INTENSE CITY by luke storms

We must surely acknowledge that in reality we do not know ourselves. What is more, the mistaken belief that we do know ourselves is the very obstacle which prevents us (since we think it pointless) from undertaking the work which in fact we need the most.
- Jean Vaysse

We live in a hostile universe that cares very little about us. Human beings appear and then disappear and this goes on and on. Yet, deep within us there is a tiny spark. There is a call to something far greater that we cannot comprehend. This light is a culmination of all human history. It is of the earth itself. Perhaps, it is even as old as the universe.

I realize that I know very little about my life. I realize that my intellect, my emotions and my body is useless in attempting to approach this. The intellect is capable of extraordinary things in life. It is a wonderful machine but, it is not enough. I often feel very powerful emotions and yet, they are not enough. With the body it is the same. It is as though I have been called to battle and I am told at the last second that all of my weapons are useless. There is a possibility for a new way of being, but only when theses centers are operating harmoniously. When there is wholeness.

I can become aware that there are two different worlds. It is as though I am on a balance beam. I try to have a contact with a current of energy within myself. One moment I am tipped towards identification and the next, completely lost to myself. I’m taken by the external world. The next moment, there is an awareness; a presence to myself. There is a sensation of being more alive. Then, with the next passing moment I am taken again. I need to observe, without any judgment, these inner movements.

So what is meditation anyway?

Q: It seems to me that we don’t always know what the words that we use mean. For example, everybody uses the word “meditation.” What does it mean–not only its definition, but what is included in that word; to what does it correspond?

A: Rinpoche would like to make it clear that the term “meditation” is used in the English language–but, personally, he has no idea what it really means. He is just repeating the word he has been taught by some translators. In Tibetan, the word corresponding to meditation, “sgom,” actually means “becoming familiar” or “familiarizing.”

– A Conversation with Jamgön Kongtrül, Rinpoche

What keeps me from experiencing this current of life in myself? What stands in the way? I often find that one of the barriers is physical or emotional tension. If there is tension something is closed in me and energy cannot enter whereas if I am open and relaxed I am more available. I see that I need to work with my tensions; to learn to relax the face, the neck, and the shoulders. I should look at myself in mirrors and see exactly how I am in the moment as I pass them. I should begin from there. Without attention my thoughts rule over me and drive me around. The mind, the body, and the emotions have no connection with each other and no relationship. There is no understanding because they all speak a different language. My head may stay in its corner saying, “Oh, I’m not going to be affected by that person,” and yet the emotions are affected and they cannot understand the language of the head and so I am stuck there in that corner.”

So I find myself caught in a circle that just keeps going around and around and around. I have the same thoughts, the same feelings over and over again. It’s like being swept down the river at a tremendous speed. What can I hold on to?

Sometimes I am able to stand just outside of it for a few moments and then I find myself enmeshed in it once again. Everything is cyclical. I have my “good days” and along with them come certain attitudes, certain thoughts and I have my “bad ones” as well. This goes around and around continuously. I need to study this. Spiritual work is not about achieving some great state but actually it is about returning over and over again to a sense of one’s self, to wholeness, it is a constant returning to the here and now; to presence.

Even when I am busy in my daily life, at work or whatever, I can still have a sense of myself, however subtle that it may be. There is always an opportunity to really see myself in the midst of life.

We all have the capacity to be musicians but first we must know our instruments. I must become more aware of my body, mind and emotions. I need to learn to tune these “instruments” so that they are working in unison. The most important thing to work with is to be aware of sensation in the body. The body and mind are seldom related. The body does not speak the same language as the head. They do not understand each other. It is only through sensations in the body that there can be a relationship, an understanding between the two. The mind may have the wish to Work but the body has no interest in it at all. Why would it? It is hungry or tired. It desires. When one places attention in the body to try to “feel it from the inside out,” the body becomes interested. It values relaxation and rest. Once the body becomes quieter with focused attention the emotional centre also relaxes layers upon layers of tensions that become exposed. The mind also becomes more tuned to the stillness.

What is this focused attention? Quite often in life we are called to a higher degree of attention or awareness. An example would be when we need to look after a sick child or a dying parent. We do not think about it. There is just a subtle shift within us. One becomes more open to the need. An unknown source of energy that can only become manifest when we are open to it – mind, body and feelings. An illumination occurs where one can bend and adapt to any changing need.

So where do I begin? What’s the starting point?

The search begins with now. It begins now. Now is all I that I have.

We begin meditation by sitting quietly while maintaining an awareness of our posture from the inside; we try to have a sense of the whole of ourselves sitting here now. We can become aware that there are two movements within ourselves. Perhaps we realize that we are in fact, two. One part of ourselves has carried us around all day. It has reacted to people and events, it has manifested in certain habitual ways. It has been pushed and pulled around by the incredible forces of our external life. Our entire day is written on our bodies in the form of tensions; both emotional as well as physical. This other part is much quieter and extremely fragile. To become of aware of its existence we need to make a turn within ourselves in a completely different direction. We need to learn to listen to it. What does it need? It needs to be attended to and this attendance needs to be continually renewed. It must always be a fresh approach and not a dead idea or a dead concept. We need to maintain a connection with this part without any force. We need to be in-between both of these parts; moving outward as well as moving inward. If we are caught in our thoughts we simply try to make a gentle return to the inward current like a sailboat that needs to catch the wind that is blowing from a different direction.

I see that there is often a lack of emotion in my effort. It seems to me that I do not feel this “lack” deeply enough. Honest and sincere observations of myself reveal how passive I truly am. How I am merely a passenger in this machine and that I have no control of myself whatsoever and that in reality I am merely pushed and pulled in every direction. I need to face “the terror of the situation” and awaken a desire to Work. As I am ordinarily, I do not want to sacrifice the old man in me (my habits, desires and mechanical manifestations) to clear a place for the New Man. I believe the Gnostic’s alluded to this idea when they wrote, “to become one first you must become two.”

We grossly underestimate this force of life that constantly pulls us outside of ourselves. We forget that we are more than just one person. Man’s name is legion. We are a network of selves. Some of these selves are interested in spiritual work and some have no interest whatsoever. In fact, some may even be completely antagonistic towards this search because they have a vested interest in maintaining their illusory life. We forget that these parts need to be fed as well. I have a feeling that we need to be wholly interested in just simply observing ourselves as we are. This interest needs to be stronger than the flow of associations that runs through us constantly. The practice of meditation prepares us for this. It trains us to have a separation that allows us to see and sense ourselves in a new way. When we are able to take a step back inside of ourselves we can approach a more objective study of ourselves as we are in the moment. What is taking place in our emotions, our thoughts, and our bodies right now? Through this practice we learn the importance of cultivating the faculty of attention.

What do we do with this attention once it is cultivated? What is the purpose of it? Sure, we may have all these extraordinary experiences but, so what. Where do we go from here? It is dangerous to speak about such things because we may just be hanging ourselves on a frozen concept or a dead idea. We are good at closing doors and constructing walls but how do we stand in front of something so vast? How can we inhabit this sense of scale? Perhaps a better approach would be to search for deeper questions, that is to say, living questions.

A Native Story

The grandfather looked at his young granddaughter thoughtfully. Something in the beloved child of his child was developing there and so he spoke to her as follows. “Inside me, there are two wolves and these two wolves fight each other constantly. One of the wolves is aggressive, nervous and filled with a wish to succeed. The other wolf is different. He wishes for more understanding. Both wolves want fulfillment. The first wolf dreams that this could result in more prestige in the eyes of others but the other wolf believes that fulfillment may be found through the path of understanding.”

The grandfather observed that his granddaughter was looking at him anxiously and added “Don’t worry about me alone, for this fight between the two wolves takes place in every one of us existing on this earth. In other people, the first wolf may have a variety of characteristics but the second wolf is, more or less, the same in everyone.”

The granddaughter looked thoughtful and was silent for some time and then she said, “Grandfather, which wolf will win the fight in you?”

“Well” said her grandfather, “It depends which one I feed.”

“When people go to the ocean, they like to see it all day. . . . There’s nobody living who couldn’t stand all afternoon in front of a waterfall. It’s a simple experience, you become lighter and lighter in weight, and you wouldn’t want anything else. Anyone who can sit on a stone in a field awhile can see my painting. Nature is like a curtain; you go into it. I want to draw a certain response like this. . . . Not a specific response but that quality of response from people when they leave themselves behind, often experienced in nature– an experience of simple joy. . . the simple, direct going into a field of vision as you would cross an empty beach to look at the ocean.”

Agnes Martin, at the Whitney Museum of American Art (1992)

Your paintings speak of,

The soft whisper of silence,

“Only this moment.”

I wake up early, remembering my commitment to write. I kiss your sleepy mouth. Your red hair is disheveled across the pillow like an explosion of red oil paint on a sheer white canvas. You are in silence with a faraway look in your eyes as though you had just returned from a vast distance. There is a gentle suppleness present in your body. You are so at home in the nest of pillows and blankets. It is so difficult to leave you there.

Leave you there for the sake of what; to scribble this down?

I make you coffee even though I know it will be stone cold by the time you wake up. I feel the importance of this simple act of making you coffee in the morning; like something that is holy and ritualistic; like our lives depend on it in some way.

I buzz around you; moving swiftly upstairs and downstairs with my mind in a flurry of thoughts. Meanwhile, downstairs you are still in the land of dreams. I sit on the couch, sipping coffee. I am not really there. Now and then I mechanically venture over to the door and smoke a cigarette and watch the smoke float out the door to greet the crisp, cool morning.

“What a long day it’s going to be,” I complain inwardly. The vastness of this new day rises up to meet me like an abyss and I picture a car plunging over a cliff on some dramatic television series. It’s amazing to watch all these morning thoughts that surface and vanish through my head without any awareness. Is it the same with everyone?

I sit down at my desk while the new day is announcing itself above the city. I don’t recognize this new day. I take it for granted, as I usually do. How easily I forget that I cannot relive any of these days that are given to me. Throughout the churning of thought, the moment beckons to me very softly like a whisper and I don’t hear it. I am walking like a savage through these precious moments, paying no attention, like an uninvited house guest who is full of bad habits.

I keep thinking of your long red hair on the pillow and the darkness of the room. I keep thinking of how I take everything in my life for granted. I forget that I will die. How could the familiarity of the situation be different? How can I bring more of myself into these moments that seem familiar? Can I see them, taste them, feel them and remember them in a new way?

There is a deep green plant on my table that smells of earth and sunshine. It is loved and it asks of nothing from me except for my attention. Is there some silent communication taking place that I am unaware of? I’ve got no place to go and nothing to do except write this down. This writing isn’t particularly interesting. What would I feel compelled to write if I was dying? I see myself being carried away by all this verbiage and I try to remember myself sitting here. The sensation of my hands, this pen pressed firmly in these fingers and the weight of this body sitting here on this chair.

The next minute, I am gone again. I am so far from home. All these great distances I can travel from home yet still be in one place. What is needed for this writing practice? How do I describe this life into words? I picture a darkened movie theater where a thick red curtain draws back and a screen rolls down followed by a whirring sound as images present themselves. Who would I see? Where do I find myself and in what situations? What is this mysterious thing called Life and how can I be more present to it?

I arrive early in the evening to the place where I will spend a week in retreat. I feel stiff and uncomfortable not knowing what to expect or where the next six days will lead. I hold on to familiar ideas and experiences from past work periods. I think that it will be the same. I have brought the city with me and my old familiar self. There is tremendous resistance and immediately the old self tries to solidify itself, to cling to the old ideas, the old expectations, and the old exercises. I am encased in armor, a shell made of lead and I drag this around. I am closed and afraid. I am afraid of people, afraid to be seen. I wander around the property smoking cigarettes and I feel like a stranger in my own skin. I come up against the people I have traveled here with. I hold on to my habit of smoking like a crutch. I know that I can slip away at any time and have something to do. It anchors me, in a way, to my old self that does not want to be seen.

Someone asks if I could do some work in cleaning up the property and immediately the inner commentary starts, “Who does he think he is, telling me what to do? He can go to hell.” I’ve said it to myself but I’m sure it is written all over my face. I want him to know I am angry even though I have repressed it. I am caught in 10 000 things, a massive army of attacking thoughts, feelings and associations. The vastness of the land, the wide open vistas and the countless stars are all beautiful here but I am only thinking that it is. I am closed and therefore I am not aware of my surroundings nor do I feel them. I am locked away and unable to separate from my ordinary self with all of its barriers of feelings and associations.

I go to bed around 11 the first evening and I begin to try to work. I try to have a sense of my body, its weight on the mattress. I try that for a long time but I cannot seem to separate from my wandering thoughts. Eventually I fall asleep. I awaken several times in the night unsure of where I am. I miss my usual life. My thoughts wander off and I fall back to sleep. Finally, in the morning I am awakened by the roosters on the farm. I know that I have to get up to go to the sitting. I am afraid. I don’t feel ready. I wander outside, sleepy, into the fresh morning air. I light a cigarette and I can feel myself wishing that I had not come. I feel incredibly uncomfortable like I have forgotten everything, even how to speak. But, even though I feel naked and vulnerable and my instincts are to hide from everyone or to fortify myself there is a tiny part of me, a quiet and delicate inner voice that wishes to be here and to work. There is a direction, however slight that is opening itself.

The next morning, there is no coffee. The sitting is difficult and my body aches all over, especially my ankles from sitting poorly. Inside, an endless chain of complaint runs through me. I feel like a negative ball of twine unraveling out in all directions. The gong rings out a note that ends our sitting that sustains into Forever. It’s a wonderful sound and I like it especially since it announces that the sitting is over. I am stiff but a little quieter inside. The inner voice that wishes to work is a little louder, just above a whisper now although I lose the thread of it very easily. I spend the day working externally and trying to work internally.

There are people everywhere, spilling out all over the lawn and they can be seen mingling and wandering around or working. There is no escape. I still feel uncertain and I am afraid. I don’t know what to do with myself. In a way, it all is very unfamiliar. There is restlessness that betrays my inner state. As the minutes, hours and seconds go by over the next two days I, somewhat reluctantly, settle into these conditions and begin to make vast efforts to “work”. Strange things are happening with my usual sense of time. Everything seems to take an eternity.

On the third day I feel a chaos in my emotions. I am not sure whether to laugh or cry. I experience the urge to do both, sometimes at the same time. I am sensitive to everything. I have to struggle to suppress tears when I speak candidly. I have no idea what’s going on. Everyone appears to be easily susceptible to negativity. There is chaos all around me. People are complaining about each other whether they are there or not. It’s like walking on eggshells. The kitchen is the worst. The stress of a deadline for lunch and dinner allows a lot of space for habitual negativity. There is much arguing from those who supposedly know how to do it right. There is a thick heaviness present in the air.

In the evening I was absolutely exhausted and yet I could feel that there was energy available. I decided to try, “adding tired to tired.” After everyone had gone to bed I tried meditating. Why not just try, I thought. If I happen to fall asleep it will be fine, there’s no one to reprimand me. I entered the hall quietly and sat for a half hour. After the sitting I experienced a replenished energy. I was no longer exhausted as I had been before.

On the fourth day of the retreat I began to notice a peculiar sensation of energy coursing throughout my body. It had several levels or degrees of intensity. At times, when I was caught in my head, thinking or wishing to be some place other than where I was at the moment, it would cease to exist completely. It was during our daily small group exchanges that occurred at seven in the evening where I experienced it very directly. I observed through sensation and feeling that my body hummed with a flow of electricity that was concentrated in the solar plexus. It felt like a tuning fork that vibrated after it was struck and it sent ripples of energy throughout my entire body; from the crown of my head down through the tips of my toes. I also noticed that when people spoke sincerely this energy intensified. After I spoke about my experience, the energy increased to a feverous pitch. I felt reluctant to speak about what was happening to me. All I had heard was how most people were struggling and suffering, unable to work or lost in comparing the current retreat with the one last year. I felt that they may take my comments as bragging. I was also very exhausted and prone to negativity but I seemed to be able to use it some how. I was capable, at the time, of transforming it.

I was tired and my thinking faculty lacked the energy to wander aimlessly. If I found my mind wandering it was not difficult to make a gentle return to the body, to the breath. It was an easy shift. There I was simply inside the task of cleaning or cooking, present to the act.

At the end of the retreat there was a picnic to a waterfall. On the way there, in the car I began to feel very light, almost transparent. I was sitting in the back seat and as we drove through the green valleys of farms and sleepy villages I began to feel surges of energy throughout my body. I sensed currents circulating throughout my body that had a strong relationship to my breath. A vast silence filled the car. No one spoke. The silence fed this energy somehow and it continued to grow stronger. It was a revelation. I could easily place all my attention on my breath. I became acutely aware of everyone in the car; there was no thought, just recognition of all their emotions running through me. I became aware of an energy that seemed to be circulating around us. When I looked out the window I saw the miracle of life. I was filled with an indescribable wonder. All of my senses were finely tuned and vibrating. The sounds around me which, ordinarily I do not hear, penetrated my entire being. There was a fresh vividness all around the landscape. I feasted on the impressions like I had been starving. It was as if something that I had been carrying that was so stiff and rigid suddenly broke inside me and tremendous light was passing through.

I felt compelled to tell the elders how I was feeling, that I did not know what to do with this higher energy that I was experiencing. I was told to, “just stay with it and accept it. Try to contain it.” She seemed to be acutely aware of what was occurring within me. I kept my attention gathered on the breath and on the electricity in the body. I witnessed the temptation to construct vast imaginary stories about what was taking place but I resisted the urge to spill out into that. The car ride seemed to last for several hours when in fact it was only about 15 minutes. It was the most amazing car ride I have ever taken in my life.

While at the waterfall I was absolutely fearless. I found myself staring at the magnificent rush of water pouring into the basin of the falls. I was a part of everything; the water, the rocks, the trees, the sky, the birds. I was completely mystified by the birds. I could see the geometry embedded in their flight patterns. I understood that they were calling us to God, reminding us to remember our origins.

I discovered that it is possible to become aligned and more normalized and essentially more human: the way human beings should really exist. We can be opened to a new life where none of our old habitual attitudes and feelings weighs us down. If we experience this, we must be vigilant and try to contain this energy and to not allow it to go out into imagination and fantasy. It is very powerful and delicate and it needs to be guarded in a way so that it would not become destructive by allowing it to seep out through our ordinary functioning.

It occurs to me that most of the time we do not see what is directly in front of us. We do not take in impressions; the rich food that is all around us. There is too much in the way; our thoughts, our emotions, worrying about the past or the future, etc. We are asleep in life. We are dead. We can read in Ouspensky about the idea that man lives under a certain amount of laws. When one has a taste of presence one can understand what he meant by the term “laws.” We are no longer under the law of accident. There is an inner space. We are no longer easily taken by our reactions or our associative thoughts. We still have them but we are freed from our attachment to them. In presence, we find ourselves smiling, not only on the outside but also on the inside.

Image Source: Mathieu Struck

When we are able to observe that we are not connected to our lives, it is an extraordinary reminder to try to come to ourselves; to find ourselves. We can practice this by bringing our awareness or attention to the physical body. We can try to anchor ourselves to the present moment by becoming aware of the world of physical sensations like warmth, coldness or tensions. Sometimes, the body is more receptive and makes itself more available for this search. An expanded awareness appears. There is a mysterious and deeper penetration into the often inaccessible interior of this body that is so often taken for granted. There is a sense of an energy permeating the entire organism; a feeling of being fully alive in the moment. It doesn’t last. The attention is weak. A thought appears and we go with it and inevitably are taken by identification but, we can always make the effort to return again and again by observing where we are, and that we lack connectedness.

Ordinarily, in my daily life, I think that I am capable of achieving higher states of consciousness. I trick myself into thinking that I am responsible for them and that if I just try harder these states will be owed to me. I live under the illusion that I have control over myself and my states.

In moments of expansion, we can see clearly that this is not true. We become aware that we are merely instruments in which forces, that we do not understand, have free reign in us like some divine cosmic game.

When speaking with people I can observe the mind hunting for something witty or wise to say. I want to appear intelligent. I want people to think that I am getting somewhere in this spiritual work. This goes on and on. Here to, I can see that I am not connected.

We have to learn to trust something else in ourselves that appears and to surrender to it. When we speak from the centre of our being with a collected attention, our words often surprise us. The words come forth from the very different place within ourselves and carry a certain vibration or current of energy. Often, the ego claims that it is responsible for the experience and it searches for recognition and praise. But we can see that we had absolutely nothing to do with it. For I is someone else.

We can be open to a much finer energy and if we are open to receive it, it can pass through us. It can manifest through each of us when we speak or even look directly at each other. It has a tangible quality that can be sensed as it circulates around a room. When we are collected inside, it seems that we are merely instruments that at certain moments are finely tuned to this circulating energy.

Sometimes I feel my nothingness very clearly. I know that I cannot contain this experience of nothingness. It will be swallowed up by the next passing thought but I do think it is possible to return to it again and again. I think that inner work revolves around that in some way and that one must try to keep this idea of one’s nothingness in mind.

Sometimes I see that I bemoan the fact that I am not achieving anything in my work or that a higher state always passes and I descend to the world of my ordinary functioning. Often I live in this world of fog, confusing the ordinary level with that of the sacred. I am simply lying to myself when I think that I am capable of opening to something higher just on a whim, whenever the ego wishes to. All of this muddled thinking is in the way, all of this self-centeredness, my pride and my vanity. It is like I am wearing a heavy suit of armor that I cannot seem to take off. When I experience this coarseness, the work is difficult. I am in darkness and I cannot find the way. I need to search for connectedness.

There is something very mysterious about this search for wholeness. At times, there is a feeling of extraordinary expansion. It is as though the entire universe has opened and there is a quality of stillness that is far removed from any concepts or ideas that I have personally about spiritual practice. In fact, these ideas and concepts crumble in the face of this expansion. We feel a connection to a powerful stillness that instructs us and we feel lifted and far removed from the ordinary feeling of ourselves as separate individuals.

There is something within each of us that is capable of truly understanding very high ideas like those written in sacred texts like the Tao Te Ching, for example. Something absorbs these living ideas that are communicated from above like the very air that we breathe together. We feel nourished in an unaccustomed way but often we forget that we cannot contain these ideas, these gifts. Our ego reacts with a desire to claim and posses them like a commodity, to lock them away in the mind. Can we feel the descent of this energy that is contained in the ideas. We must try to remember that this is lawful.

Can we become increasingly more aware of the many gradations of the vibrations that appear and inevitably leave; an energy that appears to be constantly in flux? It can announce itself at times with great strength and vibrancy in one moment and subtle to non-existent in the next. How do we study this great mystery?

Right now, at this moment, I see that my work is about getting out of the way. I feel a need to be in service of something higher. I need to get out of the way and to surrender this constant preoccupation with myself; to return to myself and to see that I am not connected.

We must cultivate sensitivity and openness to the present moment. The awareness of the breath as well as an awareness of sensations in the body can help us. We have the entire universe inside of us; stars, planets, galaxies and suns. We need to be open and in touch with the current of life that is all around us…an ever expanding awareness. There is a horizontal axis as well as a vertical one. The coarseness of the Earth, the ground beneath our feet supports us and provides energy as well as the energy of the higher which descends from above. Both are necessary. We must try to be between these worlds. We cannot “do it.” It is done through us. We can only try to become tuned like a musical instrument to receive it.

In an antique train overcrowded with weary passengers we arrive at Mughal Sarai Railway Station in Varanasi. The world outside the barred window of the train throbs with passengers and porters with suitcases piled on their heads. Women in flowing saris follow casually along the platform as vendors race towards the train to sell warm snacks and sickly sweet cardamom-spiced tea in earthenware cups.

As soon as we step onto the train platform a gigantic mass of humanity simply swallows us up in its wake and takes us up the stairs, through the station, and into a noisy crowd of rickshaw-pullers, hotel touts and postcard selling children. The morning air is scented with a rich bouquet of incense and spices mingled with sandalwood and marigold flowers.

If you had to choose one city to represent everything that is truly Indian, you would probably choose Varanasi. However, Varanasi is not a tourist haven in terms of specific sights. It is more of an experience that shakes your whole entity, your state of mind, and all of your senses. It seems that on the banks of this sacred river anything is possible. The sacred and everyday life merges easily in Varanasi. Devout Hindus consider Varanasi to be a unique meeting place between heaven and earth where gods and goddesses can descend to this world and mortals can be transferred directly to the after-life.

We walk along the banks of the river Ganges as the sun rises like a halo above the city, illuminating the countless temples that form the west bank’s skyline. The arrival of the golden dawn brings thousands of worshippers through the shroud of mist and down the long flights of stone steps called ghats, which reach like roots into the river.

A very active boat culture exists all along the ghats and embarking on a trip at dawn is a wonderfully atmospheric way to see Varanasi. We find a skinny man in a loin cloth who offers to take us across the Ganges for a small sum. As the sky grows lighter and the mist begins to dispel, our boatman takes up his oars and we pull away from the shore, across the surface of the dark and mysterious waters. The chant of early morning prayers, punctuated by ringing bells and the loud snap and bang of morning laundry being thwacked on rocks echoes across the river. Thousands of people stand in the water, facing east across the river, praying and pouring water out of urns held up to the sunrise, heralding the gift of a new day.

As our boat approaches the somber Marnikarnika burning ghat, we put away our cameras since photography is prohibited. Contradictory to the West, life and death coexist harmoniously in Varanasi. Living and dying are both celebrated. The boat drifts by a cluster of foreigners who stare transfixed in morbid fascination as thick grey smoke billows up from several sandalwood pyres while bodies of relatives are brought in on stretchers, entirely wrapped in red and gold fabrics and covered in marigolds. First the relatives wash the body in the Ganges to purify it and then the body is placed on top of an orderly pile of logs by men in white loincloths called doms who are from a special untouchable caste. Next the doms neatly stack more logs on top of the body before lighting the pyre. It doesn’t take long for the fire to catch, and at any one time you can see two or three bodies burning steadily in the river breeze. Later, the ashes will be scattered onto the waters of the Ganges.

A typical body takes three to four hours to burn and often there is usually a large bone left over like the hips or lower back. The unburned bones are simply thrown into the river as well as the ashes after they are sifted by a man called the Watchman for gold and silver, which he keeps. The boatman also informs us that “not everyone is able to die in Varanasi because the sandalwood needed to burn the bodies is very expensive.”

After the joyous, yet solemn process of salvation for the dead, a fascinating place to visit is the old city of Varanasi which is located just behind the main ghats. Winding your way through the deep narrow and ancient alleys that are seething with life is a deeply exhilarating experience. Most of the streets are no wider than eight feet and although they cannot accommodate cars or rickshaws large numbers of aimlessly wandering holy cows are free to roam the streets. There are a hundreds of unique and colourful shops to explore in this bustling marketplace. Down one lane you can find naan bread that has been freshly baked over a fire and rich Indian sweetmeats for sale while in another twisting lane, vendors are selling silver bracelets and earrings, sitars or other Indian musical instruments and brightly painted puppets or wooden toys. There is a magical quality present in these ancient alley ways that is strangely seductive and as old as faith itself.

In the evening the Ganges is ritually put to sleep at dusk. This involves various ceremonies that take place along the ghats. As the river rippled past, we released our offerings to Mother Ganges; a floating candle made from one dry leaf with a few marigold petals on it along with a wick in a dab of butter-oil. The candles are placed in the river where they are taken across the shimmering surface of the Ganges by its gentle current.

Looking out across the Ganges, there are thousands of these floating candles, flickering like constellations on the water. It occurs to me how easy it is to feel connected to the divine in this spiritual atmosphere that has sustained India and her people through the centuries.

Current Magazine

Nassau Street is home to the laid back and wonderfully disorganized Ideal Coffee Café, a casual locale with a low key décor of vinyl booths and mismatched coffee mugs. A large coffee roaster sits in the middle of the cafe surrounded by giant burlap bags of fairly traded coffee beans.

“You know what I love about Kensington Market,” my friend says casually sipping his coffee, “It doesn’t give me any corporate logos unless it’s printed on the side of my long necked glass bottle of Coca Cola imported from Mexico.”

This area west of Spadina, called Kensington Market is a unique community of narrow streets and alleys, some of which are lined with colourfully painted Victorian houses. The bustling lanes of the market consist of a variety of food stores selling an eclectic mix of meats, fish and produce. The area is also home to funky dimly lit boutiques selling a wide variety of cheap and used clothing, as well as a number of discount and surplus stores.

On busy days, the market is every bit as chaotic as street markets around the world: with a cacophony of sounds and smells and a culturally diverse crowd. People are attracted not only to the good prices but also to the rich multicultural mix that exists in the market, obvious in the shops packed with goods imported from Europe, the Caribbean, the Middle East, South America and Asia.

Kensington Market has a rich history. The first settlers to the area came from the British Isles. Their legacy remains today with the English names they chose for the tightly packed streets that make up the market. In the early 1900’s the British relocated to affluent areas of Toronto, and the market began to attract more diverse immigrants to its community.

By the 1920’s, 80 percent of Toronto’s Jewish community had settled in and around Kensington Market, worshipping at over 30 local synagogues. Merchants sold a variety of goods from hand-pushed carts bolted down in front of their homes. The economy began to prosper and their business began to spill out onto the lawns, onto their porches, and even into the main floor of many of their houses. The “Jewish Market” was born.

By the 1930s the carts were gone and the goods moved into the front room of the family home and became the first store fronts of the market. Soon the area became a thriving marketplace with kosher meat processing plants and chicken slaughterhouses added to the mix.

After World War II, the original Jewish population began moving to wealthier suburban areas in Toronto and Ukrainians, Hungarians, Italians, and Portuguese began to move into the neighbourhood to make a new life for themselves.

By the 1960s the Portuguese were the market’s largest immigrant community. They added their own colour to the eclectic mix of cultures in the market by influencing the types of goods sold and expanding commerce onto Augusta Street.

In the 1970’s, Toronto Mayor David Crombie, who was strongly opposed to the massive urban restructuring plans that were popular at the time, crushed plans to tear down the densely packed small houses and replace them with large apartment style housing projects.

Today the neighbourhood is a noted tourist attraction as well as a centre for Toronto’s cultural life as many artists and writers live in the area. Land prices in the area have rose drastically, but despite its increased appeal to professionals, Kensington Market still remains a predominantly working class, immigrant community.

The fact that the market is pedestrian friendly also adds to its charm. The narrow streets and the density of pedestrians and cyclists discourage drive-thru traffic. On weekends and peak shopping hours, it is actually much faster to cycle or even walk through the market than to drive. In 2004, residents and businesses organized a series of Pedestrian Sundays where parts of Augusta St., Baldwin St. and Kensington Ave. are closed to motorized traffic and the market is transformed into a street festival. There is free live music, dancing, street theatre and games all along the closed streets.

The market continues to evolve by attracting people from all around the globe. Every wave of immigrants has changed the city in its own way,” says Toronto Mayor David Miller. “Toronto’s success is neighbourhood-based. The face of the streets is the face of the world.

Nowhere is that more prevalent than in Toronto’s unique Kensington Market.

An increasingly rare and important statement by James George on CBC Newsworld.

http://www.cbc.ca/sunday/2006/09/092406_4.htmll

An excellent interview can also be found here:
http://www.chronicleproject.com/stories_15.html