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Sumangali Morhall's Blog
Image: Pavitrata Taylor
There are as many sorts of tears as types of rain, so I found in the 48 hours following my Guru's passing. Tears of grief, sorrow, pain, shock, bewilderment, self-pity, world-pity, joy, thankfulness, wonderment, sympathy, empathy, numbness; torrents, floods, showers or steady mists.
I arrive at night to pay my respects at our outdoor meditation area, Aspiration-Ground, and I am glad for that; night glows with a softer peace than day. Many are still there at midnight, white clad, in varying states of sorrow and stoicism, but everywhere a soft peacefulness.
The Lake District
I creep in at the back five minutes early, but my shoes squeak on polished wood, damp from the squalls outside. A stillness has arrived before me and sits like a living presence in the room; the arching roof higher, the golden wood warmer, the white walls purer because of it. Many have followed its silent lead and sit within it, hems soaking above boots from their assorted journeys.
The stage is in the air, it seems, or is it in a tree? The churchyard yew cradles a view to absorb my eyes for the next hour and a half, through a wide bay of glass. A half-dome of starry blue lights pressed into the ceiling above hangs like a child's dream of Heaven.
“You wasn't born in seventy.”
He was huge. Even his shining shaven head seemed muscular, his eyes steady and piercing like an archer's. I was dried up and dizzy from flying all day, and then even my breath stopped. The hall echoed with an unreal uncomfortable sterility. His huge hand was on the precious little red book that has let me travel everywhere. The stare did not break. How would I prove that I am in that photo booth snap? It was all I had to show that I am me.
I watched an interesting documentary about the Shakers recently. I'd always admired their well-known furniture style and architecture, but I didn't know much about the spiritual background. I've been reading around the subject and it's quite fascinating. I wrote a brief article about the links between Shaker spirituality and craftsmanship, which you are most welcome to read at Writespirit.net. I hope you find it inspiring.
"Where is Heaven,
If not in the serenity of the mind,
Purity of the heart
And simplicity of the life?"
— Sri Chinmoy
Seventy-Seven Thousand Service-Trees 18326
One Of Sri Chinmoy's Soul-Birds
On a recent trip with Sri Chinmoy I was struck anew by the inner and outer beauty of his artwork. Every day he would draw many ‘Soul-Birds’, of which he has produced many millions over the years.
He draws quickly, usually with broad coloured pens, usually on paper, but sometimes on objects. At the end of each day we would often be treated to a display of the day's works. I was more amazed than ever by the variety of qualities the birds represent, as well as their movement. Some are brisk and playful, perhaps like young chicks ruffling their feathers. Others gaze or soar upwards with serene dignity. Some are soft and vulnerable; others almost leonine in their strength.
Emily Dickinson
I wrote an article on Emily Dickinson from a spiritual point of view, including quotes from Sri Chinmoy about the poet.
It's published on Poetseers.org
The one that got away
I was in the sea, snorkeling I think, or maybe diving. It was a long time ago. The sun heaved magnificent light into an already magnificent ocean, and all was bathed in lucid unearthly beauty below.
I was very fond of cowfish. They were like cartoons, little horns like raised eyebrows, boxy bodies puffing happily in and out as in a fit of laughter, big dark eyes, two arms fluttering—seemingly too small to do for anything but decoration. They always looked young, with childlike curiosity, as if so sure their own cuteness would keep them out of danger.
Their colours varied like all things in the sea, wearing different shades even when a cloud passed overhead. They were always brilliant, as if generating their own light, and always in such complex detail as if embroidered with a very fine needle and silk.
Someone caught one in one hand. The hand broke the surface and there she lay on the broad of the palm, in the raw blades of the sun, with no significant fins or tail to flip her back to safety. Read more...
I often find the smallest, simplest things most encouraging.
I was staying in a hotel recently with Sri Chinmoy and some of his students. My roommate was to arrive a few days late from the UK so I had the room to myself for a while.
One afternoon I came in to find one gerbera in a little vase on the desk. It seemed to have been put there very deliberately, with a neat array of foliage behind, but it had no card.
It was neither my birthday, nor any other special day. I wondered if the hotel had put one in each room for hospitality, but I asked a few friends and they had received no such floral gesture. I waited to see if one of my friends had sent it in a moment of playfulness and kindness, but nobody owned up as the days went by.
It was a small thing, but it inspired me a great deal. Of all the flowers, the gerbera is my favourite and has a special significance to me.
As the days unfolded I realised that whoever had sent it, had sent it unconditionally. How rare and precious in this life!
However it came there outwardly, I decided it had come from God, and I treasured it more than any flower I can remember receiving.
It was cold at first. The air had little teeth, and no amount of clothing would stop my own teeth from chattering. All looked empty to me, and stark.
But how each day became a fuller, friendlier blossom than the last...
I looked for the rising sun from breakfast on our last morning, but the trees hid him. I had packed my shawl and wore only a sheer sari and little sandals. I stepped out, folding my arms tightly, my bare toes cringing instinctively, but the assault never came; the air was bright and mild.
Following the grand but overgrown stone stairway down to the sea, one tree replaced another in concealing the sun. Amongst the statues and distant birdsong I felt I had stepped into a fable.
I found myself at the edge of the sand, marvelling anew at the sufficiency of my summer clothing. The sun drizzled light like an enormous spoon of honey, his smile changing constantly beneath the cloud. The sea waves were little tremors of joy and anticipation.
My lookout was on a broad stone disc, lined with columns. Above lay a stone circle framing only endless sky, augmenting the blue as if through a lens. The softness, purity, warmth, perfection, all voices in a vast Song of God.
Outer events in this 3-week sojourn melted into one fine stream of gratitude. The unseasonal transformation in the weather seemed a perfect echo of my own inner transformation, via the daily presence of my Spiritual Master, Sri Chinmoy.
Walking in the English countryside has become a regular complement to my daily meditation; each walk bestows a new perspective and refurnishes my inspiration.
Although I may take the same routes, they look different every time. The light is lower and more golden now as autumn draws in. The trees that give a heavy green shade in summer have become a light filigree of gold and silver glittering in the sun.
The Horse Facing The Heavens
Figures cut from chalk turf are common in southern England, but few are as ancient as this 360ft horse, dating back to the 1st century BC. Possibly its most curious aspect is that it faces skyward rather than across the valley.
I go out early in the dark, to a grey bin behind the shed, where I throw the debris from my morning juice. Next to it is last year's grey bin, now almost compost. Behind that is a butt for rainwater. By the gate is a green one for garden stems and such, and next to that is a black one for everything else... except the things that go in the shed: a crate for card, one for paper down there... and here for glass, another for plastic, and one for tin.
In Britain we throw away about 455,000 tonnes of plastic bottles every year. Figures suggest 60% of all household waste could be recycled or composted, but according to the BBC, the largest nation in the UK, England, appears to be reusing only 17.7%. Oops. We're getting better though (and I am trying earnestly with my daily cup of vegetable debris). We can take heart from some of our European neighbours - the Swiss and Scandinavians are in the medals this year.
This is our miniature dachshund. Yes she's pretty cute but she's got a temper (or "character" as we prefer to call it in her presence), so don't get too close.
There's a ritual in the house, faithfully followed by both dogs, whenever a human puts on shoes. It involves a lot of tail wagging plus a chorus of heart-softening whines and yelps. Their cocked heads, raised ears, and glossy eyes feign destitution and dreadfully protracted confinement, however recent their last trip out.
This one had to go to the vet with a bad back last week (there's a lot of back for such small legs). She was obviously in a lot of pain, but kept her stoic poise throughout all sorts of pummeling and prodding. A humiliated sulk followed her return home, accompanied by injured looks and lot of huffing and puffing.
A few days later she needed a check-up. It was a new week - the sulking forgotten - and a different time of day. The shoes came out of the cupboard, but she cowered as if to duck a blow. When she was called to her fate she hastily reversed into the office where I was working, hanging her ears.
Her "character" brings its share of amusement, and this attempted escape was highly amusing to me. I joked that she was trying to avoid the vet, assuming some outer event - unseen to me - had upset her, but my mother was not at all surprised. They just seem to know these things, she assured me, and later told me of all sorts of research that's been done to prove that dogs have a sixth sense. Truly amazed, I went to find out more.
Perhaps Rupert Sheldrake, one of the world's most innovative biologists, can explain. Excerpts from his article, The Unexplained Powers of Animals follow:
Morning in autumnal England. We arise to find the traffic blunted by mist; even the birds keep their silent awe. Many little hands have been at work in diligent decoration; hawthorn hedges heavy-shouldered with hammocks full of new jewels, and bricks now delicate through lace lenses.
I'm really enjoying a new collection on Radio Sri Chinmoy at the moment. It's from a Canadian instrumental group called Oneness, and consists of four semi-improvisational pieces based on two of Sri Chinmoy's songs. I find this clean, expansive sound very soothing, and am enjoying listening to it over and over while I'm working.
The photo is not from Canada (and obviously it's not Everest) - it's from Alaska, taken by Palyati Fouse. I chose it for the feature because it seemed to go well with the title "An Everest" - my humble interpretation being that although we might not see Everest outwardly, we can see the "Everest" in ourselves and in things - even in our own back yard.
- Listen to all 4 tracks now (iTunes or Realplayer)
- Visit Oneness on Radio Sri Chinmoy
- See more photographs by Palyati in the Sri Chinmoy Centre Gallery
I often lose myself somewhere in the Sri Chinmoy Centre Gallery, usually when I go there looking for feature images to use on Radio Sri Chinmoy.
Today I discovered one of the most amazing images I've ever seen - this one By Ranjit Swanson, taken in Nepal (close-up here).
But most of all I love the element of surprise. What on earth was a chicken doing on that side of a window?
Probably if I heard the explanation it would lose some of its charm - I'd rather stay with my fairytale imaginings...
And leave you with your own...
Now what was I supposed to be doing...?
I have long been an admirer of the film Powaqqatsi - a collection of glimpses into the cultures of the world, the common threads deftly twined together as one, by director Godfrey Reggio. It is a moving photograph album, abundant with portraits of our time.
Powaqqatsi, as a non-verbal film, is so open to the subjective interpretation of the viewer. I therefore find I receive a different experience through it now, than when I watched it a few years ago.
To me it speaks assuredly of hope, of the strength of human endeavour, and of the unity of our cultures. It seeks common denominators in humanity, reaching its source through human eyes; each glimpse a piece in the great jigsaw of the world.
