet hardly surprising their voices are largely silent on enduring issues that attract the attention of many of us.

In the aftermath of the experiment, I was relatively fortunate. Initially it was a struggle to ‘return to the world’ but I was in Australia – quintessentially ‘the Lucky Country’. Though we lived for a time only a tad above the poverty line, doing cleaning and gardening jobs for a pittance, I had a profession upon which to fall back. And there was reconnection with old friends and family members with whom I began to mend fences, no longer bound up in a story of ‘them’ and ‘us’. Gradually I weaned myself off the sannyas network, as did my partner. This was not a deliberate rejection of our immediate past but rather an attempt to find our feet and function within the wider community.

Like others with whom we have spoken and shared stories, those years in the protective cocoon of the commune did not adequately prepare us for life on the outside. Suddenly, we faced a multiplicity of challenges – how to earn an income, how to relate to and nurture children who themselves had to readjust to schooling and society, and of course how to evolve and flourish in our intimate relationships. (Changing the restaurant every other week no longer seemed a viable option!) As Jack Kornfield puts it so crisply: ‘After the ecstasy, the laundry’.

For us, there was a lot of laundry as we stumbled and bumbled along in a world we thought we had left behind when the spiritual search kicked in.

Which brings me back to some key questions, the most obvious of which is: ‘What went wrong?’

If you posed this question to 100 current or former sannyasins you would probably get 100 different answers, ranging from scathing accounts blaming everybody and anybody - to saccharine assessments along the lines of ‘everything that happened was meant to happen’ and was inherently perfect.

The vast majority of us, I imagine, do not camp at either extreme on this spectrum. We will have our opinions and make our judgments and if we are prone to re-laundering our linen we will try to have conversations with those who are also keen not to ignore the past but to unravel its significance. The Facebook discourses are testament to that impulse.

Like many of you, I have read and watched numerous offerings – books, articles and documentaries – from those with past or present sannyasin affiliations to commentators who have looked in from outside the tent and arrived at their own conclusions. Unsurprisingly, these portrayals range from rose-coloured hagiographies to savage critiques.
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Where does the ‘truth’ reside?

‘Groan, groan’, I hear from the wings. Impossible question. A question that simply accentuates a raft of individual opinions and perspectives. A question that again invites more heat than light.

I agree. Far better to pose something along the lines of: ‘What can we learn?’ Such a question inevitably leads us into examining the past and exploring its significance for our individual and collective futures. In that way we might even marry the ideals and aspirations of youth with the discernment that a more mature understanding can bring. There’s a lot at stake here and it’s worth the effort.

If we take a helicopter view of the Rajneesh experiment we can come up with a number of general propositions, most of which have provoked – and continue to provoke – fervent debate and analysis. Here, I’m apt to use the royal ‘we’ but fully accept these are my opinions – opinions based upon experience and observations within the ashram and commune and developed and honed over the thirty plus years since I left Oregon on that snow-blessed day in early winter.
 

1. For two decades ‘Bhagwan’ Shree Rajneesh exercised major influence if not absolute control over the affairs of the Poona ashram and its successor – Rajneeshpuram in Oregon, USA.
2. Legal entities such as Rajneesh Foundation and Rajneesh Foundation International were essentially shams, with the guru fictionally at arm’s length but in practice responsible for core decisions and policy direction. In other words, his role went well beyond spiritual or religious matters.
3. At the Poona ashram, until the influx of disciples became too large, Osho – chiefly through his administrative head, Ma Yoga Laxmi – gave explicit directions concerning the lives of individual sannyasins.
4. In the Oregon commune, Ma Anand Sheela – who’d replaced Laxmi – interpreted and carried out her Master’s instructions, supported by an inner circle (primarily women).
5. From the outset, Osho appeared to deliberately fan controversy – verbally skewering political figures like Indira Gandhi and Moraji Desai and icons such as Mother Theresa and Mahatma Gandhi. This ‘attack-dog’ mode continued when he moved to Reagan’s America, fostering a mentality of ‘them’ and ‘us’ among his followers.
6. Though he spoke eloquently and knowledgably about major contributors to various religions and wisdom traditions, he had little time for contemporary spiritual teachers. In his own assessment, he was the ‘Master of Masters’.
7. Western disciples – predominantly from Europe, North America, New Zealand and Australia – by and large showed up with scant knowledge or understanding of the concept and traditional role of an Eastern guru. This left them open to exploitation.
8. In their quest for spiritual guidance and besotted with a charismatic guru, disciples shucked off the perceived constraints of their upbringing, often abandoning the ethical norms that underpinned their cultures.
9. Exhorted to ‘leave your mind at the front gate’, devotees were prone to ignore or laugh off contradictions, implausible explanations, and aberrant behaviours of both the guru and one’s fellow disciples. These were categorised as ‘devices’ – radical methods and means of propelling you towards greater insight and self-awareness.
10. Flowing from the above proposition, the notion of ‘surrender’ was misconstrued. Instead of acting from a sense of discernment, we were dealt a card stating: ‘Father Knows Best’.  Put another way, the spiritual adept sees things as they are. He’s climbed the mountain; the disciple is stuck in the foothills. So, if you are serious about spiritual growth and inner transformation – do as you’re told!
11. Though one was allegedly in a ‘commune’ this conferred no effective right of discussion, consultation or shared decision-making. Hence, anything ‘personal’ was subsumed to the Greater Vision emanating from above.
12. If you disagreed with any decision or situation, the choice was stark. Shape up – or ship out. (At Rajneeshpuram, this became the option of desperation for some; other recalcitrants were simply booted from the nest.)
13. Love is indeed blind. When questioned about their motivations, sannyasins will often speak in terms of the ‘love affair’ with the guru and of ‘heart openings’ and the like. Certainly that was part of my experience.
14. We may also talk fondly about a deep stillness and sublime energy that infused us in the presence of our guru. This ‘energy field’ was both uplifting and addictive. To spiritual noviates, it seemed the presence of the Master was an essential determinant of our present and future wellbeing. It was quite a hook!
15. Many of the points raised above contributed to a climate of acquiescence (sometimes accompanied by fear or ignorance) that led to abuses of power, great and small. As those of you who take an interest in this area will know, ‘power imbalance’ comes in many forms – political, social, religious, sexual, physical, cognitive, emotional, and occupational – to name some key categories. And although the idea of ‘power’ can seem straightforward, its exercise can be incredibly nuanced. Some contributors to the Facebook discussion clearly recognise this.
16. Scapegoating or blaming others is a strong tendency on the part of those who refuse to accept let alone address any role they might play in a given scenario. When this tendency becomes a hallmark of one’s spiritual teacher – and infiltrates his community – trouble brews. In fact, it’s fatal, no matter how ‘enlightened’ one’s teacher might be.

 
It is not my purpose here to offer evidence or cite examples to back up the claims I’m making. There is material a’plenty to be found in print and film and in the anecdotes that continue to emerge. There are also contrary or opposing versions especially around where and how responsibility should fall. Some folk place the mantle of blame on Sheela and those around her. They cannot or won’t entertain the notion their beloved guru bears any responsibility. Others in this camp take it further. In their eyes Osho was persecuted by the US and Indian governments and their instrumentalities. He was misunderstood and very much a victim.
 
I think these folk are blindsided by their love affair at best and in wilful denial at worst. Common sense and an abundance of evidence build a compelling case that Osho was the author of his own misfortunes – and, sadly, the primary instigator of the misfortunes of his devoted audience as well as others in the wider community.
 
So what can be learnt?
 
In June 2000 I was up in the Kimberley region of Western Australia with about 50 others. We had completed a silent retreat, walking with camels along the banks of the Fitzroy River and surrounding country. Back in Broome we broke our silence and shared stories. Many of the participants had been with spiritual teachers of one kind or another. As we listened to each other it became clear there were shared themes. We could all talk from experience of the sincerity and innocence that spurred us to forsake our normal lives and cast our lot as seekers. To an amazing extent our journeys mirrored one another. However, the endings were rarely pretty – abuses of power involving the usual trifecta (sex, money and authority) – and a period of confusion often followed by betrayal and bitterness. Osho had his own inimitable style but he was not alone.
 
Another interesting by-product was that the closer a disciple got to the seat of power, the greater the severity of the burns. And in the aftermath it was often a tangled web of shame, guilt, fear and anger that induced these acolytes to withdraw and stay silent. Around Osho, there were those who were privy to material and instructions that were not available to the majority of commune residents. Some served jail terms for their activities. Some came clean, making depositions and swearing affidavits before the courts. One or two wrote books or were interviewed for documentaries. But none, to my knowledge, accepted unequivocal responsibility for their role in the drama. In at least one instance, ‘brainwashed’ was advanced as the underlying reason for illegal or abhorrent behaviour.
 
Even if we were far removed from these events, many of us had qualms at one time or another but kept our heads below the parapet. In the early days of Rajneeshpuram I went to Sheela, distressed over our treatment of the (mostly elderly) residents of Antelope. Literally, we used our numbers to take over the town. The party line painted these people as reactionary rednecks but it was clear we were the aggressors. Sheela looked me in the eye and said: ‘It comes from Bhagwan’. Left with no wriggle room, I backed off – as did others when concerns arose.
 
Mariana Caplan, in her book, Eyes Wide Open lists ten STDs – Spiritually Transmitted Diseases. Most are relevant to the Osho era but one that leaps from the page is ‘The Chosen-People Complex’ – a belief your guru and your community of followers is ‘more spiritually evolved, powerful, enlightened’ than any other. This elitist stance immediately alienates you from everyone outside the group and is allied with another STD – Group Mind – ‘group think, cultic mentality or ashram disease’…..an ‘insidious virus that contains many elements of traditional co-dependence’. Does that resonate with any reader who has been around communes and spiritual teachers?
 
Caplan quotes from Paramahansa Yogananda, the author of Autobiography of a Yogi. ‘Truth is not afraid of questions.’ I wish this was sewn into every robe, shirt, sari, and jacket worn by spiritual teachers across the globe. I wish it was built into the DNA of every self-proclaimed seeker. And I wish it was honoured to the max. With Osho, apart from the period he went into silence, there was always scope for questions. In fact we secretly delighted in hearing our questions read out in morning discourse. But heaven forbid if we ever questioned our guru or his methods. Forget it.
 
In my seven years in the commune I can’t recall any public discussion around the exercise of spiritual power. I can remember Osho exhorting his group leaders to ‘do his work’ and making it clear to us the likes of Laxmi and Sheela were there purely to do his bidding (except towards the end when he shovelled all blame onto ‘Sheela and her gang’). If there is any lesson to be learned about spending time with a guru or person of spiritual or even therapeutic authority, then it will be around their willingness not only to challenge those who come before them but to be challenged. Otherwise the wheel of power and control will spin endlessly.
 
In recent times, with enquiries into child abuse in religious and state institutions, we have seen how silence and denial has impacted upon survivors. Across the community, in show business, politics, media organisations and elsewhere, the conspiracy of silence has allowed (mostly) male perpetrators to inflict sexual harassment and violence upon women. There is now a broad consensus these behaviours need to be exposed and acknowledged if meaningful healing is to result. In the so-called spiritual sphere, where similar dynamics have existed and continue to exist, it is equally important to shine a fierce light.
 
Nowhere perhaps is this more poignant than in the case of Rajneeshee children. We – the parents – had choice. We elected to become disciples, to abandon family life, and to embed ourselves in communes. Our children – usually quite young – had no such choice. Generally they came with us and were themselves initiated into sannyas and given Hindu names. One could hardly argue they had choice, let alone informed consent!
 
Encouraged by our Master, our focus was upon individual ‘growth’- the ultimate goal, our enlightenment. Meditation (in many guises) was seen as the pathway, abetted by group and individual therapies (often derived or adapted from the Human Potential practices of California). Within the Poona ashram, children were tolerated – just. Mostly they ran wild, forming close bonds with one another and sporadically attending a sannyasin-run school (of sorts). Some stayed with their parents; moving into kids’ dorms when parents obtained ashram accommodation. In Oregon things were a trifle better organised. Those of school age combined school in nearby Antelope with work in the various commune departments. At night they slept in children’s dormitories, overseen by parents on roster.
 
Away from the strictures of a nuclear family, many children seemed to flourish under this laissez-faire regime. In the main they led joyful, happy young lives – spending time with their peers and forming healthy bonds with adults including their parents. Others – as has subsequently come out in spades – were not so lucky.
 
‘It takes a village to raise a child.’ That sounds good on paper and may well influence the thinking of those who want to escape suburbia and raise kids in a wholesome, holistic, supportive and caring community. The problem, as always, is with the nature of the particular community, commune or village. Historically, there have been indigenous societies where the rearing of children was seen as a collective responsibility. But those societies had explicit protocols and customs that governed behaviour, and usually had firm hierarchies as well as consultative processes and decision-making mechanisms involving leaders and groups of elders. Without such structures, developed over long periods, latter-day imitations tend to struggle.
 
Certainly there is a strong argument we, as parents and as a Rajneesh community, failed our children in many ways. At the outset, Osho discouraged parents bringing children, claiming (correctly, one concludes) they would be a distraction and interfere with the meditative flavour of the ashram. Parents themselves were often split between the duty of care to their young ones and the desire for personal transformation. And within this free-flowing, anything-goes cultural milieu it is hardly surprising there were transgressions, particularly against teenage girls and young women.
 
If nothing else, the Facebook commentaries have highlighted this sorry facet of commune life and given a voice to those who have suffered hurt and trauma. The exchanges have also brought home how much was unknown, unexpressed or unacknowledged at the time. Within the commune, many of us knew of or experienced things that went against the grain. Sometimes we spoke up, only to be slapped down. But few, if any, understood the extent of the malaise. We might have had access to a handful of pieces but not enough to complete the jigsaw. I say this not by way of excuse but in explanation of general ignorance. Having since spoken to women (now mothers themselves) who were commune children, my eyes have been opened to the depth and breadth of sexual activity and, at times, coercive behaviour on the part of older men. As parents, we should have picked up on this – and acted – but in the main we did not. And neither, as far as I’m aware, did the ashram and commune administrators intervene or respond effectively to any complaints – quite the opposite, according to some accounts. (‘It’s not our problem’.)
 
So the boil has now been lanced – to the immense relief of some and to the chagrin of others.
 
Yes, a boatload of anger and hurt will come out. There will be tears. But these will be transitory phenomena. On a deeper level I believe people are well capable of moving on. There is a vast residue of compassion in most of us and a strong desire to reconcile the events of the past.
 
Hopefully, we can look back on that past with clear eyes. Hopefully, we can be honest with ourselves and with each other. Hopefully, those who cling to fixed positions and inflexible beliefs may be motivated to open to other possibilities.
 
And hopefully, many of those who have kept away from these issues will be induced to share and participate in a respectful and ongoing conversation.
 
In my commune days we had a wonderfully disparaging word to dismiss any concerns one might harbour. To be ‘negative’ was a cardinal sin. It makes me chuckle now when I think about it but at the time it wasn’t so funny. I mention this because much of what I have written can be construed as a dismissal of the guru experience and Osho in particular. This is not my intention. When I took that fork in the road it was with the recognition I had no idea where it might lead. In the Rajneesh washing-machine I was upended and came to know myself in ways that would have not been possible had I remained on the periphery. For this I am grateful and have no regrets.
 
But – and this is a big ‘but’– despite the fact I was a thirty year-old, educated professional, I was spiritually and psychologically immature and unable to maintain the level of discernment necessary to distinguish the wheat from the chaff. Only the passage of time and an evolving psycho-spiritual exploration has helped synthesise experiences and understanding. (And having a loving partner who has shared this journey with me has been of immense value.)
 
Like others, I am able to look back on the adventures of the 70s and early 80s as a period of heightened states, emotional upheaval, blissful interludes, joy and laughter – a mad and dynamic heart-burster as we embarked on a spiritual roller-coaster. For the most part we were young, idealistic and sincere. We were also unprepared for a guru tradition that went back many centuries. For sure, we were ill-equipped to stand steady in the face of the overwhelming entity that was Osho. Our innocence was bound to come a cropper – and it did.
 
So what - if anything - has been learnt?
 
You – those of you who have passed through this fire – will make your own personal assessments. I can only speak for myself. For some years I was too busy getting re-rooted in ordinary life to pay attention to anything that smacked of spirituality. Then, as spiritual teachers began to sprout like mushrooms, I dipped my toes back in the water. Once more, I was nourished and inspired. But something had changed. The urge to find a specific teacher or live in a commune had passed. Guidance was fine but I had to locate my own inner authority and live to the best of my ability from a place of integrity and openness. Yes, fine words. A big ask - meeting (let alone welcoming!) the day-to-day challenges of an embodied existence.
 
The journey continues. Times have changed. Books have been written about common pitfalls along the path. Philosophers such as Ken Wilber offer theoretical frameworks for making sense of the many wisdom traditions and contemplative practices. Spiritual teachers are challenged by their students. Online interview forums like Buddha at the Gas Pump bring teachers into living rooms throughout the world. Seekers have a far better chance of proceeding with ‘eyes wide open’ but nothing can be taken for granted. Any impulse towards a teacher or teaching needs to be tempered with discernment - moment to moment, on every level.
 
There’s a slogan doing the rounds: ‘Wake up, Clean up, Grow up’. I smile wanly. If only it was that easy.
 
******
 
 Bruce Menzies - January 2018

                                                                    
America has a new President-elect. The planet is awash with all manner of opinion and outpourings of emotion. If there is any consensus – and even this is debatable – this is a pivotal moment in the 21st century, if not in a longer period of human history.

Timing is everything. Within 48 hours of the election, news came through that Leonard Cohen had passed away in Los Angeles. When I went around the corner to our local deli to buy my Saturday paper I happened to mention that a great man had left us. “Who was it,” said the proprietor as he took my money. “Leonard Cohen,” I replied. “Never heard of him,” he said.

I tucked the paper under my arm and returned home musing about the nature of assumptions. Cohen’s death was on radio and television and in the newspapers. Tributes poured in from around the world. Many of my Facebook friends were sharing links to YouTube clips and old interviews. Everyone seemed to be affected. As with the best of artists, Cohen’s work crossed borders and opened hearts and minds.
But my deli man had never heard of him. I’d thought everyone over 50 in my home town – and plenty under 50 – knew of Cohen. Wrong. Another assumption consigned to the dustbin.

I am thinking about this now because I am thinking about how we communicate with each other. Many of us can mount an argument and hold an opinion. We live in countries where we are free to speak out, albeit with increasing constraints. We are comfortable in the company of those who share our views; less so with others.

During my working life as a mediator I was constantly exposed to extreme levels of intransigence. In standing up for what they believe to be their rights, people hold on to rigid positions. Often to their own detriment they refuse to entertain other options or show much desire to think creatively outside their normal frames of reference.

Predictably, such attitudes usually result in frustration, blame and recrimination. This broad psychology is seen to apply on many levels, including the body politic.

Yet people assume solutions can be found if only we were more rational, more loving, more tolerant, better informed, and prepared to cooperate rather than truck out endless obstacles.
On a political level we want our elected government to govern decisively and implement promises.
If only it was that easy. If only.

In the marketplace of the disaffected, slogans prevail and strike home. Politicians put hand to heart and try to soothe. Good luck! ‘Governing for everybody’ has a hollow ring. Nobody believes it. In Aussie-speak, such a fluttering doesn’t pass the pub test. It doesn’t even come close.

Naturally enough, there is immense speculation how a Trump presidency will play out. Badly bitten by their inability to forecast anything other than a Clinton victory, many commentators and pundits are now hedging their bets. Others, gun-shy (or honest), declare they haven’t a clue.

If there is consensus about anything it is that the Western democratic model, if not exposed as a busted flush, at the very least contains a sizeable fracture which may or may not be capable of remedial work.
At the heart of things, according to ‘integralist’, Robb Smith, is ‘The Great Divide’. The Western world has split into two disparate camps – globalists and tribalists. The relentless economic-expansionist-consumerist agenda of the first has resulted in the disillusionment and disenfranchising of the second. Economic statistics bear out that despite huge advances in technology and the liberalisation of trade in the last thirty or so years, wealth has become more and more concentrated in the hands of a few at the expense of the many.

In places like the rust belt states of America, those who have seen their incomes remain static or shrink, their purchasing power decrease, and their jobs evaporate, the shining promise of globalisation has brought hardship and despair. These people, the tribalists, have woken up to the fact they don’t have to buy this promise any longer. They can have an impact through the ballot box and that is precisely what they have done – and will continue to do in other countries in coming years.

How can they be so ungrateful?

For those of us who by any reasonable measure can be said to have prospered and lead relatively comfortable, sheltered lives, this is a question we may mouth silently to ourselves but never air publicly. After all, aren’t these people in some way responsible for their own misfortune – failing to adapt, unprepared to use their initiative, stuck in their small-town ways – and even if they are not, isn’t this just the collateral damage of economic progress?
Though we may not think let alone articulate such dark judgements, those of us who consider we have received some tangible benefits from this brave new technological world may still feel helpless as to what we can personally do about things. After all, the world’s a complex place and it’s hard enough to get an individual foothold let alone think seriously about the rest of humanity. And if we do, the chances are we may wind up with compassion-fatigue or be numbed by the ceaseless images of misery that transit our television screens.

Even if we don’t identify with the so-called elites, we can become paralysed by the actions and attitudes of those in our society who on some primordial level might repulse us. Building bridges or reaching out in any meaningful way can seem way too hard.

Rather than lead with the language of inclusion and an appeal to our higher values, our leaders, in the heat of electoral battle, tend to go low. A grimy discourse of accusation and innuendo. A public theatre where barbs are traded and point-scoring is king. That’s politics, folks. A modern colosseum where any noble intentions are soon buried in the compost heap of one-upmanship. Relentless partisanship trumps noble intentions every time, as political noviates soon find out

And we, the public, shake our heads and wonder why it is ever thus.

There’s a cute photo doing the rounds. It features a much younger Hillary and Bill. They look quintessentially 1960s –fresh-faced, cheerful, optimistic. He asks her: ‘Do you think one, or even both of us, might be President one day?’ She says: ‘Yeah right. When Bob Dylan wins the Nobel Prize for Literature’.

Unfortunately for Hillary, Bob did get the chocolate while she faltered at the last hurdle. Like Mary Antoinette, the first woman almost-to-be President of the USA will be remembered for a certain phrase.  Rather than instruct the peasants to eat cake, poor Hillary simply lumped them into a hand-basket of deplorables. Not cool. At least no guillotine awaits her. Just regret.

Whatever the case, this rather significant misstep can be turned on its head. Rather than remain an unexamined psychic phenomenon, Hillary’s attitude – one that is secretly shared by many others – can be used as a beacon of instructive self-honesty. Far from the usual fine (if empty) words of mainstream political oratory, this evocative slur exemplifies how much work is needed before the first pylon on any bridge of reconciliation is sunk. Forget cake. There is a lot of humble pie upon which to chew.

In ‘The Morning After’ Smith writes:

For a tribalist, the fury of unredressed grievances at a tone-deaf establishment that’s seen the middle class struggle is a totalizing force in their political life: no moral principles, no economic argument, no social empathy can sway them from declaring that “anything goes” in a war on the agenda of the globalists as long as tribalists feel unseen, unheard and continue to lose economic, political and cultural ground in their home lands. This is a fundamental value and need, and the safety, security and identity which consumes it is prior to any later-stage values that might arise once it’s satisfied.

For the globalist, on the other hand, the sanctity of liberal principles — the rule of law, equal protection under the law, the peaceful transfer of power, equal rights for the marginalized — these are the inviolable sacreds for which no political compromise can be entertained. But they are significant values, arising only after basic security and safety has been met. (For evidence in another part of the world, consider the struggle of liberal democracy to take root in the Middle East.)
Smith says it’s easy to disregard the fears and anger of others if we ourselves do not feel threatened by the pace of change. His plea is that we engage in practical and enduring ways with those who may not share our values. We, the fortunate, need to get out of our ‘echo chambers’ despite the discomfort this might cause.

Is this plea itself utopian?

As a former mediator I appreciate the challenges inherent in trying to build effective and lasting bridges between people whose views seem diametrically opposed. Most people in conflict feel they have very good reasons for the positions they adopt (and often cling onto for dear life). Holding the space for these people to open gradually to the possibility of other perspectives and perhaps outcomes with which everybody could live, is a delicate art.

On a political level, this art needs to become writ large. Not only in America but in countries across the globe, we have become accustomed to gridlock, where political posturing becomes a means in itself and despite the protestations of elected folk of all political persuasions, national and community interest is submerged. And, to mangle a metaphor, from that impasse flow the twin streams of frustration and recrimination.

As other commentators indicate, leadership is a key. In the absence of clear, courageous leadership, even the best of policies tend to fall by the wayside. Self-interest will rule. And with multiple, accumulating challenges to the very survival of the species that inhabit Planet Earth – humans included - it’s surely high time that we, the lucky ones, moved beyond pure self-interest.

Where to start? Leadership! My American friends will be choking on their muesli. Like many of us in other places, they soared high when Obama triumphed eight years ago. A black man crossed the Rubicon and ascended to the highest office in the land. He was ‘our kind of guy’ and his inspiring oratory touched us deeply.

Of Hillary we became less certain. But when we looked at the alternative, it was a no-brainer. Hillary might show up with tired and torn baggage and fail to inspire in the manner of her predecessor but she looked eminently capable of leading a nation. Trump, on the evidence of his adult lifetime, does not. At least this is what I imagine my American friends are thinking and in many cases fuming about.

Ah, leadership. Assuming the United States of America – and on some level the rest of the world – is stuck with The Donald for at least the next four years, what can we ordinary folk do about it?

For a start it strikes me as a waste of time and energy (not to mention counterproductive) to join throngs of angry marchers chanting slogans or to sign petitions seeking to have the election result overturned on the grounds the majority of people (as opposed to the electoral colleges) voted for Hillary. ‘Not my President’? Not my choice would be more accurate, if less emotionally gratifying. As for the 46.9% of the population who failed to vote – well, for them neither candidate would get a gig. Dummy spitting, like most forms of bodily expulsion, grants instant relief - but Bernie wasn’t on the ticket.

Should the country go through further convulsions and the election result be overturned, a Clinton presidency, in all likelihood, would usher in chaos. The tribalists, to use Smith’s term, would be up in arms – perhaps literally. Already sorely aggrieved, can you imagine what would happen if their Man lost the opportunity to Make America Great Again?

No, for those of us further back from the furnace, time and energy would be better spent  figuring out ways to heal our own wounds and help repair or establish connections with those sections of society that are seemingly alien to us.

There is no simple recipe as to how that might be done.

Each Thursday I go walking with three friends. Collectively, we call ourselves the four amigos. There is an element of bravado about that description, combined with a whiff of nostalgia. For in truth, if age and gender and skin tone were the only criteria with which to judge us, we could be called a quartet of OWMs (‘Old White Men’). So be it. We are good mates and voice our opinions vigorously (and sometimes even listen to one another). But of course we are individuals. One of us spends a lot of time working with people. Another, more recently retired, enjoys his workshop. A third is at home in the outback, while I have become persistent scribbler. Our personalities are different (thank God!) Sometimes our interests converge; in other cases they do not. I mention this only to emphasise that although we are good friends and share similar backgrounds, we do not take each other for granted as we wrestle with questions about how we might best live out our remaining years and contribute to a world that has given us so much.

It is relatively easy to hang out with people who broadly share your values. Should you have similar interests, this can be doubly enriching. Yet the rubber really hits the road when you encounter situations with your friends or your partner or your family or your workmates where there is profound disagreement as to the way ahead. To further complicate matters, most of us are conditioned to deal with conflict in a handful of ways: we run away, we get aggressive, or we are rendered immobile. Yes, the standard psychological reactions of flight, fight, or freeze – and more nuanced variations depending on the circumstances.

These reactions are particularly pertinent in the current context. They are not only the reactions of individuals. Societies or social groupings tend to function in this way when things get really tough. As with life in general, these reactions usually do not proceed in a neat, linear process. They skip about and often overlap. On an individual level we may do our best to avoid an argument with a partner or a colleague - then something is said or done which tips us over the edge and we lash out. In the next breath, we might be apologetic and attempt to restore the status quo – or ‘move forward’, as is said these days by all and sundry. If our adversary in that moment is able to ‘hear’ our attempt to retrieve the situation, our relationship can be back on track. But if they are still stunned by our aggression or too hurt to respond affirmatively, instant repair work will not be possible.

The point I’m trying to make is that interpersonal conflict between individuals is already complex. When individuals are aggregated into a society or a section of society, then conflicts assume a greater level of complexity, magnified by the uniqueness of each organism within that grouping.

This seems to be stating the obvious. But our aversion to complexity also forms part of the mix. We have the paradox, accentuated since the Enlightenment, that individualisation has become more and more possible and indeed encouraged while at the same time there is an enduring cri de coeur for strong leadership and direction. We want to be able to make our way but at the same time we realise we do not operate in a vacuum. It is a big, bad world out there and somebody needs to take control.

Much has been written recently about the global elites and those left behind on the other side of the Great Divide. Many people – young folk in particular – don’t fit into either camp. Some of them we could call the Purists. Those who value consensus, diversity, equality, fairness. They feel alienated from materialism and are deeply concerned for the environment. They are doves in a world of hawks.

Which launches me, a greybeard, into the mysterious realm of memory, observation……and assumptions about what it is like to be a 20 or 30-something. 
​ 
For the young and freshly educated, ideals loom large. The pain of a fragmented society is acute. And many young people first experience this pain within their own families and communities long before they lift their eyes to the wider world. Such suffering translates into a conviction that things should be better. Their elders don’t seem to have managed very well. None of the political recipes on offer appear to work. Things need to change.

Young people, by and large, see no merit in conflict. They hold out hope we should be able to get on with each other. War is abhorred. Diversity is respected. There is only one Earth and we need to care for it.

How many generations experience these symptoms? Certainly some of us who come from the benighted baby boomers have run this idealistic gauntlet. (I say ‘some’ because most of my generation simply eased into an affluent adulthood without any obvious signs of angst or self-reflection.)
But the young are easily disillusioned. They might feel a healthy sense of personal power but soon recognise their impotence. Their elders show no signs of having the capacity to right the ship. In fact there is every indication things will get worse.

When they don’t get their way – most recently exemplified by the non-selection of Bernie Sanders -optimism can turn to anger or despair. At the extreme end, the violence they abhor becomes the violence they initiate. One moment a cooing, caring dove; the next, a swooping, shrieking hawk.

In this evolutionary deflowering, most young people either grow up or grow cynical. Their self-talk may be along the lines of ‘if I can’t beat these bastards and I may as well look out for myself and join the fun’. Or there is always the option to drop out and seek a simple life, hidden from the perceived rat race.

Young folk, like everyone else, need to learn how to embrace complexity. This is a lifelong learning. I am always surprised how little this need is articulated in the media. True, it is mentioned in serious commentary but it is a message that must be explored and refined continually.

You dream, I can hear one of my close friends saying. We now live in the world of Twitter and Facebook and a myriad of instant opinions. Who now has any time or inclination to grapple with analyses that might be more than 140 characters in length?

My friend could even go as far as to suggest I am pissing into a gale, as I perch in my eyrie, staring at a monitor and watching these words appear on the screen. (A tribute to whiz-bang voice recognition technology.) Words, words, and more words. I would more useful to Gaia simply weeding my garden. He may be right. Most of us know we live in a bloody complex and difficult world and we may not want to hear somebody banging on about it ad nauseam.

But I will continue to bang on for a while. If nothing else, it helps to clear my own head and I only hope it doesn’t saturate the brain cells of you, dear reader. (And salutations to those who have sailed this far with me, blown by a light breeze across a 3000-word ocean.)

If my active mind is any indication, the horizon is not yet in sight. Thoughts arise and disappear. Some will be captured, momentarily like a stray butterfly and then released. Others will be held, pondered upon and developed.  Thought processes are a metaphor for our daily lives. In the course of the 24-hour cycle, we may seem to move to a regular beat, doing the things we did the day before, holding the same concerns, repeating old patterns. If we look carefully, it won’t all be total repetition. It’s a fresh river, moment to moment. Ever-changing thoughts, actions, insights, interests – even if some shifts are minuscule or comparatively unimportant – they will be there if we look.

How is this relevant? I’m not sure but it seems to speak both to the transient nature of time and the opportunities with which we are presented. When I cast a glance over my shoulder I see forks in my road. Choices, or the appearance of choices. People who have influenced me. Ideas that captured my imagination. Art that has moved me. An ever-unfolding, multilayered rhapsody we call ‘life’. In my case, a very lucky life.

All of this is relevant to the perspectives I am offering here. Much earlier, I mentioned that Robb Smith is self-described as an ‘integralist’. As I was dictating this description I was wondering if I knew (or simply assumed I knew) what he meant. At the turn of the century I was a voracious consumer of the works of Ken Wilber, becoming familiar with integral ideas in the way Wilber conceptualised them. His work resonated with me, and still does to a large extent. So when I read ‘The Morning After’ and then ‘The Great Divide’ I was pretty sure I understood where Smith was coming from. But I am equally aware that those of you who are now soaking up or skimming over my words may not be conversant with Wilber or people like Clare Graves who pioneered the model that became Spiral Dynamics. There will be others, of course, who will have a much more complete understanding than I do.

It is not my purpose to go into these ideas here (and those of you who are interested can explore the various authors at your leisure). But I am mentioning this aspect of my intellectual development to illustrate how theoretical models can enforce and enhance our understanding as well as expanding or altering our world views. Contrary to certain contemporary spiritual approaches, I am a great fan of intellectual endeavour. The poor old ‘mind’ has been given a bad rap in some quarters and rightly so. Rationality and rationality alone, at least in my experience, eventually arrives at a dead-end. For most of us it is the ruler rather than the servant. But welcoming the mind into the tent has been an essential part of my own journey and I feel much the richer for it.

Which takes me back to the world of theory. Most people would look askance if you suggested to them their lives were lived according to theory. ‘Bullshit,’ I can hear the call. ‘I don’t base what I do upon anybody’s theory about how I should live my life.’

Really? If I could gently suggest that, to use one of these infuriating post-modern expressions, we ‘deconstruct’ my friend’s indignation, what would we find? Well, we might find a belief or a set of beliefs – a cornucopia of which my protesting friend is largely unaware. A simple example: it is better to work than not to work. This is not a mere statement of the obvious. It forms part of a value-based worldview to which most people (not all!) subscribe. Normally, we don’t pay attention to such a fundamental ‘tru-ism’, let alone reflect upon how true it is for us at any particular moment.

And if that example does not exactly resonate with you, try this one. I should not commit adultery. You may not be an avid reader of the Bible but you will still pick this as one of the Ten Commandments. What are these Commandments? Instructions, guidelines, a set of edicts laid down for Christians? Put another way, they are part of a theoretical worldview as to how one should live one’s life. Like all worldviews, they are not universally shared by the six billion or so people spread throughout the globe.

(More’s the pity, I can hear some of you say.)

Which leads me to the relationship between theory and practice. (Or how the Devil stalks God.)
Still peering over my shoulder I see countless examples where my actions have not reflected my understanding and insight. This is not always easy to admit; the ‘ruthless self-honesty’ spelt out by various spiritual teachers has been held at bay or employed sporadically. I don’t think I’m an orphan in this respect. Many of us can become increasingly self-aware and/or undergo transformatory experiences, and in our ordinary life continue to be driven by past habits and conditioning.

We may have seen this in ourselves and we may have seen it in others.

We may have excused this in ourselves – and we may have excused this in others, especially if we revered them in one way or another.

This is particularly poignant for those of us who have found ourselves on some kind of spiritual path. Blissful or ecstatic experience can become an end in itself. Resumption of so-called ‘ordinary life’ can lead to aversion and avoidance, as Jack Kornfield portrays so eloquently in After the Ecstasy, the Laundry.

Even if we are not touched by or indeed reject the kind of spiritual  unfolding to which I allude, we might still identify with a gap – occasional or regular – between what we appreciate theoretically to be good and true and what we actually do in practice. We are tested, as it seems we are meant to be.
Dear, beautiful, wise Leonard Cohen understood this deeply. How many celebrities do you know took themselves off to a monastery in the middle of their career, spent six years arising at two-thirty in the morning, and lived their waking hours in contemplation and self-examination? Cohen instinctively knew the trappings of the external world were not enough. He also came to understand and appreciate the power of silence and the communion that comes through a shared silence. I rejoiced when I saw him on film at the monastery at Mount Baldy, in service to a Japanese Zen master and yet acutely alert to the inherent pitfalls in placing all of one’s spiritual eggs in the basket of a guru.

I am far from the only one to juxtapose the election of Donald Trump with the death of Leonard Cohen. For the latter, his spiritual evolution appears to have incorporated both heightened creativity and a deep peace. I don’t think it’s any accident the two go together. In fact, I would guess that when Cohen went back to touring a decade ago he touched more people than ever before, and reached out to them – I would say ‘communed’ with them – on a level that would not have been possible in his early years.
Donald Trump, as far as we can tell, is no poet. In the betting arena, you could get long odds on him having any significant transformation in this lifetime. And then again………Assumptions, assumptions.

What transpires with any of our political figureheads, I maintain, is a sideshow to the main event. With no disrespect to Harry Truman, the buck stops with each of us. Unless we come to terms with our human contradictions, our behaviours will be compromised. And although ‘coming to terms’ includes understanding and acceptance, it also includes operating from what has been termed an inner knowing rather than mere reason.

As one teacher said to me: Find that best part in yourself and let your actions stem from there.
Only then, as far as I can gaze into the crystal ball of our collective futures, will we be able to engage with one another in more productive ways. Surface communications will make ground for a kind of communion, where we are not fazed by whatever form of human we encounter. On the contrary, our empathy will become real rather than fake. Our embrace will be genuine but not without shared guidelines of mutual respect, even in the face of profound disagreement and ideological differences. Neither, in this transition, will we become doormats upon which the boots of aggression may land. We will resist such attempts.

I don’t know if we’re up to it. Do you? Does anybody?

But I do know there is opportunity. An invitation, if you like. To each of us this will takes varying shapes and forms. We may sing. Play music. Paint or write. We may teach. Attend our garden. We may work for ourselves or within an organisation. We may walk on the beach, alone or with friends. We may play sport. We may go on retreat.

On a day-to-day basis our activities might be similar or quite different. But they will be underpinned by a richness that defies description. The do-ing will emanate from the be-ing. An unwavering compass needle effortlessly fixed upon commonality of spirit and shared concern.
​
An invitation, like no other invitation. The springboard is in front of us. And we don’t need to know how to dive.
                                                                       ≈≈≈≈≈

From the Eyrie
November 2016
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Wonderful collection of friends and supporters at the Freo launch on Saturday. The Arts Centre provided a fine venue & the refreshments received accolades.
A great relief to have that one out of the way. Now off to Denmark in two weeks for the 'country version'.
The pic on the left is of Danielle Masson who did a great job with book sales. Thank you again, Danielle!

Recovering after an aural assault last night. I liked Neil Young as a balladeer but can't make the transition to the heavy rockster he seems to have become. AND - unless they get into the habit of lifting the roof for summer concerts, there will be many who won't return to the stifling heights of the Perth Arena, where we sweltered for hours in the dead air.

Happy to come up for air. Proof corrections despatched to Vivid Publishing and the book cover now in it's final version. The result look far better than the earlier incarnations and I'll soon upload it to the New Book link.
Quiet night at home with stuffed tomatoes, a glass of red, and Xanadu, another William Dalrymple travelogue, as he retraces Marco Polo's original journey.