Om Ganesha, Morning Pujas and Prayers.
Oct. 25, 2006
Namaste my chelas all over the world.
My son writes, I read, I send and every one is in love with our Guru Jaya Das’s Words.
Yet this day there is such a potency that has been growing over the years.
I give you my son.
My very Butch Queen.
I love you my Guru Jaya Das.
Love Ma
Jai Kali Ma Ki Jai
Always at His Feet Of Our Neem Karoli Baba Ki Jai
Namaste my beloved Ma,
It’s the dawn of Global Phone Darshan Day once again, and the oldest “queen” this side of the Rocky Mountains, should be wide awake, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, but I can’t move! I feel like I’m tied down hand and foot (NO I’m am not into S&M, I’m just feeling so incapacitated). Phoenix, my unconditional loving wonder dog, gives me his full wet tongue facial. Even my partner of 26 years, the original sleeping prince himself, Vasu “cookie” is up and about preparing to leave to teach his early morning class, can’t rouse me. Soon it all comes back to me, that last night I was a screaming, foot stomping, rock-n-roller again, attending a concert of “The Pogues”, Irish Punk, of all things in a arena of raucous drinking fans, and me getting carried away screaming like a kid forgetting I’mas old as dirt, should have been in bed hours before. Surely I was the the only “mishugana” crazy Jew among those hard drinking Irish. Oy vey!The overly hyped sounds are still ringing in my head. The expansion of selfbreaks through the fog surrounding my brain. Ma you, I know it’s YOU who open my eyes wide, empowering me with strength I never thought the original sissy like me had. This morning I am I ever so slowly become a warrior on my path, realizing that the way I truly bring you Ma into my everyday life, is that I can willfully extend my tired ass septuagenarian self and serve others. I am again in touch with the deepest part of my nature, that MA put this fire in my heart (and it’s not heartburn) that never seems to go out.
I race cross-town to catch up with Peter now proudly bearing his new name, Rudra Deva, and Yamuna Jaya, setting up our sandwich assembly line in the back yard of our West Hollywood ashram. I look at Rudra Deva, who isso devoted to serve, feeling that in some small way I partially contributed to help him cross the bridge as my River’s, Ganga and Yumuna Jaya, did for me nine years ago, following the path to serve others and in that process help shed our smaller selves. Kali Baba and Vishna Dev, vigorouslyjoin in, but before we are finished the voice of our Swami Bhavatarini, calls us in for breakfast. This familiar scene, duplicated every Saturday, sitting around the kitchen table, like a scene painted by Norman Rockwell, but surely with more queers than he would have painted. It’s our chance to; gossip, talk movies (I reccomend seeing “The Queen” and no it’s not about me) and yes even spirituality too. Swami delights us, me especially, with making waffles. I’m a kid again drowning it with maple syrup, a sure sign my Swami, really knows how to show me her love. Achariya SwamiShiva arrives, still healing from his recent surgery, and is warmly greeted, never once losing his ability to cut us down to size when we get outof line. Supplied with food and clothing, our fearless pilot, future Kali Natha Yoga instructor, Yamuna Jaya at the wheel, me in the front seat, Rudra Deva in back, begin our route leading us to downtown (did you know L.A. had a thriving downtown?). Our eyes peering out to spot the homeless ,usuallypushing a shopping cart, unnoticed by the early morning shopping and street scene. A Southern Californian weather phenomenon, hot desert winds, called the Santa Ana’s, heat up the city almost twenty degrees above normal, and cleans this cities very dirty air, revealing a spectacular post card view for miles as far as the mountains surrounding L.A., so many milesaway. It is a town of sunlit beauty and dark shadows, wealthy beyond belief, Hummer limousines, and 90,000 homeless. Thomas, always alcohol and drug free, is at his regular perch, sitting onwall surrounding the strip center and Doughnut Shoppe on Sunset Blvd. Heis considered by his pals, who hang out with him, the undisputed mayor. Thomas has been a familiar figure on the corner, surviving being continually; robbed, sieges of bad health, and continual police harassment. As Idrive this spot any time of day or night, I’ll see him there. He is one of the very few “old timers” we serve, so many gone, we feel a sense of real loss, when we lose old faces, wondering if they are well, even alive.Life indeed on the streets is not for the faint of heart. I high five Thomas, who greets me with his signature toothless grin, two hats usually on his head, “I’m still here, still alive, and I need some clothing” he says, “got robbed again last night”. We are able to fully outfit our friend, we do consider him that, with a full wardrobe including a sleeping bag.The man lying on the grass at Echo Park suspiciously looks at me as I approach him, food and water in hand, “how about some lunch?” I say gayly (it used to mean cheerful, I guess some folks forget) “Why me” he replies.“Because” I answer “it’s lunch time and we thought you’d enjoy a ham andcheese sandwich, some cookies and a banana, even some toileteries. He looks up at me, almost as if he were about cry, “What a surprise, what a surprise” and reaches his hand out and shakes my hand “thanks a million”. Iwonder often who serves who? that we feel this bond with every one we serve on the streets, and in that process have broken so many boundries and forsaken all judgements. The bunch of tough looking guys are drinking heavily behind the tennis courts, immigrants transplanted from their villages, south of the border, loaded before noon, with no money for food or shelter, lost in the great city. They look at me suspiciously as I approach. I assume this big tough guy (I can play tough, I can do it, I can do it) Bronx (I was born there)approach. I yell out “hey you hungry mother f—–s baout some food. Silence then Lots of laughs, “Ola’s amigos” all around, “gracias” too as wedistribute the sandwiches, once again no judgements, they were hungry and we fed them. We spot Rich, another familiar figure, walking the streets, dragging two full carts, dressed in heavy gear, regardless of the weather, on his way to his spot in the park. “Where do you sleep? Rich” I ask,curious. “I don’t” he says, “the streets have their moments”. These are survivors, where the homeless prey on each other, for pennies to buy drugs, whatever. We create positive Karma when we serve, understanding using one’s life to ease the heart of others, to serve, is the way we choose tolive well. I feel this profound joy of having a guru like you Ma, who has instilled in me the bright light of compassion.
We are back at the ashram in the afternoon awaiting the beginning of Global Phone Darshan. it is the first time for Camunda Jaya, the wife of Rudra Deva, feeling so at home among us. The rest of your L.A. faithful gather: Sita “Jelly Bean’ and her Ramesh, looking so blissfull together, our own beloved Sita Jenni, now half her size at the beginning of the year, appearing the lovely woman once hidden beneath her massive weight, wearinga star of David, converting to Judiasm, taking on the family name of Katz (I nickname her in yiddish “ketzalah’ meaning cute little cat). The passionate fire of your love Ma, spirals it’s way to all of your chelas. At long last the phone call. We who do not have you Ma, in the flesh, our love collectively spills out into the room. Your far-away Angelino’s, so feel your beautiful unconditional love, we are back at your feet, feeling like we have never left. The room pulsates with the vitality of the mother and fills up with love of guru, who thank God, loves you no matter what you do, and we all sparkle with the supreme joy of being your chela’s.
I reflect on this deep love I have for you Ma, and this is my love letterto you. Your devoted son. Guru Jaya Das
Jai Kali Ma, Ki Jai