Apart

One

Back

Truly

Test

Race

Superior

Master

Open

Everyone's

No one knows of His age. 

 And no one can fathom this Sage....

For His eyes look beyond the horizon and His soul might be as big as the suns. 

It's not His words that will guide us to glory. 

It will be the realization, 

that He's everyone's....! :

Guilt

Game

You know, Swami Vivekananda said, “You will be nearer to Heaven through football, than through the study of the Gita.” When you pray, you can do and think so many other things. But when you kick a ball, you only kick a ball. Otherwise, it will not go where you want it to go. Playing a game gives you the understanding that without absolute involvement, you cannot be successful. You have to play as if your life depends on it. Sadhguru

War

Divine

You

Connection

Breath

In

Aim

Others

Lifestyle

30% of the planets land surface is dedicated to grazing livestock. Methane gas from livestock production is the 2nd highest contributor to atmosphere altering gases, after energy production and is higher than transport. 10 billion animals in the U.S every year are slaughtered for food. If you put every one of those animals nose to tail they would approximately reach to the moon and back 5 times. Between 1950 and 2000 our population doubled and our meat consumption increased fivefold. Experts that are serious about disease reduction believe that 225 grams of meat would be sufficient per week for nutrition. That average is consumed per day. 100 years ago everyone ate locally, everyone ate their own cooking and food wasn't produced industrially. These figures are from 2007. Just astounded by these figures. Put aside the cruelty to animals and heart disease as reasons to take up a plant based diet, this planet simply cannot sustain this lifestyle choice. That figure of 30% of the planets surface being devoted to livestock production is predicted to double in 30 years! Some thought provoking stats....

Pure

True

Guide

Approval

Present

Mother

Mother

The love of a thousand Mothers, could never come close to this love like no other. 

Even the love of a hundred thousand Mothers, couldn't compare to this love of our Mother.

The infinite compassion that's beyond comprehension, frees this life.., 

of all apprehensions.

She helps us let go of all of our fears, those fears that bind and create all of our tears.

She has a love that's as warm as the Sun, and it's a love that embraces, every one.

Her sanctity is as comforting as the moon, it's as if we we are back, cocooned in Her womb. 

The purity of Her love helps us to foresee, foresee what will help, in setting us free. 

We want to replace that little self, that little self, that's uncomfortably shy. That little self, that always cowers and hides.

We want to replace that little self, that's drowning in ego and drowning in pride.

We want to replace that hurt, with a love that turns tides.

We want to replace it with a confidence, that is empty of conditions and pride.

So we pray for a love that doesn't divide, we pray for a love that is pure and Divine. 

A love that is free, from any conditions that bind. 

But is tied to our soul, that has the strength to turn tides.

The love of our Sai Mother, is unlike any other.

She is the love of our Mother, times a thousand other Mothers.  Then times that by infinity, and then you might just discover, that the love of this Mother, is like the love of no other.

It's a love that is beyond any religions, and it's a love that is beyond any distinctions.

It is a love that cannot be divided, for from nothing, is it not united.

When Her Divine Love hits us squarely between the eyes, and burns away, all of our nonsense and pride.

We will never again turn our backs on Her love, that Sai Love, that has the strength to pull the moon and turn tides.  

George

She woke with a fright  still  fighting for her life. She could still feel the hands on her neck and the fear in her heart. Elaine hadn't had a nightmare since she was a  little girl. As she lay in her ruffled single bed, the early morning light peaking through the yellowing blinds danced around the small, neat room. The blinds swayed and clattered in the early morning, jasmine-laiden breeze. She ran her fingers through her thin auburn hair and recalled the images that had jolted her awake. 

   Elaine's mother had this superstition, that if you had a nightmare, you had to tell it to someone before you cleaned your teeth. She was alone that morning, so Elaine decided to write it into a poem and share it on her blog. It was probably just a way of calming frightened children but she believed in her Mums words all the same. If you recited the poem out loud, quickly enough, it sounded like a rap song.

Death paid a visit in the middle of the night.

He knocked on the door and woke me with a fright. 

     Elaine was quite tall but not enough to really notice. She was slender and graceful and moved in a way that wouldn't catch a boys attention. But in a way, that another girl would admire. There was no catwalk posturing. She didn't break the air, she glided through it. One of her gay friends had  told her once, that she looked like Audrey Hepburn, which puzzled her. Her Mum was Filipino and her Dad was Australian. But she liked the compliment all the same. Little snippets of conversation sometimes have a habit of staying with you for a lifetime. Her friends kind words had stayed with her ever since they'd spilled from his sweet little mouth. 

   She did this little nervous thing with her mouth, she was a worrier. It was probably just her nature, but maybe it was her background. 

   Her old man was a big drinking, barreled chested-bully, whose moods swung, like the opinion polls before an election. He could be as charming as a Presidential hopeful one moment and as prickly as a cactus the next. Her Mum, bore the brunt of most of his bad moods. It wasn't just physical abuse, but emotional as well.  His words could burn, like the smart of a slapped face. I think it was her sticky, irritating patience, that moved him the most.  

 I undid the latch, not knowing who it was. He flew at me without warning, for he had no reason to pause.  

       Pictures and statues of Jesus and Mother Mary stared at you from every wall and china cabinet. Each icon and statue was kept meticulously clean. Maria was always muttering to them in Spanish, a complaint or a prayer.  That was her saving grace I suppose, that and Elaine, who would stand up to her father, when his angry, rum-fueled tirades, started to wind up. The old post war cottage would shake with his anger. Like a Terrier she would stand in front of him and just stare him down. Not many words were ever spoken, none were really needed. He used to say that she could scare a Bulldog out of a Butcher Shop, with that look of hers. 

         She smelt of sunshine and cheap lavender shampoo. She was a listener, she would listen intently to people and laugh uproariously at their bad jokes and their funny ways.  She was quiet but not shy, she was innocent but not naïve. She always carried her lip balm and some tissues in a small, floral, needlepoint handbag, with a small purse inside. She wore simple gold stud earrings and a thin 9 carat gold necklace, with a gold aum attached that danced around her neck as she walked. She chewed her nails and only ever wore natural fibers. She never swore and she was as stubborn as stone. 

      She always thought that dreams had a meaning but this one had her stumped. She'd drop by before Uni and see what George would make of it. George was her closest living friend. 

She stared through the curtained kitchen window, at George's house, just meters away.  It was a post war greying weatherboard.   Two old sun-bleached caravans littered the backyard like a dogs forgotten old bones. She admired the sunset pink bougainvillea that hedged it all in, the same way she did every Summer.

  She knocked on Georges front door, she couldn't recall the last time she'd done that. This time of morning he'd usually be sitting in the sun with a cup of Bushells, watching his washing drying on the rusted and busted up old Hills Hoist. 

   There'd usually be his favorite torn and faded Jack Daniels singlet, a couple of pairs of King Gee Stubbies, a wife beater or two, undies of course, but no socks. She'd only ever seen him in thongs, apart from Anzac Day of course. Then he'd be in his dark blue suit, excited like a kid, on their  first day at school. 

   His medals from the Navy would be all neatly pinned to his chest. H.M.A.S Bunbury he'd served on. He'd never seen any action, but he'd had an adventure or two, and lived so far to 83, recalling the stories every year with stoic detail. He'd lied about his age and had signed up when he was only 16. 

   But that was a long time ago, George had retired from building caravans about 12 years ago. Only 2 years into his retirement from Chesney, and his wife of over 40 years had passed away. She'd had a long, drawn out and humiliating battle with breast cancer.                   

   But that all happened years before Elaine had moved next door. 

   She walked down the cracked concrete path, by the side of the house, calling out his name as she went. She tried the back door to see if it was locked, it was, but she knew where George left the key. She retrieved  the key and knocked one last time, silence...

Again later that night, I felt someone by my bed. 

And again there he was, the grim reaper of the dead. 

   She stabbed the key into the rusty key hole and turned it first left and then right. The lock clicked and she pushed the heavy door inwards and called his name nervously, again as she entered the dark, curtain drawn kitchen "George! George! Are you there?"

   Cold greasy dishes were still soaking in the sink. The stink of lamb fat, hung heavily in the dank, stale air.  

   She'd never come in the house much, George was always out back tinkering away in his shed. He'd set up a little home business after he'd retired, doing up and repairing antique furniture, french polishing, the works. 

   The house was tidy, in a blokey, bachelor kind of way. The dusty Venetian blinds were pulled closed over the lounge room windows. 

   The mid-morning light was casting sabres of yellow luminescence, across the lumpy Genoa lounge.    

   Nothing much had changed in that house since his wife had passed away. He'd painted the outside and got a new roof, but that was it. 32 Dethridge St. Northgate, was locked away in time, a mausoleum from post war Brissy. 

   George had built the house himself, on cheap land, backing onto a creek and across the road from the Caboolture line. It was on the wrong side of the tracks, that was for sure. 

   The bedroom door was ajar, a frayed cotton dressing gown hung upon the handle.  It was too dark to see inside, "George?" she called out again, feebly. Only the sound of the hall clock greeted her plea. She was too frightened to turn on the light, scared of what she imagined she'd see. Instinct screamed out to her that something wasn't right, her heart beat quickened and her breathing shallowed. 

I cried out in my sleep, the most pitiful cry. 

It escaped from my lips, with no time for goodbyes.

She could smell him, that smell that old people sometimes get, the smell of camphor and decay, and unwashed hair.  

    She turned on the neon light, it flickered, and in those flickers she could see him there. He was lying on his back, peaceful as a well fed old porch dog. An old colored-in portrait of his wife stared at him, from the Queen Anne dressing table next to his bed.  They'd be together now at least, she thought to herself.  

     She knew he was gone, she'd only seen a dead body once before, but she just knew. She reached under the threadbare, Terry Towelling bed cover and took hold of his still warm wrist, to check his pulse.  Nothing...

     She pulled the stool out from under the dressing table, and sat down heavily upon it. She breathed out a sobbing sigh. With  her head between her hands she slumped forward over her knees, and cried almost as much as when she'd lost Elsie.   

   Tears leapt from her eyes and images leapt about before her minds eyes. 

   Not long after they'd moved in next door, she'd lost her best friend, and twin sister Elsie, in a car accident. They'd both been asleep in the back of the car, when a P plater had run a Stop sign. 

   Her Dad had never forgiven himself, her Mum has never stopped praying. 

   After that, Elaine was always over at George's, before school and after. She'd only go back for afternoon tea and when it was time for dinner shower and bed. She'd even do her homework at George's. She'd sometimes play in the shed, or down by the creek. He had an old model railway line, set up on a couple of chipboard trestle tables. The railway took up the whole of one of the two sheds. The other shed was full of dusty, unclaimed antique furniture, well used heavy tools and a big prehistoric wood lathe. 

   They never chatted that much, mostly small talk. It was their emptiness that had bought them together and it was that emptiness that held them together. 

   Since she'd started Uni and got a part time job at the local cafe, she hadn't had much free time to visit. But she always made the effort every couple of weeks to catch up. Nothing was arranged and that suited them both. Sometimes it would be 2 weeks, sometimes 3, but he never made her feel guilty, if it were longer. She'd quite often wave to him over the fence in her comings and goings. 

   On her visits they'd just start up where they'd left off. Just like a jigsaw puzzle, except there was no puzzle between them, just years. 

   She was trying to think of what they'd last spoken about, George had started talking more about the War and his wife and his kids.

  She couldn't remember exactly what they'd talked about last,  just bits and pieces. A scrap book of a forgotten mans dreamings. 

   Death had always been her biggest fear, but somehow sitting here with George, all she felt was love. 

   He'd loved his wife so much, that the thought that they were finally together again, erased all of her unease. 

   She sat with him for an hour or so, reminiscing. He had loved children. There was a photo on the wall, that her Mum had taken of George and her, when she was about 6. She was wearing a ballerina skirt with lace fairy wings that her Mum had stitched onto the back of one of her old white singlets.  

   She got up to go next door and tell her Mum who's car she had  just heard pull up in the carport next door.

    Thanks She paused at the doorway and looked back to the double bed, for the last time. She looked intensely at his creased and scaly skin, which hung baggily over his tanned face. She looked at him, the way you look back at a house, that you've shared a lot of memories with, and are now saying goodbye to. 

   She took a deep breath and blinked away the tears, as if she were trying to take a photo and her eyes were the shutter. She stood there for a while and chewed her nails and  the biggest, brightest smile, spread across her teary face. She turned and stepped through the doorway and back into the empty lounge room. 

We never know when it's over,

when it's our time to die. 

It's always a surprise with no time for goodbyes. 

   

    

   

Mrs.Searle

    She looked me intently in the eye, as if searching hard to find the truth. I realized uncomfortably, that this woman could read minds, the way a mother can read her children's. 
I guess when you've taught for over 40 years, your barometer for reading bullshit, gets pretty dam accurate.
“Did you at least read the book?” she asked me the same question she’d asked my two ragbag mates.
     Mrs.Searle was over 60 I guess, this is something I figure out years later, as a kid you don't think someones a specific age. You just see adults as old and old people as ancient.
“No.” I answered cringingly. 
 My voice was full of regret. It was my third week in her class and my fifth year at Nundah State School. I was now starting to realise that Mrs.Searle wasn't the sort of teacher to cross. 
“Right, lets get you sorry lot down to the library before it shuts. The three of you can each pick out a book, I want it read and I want a one page essay on my desk by this time next week. Have you got that? she barked.
She looked at our sullen faces over her horn-rimmed spectacles, waiting for an answer. “Yes Mrs.Searle!” we parroted in harmony.
    It was about 3:30 and the librarian was about to close the library, but she thought better of it, when she saw Mrs.Searle barreling down the verandah towards her, with us three in tow.
“Right get on with it!” she roared. “We haven't got all day!” 
I saw her roll her eyes at the mousey  librarian out of the corner of my eye.
I galloped down the middle aisle of the dark and book-musty room. I can't remember what drew me to the book, but it was one of a series, so I figured if I liked it I could read more.
    As it turns out I loved it, fell in love with it from it the first page. I loved the mystery and the adventure. I loved the not knowing and the drama that jumped off the page at you and wouldn't let you go till the very end. I loved the sadness I felt at the end when there was no more to read, but then remembering it was one of a series.
    Mrs.Searle certainly looked a bit dry and crusty on the outside, but after I read her comments on my essay, I warmed to her instantly. I no longer saw the stiffness or the fierceness that others saw. I no longer thought she smelt funny or noticed her frumpy dresses.  I now noticed the warmth in her eyes and the sweetness in her laughter.
    She loved children, well the ones that did what they were told at least.She was a Mrs., but she never spoke of herself much, or not that I took in. I just remember the generosity that she showed me, when I shared with her my enthusiasm. I've thought often, that I wish I could go back in time and tell her how often I've  gone over that afternoon she kept me back, all those years ago. I wish I could go back and do something for her, to say thank you. Even at the time I knew she’d saved me, saved me from myself, my ignorant, selfish self. 

Know

Body

Bliss

Perfect

Friends

Greatness

Listen

Free

Truth

Embodiment

Eternal

Imagine

Useful

Need

Expectation

Crazy

Soul

Grace

Desires

Best Friend