“An ace asked his devotee, ‘What is the sound of one hand applauding? Talk! Talk!’ “
The Blue Cliff Record
[Often, an enigma is alloted to a reflection (zazen style) understudy. These koan, alleged, are exceptionally regarded and significantly good for nothing – clarifying why zenists, yogis, and so forth are masochist, swarming L.A’s. shopping centers, eating heaps of ice cream.]
“Help in three-ten! Help in three-ten!”
I don’t hear – I tune in. I stir; so does the universe, in light of the fact that no such thing as the sound of just a single hand applauding exists; all things emerge in common relationship. Living in a universe of calm concordance and quiet poise, I regularly end up in the family room of my flat sitting above Laurel Canyon not long after the Los Angeles sun ascends through a murkiness of exhaust cloud and vapor. I sit in a half-lotus position on a blue tangle, dressed freely in yoga whites. At the beginning of today commences with ten redundancies of Pranayama relaxing. Breathing in delightful, brilliant white vitality profound into my lungs gradually, gradually, … I hold and discharge. The development is exact; my jaw drops into a middle separated between the clavicle bones while mastoid muscles on both sides of my neck liquefy into the upper trapezoids, and I have aced extending the gliding ribs without raising or fixing my shoulders. Upon its discharge, I hold my breath, bottoming out before breathing in once more.
A couple of feet away sits a plastic container of mineral water. The unmistakable fluid is immaculateness reviewed, strengthened utilizing thirty-six basic minerals and vitamins and contains “green tea;” that is New Age yoga-represent caffeine – enough G-drive seething through the circulatory framework keeps one humming and contemplating for seven days and evenings, eyeballs put against the divider, hair follicles remaining on end – however not mine. Following thirty years of koan, reflection, and green tea, well, green tea is murder on hair. I may drink espresso or pop or eat a sugar doughnut, nonetheless, I am a learned shaman, a trained yogi on the off chance that you like – the vehicle is unadulterated and I don’t wish to hazard sustaining baser senses. The mineral water is called Yo-Go! It stirs this shaman, ears popping, and concentrates the faculties on such koan as One Hand Clapping, and I likewise think that its helpful for wiping intense lime stores off shower dividers.
“Help, some individual! Help in three-ten!”
Subsequent to holding every inward breath and exhalation for a developed time span and finishing a container of Yo-Go!, I channel my soul guides. Our business together is elusive, extremely profound. My unique field of Eastern practice is inconspicuous vitality mending and we are sparing the world. I am thumping back my second container of Yo-Go! furthermore, my cognizance is growing pleasantly. It is divine amidst the everyday. I now contain enough New Age rocket fuel coursing through my vascular framework to take off for yet unexplored measurements. I want to jump up and tear – effortlessly – into my first of a progression of eighteen asanas (yoga stances).