Words From the Founder

I don’t remember my birth however this is the story told to me by my mother. So, I take it
on good authority. 

She was a small woman and I was a big baby. The labor was hard and long. At one point, she became unconscious. She found herself in a vast black endless void that seem to have no end. Then, as though from above, she saw a shining light. It was warm and inviting. It got more and more bright. And then, as though from below, she saw a hand moving upward, reaching upwards towards the light. The hand became mor clear as it kept reaching and reaching and reaching towards the light. Then, out of nowhere, she heard a voice, a voice like she had never heard before. It was deep and resonant, strong but friendly. And the voice said, “Peace on Earth. And you have a son.” 

Shortly, thereafter, she awoke to find the doctor standing beside her holding a baby all bruised. Bruised head to toe having been stuck in the birth canal. The doctor leaned forward and said “You have a son” to which my mother answered “Yes, I know”.

As I said I don’t consciously remember any of this however I can say that from earliest memories, I do recall a certain “feeling” or “attitude”. Perhaps I can best describe it as a hunger or “appetite”. It was distinct yet I had no name for it or even words to describe it. It was always there. Now as an adult, I might carefully choose words like “divine” or “sacred” or “extraordinary”. Like my breath, that appetite has always been there. Which made me dream up questions and begin searching for answers.

I was raised a Canadian farm boy and all the men around me were either farmers, factory workers or firemen. The firemen were the most professional of any one I knew. These were all strong men, thick and strong, not like the six-pack gym guys flexing in the mirror you see these days. The shirts were wet with sweat and dirt. The pants if worn or torn were not a fashion style but instead the result of their toil and labor. They all smelled but not in a bad way. Everyone smelled.

These were not the type of men that could answer my early questions. Everything they knew they taught in actions. For example, when there was something large and heavy to lift, the one man that would go silently to the heavy end, he was the leader. 

I grew up as a religious Catholic and my school was set alone in the middle of fields next to the big church and convent for the nuns. These nuns were my teachers and when I would timidly ask them questions, they would answer by declaring them “a mystery”. The only man in this group was the priest who lived on the opposite side of the church. He turned out to an alcoholic. Every Friday, all of us school kids would line up to “go to confession” and whisper our made-up sins to the priest for forgiveness. The confessional was a kind box or closet and the priest sat in the darkness on the other side of grid through which we would admit our sins. This grid was covered by a layer of clear soft plastic because the breath of the priest smelled of booze.

When at home and after doing chores in the barn – carrying heavy pails of water for the cows and horse, shoveling pig shit that would suck the air straight out of your lungs – I would rush back to the house and into my room to find my bookshelves against the wall. I would run my hands like strumming a harp along the encyclopedias and stop on impulse, flip open the volume on any page the universe would give me and read whatever lay before my eyes. I even tried to teach myself Greek and Sanskrit from the encyclopedia. Never got very far with that.

All along, I kept looking for clues as though examining an invisible treasure map for the buried gold and jewels. The appetite kept me searching like a bloodhound following a scent. Never lifting its head and circling back if the scent was lost.

I was the first in my family to go to university. I was so excited imagining that there, in academia, I would find powerful truths in psychology. It turned out to be boring and stiff Behaviorism with no sizzle, not even a scent. However, things were about to change – in a big way. I entered university in 1968 and if you have anything about those times – it was probably even better than what you heard. Yes, sex, drugs and rock n roll.

Think about it… you leave your parents, discover tons of new friends, way before the internet and social media. You have an explosion of some of the best music ever created, LSD, cannabis and the (Birth Control) Pill. The learning was all in the streets. Sometimes, we even went to class. It was the time when respect for authority was challenged and pivoting away from the “Establishment”. The powder keg years of “movements” opened up. Vietnam collapse and the Anti-War, Anti-Segregation, Free Speech, Women’s Rights, Gay Rights, Human Potential. Urban riots with whole neighborhoods burning. National Guard troops shooting dead American students protesting the war. The amount and speed of change was dizzy. The acid was fantastic and inspiring…and so were the girls! Yet, it all was like teasing and tasting without fully satisfying my “appetite”. The sense or even the drive was for something more, something more true to heart as well as mind. The search went on.

Two weeks after graduation, this Canadian hippie farm boy I traveled to Isfahan, Iran…the famed Silk Road oasis city in the heart of the Persian Desert. It was like my encyclopedias coming to life. I loved it. I would stand on the edge of the city and flag down any truck traveling into the vast desert. Ride the back with hot air pushing my face and jump off in any small oasis to walk the desert. Wander through old Zoroastrian temple ruins and sit with my imagination. Explore the Grand Bazaar, the midpoint on the Silk Road between Peking (Beijing) and Constantinople (Istanbul) following the foot steps of Marco Polo to the same centuries old spice shops with foot high floors of concentrated spice dust. Wander through the same dark passageways at night dangerously among the crouching opium addicts smoking their pipes. I was oddly comfortable and feeling much “at home”. I did my last full hit of LSD on an Isfahan roof top watching the sun rise and the glorious Calls to Prayer drifting through the moist early morning air.

Asia and its spiritual history and heritage called loud and clear. I must dive into the yogic and meditation traditions. Time for the East and by the next year, I had a guru and was in India.

To be continued:-)