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Buddha, Jesus and the Hippie
bjh
Category:
Spirituality
Publisher: Adventure1 Publications
ISBN-10: 1879338017
Type: Fiction
Pages: 168
Copyright: Dec. 2016
ISBN-13: 9781879338012
Price: $7.00 (eBook)
Conversations and Adventures near Woodstock Music Festival, Summer of Love, 1969
Plot overview: In four sections, the first and third sections comprise dialogue between the three men mentioned in the title: Buddha, Jesus and the hippie. The setting is upstate New York, 1969. More precisely, the story takes place on Yasgur's farm, about a mile from the outdoor stage of the Woodstock Music Festival while it's in full swing. The second quarter of the text revolves around the Buddha and Jesus characters, as they split to explore the outlying region on their own. The hippie stays on the hill, alone. Jesus and Buddha have both decided to be silent, so as to not create a stir among people they encounter. They don't want to be identified, and prefer to be incognito observers.
Soon after setting off toward the festival, the two become separated from each other. Ensuing pages articulate their disparate experiences as they interact with various people and scenarios, while maintaining their vows of silence. The Third quarter of the text has the three men meeting up again while continuing to discuss philosophy, do-wop, dakinis, mantras, biology, and several other topics with the hippie. The closing quarter of the text showcases the author's philosophy. In several ways, it furthers the discussions of the three philosophers on the hill while comparing religious leanings with ideas of non-deist beliefs. One recurrent theme is the concept that atheism is not 'belief in nothing,' but rather is; 'belief in science and nature,' which can be every bit as fascinating as beliefs in God.
Excerpt
Meanwhile Buddha had wandered off to an area about 100 yards to the right of the stage. A small crowd had gathered near a yogi. Buddha is heartened to observe a healthy and handsome young man sitting in lotus position, lower back arched slightly, soles of feet pointed upwards. The blond man was nearly nude, his oil covered skin and braided blond hair glowing in the afternoon sun. Earlier, the rain had pelted down and many of the festival-goers were happily caked in mud, but the seated yogi looked as fresh as if he'd floated down from Ayodya on the wings of a swan. He was speaking to those gathered around, but he didn't use the stick on a string which the people on the stage were using to make voices very loud. When speaking, he didn't gain eye contact with anyone for more than a half second. However, when his glance met Buddha's, they stayed riveted. Each saw the other in their most glorious arraignment, with rainbows and radiance. Even those in attendance could sense the dynamics of those two gaining eye contact, and there was a murmur among the group. The yogi moved his gaze toward a woman nearby, to whom he whispered something. She smiled and gracefully sashayed her way through the attendees, to address the Buddha; “Hi, my name is Amrita. Please sir, would you come with me. You should meet the Swami.”
Buddha felt an immediate kinship with her, in no small part because her name was Amrita, a lovely word he knew to mean; 'nectar of the Gods.' He followed the pert woman as she purposefully wended around to the right side of the stage. There were metal poles tied together, on top of which were large black boxes which projected very loud sounds. At this close range, one couldn't call it music. It was more like an assault on hearing, and vaguely reminded the Buddha of the assault of the universe at the final moments leading to his initial samadhi under the bo tree, so long ago.
Amrita and Buddha arrived at an opening in a flimsy fence. Thankfully, by this time, the music had subsided, so some conversation could ensue. A large man at the gate kept saying things like, “I'm sorry ma'am, as I said, you can enter because you have a pass, but your friend here doesn't have a pass.”
The swami was summoned, and showed up with some entourage. Immediately, when he saw the holy man at the gate, the Swami supplicated himself repeatedly, his forehead touching the bare earth, leaving a brown mark on his skin. The Buddha motioned kindly for the swami to rise, and stop making such a fuss. Amrita wondered out loud why the man she was escorting did not also supplicate himself in the presence of an obviously revered holy man in the form of the Swami.
Swami gently chastised her by saying, “there is no need for him to supplicate before me. He supplicates before no man. Can't you see? He is a fully enlightened being.”
“Yes, I see he is a high being and that's why I wanted to bring him to you to meet. But still....”
“Look at his eyes, Amrita, they glow. And he's in silence, which is another mark of a truly spiritual being.” Addressing the Buddha, “Please sir, I don't know your name, but please come and join me.”
The guard stepped aside. Buddha is now hand-in-hand with the Swami as they enter the backstage area. Swami continues, animated like a child who finds a white pony with a red bridle under the tree on Christmas morning, “I am scheduled to take to the stage in a few minutes. They want me to address the crowd. Would you honor us with your presence?”
Buddha assents, but as the two walk onto the stage, Swami goes to the place with the bulbous white pillows at center stage, whereas Buddha chooses to sit stage left, several paces away. Swami gleefully motions for the enlightened man to sit closer, on cushions, but Buddha opts to sit nearby, on the bare plywood floor.
Swami addresses the crowd. “Dear people, friends, brothers, sisters, daughters, sons, we are all so blessed to be here in this lovely setting together. Just to be alive is a blessing. To be born in this amazing world, even with all its troubles is a miracle. I have just met this lovely man sitting here near me.” He motions to his new acquaintance, “I say, 'just met' but I feel I've known him all my life, and maybe in previous lives. I don't even know his name, but I don't need to know his name. His eyes and his presence tell me more than I need to know. This man, I can say, is truly enlightened. For all of us here to merely be in his presence is a true blessing. You'll notice he has a little chalkboard hanging on his chest. That's to indicate he's in silence. Going into silence is a lovely thing to do – for anyone. For everyone. You know, just as a blind man's senses become more acute when he cannot see shapes, so too when a person doesn't speak, his other senses become more sensitive. It's like making love in the dark; you don't need to see your lover to enjoy sensuous pleasures. Indeed, when it's dark, you probably feel more sensitively than if the lights were on.”
Swami turns to face Buddha and asks with gestures whether he would like to share anything with the crowd.
Buddha puts his hands together in a mudra, which places them over top of his brahma chakra, an inch over the top of his head. He nods slightly and grins beautifully. The crowd emits an audible 'umm' sound, fully appreciative. Looking over the crowd, it's evident that many in attendance are sitting with legs crossed, some looking skyward, some with eyes closed or opened partway. Many are adorned by sweet grins – knowing they're partaking in a sublime, once-in-a-lifetime moment.
Buddha picked a key moment during the Swami's speech to tip toe to the rear of the stage. He walked to a place near Amrita, the nice woman who had introduced him to the Swami, without her noticing him. Yet he can't help but hear her conversation. She was engaged in talking with a man she called 'Wavy Gravy.' He was elder than most of the people at the festival. He had a crinkly wry smile with a few teeth missing. “You know what s-w-a-m-i stands for, don't you?”
“No Wavy,” said Amrita, rolling her eyes, “what does it stand for?”
“It stands for 'Someone Who Attacks My Infants.'”
“That's a weird thing to say. Are you referring to the swami there on the stage?”
“No, it's a general statement. You could call it an impoverished attempt at humor.”
“I could call it worse than that.”
“But think about it,” Wavy continued, “How many swamis do you know who aren't enmeshed in some sort of accusations of sexual misconduct?”
“Christian priests are also.”
“No denying that. But two wrongs don't make a right. Plus, the difference is; priests usually pick on young boys and girls, whereas swamis focus on women. You could say priests are 'equal-opportunity sexual predators.'”
“I don't like the tone of this conversation. I want to hear what's happening on stage.” She turns her back to him and steps away, like a thoroughbred leaving its stable.
Buddha grins and slips away - out of the backstage area. A few stagehands, performers and hangers-on are pleasantly nodding their recognition of him being a high being, and he's thankful none are hounding him as a celebrity. He meanders away and gains the meadow behind the stage, then proceeds to stroll around the shore of Filippini Pond while sharing niceties with a few skinny dippers there. He then heads northeast. With each step away from the teeming crowd, he feels tingles of relief. He is reminded of how he loves solitude; fresh air, sounds of nature, wind on his body. Now the last rays of sun are kissing his neck. Wisps of coolness greet the twilight.
After about twenty minutes hiking on a seldom-used dirt road, a mechanized chariot approaches. It growls and puffs out smoke like a randy beast. The man operating the machine gives a friendly salutation. As the machine saunters by at walking pace, Buddha grabs hold of the back of the wagon the beast is pulling. His hands grip the top of the stout little wooden fence, while his feet are pressed against a metal bar further down. The operator seems not to mind and keeps rolling. Buddha sees the farmer's weathered face in a reflective surface which protrudes off the side of the vehicle. He assumes the driver can also see him hanging on for the ride.
The assembly arrives at a large house at dusk, with lights in a dozen windows. Buddha thinks these must be rich people, to have so many candles. Perhaps it's a rooming house filled with travelers.
The driver opens a door on the side of the machine, steps out and strolls around to kindly greet the odd man who had hitched a ride without asking, “I remember doing that when I was a boy. I was kind'a concerned you might fall off. What's your name, buddy?”
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