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joceandennie — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 12:53:59 CDT

selection from blue sky mind stream - bodhgaya

selection from blue sky mind stream - tsunami

selections from coastlines

selections from once upon the on and on (poetry)

selections from once upon the on and on (poetry)

joceandennie — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 12:51:44 CDT

first draft of proposal for a society of meditators

what if we go there
and find some mahaguru

who orders us to return
to the land of freely sleeping dwellers
to found a society of meditators
a gigantic movement of mind students
converging in the parks of every town
to practice conscious silence
creedless while embracing all its aspects

the society could travel from place to place
participating in pre arranged mega events
promoted through prior door to door canvassing
street posters
flyers and bulletins
rumours
word of mouth
extensive multimedia campaigns

and only when everyone is comfortably settled in the field
and the world is less with us
and the sun breaks through the clouds
as it always has and always will
will the bona fide light show begin
delivering us all from all
forever and ever om

phool chatti party missing in the night

no idea what it is
but something is amiss
with celtic folk tunes hammered out
on djembe and guitar accompanying
hand accordion under a full
moon sitting by a bonfire on the
banks of a sacred river
while candles stand scattered in the sand
only steps from the ashram sniffing
in whiffs of queen of the night and
haze shiva conversations on eucalyptus
and military service and moose meat and
giant sequoias on the west coast back home
listening to a buzz of hebrew and german
mixing with the euphony
of the rapids as the silhouetted
foothills silently watch with
timeless acquiescence

phool chatti ashram rishikesh india

selections from coastlines

joceandennie — Thu, 01 May 2008 13:30:51 CDT

watching your waves very closely monitored with digital precision
wow what havoc you can unleash upon us
we are running out of time arent we
prophetic waves portend doom
more and more conversations eschatologically based
on some vague unformed expectation of murderous miracles
unrolling like a maniac outbreak
shifting the foundations
and academies of soothsayers in caves for centuries have heralded this wind coming from the west
they have detected voices between the frequencies
they mention time ripping apart into shreds and pieces

theres a storm out at sea but we dont see it as a storm out at sea
this invasion of love coming will be overwhelming
it will be relentless in its soft satiny conquests
glory be to the compassion that remains supreme
love loving itself
to the end of the dream

its so beautiful its crazy

it is a simplicity dawning on us like a sleepy baby morning smile

thank you for such moments of revelation

ah come on why do you get so st john on us whenever you are around the ocean
because it is the last standing frontier of revelation
everything is dying
just like they said it would
we are fast forwarding thru kaliyug

*************************************************************************************
used to think armageddons were physical destructions and demolitions of empire state statues of liberties
and massive outbreaks of cataclysmic phenomena embellishing disasters
but then apocalypse became personal end revelation
dying again and again ritualistically
any identified fragments pulverized in successful bids to unify the experience
to promote it all as one ridiculous infinite hanging there in the air everywhere
and yes this is a fine mind place to settle into for some time
but when others approach regardless of your intentions
and start candidly suggesting something cosmically herculean hurtling toward us
what then ah man this is going to be bigger than the sum of everything ever dreamed of
generously more gigantic than a gazillion gibraltars
shared godhood is a paltry description of this prophecy as we become its eyes and ears
trained on the explosion of eternity

the timeless instant is always now projecting eternally
the rupturing wave of rapture unfolding like mindstream
sometimes its still hard to believe that its here already

************************************************************************************
and so sometimes this dream seems too wide to cross
it stretches off to horizon soaking the ignorance of mind illusion
this simple unadulterated connectivity to the unseen unknown just keeps washing up on this shore
right on the edge of it
staring out with wondering eyeballs this solitude of sight eating itself
this outbreak of miracle sense perception
a continuous fascination with unfolding
this is the beatitude of the christs
every last one of them
adorning themselves with the light of the world the word the god that did this to us
freeing
this glorious liberation of understanding ununderstanding
chaos is fine purifying

************************************************************************************
ah but these notes are only ever intimations
vague reports from eternal places from a hack journalist in the gardens of paradise
running out of space on the last page of a notebook entirely lettered in a scribbled cipher
both contemporary and ancient in the same instant
alive
projected into void and nothing is actually out there swelling ebbing swelling

the immensity of the silence is staggering
***********************************************************************************
how can you ever forget this monstrous diamond feeling
how can you let it slip away
why do you always return to the normal denominator
why can it not just be this forever
oh glorious moment of the everlasting miracle
what are these visions of tathagatic realms flourishing inside us
this brilliant blow of majesty
this tapestry of sparkles
it glimmers even when raining will this instant be the masterpiece
the foundation for which following generations will be judged upon
that illumined order
that motivation to return to origin one home
that irrevocable bond with all
the source of the most illustrious grand high jah heaven bursting at the seams what brilliance speaks from the other side and protects the ocean from poisons and pollutions
and safeguards chocolate milk fantasies from mistaken reasoning
all this nonsense we promulgate to impress others who are only just ourselves in the end of this time here
when we raise our glasses in solemn oath
a giant banquet of life champions united in the yellow submarine vision flying through void on a ravens wing
this is how big destiny becomes when the skies literally open
and an entire new dimension descends like silent snowfall conquering all there is complete unwavering surrender to this glory
will serve it well beyond the death of this form and on through the chain of endless manifestations
of those who were those who are and those who will be
this goes out to all of you love
stillness eternity now who wants to be thrown into the ocean

***********************************************************************************

selection from blue sky mind stream - tsunami

joceandennie — Thu, 01 May 2008 13:16:41 CDT

technicolor unfolding communion
the next morning, boxing day, is intended for a sabbath fruit fasting of pineapple, mangoes, bananas...a whole day envisioned for immersion in contemplation and practice

predawn yoga again but a more restless set than usual...not as long in absorption meditation afterward, then back to the house and a quick handwash of all clothes, pinned up on a clothesline to dry...it is a small but necessary violation of the sabbatical...then inside the room...a few stray thoughts written down, then on to the floor with iyengar's light on pranayama, fine tuning the technique...several minutes spent breathing through alternate nostrils

and then
it is time

nine oh nine in the morning

the sound emerges from the depths of the unheard like a soft rain swelling into hurricane...horrifically distinct...radically at odds with the usual din of indian life scampering about outside...impossible to convey meaningfully in words, for how can one recount the sound of approaching ocean...it mixes with swift syncopated shrieks of shock, confusion, terror, victimization...something is not right

strangely stirred from meditation...curiosity takes over...and like dorothy in her house slammed down by the tornado, arising from her bed, walking down the hall and opening the door...a life changes into technicolor forever

there is no other way to say it...

ocean...everywhere...

not a cresting wave approaching from a distance like in the movies, but water as far up and as far across as one's field of vision will possibly allow...all of it hurtling forward

there is a brief pneumonic flash of a young boy floating on a scrap of wood frightened at life's end rushing past

perhaps two or three seconds to react...it is enough time to slam the door, to back up against it, and hope for the best

the ocean has other things in mind and hurls the door and a body into the back wall of the room

the room swirls with ocean, filling up like an aquarium

debris from snapped fishing boats, nets and chunks of ocean contents race in to dance in the submerged room, the bed having snapped like a toothpick...shards everywhere

taking in buckets of salt water...about to drown...this is it, ok shit, this is it...no fear...ust an uncertainty as to whether this is a dream...is this a dream...this stuff only ever happens in dreams

moments that follow are difficult to recall with accuracy...unlike most memories retold with a chronological logic, one event consequently leading to the next, these moments are pockmarked with interrupted flashes of recollection, the psyche purposely suppressing a great deal of the trauma...no choice in the matter

a deal is brokered somewhere higher up in the realms...the water then recedes enough to allow for a pocket of air and a chance to clamber over a pile of flotsam blocking the exit...the body acts instinctually, escaping, as best as it can...the will to survive fanatically present

the undertow is fatally immense and sweeps the escapee off his feet and out into the current doom of certain death

there is enough sense to reach up and grab on to something...ending up on this ledge by the door a metre off the ground...this ledge popping up out of nowhere, serving as a momentary saviour...just high enough to ride out the next three smaller afterwaves still packing a punch and knocking the body huddled in helpless fetal up against the wall of the house

and what is going through the mind as this death defying experience is unfolding

there are no om mani padme hums, no book of the dead kind of thinking, no immediate attention directed to the sudden transition, just this embarrassing attachment to personal items washed out by the wave, many of them now racing out of the room in the swift recession between the pounding onslaughts of waves...looking down and seeing thing after thing fleeing the room...goodbye, goodbye...a horror arises at the thought of losing a significant amount of writing never transcribed elsewhere, swallowed along with thousands of other personal items lost by unsuspecting others, some likely to be later recovered by those beachcombers earlier scoffed at

the ocean snatches almost everything...passport, money belt, all sacred totems in the collection, all clothes save for the shorts currently worn...even glasses

grandfather's watch survives on the wrist...frozen in that eternal moment...never to operate again

* * *

even without glasses, one could sense the chaos...a chorus of anguish surfaces...everyone is struggling to survive...the owner of the house stands on a stairway and yells go go get out get out while you still can

off the ledge down onto the threshold of the room for a look inside...water is still receding but an undertow no longer threatens...rushing in to survey the giant bath tub water swirling in little whirlpools...a few books bobbing up and down while david's kriya manual on loan from him floats past, now a butterflied mess

all that is salvageable is the empty backpack, unfortunately unloaded of most of its contents...only a soggy first aid kit, a portable hammock and surprisingly, a wallet with at least some identification in it

it is at this moment, while trying to size up what just happened, that a robin egg shell baby blue plastic suitcase drifts into the room...without hesitation, it is kicked open to miraculously reveal dry clothes, now there for the taking...fuck it, finders keepers...a red sarong, a rusty surfboard tshirt, grey khaki pants, a long sleeved black shirt with satanic white goth lettering, a teal hand towel

while frantically throwing these newfound items into the backpack, someone bounds up to the door and cries out, oh bloody jesus, thank god you're still alive...it is david...he survived...holy shit holy shit holy shit...we stare at each other in sheer disbelief for long seconds like stunned animals caught in headlights, yanked back to earth reality, the horror no longer confined to a personalized realm of experience...shared...a raw communion with another human in the midst of tragedy...shock and mortal fear unite us

we hug each other as if we are the last humans on the planet and blither like babies

david quickly recounts how he was in his room when the wave hit, up to his waist, able to flee with only a moment to grab a few choice items...and in the ultimate sign of humanity, he risked his life to turn back and fetch a fellow he had only known for a week or so

* * *

we retreat from the room immediately, knowing it was unmistakably a tsunami...all that keeps running through the mind at this point are clips they showed us back in grade ten geography class about tsunamis hitting the west coast of south america...there is a vague memory of one such tsunami packing a double punch...thinking the unthinkable...that could have been the baby one...nothing now but an overwhelming urge to get as far inland as possible

we set off running down one of the main lanes leading from the beach...vendors and merchants and tourists are spilling out into the street, gawking at us curiously, having not actually been close enough to the shore to know what happened

we must haved looked like two quacks stomping down the way, sheer madness of near death in our eyes, screaming get the fuck out of here, go, go...people start to panic and wail and run in the direction of the beach to search for loved ones

and in the midst of this, something stops us dead in our tracks...cheryl...we run back to the guesthouse where she is staying, thankfully a safe distance from the devastation...when we arrive, our eyes lock...she is at the top of the stairs...her backpack on...ready to go

something fucked up has happened
yeah
are you ready to get the hell outta here
yeah, ready, let's go
* * *
there had always been these nightmares of flooding...massive disasters...earthquakes...plenty of tornadoes...even alien invasions...episodes all sharing one similarity...an impending sweeping nature that completely obliterates the ordinary...every one of those dreams confronted the dreamer with the same situation...surrounded by personal objects, letters, books, valuables, and then, this crisis hits...this overwhelming feeling to flee smashes in...run run...from the danger of whatever it was that was attacking transforming dreamscapes

so now this overwhelming feeling to flee manifests in terrestrial reality

after stumbling around through town, a bit disoriented, uncertain what to do, we head to a hotel nearby, hoping they will arrange a ride out of here...any fellow with wheels and half a brain at this point will do we scream at the clerk...have you not heard what the hell just happened man, please help us

obviously a state of delirium sets in...this fantastic pulsing sensation of the holy nature of mortality backwashing the mind...vivid thrusts ripping into timespace fabric...prophecies become lived memories...the past melts into the present future wide open...never to return

david nails it right on the head when he says his sense of self washed out with the tsunami...something flutters within... the heart flutters at this reality...yes, exactly...this new reality verbalized for the first time

that old self...where is it now

gone...gone beyond

and in spite of our lunacy, the hotel clerk stares at us with unquestionable ignorance, trying to convince us to stay in his hotel for the evening, mentioning he still has rooms available on the third floor, believing our reactions are exaggerated

we do not spend any further time trying to convince him that it is more than just a little swell in the tide as he makes it out to be...so much has been lost and destroyed...certainly something like this is no usual occurrence, but the man remains in complete denial

we dash out of the place back out into the street...chaos is quickly creeping in...that horrible feeling of disastrous anarchy, where anything can happen, when any force from the furthest corner reaches could suddenly materialize...it is an epoch turning point, everything feeling so ominously precarious...so fragile

david meanwhile grows shockingly philosophic...he suggests we head up some rocky hill he points to nearby so we can meditate on the devastation...and though there is a sense of transcendent rationality in that, we still think he is absolutely daft...none of us can shake the impulse to flee...this desperate noise in the head screaming get out get out

with potentially even bigger waves heading toward us, we impress upon david the need to leave now, further inland...he is snapped out of the divine and he drops back in...he sees the urgency in our faces...the reality of what happened is setting in

through triune navigation, we head down the road leading out of town, the trouble being just because a road leads straight out of town, there is no certainty that it does not snake back along the coast at some point...we have to get as far away from the ocean as we can get...we rely on sporadic info from locals...no one has any clue what has had happened, the full extent of it all...we follow the exodus...barefoot...skin singing on blazing pavement...biblical

living a little personal morning apocalypse...resurfacing is all that teenage fascination with eschatology, doomsday edgar cayce prophecy, nostradamic quatrains evoking cataclysm...everything ever imagined about the end happening now

one can never return to routine flows following something like that

reciting aham brahman asmi repetitively like a street corner madman preacher

what is even scarier than actual impact is the wave of fear a tsunami unleashes afterward upon humanity...the reality of people panicking is a hell of a lot more dangerous than any sudden disaster in and of itself

villagers are piling into buses piling with as much junk as they could scramble together in seconds...other villagers are racing around disoriented, crying in anguish...viruses of panic swell in their heads, mutating, blasted out to others

hopeful for a ride, we approach a half empty bus parked strangely serene by the side of the road...the passengers stare out the window disinterested...completely unreal...we try to embark but are immediately ordered off by the passengers and the driver himself...we are incredulous...we stare and look up into their faces...the tables finally turn...it is a monumental teaching in humanity...the law of survival...we are still nothing but animals inside

we continue on for some time...roadspace saturates with the multitudes...it swells into further disorder...police presence, or any hint of authority, is limited to a few officers standing with rifles on the train tracks, protecting the railroads of all things

it is a day of rapidly developing events and conspiring universes...within minutes there could be real trouble...this is serious...we cannot screw around anymore...we gotta get out...adrenaline is through the roof...complete desperation...thoughts of hijacking the next vehicle heading out of here cross the mind

further on, at a fork in the road, at a little dhaba restaurant stand, a white ambassador taxi gleams in morning sun like a beacon...we sprint toward it...the driver is leaning casually against the trunk of a tree smoking a biddi...we approach him in a frenzy and plead with him to take us to the next major town inland

he chats the proposition over with a few of his fellows, perhaps relatives he was planning to whisk away...they realize this could potentially be a big money making situation for the family, so they sacrifice their safety for the future promise of a nice fat pay off...they pretty much take david and cheryl for what they have in cash between the two of them

we hop into the back seat and zoom off through countryside...we pass a petrol station...they are already fighting over access to the hoses...it is starting to get nasty

as each kilometre passes, however, the sense of immediate danger diminishes...cheryl takes a hand in hers...some tears...her connective moment of reaching out with unconditional compassion to a stranger will never be forgotten...a christness here in the back seat of this taxi

in total dreamland mist of ascension bliss hangover...the rest of the trip is a blur...just the thought, just get there, just get there

for a flash of a moment or two, a heavy realization sets in that the whole india thing is over...with barely anything left, it makes sense to hightail it back to canada...this impression however does not persist for long...a senseless invincibility assumes authority...not going to let india win this easily, having survived this disaster...now that this is out of the way, what else could india possibly throw at us more tragic than this

the next town inland happens to be kanchipuram, a place which, under ordinary circumstances, we would not have normally been drawn to...it turns out though it is one of the oldest cities in southern india, replete with dozens of temples and churches...it had been a major centre of learning...buddha was said to have visited it

we arrive at a noisy streetside in front of the jayballa hotel...cheryl and david negotiate two rooms for us...we head upstairs...safe...delirious, but safe...the shock is wearing off...there are a lot of holy fuckin shits and jesus christs over the next few hours, and we watch the story of the tsunami unfold on television news networks, the most devastating natural disaster to have struck the earth in almost a century...a magnitude of nine...coastlines all around the indian ocean destroyed...nicobar and andaman obliterated...sri lanka massacred...entire villages wiped out to sea...unconfirmed reports of carnage from madras, pondicherry

numbers of fatalities start pouring in...hundreds then thousands then tens of thousands...it feels as if the earth finally ripped apart in these first few moments of viewing...no one knows what is happening...to counteract the shock, we go down to the wine shop next door and stock up on liquor

after a few drinks of cheap vodka to steady the nerves, it is time to contact family...to let someone, anyone know that we made it out alive...downstairs the telephone box outside the hotel is jammed with people...word of the tsunami is spreading fast...everyone is jumping onto telephones to connect with loved ones...trying to get through...again and again...the lines are jammed...busy signal busy signal busy signal...efforts are to no avail...trying different numbers...mother, father, even an exgirlfriend

finally forty minutes later there is a connection...the phone rings successfully...another second or so and mother says hello...she had listened only the day before of the simple beauty of the village by the ocean south of madras and the wonderful beachfront accommodations, but now, the tone in her voice, panic stricken, conveys it all...oh god you're alive, you're alive she shrieks in relief

the first thing she does every morning is turn on the television for the latest news, and imagine, waking to reports of a giant tidal wave wreaking disaster over the very same region your son had described to you only the day before

only ten minutes pass from that initial exposure to the breaking news story until the time her son calls to let her know he survived, but it is the longest ten minutes of a mother's life

mom mom it's okay, we made it...we're okay...we're alive...there's three of us traveling together...cheryl a canadian and david a brit...we made it mom...it's okay

you must have been so scared she cries...funny how it did not feel like fear at the time, just an impulse to survive...the conversation is short yet emphasized with loving words, too overwhelming to try to keep it together

a request is made for her to contact close loved ones and let them know what happened...we disconnect...she then goes on to call every last person she knows, even members of parliament, foreign affairs officials, the local television and radio stations, even mothers of childhood friends not seen for ages

back up in the room, after a shower, there is a more thorough survey of lost and newfound possessions...the remains are meagre but practical, reeking of salt water and sea weed...it feels strangely liberating to be free of three quarters of a burden...what is left is hung out to dry on the balcony

the three of us sit and drink on into the evening in cheryl's room, agape with awe and a temperate disbelief at what unfolds on the flickering television screen, falling asleep in a dreamless silent half intoxication...physically, psychically exhausted...cheryl kindly throws a blanket over the body shivering in fetal

selection from blue sky mind stream

joceandennie — Thu, 01 May 2008 13:11:16 CDT

(this selection is from a text entitled blue sky mind stream, a narrative account of the esoteric moments that mattered on a yearlong pilgrimage to ancient india, the chapter is set in bodhgaya, the spot where the buddha attained full enlightenment)

homecoming bouquet brilliance

most high lord buddha, you slick operative mastermind, you wanted this decaying psyche here in the blessed epicentre of it all...bodhgaya...the central headquarters for the planetary movement known as buddhism and its wildfires of the interior science...the very spot where buddha attained the ultimate state...situated in this dry scorched land smack dab in the heart of the poorest state in the country, with inhabitants plagued by austerity almost to the point of deliberate renunciation

here lord is your prized possession, dragged away from comfortable cosmopolitan existence and all its attachments and connections, dropped on a midnight train cutting outta calcutta then into bleary morning mind marching on down the road...completely disoriented...not knowing the way out of gaya town...guessing...using intuitive navigation, past every auto rickshaw driver yelling hello hello hello buddhagaya buddhagaya, and no one believing a westerner would prefer to march on over the more luxurious option of wheels in pilgrimage to the spot where colossal consciousness first swept across parched plains and rivers that yearned for monsoon rains

it had to be this way...this solitary parade exacted with sidereal precision, with only a moment's repose by a roadside banyan tree near an empty river bed sucking in morning haze and anxious for clouds threatening in the distance

and then what are you trying to reveal when the rains commence only a few kilometres from the destination...this horrible mind's mantra recitation...just get there, just get there...perhaps it is some ablution undertaken as the body passes under maroon arches with this born again sensation and some local asks, friend, where are you going and the answer is home

ah but how triumphant is the homecoming...exhausted, waterlogged, carrying a burdensome bundle of whatnots, junk just pointed to and laughed at by families with nothing, a bright red and white raincoated buffoon bumbling along muddy lanes, where is all this leading is all there is to deliberate upon

faith then reaffirmed as someone emerges from the mists, a warm soul who comes and plucks a weary visitor from the street...riding precariously balanced on the back of a motorcycle to a place, any place of refuge from the exhaustion, jet lag, culture shock creeping in

* * *
later settled in at ravi's guesthouse, a japanese tourist haven since ravi spent years there learning the language, bartending, eventually arranging pilgrimage tours back home for them, and he learned all about the places they wanted to see, and for a fee, he would take them there, anywhere

and so a rate is negotiated for a stay of twenty days, at least that long, too tired to check out the gelugpa tibetan monastery nearby for half the price...oh well, it is a large clean room

but a futile late morning attempt to sleep ensues, unable to tune out children frolicking out on the road, horns honking in incessant nonsense, bengali announcements trumpeted over megaphones perhaps proclaiming all the lies of this life and firecrackers goddamnit, going off in other rooms, some furniture building going on in the room directly above, hammering explosions of noise, ahhhhhhhhh

and is this what you wanted lord buddha...this posturing, this repositioning to this exact location with this present state of mind

* * *

the mahabodhi temple in the dharma centre of the universe is the beating heart that feeds the bloody world its love compassion consciousness...it is an edifice reputed to have been built under the guidance of a beloved emperor but now there is a divine chaotic fracas within the sanctum where it is impossible to sit in silence for more than a stretch of seconds as our buddha hero prince siddhartha would have done outside, perhaps interrupted with only occasional curious calls of colourful parrots

there is no way to uncover peace of mind inside this most hallowed temple unless one is supremely accomplished and can skillfully detach from the throngs of primarily hindu pilgrims trooping through this claustrophobic room, jostling for a spot closest to the golden idol they make offerings to like all the others...and hell it could have been a bust of elvis for all they knew, and it may as well have been, for in their fervour to run through their holy circuits, they forgot to carry any reverence with them, shouting and screaming and throwing coins as if attending horse races, with no consideration whatsoever for those of us who have some shred of an idea of what is going on here, trying to be silent in the mind in the corner, having to tolerate jabbing feet, dumbfounded stares, poking fingers, anything for a blessing from anything that stands out

bottles of water, cola, packages of biscuits, hibiscus, lotus, garlands, bundles of smoking incense, fruit baskets, photographs, illustrations, artistic renditions, kata scarves...all offered with a loving misguided devotion to a buddha god seated before them...unwavered...indifferent to the abundance, to the opulence that now discolours dharma with this shade of materiality, like buying tickets into heaven

there is even a cadre of attendants who tirelessly tend to the statue, dutifully changing its robes on a frequent basis, clothing its golden skin in different hues and fabrics to fashion an illusion of majesty, of royalty that need not be, since buddha essence needs no exalted introduction since it exists merely of its own nature...untainted

* * *

and outside in the temple garden, no poetry can ever approximate the unbelievable force field surrounding that tree, the tree itself and the spot underneath where time and space opened or dissolved or whatever happened it happened right there...this majestic diamond throne of the destroyer king of illusion blasting dharma out to the furthest reaches

a gigantic bouquet of elephant limbed branches now blossom forth, projecting the nature of buddha consciousness through the use of botany, while dark green steel crutches support some branches that would surely collapse from their own weight and expansionist volition, just wanting to keep growing, going on and on, now supported against gravity's victory, watered and lovingly tended...an existence extended well beyond life expectancy, still giving birth to bodhi seeds that drop to earth from a heaven not too far above...some seeds get squished underfoot, mashed into a dark jam, others are rounded up by observant collectors who cherish these seeds, along with leaves in spiral descent, as holy pieces of the cosmic maya pie, as catholics would revere the relics of saints, thighbones, strips of clothes, strands of hair and so on

these days at mahabodhi will likely stand as some of the most momentous in this humble existence, this realized after the sun has set upon this numinous space and cambodian monks light hundreds of tea candles for the illumination of wisdom, eventually developing into a single uncontrollable flame, a wave of consecrated fire engulfing illusion

tibetan monks then trade places with the cambodians on red wine carpets near the base of the tree and bellow chants designed specifically for liberation...and just to be present among them, sitting behind them, gently swaying in the cool evening air enveloped in their sonic salutations...blessed, assured, protected, transported to the nucleus of another dimension within this dimension where there is only sacred mantra, its vibration soaking through everything

eyelids shut, listening to the evening chants, absorbed in ocean of mantra, figuring there is a firm conceptual grasp on the whole sonic scape, when all of a sudden, a lonely bell rings off in the distance, and this countersound catapults consciousness into some simultaneously parallel plane via a disorientation within the mind, reinforcing the undeniable fact that there is more, still more, always more

* * *

there is a monk of some years in age who sits off to the side of the tree and the vajrasana throne, arriving early every morning, before the dawn breaks upon us, positioning himself on pillows, behind a makeshift reading table a foot off the ground...his thermos of tea within reach, near bits of donated food tucked away, hidden from sight, yet stealthfully munched on throughout the day as he recites tibetan texts in a soft voice only the deities can perceive

he spends day after day in this manner, resigned to living life like this, no less enriched however, as all the world passes through his field of vision, so do not be fooled, for he observes everything that occurs around him as the words flow from his cracked lips, marked usually by a stern countenance of concentration but his eyes always betray his kindness, often offering leaves and seeds that fall from the tree as gifts to anyone who greets his gaze

* * *

every time the mahabodhi grounds are entered, the entrance to the pagoda style temple is approached...three prostrations to the golden likeness inside then clockwise circumambulations around to the back of the temple and the tree...awaiting...fenced in gold...gated...embedded with a gold bell shaped form between the bars that serves as a surrogate magnet for the ethereal energies of individuals

separated from the tree, we stand before this lodestone, often splattered with colourful strips and banners, touching it with fingers, foreheads, and envisioning the whole power and dynamic thrust of the tree infused in this tactile communion, ingested upon inhalation...and upon exhalation, enormous helpings of shakti shoot up into the spine of the tree and out the top like a radio love transmitter

it is said that the aura of the tree is so powerful, not even celestial beings can fly over it

* * *

many of the monks spend portions of their day engaged in prostrations before the great tree of buddha unfolding...it is a rigorous physical practice designed to foster humility and penance and purity...they stand up straight with fingertips of each hand touching above the head, the hands then lowering to the mouth and throat region, then down to the sternum, then bending down on knees dropping the entire body belly flat on ground, with hands curling up in namaste above the head, then back up to do it all over again

to facilitate the practice, the monks use wide wooden planks sanded and polished, and with hands on slippery pads, they slide down along the plank and onto a thin cushion to absorb the impact of the torso

this is the physical and technical side of it, of which a number of the monks are quite proficient at...some of them able to number eight to ten prostrations in a minute

one such tibetan monk from milan in his fifties does thousands upon thousands of prostrations a day

but behind the workout is a profound devotional device diminishing self centeredness...the importance in undertaking this is instantly recognized, and so a commitment of ten thousand is made without hesitation, the inspiration coming entirely from the overwhelming devotion exercised in the shaded corners of the temple yard

a young monk prostrating near the temple entrance notices he is being studied, so he walks over to introduce himself as pema, and he quite gently demonstrates how to perform the prostration properly...it takes a while to get the hang of it, the flow to it

the body, after a couple dozen or so, starts to voice resistance, muscles mutiny, bones crack and joints make those funny popping sounds...the lower back and the knees painfully protest around half an hour into it

pema chuckles at the first few attempts but then that flowing oneness in the motion comes quickly enough and he smiles in admiration...the remainder of that afternoon is spent sharpening the motion, pushing the body way too hard, eight hundred done four hours later...it feels like a punishment

but day after day the pain lessens, mostly mind tricks transmuting pain into purification, pacifying, enriching, magnifying, destroying...any discomfort here is a small sacrifice to make to acknowledge the sorrow of those who have no concept they are even suffering

the monks often leave behind their boards lying flat on the ground...ready for action...so any vacant board is used those first few times...a habit not entirely cool with scowling territorial monks plagued with inner obscenities

later on, a gracious lay practitioner who introduces himself as dharma points to an extra board of his he never uses and says it is fine to use that one

soon embedded within the ranks of this army of prostrators, up to six prostrations a minute, usually commencing around seven in the morning and then continuing in the late afternoon around three thirty or four

towards the end of the afternoon set, the chanting of saranam gachami from speakers strategically stationed throughout the precinct arises as the sun sets behind the buildings of bodhgaya...the haunting tones of the refuge mantra trail off through narrow lanes of the town, wistfully encroaching upon evening serenities settling in

* * *

the heart and body and mind are purified as cupped hands touch these three points on the body, while the vast assembly of the lotus pool including all bhikus, arhats, bodhisattvas, mahasattvas, and the pantheons of heavenly beings look on from the branches of the great tree...all of humanity prostrates in unison...family members positioned close...enemies placed directly in front of the tree...namo manjushri namo sushriyi namo uttama shriye soha with each repetition

lying flat on the board, the five poisonous hindrances are transmuted into five virtues, so ignorance surrenders to wisdom, attachment gives way to discriminating awareness, anger dissolves into mirror like awareness, pride falls to equanimity, and jealousy transforms into an accomplished wisdom

envisioning everyone ever encountered each assuming the body for a single prostration, taking their turn to bask in the brilliance of this endeavour...enemies and exgirlfriends alike, friends of friends, casual acquaintances, notable strangers, those recently encountered, old pals and workmates and schoolmates and school bus drivers and teachers, intense interesting individuals who influenced the course of this life, distant relatives, dear loved ones...streaming one after another, each having their turn to perform a prostration, dear loved ones would often go more than once, while loving thoughts of rinpoches and the dalai lama always ended off the session in thanksgiving

ten thousand is such an incomprehensible number when you are only within reach of the first thousand, but it seems perfectly natural to be doing this, paying homage to the focal point of buddha consciousness and celebrating this space in this way, a very solemn undertaking for the most part, joyful at times, but mostly and necessarily excruciating, toxins and kilograms burning off

this practice must surely be the ultimate gesture of humility, completely reducing one's stature to a wonderfully submissive servile deference

this is of course in contrast to the silly buddhist notion of accumulating merit for personal development...some esoteric savings account...no no what happens here is for the benefit of all...in fact this entire journey to india, including all its rewards and prizes and boons and empowerments and awakenings, is offered to everyone, and though there must be someone physically present to experience such things into manifestation, revelation need not be limited in this way, for it is contagious, and each one of us always benefits from the good fortune of others

* * *

hovering around those of us prostrating is a witch doctoress, a dharma protectoress against evil spirits and thought projections and unfortunate karma, and she waves wands of burning sandalwood encircling stupas, statues, chanting ancient incantations, likely recruited from the foot of mount kailash, and she has the aura of some untamed exorcist who dances with demons too often, shunning photographs and all attention upon her and passing like a shadow...in broken english she says ah yes, you have a beautiful smile, see you again tomato...she leaves a single stick of incense behind, a totem, just in case her efforts were insufficient

yes, yes thank you for being here, for doing this, for being you...tomorrow again, tomorrow it is

who are you mister ocean

joceandennie — Sat, 16 Feb 2008 13:09:00 CST

j ocean dennie was a fixture on the Toronto spoken word scene from 1998 until 2004 before setting off on an extended pilgrimage through India. Since then, he has enjoyed living by the sea in places such as Sooke on Vancouver Island and locations in Mexico including Cabo San Lucas and Puerto Escondido. In 1998 he produced and hosted CHRY 105.5's The Poet Tree, at York University, a weekly spoken word radio show with a run of two years including notable guests such as bill bissett, Ken Babstock, and Priscilla Uppal. In November 1999, he was responsible for launching BITE, arguably one of the most exciting cabaret style open mic shows to have come along in Toronto spoken word in a long time. The show remained fresh and captivating for almost two years with featured readers such as Jill Battson, Dwayne Morgan and Nik Beat.

His poetry has been published in Inscribed (February 2008), Synergy Magazine (November 2007), Existere (September 2007), Jones Av. (2004), Surface & Symbol (2004), Hammered Out Vol. 3 and 4 (2004), Labour of Love (spanning 2000-2005), Strange Tongues Anthology (2003), Fire & Reason (2000), and the internationally acclaimed web anthology entitled Times New Roman (2003).

He has tracks featured on two spoken word CD's, Unheard of... by Tupperware Sandpiper Productions and ...Like a Diamond in the Sky by Labour of Love Productions. A spoken word piece entitled The Beat was also featured on CBC's alternative website, zed.cbc.ca.

A piece entitled 'annihilation uv p om' in tribute to bill bissett appears in radiant danse uv being (Nightwood Editions, 2006) featuring national luminaries including Margaret Atwood and Leonard Cohen.

Broken Pencil Magazine has described his work as “legitimate revolutionary slowburn” while noting his "great ability to notice the mundane and create a scene of drama and intrigue".

While wintering in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, j ocean dennie wrote articles for a local paper called The Gringo Gazette. He was also a correspondent for the Sooke News Mirror in British Columbia. Numerous editorial pieces appeared on the now defunct www.latchkey.net. A number of his book reviews are now collected on one website at www.shvoong.com. Articles, film and book reviews have appeared in the following publications:

The Catholic New Times (‘Doc depicts Castro behind the scenes’, April 6 2003),
(and ‘Down the Road I Walk’, November 16, 2003)
Yoga and Health (UK) (‘Yoga and I’, April 2004)
Grey Borders and Crank Magazine (a review of Nik Beat’s Tyranny of Love, appeared in both publications in August and Spring 2004 respectively)

www.southernmostreview.com (a review of Myna Wallin's A Thousand Profane Pieces, November 2007)

j ocean dennie's earlier work consists of a book of poetry entitled Natural Machine and four chapbooks, all self-published. His chapbook, Beneath the Lotus, a collection of esoteric meditations, was widely distributed and highly regarded.

He was also the editor and publisher of a chapbook anthology entitled Revelation exploring the ethereal, the mystical, and the unknown, released in February 2004. (J.J. Steinfeld and Jacob Scheier were two of several contributors to this exciting collection).

The personal transformation following almost a year in India and a harrowing brush with death in 2004's tsunami led to the completion of two books: a book of poetry entitled once upon the on and on, and a stream of consciousness account of esoteric adventures in the sacred subcontinent, entitled blue sky mind stream. j ocean dennie followed that up with coastlines, an attempt to blend poetry and prophecy that was penned while listening to the waves. He is currently working on several simultaneous writing projects.
He has had several spoken word feature appearances throughout Toronto and environs:
• CIUT's Howl (three times) • CKLN’s In Other Words (twice) • Syntactic Sunday Reading Series (twice) • the Art Bar Reading Series • Strange Tongues • Nik Beat's Words and Music Series • We Still Got Words (twice) • Cryptic Chatter • Junction Arts Festival Greenpeace Benefit • Surburban Spoken Word Series (twice) • LiT LiVe (Hamilton) • RED Salon at the Lula Lounge • Limestone Poetry Series at the Bookstore Café (Camden East)

j ocean dennie also had the dubious honour of being the last featured reader to hit the stage at both the long standing Idler Pub Reading Series in Toronto and the Blue Angel Reading Series in Hamilton. He has also performed in front of audiences at the Nuyorican Cafe in New York, in Bombay, India and Chiang Mai, Thailand, and most recently, in Victoria, British Columbia.

j ocean dennie is also an accomplished conga drummer. He has provided percussive accompaniment to nationally reknowned poets including Nik Beat, nth digri, and Taylor Price. His percussion is featured behind the words of bill bissett and Jim Christy on tracks included on The Gwendolyn MacEwen Memorial Benefit CD released by Pteros Gallery in 2004.
Contact j ocean dennie at poetguy1974@hotmail.com and check out his website at www.ocean.wetpaint.com.

favourite lynx to ocean approved sites

joceandennie — Sat, 26 Jan 2008 12:03:26 CST

j ocean dennie on www.coffeehouse.ca website

j ocean dennie's book reviews on shvoong.com

cool articles at helium.com (type j ocean dennie in the search box)

rocco degiacomo's op-ed website

sylvester guerneros, cabo artist

mike barber at www.alienbeatpoet.com

brian mcintyre's bodhgaya mala bead site at desinationom.ca

j ocean dennie - scribe for hire

joceandennie — Mon, 21 Jan 2008 13:07:17 CST

scribe for hire

if you have any interesting writing projects or proposals, please do not hesitate to contact ocean at poetguy1974@hotmail.com to discuss them

CHECK OUT MY BOOK REVIEWS at www.shvoong.com (type 'j ocean dennie' into the search box for a complete listing of my reviews)

i also offer:

writing, proofreading and editing services
photos for sale for use in various publications or as muses for visual artists
biographical services (hmmm, need some help in penning your life story??)
house-sitting services
reiki healing on a donation basis
brainstorming, inspiring, contemplating
meditation instruction
conga and hand percussion accompaniment
hard labour when desperate

I NEED WRITERS FOR AN IMPORTANT LITERARY PROJECT
Find out more at...writers needed

CHECK OUT MY BOOK REVIEWS at www.shvoong.com
(type 'j ocean dennie' into the search box for a complete listing of my reviews)

sample writing
oceanic photos
whats the plan man
who are you mister ocean
inspirations and influences
favourite lynx to ocean approved sites

writers needed

joceandennie — Wed, 09 Jan 2008 13:04:59 CST

From the earliest onset of recorded history, humanity has retained and sought to foster a relationship with the ineffable.Throughout the existence of our race, we have felt compelled to chronicle our brushes with divinity, in an attempt to understand, however faintly, the mystery of that which lies beyond us. From the oral histories of shamans and early biblical verses to the poetry of mystics on up through to the writings of savants and hierophants of our day, there has been a common thread that has unified our experiences.

Known by many names, it may be simply be referred to as the peak experience.

Whether the peak experience is a result of meditative endeavours, near death experiences, experimentation with mind altering substances, sexual awakenings or simply spontaneous bursts of consciousness, this project will seek to include the full spectrum of such triggering factors, and will reach into diverse arenas of faith and non-faith alike. The most predominant criteria: truth.

Help us bring this important literary project to life. We are looking for narrative prose accounts of your truly life-transforming moment, engendering an experience that you will never forget and that you now feel needs to be shared with a wider audience. We are certain this compendium will be highly regarded with those who are spiritually inclined and those who are merely curious and wish to investigate into the nature of things a little further.

Specifically, we are looking for stories to be no more than 2500 words.

We ask that the stories be written from the first person perspective and focus on the experience itself instead of the opinions and afterthoughts of the writer. We also request that the writer permit minor editorial revisions, if necessary.

Submissions and queries can be sent to j ocean dennie at
poetguy1974@hotmail.com.

Deadline open.

feel free to share this listing with any associated parties who may be interested...this is an open call...

the project is still in its infancy so a publication date has not been determined as of yet...writers will be compensated but, again, no fixed amount or percentage has been determined

inspirations and influences

joceandennie — Wed, 18 Apr 2007 16:35:13 CDT

my family of course

and relatives

and great friends

and poets kerouac and ginsberg and cohen and brautigan
and bissett

and writers kazantzakis and hesse and thoreau

and gurus paramananda and gurudev and ramesh
and amma and sonam rinpoche

and krishnamurti and the dalai lama and gandhi and babaji and buddha boy and st. john and the christ

and miles and ravi and jeff the bassoon guy and mike barber and the new deal

and films baraka and waking life and dark side of the rainbow

and the ocean and the forests and the mountains

oceanic photos

joceandennie — Thu, 29 Mar 2007 20:24:17 CDT

tibetan monk reciting text in front of * monk meditating, bodhgaya, india
bodhi tree in bodhgaya, india

archway leading to lake, udaipur, india * zen monk ringing bell, bodhgaya, india

street vendor knitting beneath a poster of the * blind street musician, haridwar, india
revered karmapa, mcleod ganj, india

peasant laborer, udaipur, india * street girl and friend, mount abu, india

sadhu near ganges river, varanasi, india * sadhu meditating at jagdish temple, udaipur, india

street girl washing clothes, udaipur, india * guys hanging, marina boulevard, bombay, india

street shave, haridwar, india * anybody lookin for a bottle, haridwar, india

on ghats down to ganges, varanasi, india * goat traffic jam, munsyari, india

whats the plan man

joceandennie — Mon, 05 Mar 2007 19:39:06 CST

the following is an extensive but by no means exhaustive list of life pursuits that perhaps you can help me out with

if you have ideas on how to make any and or all of these a reality, i would be very interested in hearing from you

in no particular order of course

book ideas

returning to india to further chronicle the spiritual scene there particularly in rishikesh, which i feel i can easily write a book about and the northern himalayan regions which i merely received a tasting of
writing a book about the kumbha mela, the big ticket spiritual gathering to take place in early 2012
i would like to work on a book interviewing psychics
helping you with your autobiography that you keep promising yourself you will write but never get around to
writing a book or helping to film a documentary on the infamous buddha boy of nepal who many claim to be the next incarnation of the the buddha and who has mysteriously disappeared from underneath his meditation tree
assisting a small press publisher in rolling out books from cutting edge visionary writers and learning the trade

travel ideas that could turn into juicy stories

crossing the south pacific in a ship, a barge, a yacht
south american backpacking trip especially peru, brazil, chile and argentina
australia
hawaii (camping on beaches)
a summer on manitoulin island, ontario, canada
a summer on prince edward island
a summer on saltspring island
visiting espirito santo island, the largest island of the vanuatu island chain in the south pacific
tibet, mongolia, china, nepal, bhutan
the greek island of patmos, where st. john was exiled
the greek monastic sanctuary of mt. athos

other miscellaneous ideas

spending some time in residence at the gampo abbey, a tibetan karma kagyü monastery located in cape breton, nova scotia, canada
spending some time with the rainbow collective, just for the hell of it
pursuing a career as a meditation or retreat centre co-ordinator - i know of a wonderful spot in southern baja that would be absolutely ideal as a meditative retreat site - anyone with cash and time and energy interested in securing it before it is gobbled up by some developer???
meeting eckhart tolle and helping him with his next book project
assisting organic farmers and paid a proper wage
operating an esoteric book store and or library
teaching english in vietnam or thailand
returning to the shunyata forest monastery in northern thailand to continue vipassana meditations
attend the naropa university in boulder, colorado particularly the disembodied school of poetics --- scholarship or bursary anyone???
helping to organize worldwide 2012 end all be all convergence --- anyone working on anything really cool???
helping to raise my nephew --- child support donations???
helping someone who is television broadcast savvy to develop an exclusively left wing anti establishment television station that we could call channel zero (yippie heroes, eccentric conspiracy theorists, fanatic academicians, insightful documentarians, cutting edge artists, insane poets) lets take back the box

sample writing

joceandennie — Thu, 01 Mar 2007 11:07:20 CST

sample article - catholic new times

sample article - gringo gazette

sample writing - poetry, prose

sample article - gringo gazette

joceandennie — Thu, 22 Feb 2007 12:32:00 CST

This article first appeared in a March 2007 issue of The Gringo Gazette, based out of Cabo San Lucas, Mexico

Mexican Wrestling Slams Into Town
Lucha libre event delivers slapstick entertainment amidst the mayhem

Drop kicks, leg locks, and body slams; grown men in masks and leotards flinging insults as they bounce around inside a ring; audience members shouting as if it was the second coming. Welcome to the brainless fun of Mexican wrestling, otherwise known as lucha libre!

Los Cabos is abuzz with a current series of smackdowns in both San Jose and Cabo. Ok, it ain't Wrestlemania, but for this area, it’s the next best thing. And, even if wrestling ain’t your cup of tea, you owe it to yourself to witness this bastion of Mexican sports culture at least once in your life, right?

Lucha libre has been popularized for American audiences in large part due to the recent Hollywood comedy Nacho Libre , starring Jack Black as a cook in a Mexican orphanage who moonlights as a wrestler or luchador to help raise money for the orphans. Lucha libre events are not as heartwarming as this storyline but they are certainly just as hilarious and entertaining.

If you had a sharp eye, you may have noticed the street posters and ads painted on walls and sides of vans heralding the event on February 17 in Cabo at the Plaza de Toros (the bull ring on the way out to San Jose, across from the soccer field). The main event pitted a formidably sounding Super Parka and his partner Winner against Misterioso Jr. and his mate H. de Cien Caras (Man of 100 Faces).

The event, according to the promotional material, was to have started at 7 p.m. but did not commence until well after 8. For a measly 100 pesos, however, fans were treated to four exciting matches; all of them tag team bouts. A couple of the teams even decided to hold bonus rematches.

There was enough seating for perhaps a couple of hundred people in rows of white plastic chairs surrounding the wrestling ring. Outer rows of seats surrounding the bull ring itself provided sufficient additional seating.

Upon arriving, there were swarms of kids tumbling around on the mat, most of them donning the trademark lucha libre masks. They were going to town on some helpless adult in a cowboy hat and a white leather jacket with tassels. The man was visibly intoxicated and stumbling around with a bandaged right thumb, playfully fending off child attackers. The spectacle had most of us in stitches within minutes; women were cackling like hens a few rows back.

It was fantastic to see families and spectators, both young and old, laughing and enjoying the bombastic buffoonery. Lucha libre is typically marked with a lessened emphasis on power moves as in the professional wrestling circuits in the United States or Canada. Instead, it focuses on rapid sequences of holds and moves, as well as spectacular high-flying stunts. It is a ballet of pseudo-force, perhaps a severe form of gymnastics, punctuated by flips through the air and appendages contorting to deliver and escape from mission holds and neck vices.

In spite of the healthy turnout, there was a noticeable absence of gringos at the event. There was, however, a young Australian couple who enjoyed themselves immensely. It is not difficult to quickly sink into the intensity of such an event as audience members go absolutely loco, screaming out catcalls and obscenities. Something about a mother was uttered by one of the wrestlers that sent his opponent chasing off after him into the bull ring stands where he received righteous headbutts into the benches.

Lucha libre is an interactive event. Wrestlers poise on turnbuckles and raise their arms high above them, seeking affirmation from the crowd. “Applauso!” encouragingly bellows the ringside barker. Fans scatter from their seats as men fly through the air, landing in a bedlam of plastic chairs and beer cans of reasonably priced Modelo. Crowds rush around and follow the masked luchadors whenever they spill out of the ring. Even the referees get in on the action. One ref in the headline match actually pinned the fan-favored Misterioso in victory and no one officially appealed the ruling.

The outfits were equally hilarious. Truly, it takes a special man to dress in a bumble bee outfit! The Rasta Men in colorful Jamaican hemp hats and dreadlocks were a lark, and Super Parka in a skeleton outfit pole dancing by the turnbuckles was classic raunch.

Following the matches, the luchadors interacted with the crowd, posing for photos, tussling hair on little heads and signing autographs. The losers of the matches didn’t appear too sore with their losses, back-slapping their opponents and smiling, basking in the pure jocularity of it all. Besides, there’s always next time.

The next lucha libre event in Cabo is scheduled for March 10 at the Bull Ring (Plaza de Toros) where Super Parka and Winner will face off against Perro Aguayo Jr. (son of the legendary luchador Perro Aguayo) and Damian 666. See you there, if you dare!

sample article - catholic new times

joceandennie — Thu, 22 Feb 2007 12:15:04 CST

Down the Road I Walk
(this article first appeared in an issue of the Catholic New Times)

After three months of intense training, on a cold April morning shortly after dawn, Michael dips his foot into the frigid waters of Lake Ontario. This is a celebratory moment for Michael. It is an important turning point that will unfold into a pilgrimage of transformation.

Michael begins walking from the east end beaches in Toronto. With a stubborn determination and a curious burning heart, he heads east along Highway 2, the King's Highway, hugging the shoreline of the Great Lake. As the hours melt away on that first day, flakes of snow begin to form and float harmlessly through the air. Within minutes, the weather quickly burgeons into a full-blown snow storm. Cars whiz past and spray waves of snow and slush over him. Michael realizes this is the first test of his resolve. He could still back out at this point and save a lot of pain and money and time and ridicule. Not a chance! In spite of numbing fingers and toes, there is something inexplicable within Michael that urges him onward, and so he walks on and on, day after day.

Michael Oesch, a 37 year old musician and writer from Toronto, eventually completes a miraculous walking pilgrimage to the east coast and back eight months later. It has almost been a year since Michael returned from a marvellous voyage of 5400 km, through small towns few of us have ever visited. Armed with the barest essentials including a tent, sleeping bag and a walking stick, and some luxuries including an ocarina (a baby guitar), a cell phone and a walkman, Michael would walk approximately 30 to 40 km given the weather and his level of endurance for the day. Michael also maintained an online journal during his travels and is currently developing these thoughts into a book that he hopes to eventually publish.

In one such account, Michael writes how difficult it is for him to convey "the magnitude to which I am inhaling the grandeur of this walk. I am detoxifying out here. I am beginning to move with the sway of the trees, to listen and enjoy and sing along with the songs of the forest. To move in motion with the spirit of the land."

For lunch and dinner, Michael would visit greasy spoon diners and take in a regular diet of bacon and eggs, grilled cheese sandwiches, chocolate bars and pasta specials. Michael was burning over 5000 calories a day so he figured he could afford to pig out. As he ate, he would converse with the locals and discover more about their lives, their traditions, their joys and concerns. Michael's message to those whom he met was clear and always the same: follow your dreams, literally.

Prior to leaving, Michael had a recurring dream for months where he walked day after day until he made it all the way to the 'big salty lake where the land ends'. He had this dream night after night until he could no longer ignore it and decided to follow his dream and see where it would lead.
The decision to do this was based not upon altruistic intentions to raise money for charities or to walk for any particular cause, but upon a simple thirst for knowledge of the self. Michael asserts he embarked with no expectations but the road ahead and to search the 'great unknown'. He wanted to develop more awareness of himself and others, to feel what it is like to be here, to accept and embrace the world as it truly is, instead of how it is presented on the evening news.
It was not until he reached rural Quebec, that he grew acutely aware of the fact he was on a pilgrimage. On the outskirts of Donnacona, Quebec, he was informed that the road he was walking upon was the Chemin du Roy, the Royal Road, a old pilgrimage route spanning 250 km from St. Joseph's Oratory (L'Oratoire) in Montreal to the small rural town of Ste-Anne-de-Beaupre and its Basilica at the center of town. Hundreds of Catholics every summer set out upon this route, stopping in at each church and holy site along the way. Built in the early 1700's, the Chemin du Roy is the oldest road in Canada and is, not surprisingly, steeped in tradition and folklore. For instance, the Vieux Presbytere de Deschambault is an old rectory built in 1815. Further down the road, and built around the same time, is L'Eglise Saint Augustin, a beautiful church with its vaulted ceiling, and exquisite sculpture and artwork.

In addition to the churches Michael visited, he also appreciated the roadside Madonna shrines, symbols of great faith and hope he says for many Catholics in Quebec. He feels the shrines were one of a number of visual reminders of the deep spiritual roots that people in this part of the country still hold. The Madonnas, as Michael saw it, offered good journey to travelers keeping intersections safe for them and blessing them as they passed through.

In the midst of this rich religious heritage, Michael rediscovered Catholicism and a faith he had abadoned in his teens. He recognized that Catholicism, despite concerns he continues to have with it, was still truly a road to God. Michael had left Toronto not knowing what he would find down the road, only to rediscover something he had discarded a long time ago: his faith. He recognized the necessity of just accepting his place in life and seriously putting into practice the rituals that were meaningful for him. He now understands that faith is an acceptance that you will be lovingly guided. Michael feels that it was this rediscovery that led him through Quebec. His ability to identify with Catholicism provided great comfort and solace for him while on the road as he adapted to a new culture, where sometimes the only recognizable thing for Michael would be the cross.

Upon arriving at the Basilica in Ste-Anne-de-Beaupre, he observed how the sky blue ceiling of the massive church made it feel like it opened up to heaven. Natural lighting is provided from over 200 stained-glass windows. The Basilica itself is the final destination site of the annual pilgrimage on Ste. Anne's Day (July 26). It is estimated that close to 1.5 million pilgrims visit this holy site annually. Michael was so inspired by what he observed that he sat through a mass in French and later received communion for the first time in several years. After meeting with Father Gerrard Therrion, he was officially registered with the Basilica as a pilgrim of the Chemin du Roy, the Royal Road. With great peace in his heart, Michael said goodbye and continued on.

"I believe in every road to God...The Natives of the Americas go on vision quests to ask ancestral or animal spirits for guidance. Muslims go to Mecca. Others walk the road to Santiago. I walk the Grand Chemin de Canada. If I am meant to find it, I will. I don't even know what it is and I don't care. All I know is that I am supposed to go looking for it down this road I walk."

For more accounts of Michael's fantastic adventure, check out moesch.coffeehouse.ca.