Zero

I saw on CNN this evening fourth and fifth generation Americans protest the building of a mosque a couple of blocks away from Ground Zero.

These people argue that Muslims are terrorists, that their culture and religion will be compromised, and that constructing an Islamic site near where the World Trade Centers once stood is a mockery to the 9/11 victims.

Rather, I think that we only began to notice Muslims ten years ago, and now it’s time to realize that they are also American, and need a place to gather.  In fact the right to assemble is basic democracy.

I do sympathize with the older generations who ultimately know nothing other than their own ancestry - that since their grandparents are buried down the street, it is “their” neighbourhood.  I understand that this is a shift in their own backyards, and change is frightening.  Being frightened is being vulnerable.  And being vulnerable make us all too aware of our own mortality.

Ultimately though, what these people are protesting is not only the unrefined animal characteristic of hoarding (which is also defined as a mental illness), but also their sense of entitlement is so great, that they ignore, forget, or are simply unaware, of why they are even in America in the first place.

North America is the poor man’s land.  We are ALL here to live in a dignity that we did not have access to before.  Some obtain much more than a survivor’s wage, and some don’t make it off the streets, but no one on this continent should be exempt from humility, meekness, compassion, and of course, obtainment.

I have judged Muslims, I have believed that they are wrong in their faith, that they hate Westerners, that they think Western women like me are whores before God.  But then I realized that I was projecting.

We must accept that this is no one’s land, not really.  Where on this earth did we develop this ridiculous sense of entitlement?  We are forever at war.  At least one war every ten years.  If a country more powerful invaded, this would become their land.  Then what do we really have?

I am not a liberal: in fact I am voting for Harper in May, and encourage all Canadians to do the same.  I am no humanitarian, I am merely a woman - a woman in a sexist, depraved, insulting, undermining, and perverted world, where not much is fair or justified.  A world where Muslim women across the Atlantic have to cover themselves from head to toe like how Europeans once did, lest they be raped.

A passion of mine is women’s rights.  I found something in me that could separate the line socially sketched between me and the orthodox Muslim woman.  I began to understand why we do things one way, and why they do things another way, and that we are not really that different after all.  I believe that in a couple of generations, we will grow more and more alike.  Western women will become more dignified, and Muslim women will begin to feel safe and shed a layer of material or two.

   

If we do not find something in us that can identify with the “other”, then we will always feel violated, always feel that we must gather, prepare, scheme, defend, fight - that we will win or lose.  What kind of existence is that?  We will forever exist within a zero, within nothingness.

America is for everyone, and I have it on good authority that if you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere.  So now what.

The Word

My yoga teacher went out of his way to invite me to a workshop that he put together for Saturday, which was about the Shabad Guru, (intelligent) sound that helps us to transform into god-like beings; we understand this as mantras in meditation.

I told him that I had previous engagements, but that I was interested in learning more, as I did not learn it to my satisfaction in teacher training.  Out of desire to please my teacher, mixed with a bit of self-consciousness, I said that I could only make the last two hours, including this information knowing that there would be no point in attending when the workshop was from 9 am to 6 pm.

He then contacted me a third time by the end of the day on Friday (the first was through e-mail, the second a phone call, and the third in a text message), saying to just make it for the end.  So, rather begrudgingly, I accepted the invitation, I was surprised to see the lengths that he was taking just to contact me.

I arrived for the last hour and a half, and I walked in at the end of an exercise that the girls were doing (and it is a tough one for me, since I have a curve in my lower back, I was glad to have missed it).  Then we started a meditation where we sat on our left heel, had the right foot planted on the ground with the knee pointing toward the ceiling, and the arms stretched out in front, fingers stretching forward.

We chanted an advanced mantra that I learned in teacher training, but never memorised.  It’s called Chattra Chakkra Vartee.  We each had a sheet, and I placed mine on my left thigh, and  then pretty much gave up on it.  I was so upset to be in this horrible posture that was probably not good for my ballet muscles. and tendons.  I also acquired an injury in my shoulder blade in ballet about two years ago, working with my port de bras wrong (movement of the arms), and this posture was really pulling on that; I had also just come from a ballet class, so it was probably already a little inflamed. 

The meditation just wouldn’t end.  Every time we finished the stanza, we went again.  After about ten minutes, I wanted to take a break, storm out, curse my teacher...I was so angry.  But he has devoted his life to this yoga and is a master; which means you simply do not fail when you are before him.  I shot frustration from my eyes at him, he tilted his head, widened his eyes, and in this sing-song energetic voice bellowed out the first line commencing yet another round.  I just laughed, released a bit, and truly began to chant.  He always seems to make it better.

I called upon the strength to breathe into stress points, which I fully realized in White Tantric.  When I had to do a day long meditation event during TT, I suffered in the last hour of meditation.  I didn’t want to give up though, because the entire point of white tantric is to join energy fields in a “Z” like formation, and to not break it.  I told myself, that day the pain came from God, and I was simply going to give it back to him, and it worked.  I again just rested into the awkward position, and it did get better.  Note: now that I am a Catholic, I am not certain anymore that pain comes from God, but I will definitely let him take it away from me!

At the end of the Shabad Guru workshop, we were given about ten minutes to write a poem on the Word, and our experiences that day.  Since I was only there for that meditation (less another one that isn't really blog-worthy), I wrote about the release from the pose during the workshop topic, the sacred mantra, thanks to breathing, and the spirit:, and lastly, on the true Word - Jesus Christ.  That last one went over interestingly, but maybe I was just projecting.  My yoga teacher talking about the BS about Christianity the next day at the beginning of Sunday yoga class tells me not, though.

Ultimately, I wrote this blog on paper in the laundromat yesterday, as a sort of background to my poem that I wanted to share, though now I am thinking that it is a little too dark and revealing at this time. 

But what I experienced in meditation is a reminder to the strength and the frailty of the human body and mind.  Though we should always know what we are chanting, the act reminds me that our souls will always remain untouched, for it is God’s alone, and that the Word can remove our blocks and heal us.  Truly, the Word is the battle cry of the saints: their blood, sweat, and tears shed, given back to God.