Amma

She entered dressed in pure white and wearing one of those smiles that springs from some deep-down well of happiness. The entire room of thousands fell silent as she crossed the stage. It’s hard to believe such a tiny woman with a penchant for hugging can have such an enormous effect on people from every walk of life. Her crowds in the states are nothing compared to the numbers she draws in her native India.

Last week, two friends and I went to see Amma, “the hugging saint, “ at the DFW Hyatt. We walked in and got swept up in the rush of the sari-clothed crowds. I ran over to get in line where it said “Darshan Tokens”. (Darshan is what Amma calls the motherly hug she gives to everyone that meets her.) Unintentionally (I swear!), I cut in front of hundreds of people in the Darshan line. That’s right, I cut in line to have a spiritual experience. Sometimes even when I try to be good, it turns out bad. However, my accomplices in this spiritual theft were quite happy that we didn’t have to wait in line for four hours to get our hug.

Sitting on the floor in front of the stage, I took a moment to glance around the room at the huddled masses. There were black, white, brown, yellow, pink, very old, very young, middle aged, wrinkly, smooth, tall, short, and every combination in between. It felt like we sat there for ages, but maybe it was just the hard floor on my un-cushioned ass. Finally the ceremony started with a kind-looking bearded man telling of his experiences as a follower of Amma. His resemblance to another bearded holy man couldn’t go unnoticed. All the while Amma was on stage there was the cutest Indian boy of about seven sitting next to her. Eventually he got tired and fell asleep until the singing began. This was my favorite part of the service. I could close my eyes and imagine that I was somewhere in India. The music was repetitive, but joyful.

After three hours the service ended and it was time to wait in line for Darshan. We decided to get a cup of chai, but our numbers came up sooner than we expected, requiring us to abandon our tea and run into the next room. I tried to stay excited about finally getting to hug Amma, but the whole waiting in line, wait for your number to be called thing cut into the zen of the moment. It felt like a production line or waiting for concert tickets. Her followers kept asking to see my ticket and then rushing me into another seat.

Eventually I made it to the front of the line and was told to kneel in front of her. I must have had three different people dragging my arms in three different directions. Someone pushed my head down onto her ample bosom and asked me what language I spoke. “English,” I replied. Not understanding what difference it would make since Amma didn’t speak it. Amma enveloped me in her arms that were heavily perfumed with flowers. She marked my forehead with something wet. Then I was grabbed and pushed away.

Then I knelt down to try and stay in the moment and absorb some of the spirituality in the room, but a very angry man in a blue kaftan yelled at me and told me that I could not kneel there, “You are blocking the entire exit! Who told you that you could sit there?” I guess even people who are in the business of promoting peace have their off-days.

I asked someone nearby why Amma marked my forehead, since I hadn’t seen her do that to anyone else. A lady told me that it was a very good sign. That it was sandalwood paste and it had a cooling effect on the body. Maybe Amma could tell that I was in need of a little extra help.

On the whole the experience ended up being more cultural than spiritual for me. I didn’t walk away from Amma with a renewed sense of purpose, or smelling like flowers for the next few days like I had heard from others’ experiences. Instead, I walked away with some sandalwood paste on my forehead and a lighter feeling in my step. But really, what more could someone ask of a simple hug?

adventures in suburbia.

I am sixteen again, driving home Sunday evening and listening to The Adventure Club with Josh. As soon as I get home, I run to my room, shut the door, and turn up my radio to make sure that I don’t miss the next new band that I will be obsessed with.

I haven’t been home for ten months (let’s make it easier on ourselves and just call it a year.), and I haven’t listened to the Adventure Club in twice as long. Hearing these kooky voices that would never be played on a regular radio format makes me immensely happy. All I can do is smile and lay on my bed like a lovesick teenager.

Nothing gets close to the rush of excitement I feel when I hear a song by a band that I’ve never heard, and it’s actually good. People will always try and get me to like their new favorite thing, and sometimes I’ll tag along, but there’s nothing like finding it myself. It’s my own discovery. I found the buried treasure. I get to bask in the glory when I give my friends a cd and say, “Here, listen to this. It will change your life.” Yeah, that sounds really pompous, but whatever. Good music can change your life. When I no longer believe this, that’s when I will have been robbed of my youthful spirit. Then I’ll start going to Denny’s for the early bird special and voting republican.

Driving home and listening to the music of my adolescence played on the radio threw me under a wave of nostalgia. For that evening, my car was a time machine and my radio was the flux-capacitor. 

Fush and Chups, Bro

I’ve been a bad writer lately, or maybe I’ve just been living in the spirit of procrastination. Something always seems to jump up and grab my attention away from putting my thoughts and adventures on paper. So I guess this morning is as good as any to break the cycle and document some history.

Two days ago the weather turned cold. The season is a changin’. If fall is this cold, then I’m afraid my poor Texan heart won’t be able to make it through winter. Stock up on your thermals, folks. At the moment, the mountains outside my window are sprinkled with snow that looks like powdered sugar. The sky is cloudy, making the lake a steely, blue-gray hue. Even when the weather is less than perfect, the view from my window still is.

It’s been so long since I’ve written on here, I’m not sure where to begin, so I guess there’s no time like the present. As of last week, I work at a little restaurant on the lake called Botswana Butchery. It is Oh So Posh. I work as a bartender slinging cocktails and $700 bottles of champagne to the rich folk. At the end of the night my hands are sore from polishing crystal wine glasses, but it’s a good sore.

I almost did run home last month. I decided that I would go ahead and use my ticket: February 8, Auckland to DFW. I spent two weeks saying goodbye to Queenstown and seeing all the things I wanted to before leaving forever. And then, reality smacked me across the face. I would be leaving paradise to go back home to a recession economy.

The main reason I wanted to leave here is the lack of jobs in my field of study: advertising. BUT, no Dallas advertising agencies are hiring junior copywriters in the current economic situation. Imagining myself waiting or bartending in Dallas, when I could be doing the same thing here, was just a little too much to face. SO! I stayed!

This was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made, besides coming over here in the first place. I actually like my job. I love my flat and my flatmates. And, looking out my window is the equivalent to doing two hours of yoga. I can have a stressful evening and then wake up in the morning and look out my window, and think, ‘Hey, no matter what’s going on, I still live here, and I still get to look at this.’

queenstown style