I want to see that people reach deep into themselves, behind the façade of the person, and find the presence of God within.
Mooji
- A love story
This longing… aches inside of me… aching constantly… such longing…a longing that never rests… never stops… even in sleep… even in dreams…
It has been haunting me since I was 2. Yes 2. I remember waking up from a nap next to mom and suddenly I had a burning sense of urgency inside of me calling out for my attention. I walked over to the wall where I often practice my drawing and attempt to write my own name, on the wall. Only this time the burning was so strong I couldn’t do anything but just pay attention to the cramping sanction acting as a command from the heavens – to pull my attention upward… my eyes followed. The white stacks of paper hanging on the wall were inches above my head. The corners were so sharp and the paper had a thick reflective quality to its sheen. I never dared to touch the corners. It was a known weapon without kindness that attacks fingers reaching in hope of a feel. I must’ve been cut many times along the edges of these stacks of stiff weaponized papers hanging on the wall. And that’s why it kept on getting higher and higher away from my reach. This time I didn’t reach with my hand. Instead I pulled my neck back and stared up. There were numbers. A box of small numbers above the black bold foundational print of 4 large numbers.
1980
I gasped… somehow these numbers meant something… And suddenly that burning urgency inside of me reached out its fist and grabbed me by the throat and I wasn’t allowed to take another breath.
1980
So many years had passed… “ITS ALREADY 1980!” The urgency inside me screamed out silently as I was to observe this moment. “You need to find HIM!” What is 1980? What does that even mean? And WHO is screaming out the persistent plead? And who is this HIM I must find?
Somehow I know of this HIM… streaming from the source of needing, of reaching, of longing, of that never ending aching…
Somehow I know HIM… so close that I can touch yet so far I could never imagine. I closed my eyes and tasted the sweetness – he must be the true LOVE I’m destined to search for… perhaps his family owns a candy store for HIM to have such distinctive sweetness. Perhaps HE’s really far away and I must strap on my best walking shoes to start the journey. But how? how do I find HIM?
With so many questions a two year old needs answers to, I didn’t have the heart to wake up my tired mom still napping sweetly on a hot summer afternoon. Suddenly I was tired myself. Too tired to think. Too tired to form questions. Too tired to even need answers. I climbed back to the bed taking care not to touch my mother’s sleeping body. Momentarily I touched the cold wall against my hands and felt the comfort of noticing. My body curled up into a ball. On one side I could still feel the coldness of the wall. On the other side I felt the warmth of mother’s breath.
The year was 1980. And I was 2.
Truth cannot only comfort you. At times, it has to cut through to the bone, to the very marrow even, if this is what it takes to set you free.
Mooji
2. Bitter Sweet
As a child I got sick a lot. always possessed by a cold or flu. I still remember mother’s tense despair whenever I was running a temperature. I never understood why she seemed so lost and hopeless when I always felt just fine, just a bit more sleepy than usual. Too often she would take me to the hospital only later to be discharged by the doctor to go home and nurse the temperature back to normal. I could never understand why it was so bad to get sick. I always felt fine. I never felt sick. I was only being told that I was sick. I was fine. More than fine actually. I always watched her reactions from a distance, perhaps I even watched myself from a distance, in a sort of a big bubble where I am untouched.
People’s disheartenment always bewildered me, I didn’t understand it. Conceivably it was because I wasn’t old enough to experience it myself and a part of me always desired to feel as the adults felt, as if I was missing something, as if I did not belong.
Due to my frequent apparent illness, mom eventually stopped taking me miles on her bicycle to visit the emergency room at Children’s Hospital and she started to learn more about common cures herself. She also became acquainted with an amicable old sliver-haired hunchbacked lady who walked loudly with a cane and used its end to point to people when she spoke to them. I was told she came from generations of doctors and only used grass, barks, and roots to make a “kinder” medicine for the body. Mom went to her often and always came back with bags of ground grass, barks, and roots to boil over an open fire.
I was curious and stood by her as she explained the properties of each of the ingredients and their function. She told me that there are four types of illness – hot, warm, cool, and cold. The goal of the combined mixture is to bring the body back to neutrality. The body needs to be back in harmony so the chi can flow smoothly. She learned that this Chinese herbology has a history of at least 5000 years.
I nodded my head and pretended to comprehend. I stared into the flames that were englufing the clay pot, and as the brew heated it began to steam and thicken. An odor was released as the steam darkened. All of that was fascinating to me. I stood there and watched.
Then something else in our front yard garden grabbed my attention and I ran away to chase the butterflies and watch the flowers move in the wind. Time passed quickly as I danced in my sweetness before mom called me back to smell her concoction. Yikes! I thought to myself but didn’t say a word. It seemed to have cooled to room temperature and now the thick liquid brew was in a clay bowl. It was odious. I gagged.
Apparently mom was not only asking me to inhale her concoction, but i was required to drink it. To drink that thick dark musky brew that nearly made me heave was most likely to be the end of me. I screamed and tried to get away. She grabbed me by the left shoulder, digging in with her thumb. I kicked her legs and screamed even louder in her face and swang my arms wildly. I knocked over the bowl she was holding onto and that clay bowl broke into a hundred pieces, slamming to the ground. The thick dark musky brew splashed everywhere, including onto that delicate white dress with pink wildflowers mom was wearing.
I won.
The next thing I knew before taking a token to celebrate my triumph, mom grabbed both of my shoulders forcefully and pushed me against the dinning room table. She picked up a thick ribbon on top of the table and tied me against a leg of the table. I kicked and screamed, and bit her arm so hard as I wanted to damage her – so she would release me.
She tied me even more forcefully, ignoring the teeth marks on her arm. I could no longer move my arms.
Tears begin to flow uncontrollably.
She broke my heart.
I was so small but my broken heart was bigger than the room I was jailed in. So broken, like a million pieces of sharp glass floating in the air just waiting to hit the ground, to lay next to what was left of the broken clay bowl.
I hated her. I never wanted to see her again.
She tried to poison me and now has taken me hostage. I only wish I had bitten her harder to leave more than just teeth marks.
I slid down and sat on the ground filled with pieces of clay bowl, thick odious brew of poison, and millions of pieces of my own broken heart in the shape of shards of glass. Sobbing. Tears formed a puddle around my ankle and I touched it with my toe. I fell asleep next to the foot of the table still tied up.
…
When I opened my eyes once again mother was standing over me with another bowl of brew asking me to drink it. She looked different, eyes swollen, hair messy, and she was no longer wearing that dress, the dress with pink wildflowers I loved so much…
This time, without a thought, I tilted my head up, closed my eyes and opened my mouth. If I ceased to exist then so be it. That is just fine. The brew was lukewarm, thick, dark and bitter. Pieces of tiny bark stuck on my tongue. I still drank it as fast as I could just to get it over with. The last taste was clearly diluted and salty. I licked at the corner of my mouth surprised. I never knew a drop of tear could taste so pure and elegant. Such contradictions.
More tears flowed down my cheeks as I was being released from captivity. Perhaps it was a relief, an acknowledgment, a celebration. This day marked the day of my understanding of adult emotions.
Mother helped me off of the ground and cleaned me up with a warm washcloth and new clothes. She then unwrapped a piece of fancy candy and put it in my mouth. That sweetness had always been a companion but now felt no longer as intimate. I still tasted the bitterness as I noticed that sweetness was beginning to seep in.
If you want to marry, marry God. He always looks beautiful, He always speaks the Truth, always does what is good for you, always puts you first, always shows you when you are not true, always encourages you to be true.
Mooji
3. My Childhood Friend
My best friend was the boy next door. He was two years older than the three year old me when we first met. He taught me to draw on white walls, climb up trees, and read tiny little philosophy books. We lived in our own world and had our own language just through our glances. His family introduced me to black coffee, steak tartare and sushi while my parents could barely afford enough rice.
I’ve always loved him.
Years later when I moved to the United States I had forgotten about him. In my 30s I went to visit my hometown and ran into his dad. With deteriorating eyes, the old professor was still able to spot me at a distance. He put his arm around me as we walked and told me that I was the daughter-in-law he wished he had. He then waved to his new wife to greet us. I remember her well, and I remember wondering how at 20 years younger she became his third wife. She was well known in the community as the loud-mouth, and whenever she was speaking, I felt as if she were screaming angrily yet with joyful excitement. Such contradictions, that creature.
They invited me for tea in their home. She then showed me photos of her soon to be daughter-in-law and protested the upcoming union.
“She is just pretty, white skin and long black hair. But there’s nothing inside!” The third wife screamed at me, waving the photos. “When she comes over to stay with us her long black hair sheds everywhere – on the floor, clogging up my shower, and it even lands in our sacred art studio!”
I looked down, into my teacup, and noticed the floating leaves. Fresh, light, and fragrant. I didn’t say anything.
“We saw your art exhibition! It’s interesting how your style is completely unrelated to your exposure at this Art Institute you grew up in! Forgetting your roots. Must be all that Western influence you received. Still, we wish you were our daughter-in-law!” She noticed my quietness against her own intensity, “I see your Chinese communication is subpar. Anyway, I know the press is coming tomorrow with TV stations and newspaper reporters so I’ve asked my son to prepare you for the interviews. He’s coming to pick you up.”
NO!
My heart was pounding…
I haven’t seen him since I was 12 and I have scars he has never seen. I would rather go on – never having him see me – for the rest of my life.
I’ve aged. I’ve gotten damaged. I’ve never found a deep personal love who was willing to marry me. I’m what the Chinese people call a disappointing “Leftover Woman”.
But now it has just become too late, the door opened and there he was…
“Ba, Ma, Maple.” He called out to my childhood name like no time had passed since we were together. He walked toward me and sat beside me, “sorry I was late, I went by your art exhibition first before coming here. Very unique, like you.”
I smiled. He smiled. That gaze, the lingering glance, our separate worlds reunited.
We walked in the misty rain along the cobblestone road lined with green, yellow, and orange leafed maple trees. “I love when the cold breeze and the rain combine forces, I can feel it in my bones,” he smiled. He’s always so calming, gentle, and mysterious. We walked and walked like time never existed. I felt myself floating yet miraculously grounded. I too felt the rain and the breeze as an invitation to feel the forces of pure existence. Most people never open that invitation and just toss the gift aside. Likewise, I’ve lived closed off from existence for way too long…
We walked up 6 flights of stairs as the rain began to darken. His apartment was well-lit but small – kitchen, dinning room, bedroom, and another room used as an art studio. I stood in the doorway of his art studio as he pulled down the dusty white coversheet to unveil his new work. I can smell the oil painting still fresh in the air.
Nude, pure rosy white skin, long black hair flowing in the wind. Expressionless. A bit cold, yet mysteriously alluring.
“This is my wife, we marry next month.” He stared off into the corner of the room, “my dad couldn’t comprehend why I fell in love. I guess I’ve always chased the inexplicable.”
I didn’t say anything and walked back to the dinning room and sat down. “So what type of work do you do now?” I was curious why he didn’t live on campus at the Art Institute as most of the children of the elite professors such as his dad also pursued professorships within the institution.
“I teach oil painting and philosophy at City College.” He sat across the small table, “of course my dad does not approve. He has always chased fame, money, and status. For me, I just want freedom.”
I nodded. Remembering that steak tartare and fancy sushi were never my choice of lunch as a child.
We went on to discuss fractals and how it became became a profound expression of art for me. The chaos, the order, the intricacies, the universal patterns, the self resemblance. I’ve told him each of the pieces came to me as a divine gift – not of my own creation – each distinctively poignantly dictated by a higher intelligence. I’ve used it as a guidance system for my personal evolution.
“Yes, you are beginning to tap into the big ME and letting go of the little ME.” He lowered his voice and sounded so much like his dad lecturing. “Most people live their entire life or lives in the little ME and never expect or let alone imagine a way out. That’s the chaos in the fractal. Order only emerges when you zoom out into the big ME space. Fractals are a mirror into the infinite boundless zoomed-out space where only the big ME exists and the little ME is only a tiny approximation of the whole.”
Without the need to understand his wistful philosophy, I saw the excitement in his eyes, and from there I was momentarily transported into that unlimited existence.
“Just like you and me. We grew up together as little MEs. You believed you were you and I was me. When you moved away I was mourning and later realized you still remain a part of me. Like I was always a part of you. No time or distance can ever erase the you in me, and the me in you. Now that’s the expansion into the big ME.” I was lost in his words and instead reached into the feelings, “In all of the world’s philosophy and religion there’s a unified goal of explaining the obscure, the thing you may call Love, God, or big ME that’s always there, somewhat felt but unseen. Your fractal art is a doorway leading us into the big ME by zapping you instantaneously with the shapes and colors and beauty so you have no choice but to forget the little ME – even if just for an instant.”
Four hours passed like a single eternity. Just for an instant, I realized that he had given me more than just interview preparation, he had given me himself, that self which has always been a part of me…
Beloved, don’t be a warrior, just be yourself.
Don’t waste energy preparing for this mind-battle. You are sharpening your sword to kill dragons that don’t exist. The more you think about them, the more you empower illusions and become deluded by them. And then you are compelled to do battle with an imagined enemy; one created by your own projection, arising out of your own fear and appearing inside your mind alone. In truth, man can only fight against himself. So the way is not to fight, rather, be in the fullness of your Peace — the Peace that exists before duality arose.
Mooji
4. Letting Go All Practice
“Controlling the position of one’s body and keeping a straight back are not contemplation, but can in fact become an obstacle to contemplation. When leaving the body ‘uncontrolled’ is spoken of, what is meant is simply allowing the body to remain in an authentic, uncorrected condition, in which it is not necessary to modify or improve anything. This is because, since all our attempts at correcting the body come from the reasoning mind, they are all false and artificial.” – Namkai Norbu
One of the reasons I stopped my aikido practice was due to an intuitive feeling that I was working against my authentic state of being. Each posture correction to keep a straight back, to move hips forward and down, to make improvements to one’s imperfect self was a path I used for my spiritual development. And it worked for many years as I urged others to join and gain the same benefits.
After about 9 years of dedicated practice, I began to feel less and less affection towards aikido. Naturally I began to examine my own thinking and thought it might be lack of dedication to continue and deepen my growth in that direction. So I ignored the bodily pains and intuitive discomfort time after time until I just couldn’t make myself attend training any longer. Even international visiting shihans had no appeal and I felt seminars were becoming an obligation I could no longer afford. For the next two years, I attended classes less and less but was still teaching kids and youth. Even that was getting to be more and more uncomfortable for me. So I expanded my aikido teaching into meditation, awareness practices, and educational development for them. One particular student was always very interested in self improvement and he often asked me for extra exercises to improve his posture. For the first few years I happily gave such instructions but as my awareness sharpened, I realized that his mind and beliefs were controlling his posture and no amount of correction I gave him or he forced on himself could actually make a lasting difference. So I asked him to work on awareness instead.
Due to COVID, we had to stop in person training and started online classes. I found myself working extra hard and was often exhausted after two-hour back-to-back kids and youth classes. I felt resentful toward my own push to continue and never give up. It was that same resentment I felt towards my father when I no longer loved practicing the piano but I still had to do it because it wasn’t good to quit. There was a small voice inside of me that wanted to scream but I had duck-taped her mouth shut. Finally the discomfort of continuing felt more and more deafening so I took a safe approach and decided to take a sabbatical.
Also at the same time, I was taking barre classes and enjoying the hard yet graceful body I had gained. A month after stopping aikido, I couldn’t push myself to even attend a 30 min barre class online nor to attempt yoga. I just couldn’t do any practice any more.
I thought my laziness was finally getting the better of me. I thought now I no longer have the desire to do anything or even move my body, that I was going to be as fat as a house. And my butt would be attached to the sofa permanently.
I then later recognized those fears were just thoughts too – created in the mind – as a cheap approximation to reality. The mind was not my friend, at least not yet. I also had the fortune to sense teachers who were not purely authenticated by their own experience. And I moved away from such teachers naturally.
I found affection and affinity with teachings of mooji, papaji, and ramana marashi on youtube and later expanded my research to include a broader spectrum of teachings as they are all the same in essence. I was able to digest various teachings because I have had my own experience for confirmation.
In the end, there was never an end nor a beginning, I have never left nor arrived, and all my efforts led to the effortless, and all paths I explored led to the place of no path having ever existed. Here, Now, I found my Self, who was only dreaming of separation.
My practices led me here. And thankful that I am.