Had dinner tonight with my friend, Eileen, who I’ve known since junior high school.
I believe we first met in Miss Jewett’s music appreciation class (where I learned that “Mozart” is spelled with only one “t”). We were in many other classes together as well, particularly band (she played French horn).
As I started to write this I realized that we met in 1968. Amazing!
It was a crazy time but we were too young to really comprehend all the big changes that were going on around us. Riots in Berkeley and SF State University were something one saw on the news. The Summer of Love meant T-shirts with hearts and stylized daisies. Oh, and incense purchased on a field trip to San Francisco!
We were young and innocent in a way that really wouldn’t be possible today. We went to school; worried about whether boys would ever like us; and got good grades.
The only way to see a movie was in the theater. Phones stayed at home, connected to the wall by cords. We used encyclopedias for research; checked out books from the library; and wrote everything longhand.
We also thought the whole “drug” thing was greatly exaggerated. After all, we never saw any drugs.
And now — all of a sudden, it seems — we’re discussing whether to go to our 50th high school reunion. How is that even possible? 🤷♀️
One of our friends is in the process of moving — with his wife and two small children — away from Ananda Village to live near our community outside Seattle.
As a parting gift, he shared the following story (originally written a couple of years ago). I’m sharing it here on my blog because he so beautifully and eloquently captured the essence of living at Ananda Village.
(I’ve replaced the names with initials, since I’m not sure if everyone is comfortable being named in a public blog. 😄)
Downtown Ananda Village is the social center of a small spiritual community, nestled in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains. Surrounded by hills, from any direction in the Village one literally drives down into it to arrive at one of the destinations there such as those perennial places of pilgrimage, the mailroom and the market.
In a storm last weekend, a tree fell — and as I drove into the downtown area, what do I see but a bright yellow tractor against the deep green and brown of the tallest tree I’ve ever seen downed. Someone I know must be driving the tractor, the Village being what it is, but I can’t quite see who they are. The sky is beautiful and sunny, and I almost stop to take a picture. On my left are the pickleball players — celebrating a new pastime at the Village, and I pass them on my way in.
In the mailroom, I hear someone talking outside with N–. Who is it? I don’t recognize their voice. They are going on, kind of ranting, and N– is listening and just giving them energy. It’s the postal worker, I see as I come out. She asks about his hours and he shares how he used to work for money and now it doesn’t seem so important. “Of course!” she says, affirming this expansive understanding he’s developing. It’s God’s kindness that she shares, by listening, and you can tell that she cares. And I think of it all as I walk away.
In the market, I see S–, joyfully willing to help me find the pumpkin pie spice on my shopping list. It’s the same with P– — and they are laughing; I can’t remember why, but the feeling of it stays with me. The person checking out the groceries, a math teacher, adds up the totals in his head. To have such joy in the midst of service; to be consciously engaged in what one does, even in the checkout line. I think of it all, and carry it with me.
Back in the car, I start driving home. I pass R– on my right, a person who, more than anyone I’ve ever known, is always ready to share a smile and a laugh. There’s a utility worker nearby and I watch as he changes direction, making a detour to talk to the visitor. The way he does this makes me wonder: perhaps the only reason is just to share joy, because this person is here and because joy wants to be shared. That idea fits with what I know of R–. And I think of this.
As I reach the tree, it all comes together. I see that P–, a long-time meditator, is the driver of the tractor, and one of the monks is helping him; I see a neighbor walking with her friend, just reaching them, where they talk together. I see that everyone is here for joy, everyone is sharing joy — and more than that, everyone is joy.
Joy is the air we breathe and the river in which we swim. It’s taking the perfect drive through downtown Ananda Village, with the walkers laughing with P– on the tractor, the pickleball players, the visitors — and I think of S– and P–, N– — and I think of my guru, choreographing this moment.
I have nothing I can add to it; I cannot capture it with a photo, or deepen it with a conversation, so I simply drive through it, this ideal everyday expression of a spiritual community — simple living and high thinking, for God in ourselves and in each other.
Here’s Dad, Uncle Rudy, and their Aunt Tommye at yesterday’s birthday party.
Buster Allen Brooks, Jr (the father of Gil and Rudy) was one of eleven children. Because Buster was born in 1912 and Tommye not until 1933, she and Rudy (Buster’s firstborn) entered the world only two months apart.
Now Dad has just turned ninety, while Rudy and Tommye are both ninety-one. So grateful they’re all still with us! 💖
Today’s celebration of Dad’s 90th birthday was a resounding success.
It left me both exhausted and deeply appreciative of how blessed I am to have grown up in a large and loving family. Especially considering that my wonderful Dad is who he is thanks to his family.
So, here’s to family — quirky, flawed, complicated, challenging — but loving one another just the same, to the very best of our ability.
We had an extremely productive meeting at Dharmadevi and Narayan’s home this morning.
First we greeted Kali (their little black dog); met the three goats; caught a glimpse of some of the chickens; and viewed the barn and farmyard area (the cow chose not to make an appearance).
Then we brainstormed a whole new level of collaboration between Crystal Clarity Publishers and the Ananda Music Ministry. It feels like we’re shifting into a glorious new age for the music and books of Ananda!
But the funniest moment for me came when I noticed something strange in the bedroom… 😂
We’ve been patiently waiting (we took our Lightbearer vows in January) for our friend, Mantradevi, to figure out how to get Lightbearer robes made. (It’s been a huge challenge but Mantradevi is a real trooper and she’s getting it done!)
She finally found a wonderful seamstress in town and today Ramesha was able to try on his finished robe — whoo hoo!
Unless I’ve had a definite appointment, this past week has seen me mostly holing up at home.
I’ve made it a point to get up early enough to walk every morning while temperatures are still fairly cool. But other than that I’ve alternated between catching up on paperwork and emails with reading my book and sweating. 😳
In fact, I’ve been feeling slightly antisocial and I really do think the heat is mostly to blame.
