The Three Keys to Peace, Joy and Harmony

"Know Thyself," carved into the temple at Delphi (circa 440 BC)

"Nothing in Excess," The second motto of the Temple of Delphi.

And for me, the third key to bring about peace, joy and harmony into my life is
The Golden Rule. . . . which dates back to ancient times and encompasses a wide range of world cultures and religions.

The ancient GREEK meaning of the Golden Rule:

"What thou avoidest suffering thyself seek not to impose on others." Epictetus

"It is impossible to live a pleasant life without living wisely and well and justly (agreeing 'neither to harm nor be harmed'), and it is impossible to live wisely and well and justly without living a pleasant life." Epicurus

Other translations of the Golden Rule" are:

Buddhism

"Putting oneself in the place of another, one should not kill nor cause another to kill."

"One who, while himself seeking happiness, oppresses with violence other beings who also desire happiness, will not attain happiness hereafter."

Baha'i Faith

"Ascribe not to any soul that which thou wouldst not have ascribed to thee, and say not that which thou doest not."

"Blessed is he who preferreth his brother before himself."

Christianity

"Love your neighbor as yourself."

"Do to no one what you yourself dislike." ("Do unto others as you would have done unto you.")

Confucianism

"Never impose on others what you would not choose for yourself."

Taoism

"Regard your neighbor's gain as your own gain, and your neighbor's loss as your own loss."

"The sage has no interest of his own, but takes the interests of the people as his own. He is kind to the kind; he is also kind to the unkind: for Virtue is kind. He is faithful to the faithful; he is also faithful to the unfaithful: for Virtue is faithful."

Hinduism

"One should never do that to another which one regards as injurious to one’s own self. This, in brief, is the rule of dharma. Other behavior is due to selfish desires."

Judaism

"That which is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow. That is the whole Torah; the rest is the explanation; go and learn."

"Thou shalt not take vengeance, nor bear any grudge against the children of thy people, but thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself: I am the LORD."

Islam

“That which you want for yourself, seek for mankind.”

“None of you [truly] believes until he wishes for his brother what he wishes for himself.”

Jainism

"Just as pain is not agreeable to you, it is so with others. Knowing this principle of equality treat other with respect and compassion."

GOD BLESS YOU ALL AND MAY THIS NEW YEAR BRING US CLOSER TO OUR ORIGINAL SELVES . . . OUR TRUE SELVES. MAY WE FIND OUR MEANING WITHIN. AND MAY WE ALL ASPIRE TO LIVE BY THE THREE KEYS TO PEACE, JOY AND HARMONY.


Side Note - I left this blog post even though it was meant for my Sacred Footing blogsite. You see, I had just published the Violin article and was writing this for Sacred Footing. When I discovered that I had made a "mistake," something had happened and I could no longer delete it. (i.e. a comment arrived literally seconds after I hit the publish button and I did not want to not delete the comment) I did post this on my Sacred Footing blog as well.

Orthodox Holy Week

Greek Orthodox Holy Week . . . Blessings to all . . . I shall return after Pashca (Easter)

Kali Anastasi!

I will be writing more about Holy Pashca in my Sacred Footing blog - for all who are interested.

The Nature of Me

I was born in Detroit, Michigan. I was nurtured here. I grew up here. Detroit is my native soil; the perfect balance of minerals, alkalinity, water and sunlight that nurtured my body from infancy into adulthood. This is where my feet first walked the streets. This is where my childhood memories live. This is where, long ago, I buried things in an unmarked grave. This is the sacred place where the Earth mothered me into physical existence. Detroit is my home . . . no matter how far I roam. My roots begin here. And this is where I return when I seek the comfort of familiarity; when I need homemade chicken soup; when my ears long to hear the foghorn of a Lake Michigan lighthouse; when I am missing certain ingredients essential to my growing forward. Detroit in my nurturing force. Detroit is my sure thing.

Greece . . . is my spiritual motherland; the place my soul finds solace, answers and then, more questions. Greece is where the muses dance around me and where my feet also dance. It is here where I first heard my life calling me - in a tongue foreign to my ears yet understood by my heart. This is where my true nature was born; where I originate; where my creativity laughs from the belly. This is the place from where I can see eternity atop a limestone hill; where my ancient umbilica remains connected to the amniotic fluids of the Aegean Sea; and where I have yet to unbury all the mysteries of me. Greece is where I come when my canvas has become muddied from color on color and needs to be alabastered white again; when the world is so loud that I cannot hear my own voice. This is where I come when a solo clarino - clarinet, a glass of Retsina and a cotton dress is all that is needed to have my heart leaping with joy.
When I ventured away from Detroit to find what fates awaited me, it was then that I thought I had found Greece . . . but I found I had never really left Greece. And she never left me.
It was in Greece where my growing pains matured into wisdom and where I began to understand the knowledge I had collected from my experiences and education.
The nature and the nurture of life; we need to respect them both and love them equally if we are to have the ultimate experience and honor of birthing ourSelves.

Pythia is preparing to emerge from her womb after a long, quite, beautiful pregnancy.
Spring is just a few longitudes and latitudes away.

After Love, There is Only Art

It is my feeling that the reality in which we live is not real at all. Our struggles, our battles, our wars, our religious beliefs, our political stances, our morals, our societal rules . . . We have been programmed. We have been overcome. We no longer have access to our own minds, our original God-given minds. Everything we feel, see, do, think, is being dictated to us in doses proportionate to our energy. We are helpless pawns in a game of chess played out by something we cannot see. Something we cannot comprehend. Something that the majority of us deny with every molecule of our being; with every vague and distant memory we erase; with every breath we forcefully take; but "it," the invisible transplanted mind, nevertheless, exists. When our suspicions surface as anxiety, extreme discontent, depression, madness, or the likes, we are deemed ill or crazy and our symptoms are quickly sedated . . . masked. I think it all stems back to the story of Adam and Eve and the Garden of Eden - a story that has a deep-seeded truth within its core: God (the Universe, our Higher Power, our Creator) gave man and woman everything by bestowing upon (us) the freedom of expression; the powers of co-creation; the God mind. We were once expressions of infiniteness . . . in other words, He gave us art - heart - and it was good. Our hearts and our minds were, once upon a time, ONE in the same with God. Then, the serpent "the foreign being" appeared and offered man and woman a new mind, separate from God. . . the chance (risk) to attain knowledge without having to look to God. "It" led us to believe we needed to find answers to questions that do not and never did exist in the completeness of our original mind. And with that new foreign mind came our first belief: the belief we that are separate, that we possess an individual mind. We based that belief on our newfound freedom (within our new mind) to conjure perspectives, opinions and judgments. We had fundamentally created our ego. And with the ego, came our second belief; self-awareness - we are different. We found ourselves naked and ashamed of our own skin. Then, our third belief; that we are better than . . . God . . . We created arrogance. As creators, we were on a roll. But, it was not our own mind doing the creating, for we no longer had access to our own mind. Subsequently, we kicked ourselves out of the Garden of Eden, and since then we have spent the rest of our time on Earth blaming God or blaming the serpent or blaming ourselves - which is actually our favorite pastime: indulging in self-reflection and self-pity. So, here we are; call us zombies, call us pawns, call us puppets, call us food for thought (the thought of a foreign mind, that is). Call us Pavlovian dogs that cry when stimulated in particular ways, that laugh when stimulated in other particular ways, that fight when stimulated in yet other particular ways . . . and we blindly and so foolishly call ourselves individuals. Our only way to salvation is to release ourselves from the grip of this predatory mind; whether you call it the serpent in the Garden of Eden, or the devil, or societal values, or political beliefs, or religious creeds . . . whatever you wish to call it is irrelevant. What is relevant is the fact it is real, it exists, it is the reality in which we live. "Wake up people! Stop being Pavlov's pets!" Easier said than done, I know. For allowing something else to do our thinking and the rule-making and the moral setting, etc. takes the responsibility off of us and gives us more time to do what we do best; breathe . . . exist . . . pay the bills . . . cry at the horribly sad stories on the news . . . scream out against the war . . . point fingers at Bush or the Pope . . . make it to church on time . . . shop the sales at Nieman's . . . drink another cocktail . . . bitch out the cable man or the grocery clerk or the waitress . . . complain about the high gas prices . . . reflect upon what terrible people we are, you know, all the really important things that affect our lives every day. All the things we deem as real in our lives. But NONE of that is real. None of that is important in the BIG picture - in the grand scheme of life. None of that exists - all that exists is love and all that is real is ART. Art is our only true freedom of expression as creators. It is possibly our last and only link left to our original GOD heart/mind. It is how we express and acknowledge the suppression of our minds. It is how we express the love we are struggling to remember. It is how we express our deepest, most intimate, REAL selves . . . the real selves that we fighting to regain (whether we know it or not) as our own (while engaged in this cold war). Art is our true expression of our infiniteness. In reality, there exists no religion, no politics, no borders. There exists only love . . . and it's purist expression, art. For every painting, for every crayoned picture hanging on a refrigerator, for every symphony and musical composition, for every 5th grade flute concert, for every opera, every ballet, every preschool tap recital, every song sung, every pastry baked, every reduction sauce perfected, for every undercooked cake from an easy bake oven, for every novel never published, for every poem misunderstood, for every floral arrangement on a dinner table, for every variety of fillings inside each chocolate in a box, for every engine ever built to be more powerful than the last, for every scarf ever knitted, for every letter ever written, for every snowman ever rolled, for every angel made by a child in the snow . . . Art is the finest, purist expression of love. Above: Guernica by Picasso depicts scenes of death, violence, brutality, helplessness, suffering people and animals, buildings wrenched by violence and chaos. One might say, this does not look like an expression of love and I say to that; this is the highest expression of love for this is the TRUTH. This is the reality we have chosen with our free will and the subsequent loss of our original God minds.

A Day Like Today

Days like these . . . when the last roll of toilet paper can put someone over the edge...
when I miss my mom more than usual...
when the road ahead is gravel and I'm walking barefoot.

Days like these . . . when the rain won't let up...
when sushi won't do the trick...
when I know the world is flat because my toes are curled over the edge.

Days like these . . . when the knowledge I've acquired doesn't give me a better understanding...
when I can't find myself in the crowd...
when I fall like a tree and no one hears a sound.

Days like these . . . when what I thought it was is not what it is...
when I rebelliously grind the coffee a few seconds longer...
when the coffee tastes the same anyway.

Days like these . . . when my heart is still...
when my mind is racing...
when my soul is aching.

Days like today . . . when I realize my stripes were painted on.

The Things We Leave Behind

Last summer,
while walking
along the shore
of Lake Michigan,
I came upon a gifted sight;
a face carved in the sand.
I thought it was rather spectacular.
So simple and so mysteriously complex at the same time.
Kind of artsy.
Kind of philosophical.
The tininess of each grain of its sand.
The vulnerability of its form.
The certainty of its ruin.
And yet, it was lovely and unaffected.
The ideal way to be.
No name attached.
No credit to be taken.
Nothing sought in return . . .
The pleasure of its moment
for both its creator
and its immediate contacts.
It was really a footprint . . . something left behind.
Something beautiful and unselfish.
Something generous.
Something much more significant than the empty bottle of water left behind by someone else just a few yards up.


After reading Jon's beautifully expressed comment, I edited this post to include his words. He is a brilliant thinker and writer. Please visit Jon Zech's blog.
It's a sacrifice of sorts, this sculpture and this post. But there is something more. Your photo and poetic tribute has saved the sandman from destruction; like taking a flower from an alter and pressing it in a book. Is the flower saved or the sacrifice denied?
Both and neither. The sacrifice is completed with its giving. The salvation is completed when the object is raised above its token existence.

The Hardness of Objects

While re-reading Castaneda's, "The Art Of Dreaming," last night, I came upon a phrase that felt so real to me, "the hardness of objects." I had to stop reading and sit with that for a few minutes. That's it! That's what it is about life that makes life so difficult most of the time . . . the hardness of every perceived object in our midst. Don Juan said to Carlos Castaneda:

"It's unquestionably a world of objects. To prove it, all we have to do is bump into them . . . I am saying that this is first a world of energy; then it is a world of objects. If we don't start with the premise that it's a world of energy, we'll never be able to perceive energy directly. We'll always be stopped by . . . the hardness of objects."

The world is an obstacle course and we have created the obstacles. I understand we create them and/or accept them as our reality while we travel along our paths. But, do we create them because we are conditioned by our ancestors to believe they must exist? or because we need to suffer and feel pain in order to truly feel alive? or do we, on a primitive level, strive to conquer the constant threat of being overcome? or perhaps it's because we subconsciously want to obstruct our view - making it nearly impossible to really see what is before us? I think it's a combination of all of the above, with the latter of the possibilities being the scariest of all. What really is in front of us as well as all around us? What if we focussed on seeing energy by looking beyond the physical manifestations and our limited perceptions of them?

Years ago, I went on holiday to Jamaica. I stayed at one of those beautiful, all-inclusive resorts. One day, my partner and I decided to venture off the resort by walking past the security booth that separated the real Jamaica from the romanticized version. We were asked to give our room number (in case we did not return safely, I presume) and we were instructed on the possible dangers of leaving the immediate area. We took our chances and walked further away from the abundant buffets of pineapple and jerk chicken, the umbrella-ed rum cocktails, the laughing, limboing bikinis and the Disney-like piped-in reggae music. Although the same beach stretched for miles along the same ocean waters, my first step onto the unsecured sand literally felt like I had passed through an invisible forcefield. The energy shifted drastically. The darkness began to attach to me like leeches on my skin. We encountered two locals selling something that looked like carved knives and they asked us if we had a cigarette or a bottle of booze from the hotel. A little further down the beach, we came to shack-like booth about the size of a lidless wooden coffin standing upright. Two gypsy women lured me, with their seductive powers of persuasion, to sit down and have my hair braided at a very low price . . . monetarily. The older woman grabbed an old dirty comb that was missing some teeth and began running it through my hair. I wondered if the comb was poisonous and would put me into an eternal state of sleep. I wondered if the braiding was part of a sacrificial ritual and my lifeless braided head would one day wash ashore, wrapped in seaweed and debris. I wondered if Medusa's fate would become my own as each braid felt like a snake growing from my brain.
"Ah, beautiful . . . you know you have much hair . . . this takes us much longer. You have more money?" The older one said.
We had only brought a very limited amount of money with us to be on the safer side. Suddenly, it didn't feel so safe not to have enough.
"I can bring you more." I said, knowing full well that I would keep my word - for I knew that this was not an average human exchange of money for services rendered. I somehow knew that this was an energy exchange, and I needed to 'buy' back what was being taken from me. I knew I could not afford the non-monetary price of my vanity in wanting to look like a modern-day tourist or Bo Derek in 10.
I noticed that the younger woman was getting the small rubber bands out of an old worn out Estee Lauder cosmetic bag - one of the bags the counters give away free with a purchase.
"That's an Estee Lauder bag." I said. The contrast of the two worlds collided at that split second. Was this the far-off future and the bag was from an ancient time - long, long ago - a time when my world once existed? Or was this long ago and my world did not exist yet? Nothing felt the same anymore - but it did feel real.
"I work for Estee Lauder." I said.
"You can bring me something? A lipstick in gold?" The older one said.
"Yes. I can bring that back for you! I can bring you the rest of the money and the lipstick." I had something they wanted . . . something that would assure my safe return back to Jamaicaland. Now, I would have to tread carefully as I left, in case they changed their minds or doubted my return.
Once I was back safely in my room, I struggled with the idea of having to go back out there. It took a lot of energy to get out of that sort of hell, now I was actually going to go back bearing gifts . . . paying the devil to keep my soul. And though my fears were overcoming me - fears of the knowing rather than the unknown - I looked through my bag of toiletries, found the Estee Lauder signature gold lipstick tube, gathered a few more dollars and we walked, slowly, back to the edge of this flat world. The evening was overcast which darkened the mood. The security guard looked at us strangely and warned us not to take any bottles of alcohol to the locals. We assured him we had nothing like that and we proceeded to enter the other side.
With a few dollars, we paid off - a non-verbal protective measure - the two men who had approached us before; hosts of the underworld, lunchroom bullies or two local panhandlers depending upon one's perception.
The two gypsy women welcomed me with a smile, but I knew that I had to act quickly before they decided it was not enough. I gave them the extra twenty dollars and the gold tube - a souvenir from the other world. I thanked them and we walked away - each step fighting not to be any quicker than the last. We never looked back . . .
I knew I was lucky . . . and I wished I didn't know that.

The Sum of my Parts

My first resolution of the new year (yes, before dieting and daily exercising and all of the other little procrastinations) deals with the adage: "The whole is greater than the sum of its parts." I have come to realize that my biggest issue with mySelf and with my (mostly unsuccessful) intimate relationships is the fact that I am but a sum of my parts . . . I am not whole. Somewhere in my past I fragmented mySelf. I disintegrated into the roles that were "expected" of me either by society or by my family or by me and my unreasonably high expectations. I became an expert at each individual role . . . polishing them to perfection. I thought of myself as a chameleon . . . going from Estee Lauder to June Cleaver to Saint Therese to May West with record speed . . . leaving even Mario Andretti in the dust. But, a chameleon knows what it is. It adapts for protective reasons. I, on the other hand, though my reasons may also have been of the protective nature, I lost my point of reference. I forgot who I was . . . unlike the chameleon.

So, in my pseudo-chameleon ways, I eagerly and enthusiastically changed colors time and again over the years. At times, I was accused of no longer playing the role but becoming the role . . . no longer a stereotype but now the archetype. The part of me that had surfaced, dominated and cried out to be healed - would then melt into the role / person that could "see" it, feed it and meet its needs.

Looking back over the many faces of me throughout my years, I can now make sense of my extreme choices. The child in me whose ideal perfect family was shattered by familial alcoholism set out to become the perfect wife / mother by creating the illusion of a perfect family with the perfect family man . . . until the day the spiritualist in me emerged, starving, and found a twin soul spiritualist in another who recognized that part of me. Unfortunately, he was not the family type (which still was and is a big part of me) and so, eventually, that union also ended as the rebellious teenager in me - the one who was stifled by my stern father (not unlike my former lover - no blame intended) broke free and found a teenage man to hang with. My teenager grew up and soon tired of the boy/man who was not merely playing a part . . . he chose to remain eighteen.

Now, I find myself a bit exhausted but ever so enlightened by my self-discoveries. I can move on with the knowledge I have gained and I can begin to integrate my selves into my Self and become one being . . . a whole being and a whole woman.

This, is my first and my most important resolution for the new year 2007: to heal myself into wholeness . . . to become greater than the sum of my parts.

Beyond the Blurred Images and Holiday Guise

Well, my Christmas trees are lit up and decorated. My home sparkles of gold and smells of pine. I am a ‘home for the holidays’ type of gal. I know, old-fashioned and completely un-cool.

Now, I know the “in” thing these days is to point out all the commercialism that encompasses the holidays, kind of like a word search or a Where’s Waldo. It has become almost amusing to sit over a Starbuck's latte complaining about the holiday shit this and that while watching people do the hustle and bustle. Ahgggg . . . there’s the shoulder-to-shoulder shopping in the crowded malls; the bumper car parking lots; Santas who are too skinny; the one hundred or so renditions of “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire” played over and over again; higher rates of suicide and depression; news papers exploding with advertising inserts; pounds of catalogs; no friggin’ roasted chestnuts or open fires anywhere to be had; long lines; long lists; short tempers.

I realize that this time of year brings out extremes in behavior, character flaws and a Pandora’s Box of emotions. Oh, the pressures. Oh, the headaches. Oh, the heartaches.

So what am I so happy about? I definitely feel the financial strain, the pressures to get it all done and still look shiny and new - to get my cards out on time, my cookies baked and my gifts bought, wrapped and hidden away. I have many moments of nostalgia, thinking about Christmas’ past and all of my loved ones who are not here with me to celebrate the present one. At times I do feel melancholy and a bit overwhelmed. Wow, I think I am beginning to convince myself that the holidays suck!

But, on the other hand (the one still resting in a full and quiet pocket) I love this time of year. The crazy holiday pace dizzies me just enough that I step off and rediscover my real point of reference . . . mySelf. And in doing so, I stop the planet. I see beyond the blurred images. I see the beating of compassionate hearts. I see the gift of the Nativity. I see God incarnate.

This time of year evokes the virtues of compassion, helpfulness, thoughtfulness, thankfulness, love and generosity lifting the human spirit to the place it really lives. ‘Tis the season of giving. Volunteer services are filled to capacity; people are donating to organizations such as Toys for Tots, Coats for Kids and homeless shelters. Soup kitchens have more than enough help; hospital and nursing home patients are entertained by carolers. There is a lot of good in the air . . . even if some of that good air does get blown around by high pressure gusts of fervor.

If we could extend those giving hands and compassionate hearts into each New Year, Christmas would not come in with such a bang (and on the tail wind of a witch’s broom November 1) only to leave in the blink of an eye and ten pounds later. Christmas would become state of mind rather then a time of year. That is what the spirit of Christmas is really all about.

For a beautiful and heartfelt posting on Christmas, visit Laura’s blog