from the book:
“Waiting for the Avatar”
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Chapter One
Between Night and Day
Twilight. Time of the magic witching hour. When witches and demons spring forth from darkened fissures and hidden crevices. Blurred images that dance and slip between lengthening shadows. The wind with a tremulous moan. Bending the tops of tall trees. Then swirling down as legions of malicious dust devils to press against doorways and shuttered windows. The dark, biting ill wind that none dare let in.
The priests taught us to shun superstition. Not to trust in lucky colors or numbers. Or fear black cats and the like. To always seek rational explanations to explain the world around us. The priests themselves having long since given up on the possibility of miracles or things of the supernatural. Logic and reason were to be our steadfast allies. But over time came a growing realization how the rational mind can only explain so much. Never reaching into the domain of the supernatural. The parallel realm that exists beyond the laws of physics.
Twilight seems also to sum up much of my life. Most of my days spent wandering in the nether grey areas between light and darkness. Good and evil. Love and hate. Hope and desperation.
As a child I knew a free flow of spontaneous intuition. Able to cipher the inner kernel of things without much effort. With a continuous stream of dreams that brought a peaceful, inner comfort. Their message an assurance of higher realms. Bringing hints and premonitions of things that oft came to pass.
In my innocence I assumed everyone knew such experiences. With some early attempts to describe my feelings going awry. My heartfelt revelations only serving to confuse and unnerve most that I approached. My remarks thoroughly bewildering my grandmother. A simple woman who was completely unprepared for anything out of the ordinary.
The priests were more dismissive. Offering that my whimsical nature should be reined in. Counseling that my impetuous nature be muted by engaging me in odd jobs and other chores to keep my wandering mind occupied. I realized my mistake quickly. The entire experience of my childhood candor providing a valuable lesson to carefully guard my heart and keep my own counsel on such things.
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As I grew into my teenage years I struggled with the banal limitations placed on me. My mind, intuition, senses and intelligence craving something more. And realizing, too, the concomitant limitations of a body that progressively deteriorated, became diseased and would eventually die. Then in a eureka moment realizing the monumental blunder of accepting such an inferior existence. Prompting a desperate search for a way out of my frustrating dilemma. Ardently seeking the means to become freed from it all.
I hold no illusion about who I am. Never being regarded as a great man. Standing here today I am simply a convict. With an indelible number stenciled on my shirt and pants. Still, as far as my realization goes, I know what is what. And what I know is that for as long as I could remember I’d been waiting for Him. Anxiously biding my time while the world situation deteriorated and spiraled further out of control. Hoping for some clue or sign that He was coming. Though not even sure if I’d recognize the omen. How would I know? What should I look for? What kind of sign might it be? I wasn’t sure about any of it. Only that the world really needed something. As did I. Something that would forever change our lives. My life. Unsure of what to expect but convinced that only a great savior could set things aright. Someone truly great. Maybe someone like Jesus.
That was the extent of my understanding. Having since my birth been told that Jesus was the world’s savior. Only later to learn that there were countless others like him. Selfless, empowered beings who came for the benefit of others. And not just for humans. For all living beings. With the most recent Avatar having already come and gone. And then discovering how I’d missed the entire point of it all.
It started in India. Quietly at first. Remaining hidden from the world. Even though the time of His coming was previously foretold. Appearing in the region of Bengal, India. In His later pastimes standing over seven feet tall with graceful arms that extended below his knees and possessing a beautiful, glowing complexion the color of molten gold. And taking the name Caitanya. With eyes like lotus flowers, a nose like a sesame flower and a face as beautiful as the moon. Whosoever saw Him was immediately captivated by His uncommon beauty. His bodily features indicative of nyagrodha-parimandala, a great personality. His appearance roughly coinciding with the time of Columbus’ arrival in the new world. Affectionately known to His followers as Sri Gaurasundara, The Golden Avatar.
At the time of the Sri Caitanya’s appearance much of India was within the grip of Muslim rule. Indeed, government watchmen were everywhere. Fearful caste conscious Hindus were reluctant to openly practice their religion. But by Sri Caitanya’s personal influence all darkness and negativity were pushed back. With Hindus and Muslims alike reveling in His presence. It was as though heaven had come to earth with the sound of the holy names echoing throughout the land.
Remaining on the planet for less than 50 years He manifested an extraordinary life that was documented by some handfuls of His closest associates within many volumes of books that delineated His precepts and pastimes. As He traveled throughout all of India He broadcast His message of pure love
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by personally inaugurating the great sankirtan movement, i.e., the congregational chanting of the Lord’s holy names. His powerful presence and message for all of humanity resonating with unmistakable clarity.
It’s described how great throngs of people would gather around Him, day and night. Appearing before them He would raise up His arms and beckon the crowds to chant. Chant the names of Hari! With everyone losing themselves in the intoxicating vibration of the holy name.
The essence of the Golden Avatar’s mission is found encapsulated within eight stanzas known as the Siksastaka. Forming the basis of His direct instructions and revealing the highest realizations of pure love. Contained within the verses are powerful spiritual bijas, transcendental seeds, that when fructified expand unlimitedly. Unfolding to reveal the essential inner kernel of all spiritual knowledge, emotion and flavor. Their essence gradually realized under the expert guidance of a fully realized, liberated soul. And thereafter, springing from these eight verses, hundreds if not thousands of books are written. All with an aim to further delineate and unlimitedly expand their essential meaning. Chief among them, the elaborately detailed, erudite texts of Sri Caitanya-caritamrta and Sri Caitanya-bhagavata.
Like fiery embers lying dormant beneath a shroud of ash and smoke, the Avatar’s message appeared hidden for a time from much of the world. Only awaiting the time of a proper breeze to again explode into blazing flame…
Spring arrived late this year. I look out from the narrow window slit of my cell to view the sun as it dips down on the horizon. The sky an incredible kaleidoscope of spectacular reds, purples and brilliant orange. The evening colors holding the portent of what the morrow will bring.
Standing just beyond tall chain linked fences and multiple rows of intimidating razor wire clusters of evergreens and leafless hardwoods shake and bend in a relentless 20 mph wind. Their wooden bodies silhouetted against the evening sky. While far above the Earth the planets in their orbits move across the sky. Their every movement perfectly choreographed and in sync with the universal order of all things. Without a hint of randomness or happenstance. With a record kept of everything we do. A memory of the details of our every action, thought, word and deed. Our failings and aspirations.
Further off distant hills and mountains spill away toward the horizon like waves on the ocean. Though a closer look reveals something other than an idyllic woodland scene. For we are in the heart of coal country. Where great swaths of mountain forests are routinely destroyed and entire mountain tops crudely removed by explosive blasts that rattle windows for 10 miles in every direction and with enormous digging machines ripping up the earth that are bigger even than a house. The cataclysmic event disrupting and polluting the drinking water of entire communities. The aggregate of it all surely a crime against nature. Where the noble tops of beautiful, vibrant mountains are deemed useless and scraped bare. Mountains that are home to families of simple people, deer, bear and countless other living beings. Their lives in harmony with nature suddenly deemed irrelevant by uncaring, impersonal corporations that place profits before all else. Where everything resting above the seam of coal is
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considered a waste product of the mining process. Blithely designating the once beautiful forest refuge as overburden. A commodity to be rudely discarded into the streams and valleys below. Mountain top removal. The terrible act of rendering the land into a surreal moonscape denuded of all trees and other life. The awesome transformation from life into something less than dead.
Believe me when I tell you that I know what you’re feeling. What it’s like to be trapped in a small box. With every movement controlled. Perpetually under the thumb of stern officials dedicated to the enforcement of harsh rules. Surely not a life of my own choosing but a life I have nonetheless earned. Exiled away from society deep within the mountains of West Virginia. A Bible belt state where anything other than Christianity is viewed as an aberration. An affront to the prevailing religion. The Hare Krsnas proving to be too much for them to bear. Unable to get beyond the perceived strangeness of men with shaved heads and a God who is blue like a beautiful dark rain cloud. Even while embracing a Christian hillbilly cult that dances and plays with venomous rattle snakes as a part of their normal church service. Their bizarre ritual of religious fervor considered a suitable test of ones sincerity of faith. And where not infrequently such worshippers are seriously bitten and sometimes die. It is here that I shall remain. In a drab prison cell smaller even than the tiniest hotel room. Living out the uncompromising reality of a life sentence for almost thirty years. Where each day I ask…What have I done with my life. This life. What will be the final tally of my deeds?
It isn’t my place to judge or condemn you. To tell you what a mess you’ve made of things. Or try to bluff you with a program of hollow promises that guarantees an end to your problems. Nor try to scare you with fire and brimstone ultimatums. What would be the point? If you’re in prison your life is already at bottom. Your life reminds you of it every day.
The warehoused prisoner and the doomed forest. Together among the legions of the forgotten. The vanished. Where life slowly disappears and finally ceases to exist. Where all that remains are some few fragments of past memories. A past from before time when life changed so abruptly. To know the misery of being stripped from the life that once nurtured and sustained. Slowly suffocating. In a place where day by day the hopeful heart slowly dies.
I can remember reaching a crossroads in my life where I prayed for knowledge. Hopeful that with knowing a greater understanding would follow. Though not prepared for the awesome responsibility that accompanied such knowledge.
It was many years and crossroads later after being tempered by my many failings. Enduring the scars from being beaten down by unstoppable time and the overwhelming consequence of my deeds. Finally to humbly pray on bended knee asking for wisdom. Wisdom that I might use my gifts in a true, just and proper way.
There are no random acts. Nothing happens by accident in the universe. The universe being a perfectly functioning, self adjusting machine. But not a machine of happenstance. For within this, as
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all well functioning machines, rests an intelligent operator. A being completely knowledgeable in maintaining the machine’s proper operation and always with a proper balance and order. Without mistakes or random acts. For the operator is also its designer and creator.
Therefore, in the midst of such perfection what need is there of a martyr to bring forth hope and redemption or to set things aright? What purpose demands a martyr’s blood to redeem us and reset our lives on the path of happiness and prosperity? The truth is much simpler. Each of us is responsible for our own actions. Minute by minute our karma and desires determine our future.
And so it is that I have resolved not to hide from what needs to be said. To not only speak the truth but to confront the lies, hypocrisy and misdirection that surrounds us. And even in knowing how my words may seem shocking I cannot desist. Therefore I plainly state that Jesus did not die for your sins.
I was around ten years old when I first started writing. Realizing at that tender age how it provided a welcome respite from my cramped, everyday life. My earliest attempts some awkward scraps of prose in the form of essays. All the while searching for my own special voice. A voice to articulate my pent-up emotions. A voice to express my feelings about my strange and varied dreams.
The majority of my peers had little taste for writing. Perceiving the pen as drudgery and thoroughly loathing the call to write. With any enthusiasm for literary adventure and free expression crushed by the dull topics laid on us by our stodgy teachers. Their reticence directly attributable to such stifling themes as: Why is the dress code important? Describe the war of 1812. What are the Great Lakes? Explain the impact of the Erie Barge Canal. And so on. In 500 words or less.
The most predicable and unimaginative essays were crafted from the student’s own lives. Collections of boring rambles on “My Summer Vacation.” Or “My Pet Dog.” Hardly the stuff to excite an adolescent artist’s dormant flare to blossom.
It wasn’t long until some of the other students saw my knack for it. Therein launching a budding adolescent career as a freelance ghost writer. Freelance but not for free. One of my regular customers was my older brother, James. Naturally, I gave him the special family rate. Demanding he pay at least twice what I charged everyone else.
Later on came the free style essays on anything. Followed by purely abstract essays on nothing. Which I then considered to be the highest form of writing. Concluding that writing in its purest form demanded lightness and fluidity. And to be about nothing at all. My new literary style earning me a D in English composition from my uptight teacher.
But then there was a sudden, welcome breath of fresh air. Ms. Wilson arriving in the early Spring as a substitute/replacement teacher for Sister Mary Rose who had taken a bad fall in the convent and wasn’t expected back any time soon. Sister Mary Rose. The killer of young boy’s dreams.
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In a recurring, indulgent daydream I pictured the bent and wrinkled dame falling down and down along a steep flight of stairs. Tumbling head over heels in a cascading blur of black and white. With rosary beads, crucifix, white bib collar, glasses, dentures and sturdy combat boots spinning, floating and crashing down onto the unforgiving oak planks that she’d trudged up and down for the past 50 years. With chastity. Repentance. Poverty. And multiple fractures. The imprint of her great wooden rosary crucifix tattooed in relief on her forehead. Poor Jesus stretched out on the cross. The symbol of everything they believed to be true.
The nuns and priests did their best to indoctrinate us with Christian ideology. With hours of boring Catechism and the sting of wooden rulers on the tender knuckles of inattentive boys. Learning that as Jesus traveled from town to town his popularity among the masses grew day by day. Quickly becoming a phenomena. More even than a rock star. Mercifully accepting all comers on the condition that they ceased their sinful ways. Relieving them of their past karma as he accepted the reactions to their previous sins. Such was Jesus’ great mercy upon them. In his turn asking only that they not resume their sinful ways. Because the second time around his forgiveness wouldn’t come so easily. That was his contract with them.
It wasn’t until many years later that I could better appreciate the awesome magnitude of Jesus’ selfless magnanimity. And not only Jesus, but all the great spiritual masters who are empowered to free their disciples from their past karmic burdens. Understanding also that such forgiveness is not ordinarily achieved. Because without the merciful intercession of an evolved spiritual being one’s karma must be fully played out. Universal law mandating that for every action there is an appropriate corresponding reaction. A reaction, either good or bad, for every thought, word and deed. How tragic then that the very people Lord Jesus came to help would so viciously attack him.
Above all, I was determined to be a rebel. Refusing to be defined by the limitations of dull writing assignments. Writing provided me with the means to finally express myself. If we were told to write about apples, I might instead describe oranges. If something was blue, I made it yellow. Or made something up entirely out of pure fiction. One of my first official stories titled, “With My Friend From Mars.” A story about an alien who searched for a lost canister holding the elixir or life. A thinly veiled story about my alcoholic father. It was my first attempt of writing as an art form. I received an A for originality and content. The words flowing from my pen in an avalanche of emotional adjectives. Intent on impressing and garnering the praise of our new, beautiful young teacher.
At the local library I skipped past the children’s and young adult sections. I craved the unconventional and searched for books with an edge that had real impact. I devoured Kerouac and Jack London. Later on, Vonnegut. On several occasions the spinster librarian refused to let me check out the books I’d selected. D.H. Lawrence’s classic, Lady Chatterley’s Lover, among them. Telling me that such books were inappropriate for a boy of my age. Which only whetted my illicit appetite further.
On one dreary autumn day I happened upon “Let No Man Write My Epitaph.” I took it from its place on the shelf and stashed it in the poetry section. Waiting for the weekend when another librarian 6
was on duty. With absolutely no idea what was in store for me.
I crept home with the book hidden under my jacket and secreted it into the room I shared with my brother. Carefully mixing it in with some school books. The first chapter hit me like a sledge hammer. I was astonished by its rawness. Words like nigger, pimp and whore spilled out of the pages. Confident that the priests would condemn it as sinful. I couldn’t stop reading. I carefully hid it from my brother. Not that he could have read it anyway. It came like a revelation. Giving me a glimpse into another world that was hidden just beneath the surface. My eyes opening to the jaded American subculture. And learning how the world was in a real mess.
While my friends listened to Elvis and anything that was Rock ‘n Roll, I was more attuned to jazz. Listening to the likes of Miles Davis, Dave Brubeck and Jimmy Smith. The local R&B station, WUFO, offering their jazz segment in the evenings. I wanted to be hip, wear a beret and dig everything about the beat generation.
On the last day of class Ms. Wilson took me aside and asked if I’d like to attend a special writing workshop being held for 5 weeks during recess at the Delevan Avenue school. The workshop offered to students showing promise in their writing skills. The yellow brick and sandstone elementary school also serving as the area site for summer school classes. Where sick, chronically truant and slow students on the verge of flunking were sent to make up the required material needed to allow them to graduate up to the next grade level. With the dreadful implication of forfeiting their precious summer vacations.
Ms. Wilson’s offer suddenly presented me with an impossible conundrum as competing emotions pulled me in opposite directions. All winter long I dreamed of the coming summer vacation. Week by week my anticipation grew. I was bursting with thoughts of baseball, swimming, fishing and exploring. More than anything I yearned to be free. And now this. With no desire to be tied down to any responsibility. And least of all more school work.
But Ms. Wilson was like a mystic who could read my mind. Looking me in the eye she asked if I was ready to take charge and mold my own life. Y-y-yes, I stammered. I think so. But I wasn’t fooling anyone. No one had ever spoken to me like that before. Or on such terms. Abruptly pushing me out of my comfort zone. It was a monumental challenge. My intuition telling me here was an opportunity to advance and gain respect. Her eyes capturing mine as she softly spoke. You’ll like it, Tommy. It’ll be good for you. It’s just what you need to develop your raw talent. Don’t worry. You’ll be with other students like yourself. All the while assuring me it wouldn’t be anything like regular summer school. This would be fun, with an open format. Besides, it’s only 5 weeks long. Only two hours a day in the morning. In the fall when classes resume you’ll be way ahead of the other students.
More than anything I longed to be grown up and mature. And I didn’t want to let Ms. Wilson down. Still…There were so many things I wanted to do. I wavered between alpha and omega. When she gently placed her hand on my head and ruffled my hair my thoughts became a blur. I’ll be there to help you, she reassured me. Conducting the workshop herself. The barest whisper of lilac scent lingering on
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her skin. Her hair emanating pure rose water.
I can’t say what came over me. But I know my eyes surely sparkled whenever I looked at her. She, the living embodiment of the mother that all young boys long for. I was more than vulnerable. I was desperate to fill the empty chasm within my heart that reached into the core of my soul. Ever searching and yearning for the mother who left me years before and whose shadow was hidden away in the state asylum for the insane.