True Tales

These three short pieces are the product of some timed writings the True Tales group did a few years ago (see the game "Trigger" in Waking Up Those Memories). When I first wrote them they were quite a bit "rougher." Days later I returned to them and worked each one a little more. I don’t think they would have ever surfaced had we not done Trigger that night! The title of each piece is the trigger word from the exercise.

Toe

The white recliner, comfortably covered with sheepskin, holds my teacher in its palm. His feet, the object of my focus, rest on a white hand towel, and are poised gracefully at my heart’s level. Blue Cat cozily lazes on his lap, nuzzling into the warmth of the master’s gentle stroke. Sunlight plays through the garden window. I inhale and feel the peace of the place, scents of curry wafting from the kitchen, mingling with incense and the melodic soothing sound of gurbani kirtan. As I press harder on his big toe, his eyes open, focus on me, and he says, “Enough.”

Night

Danny and I share a one-bedroom apartment on Preuss Road, just down the block from Guru Ram Das Ashram. A pine hutch my brother built for us stands against one wall, with a gray and worn upholstered rocker in the corner. A low wooden table, painted dark brown, holds our cassette tape player, philodendron, and a few candles, and several floor pillows made from fabric I found on sale at Home Silk decorate the floor. The sun is beginning to sit low in the sky and its bent light filters through the window, giving our olive green carpet a golden hue. It’s Saturday and I’ve been cleaning house, doing laundry, and taking care of our baby daughter, Sat Kartar Kaur, all day. She is sleeping now and Danny is fiddling with the cassette player. The doorbell rings. I hear some laughter outside and get up to answer. And there stands a radiant, smiling, orange-turbaned Yogiji, dressed in white shorts, tennis shirt, ankle socks and sneakers, bearing a large cluster of big, juicy, red grapes. “These are for you. Here, eat! I am just walking and sharing with the neighborhood…” He breaks off a small cluster and places them in our delighted hands. Then, as magically as he appeared, he is gone.

Shawl

Gurujodha Singh has meditated every morning with the Pendleton wool blanket draped over his shoulders more years than I know, its dark blue background boldly patterned with reds and oranges. I have always loved this blanket; it holds so much of my husband’s life, his peaceful vibration in meditation, and has softened and mellowed with its years of daily use. Worn thin in some places and showing its age, it has retired now, and a younger and lighter weight shawl has moved up to replace it.

Today it’s the Siri Singh Sahib’s birthday and we are celebrating at Will Roger’s State Park in the Santa Monica Mountains. The retired Pendleton, newly relegated to picnic blanket duty, has found an idyllic spot, shaded by a graceful pepper tree beside a small ribbon of creek. It lies alone and in peace while we all play soccer on the polo field.

Meanwhile, Siri Singh Sahib Ji and his entourage arrive, disembark their cars, and head toward the picnic area. We all rush up from our game to greet and meet him. Arriving, there I see Yogiji. He has passed by the tables of food and the special place prepared for him to sit, and has found his seat on a lone, peaceful, old blue blanket under a shady tree.

Years later, I ask Gurujodha Singh, “Whatever happened to that old Pendleton blanket?” hoping to treasure it, remembering the blessing of the master that day. He replies, “I walked out of Guru Ram Das Ashram and saw a homeless guy sleeping outside the rec center in the cold. So, I laid it over him. It seemed right.”