In an article in the NY Times i came across a couple of quotes written by the recently deceased Pulitzer prize winning author, John Updike.
Updike describes the facts of life as “unbearably heavy, weighted as they are with our personal death. Writing, in making the world light — in codifying, distorting, prettifying, verbalizing it — approaches blasphemy.”
In other words, Updike says that our mortality makes every other thing in the world-- whatever its apparent beauty, value or power-- seem superficial and facile, like trivial chatter. Think of this chatter as a kind of blasphemy against reality! Certainly to glorify this chatter is a kind of blasphemy!
How true, but how difficult to avoid it. Authors like Updike made his name and fame from it, and the rest of the world feed each other with it. It is practically the bread of life. To be indifferent to all of it (including the blah blahing most devotees enjoy) is a great achievment.
Greater yet than tolerating and being indifferent to this chatter, is to be attentive and active on a platform beyond it, on the plane of seva. To be jolly and cheerfully situated on that higher plane of divine service, of hearing and chanting, is possible only for a sadhu. I don't care what anyone's dress is or how articulate they may be. I am not impressed with their scholarship or renunciation or popularity.
I bow down only to those who are steadily situated on the plane of seva to sravanam and kirtanam. And i offer my respects to those whose hopes and prayers are to one day reach that plane. To all others, let me do my best to endure their petty blasphemy in a myriad of forms and appearances.
Here is another golden quote from Mr. Updike:
“Nature dangles sex to keep us walking toward the cliff.”
We are sexual puppets moving towards a cliff which happens to be our own death. Sex and death are intimate relations with each other. (For those who cannot see the connection, think of it another way: sex is the cause of birth, and birth is the cause of both sex and death.)
Our imaginations are the background score to this puppet play, filled with undelivered yet vivid promises of sex, drugs and rock and roll (choose your particular variation). Nature is the puppet master who moves us on the strings of the impressions in our minds. The false ego is the puppet master's faithful assistant who spins a personal web for each of us that blinds us and keeps us from seeing our soul and from seeing what lies just ahead.
As we finally approach the cliff in our forgetful play, fear appears and grasps us by the neck. We sense a bleak outcome and experience the anxiety of another impending death. 'Oh shit,' we say, 'I'm not ready to die.'
The rare ones who yell out to us in the puppet theatre before we walk off the cliff, shout: 'the house is on fire!' At their own risk, they warn us and try to awaken us. But these great souls are either marginalized as "freeloaders" or madmen, or are co-opted into plastic prophets by the chela priests of religion. Some of the best atheists are the clergymen and commissioners of the churches and temples of this world.
Unbearably heavy, this conspiracy of illusion, this play of puppets. To all who are sincerely trying to get off the stage and to help others too, i say: Sadhu, sadhu! Bravo! Well done! Jai to you! Send me your blessings!