Love & Fear in Times of Corona

Early Bliss
Love is hard to find and it’s Love that I sought from the earliest age, in all its forms. I
enjoyed the love of my parents, love of food (I was overweight), love of friends, love
of women and, unexpectedly - the ultimate love - the one found inside of us.
Growing up in Tel Aviv of the 1970’s consisted mostly of journeys of flight, wondering
about the world outside. Music and sounds, magazines and books from across the
ocean told stories that took me on wondrous journeys. But even as a teenager I kept
thinking about the source of these magical songs, words, musical notes, which
seemed to speak of a higher love. I read Rumi and Khalil Gibran and felt like a
hungry person smelling delicious food. But where was that food? Where was the well
that all these sages seemed to drink from and bring forth such joy and bliss? I guess
I was on some ‘path’ long before I realized it. I was looking for the ‘How’ of bliss.
It seems that no one really knew how to practically approach the notion of finding a
real inner experience. My own religion, Judaism, advised me to fear God, never mind
getting high. I went to a Hare Krishna commune and enjoyed their singing and Indian
sweets, but was not convinced repeating a chant will get me to where I wanted. So I
kept looking.
I grew up with my divorced mother and grandparents in a 4 room flat in the center of
town and spent my days, as many kids did then, on the beach. Being overweight and
self-conscious, I enrolled in a Karate dojo at 16 to try and lose weight. Fighting did
not attract me, it was rather the martial artist’s control of their body and limbs that I
desired for myself - hurling themselves with grace in various strikes and poses. In
time, I expanded my practices to include other martial arts but My focus was always
the body-work. I was also interested in the Feldenkrais Method of efficient body
movements and other systems of movement.
At some point, Doron our martial arts teacher, invited all the black belts in the club for
a private evening at his home. Doron was a very dangerous man indeed, but you
would never see it on him. He was gentle, kind, had delicate fingers and his eyes
radiated the same kindness I saw in photos of Albert Einstein. Doron lived on the
outskirts of town in a converted chicken coop, wide and long. He had spent years in
Japan and had decorated the space accordingly. Going in was like stepping into a
Japanese home. The walls were decorated with pictures of past masters, Ninja
weapons, Japanese watercolor paintings and wood-lined walls. Outside Bamboo
shoots, green grass and a water pond with Lillies completed the scene.
Such an invitation had never been extended before so we were all a little nervous,
arriving in the evening at Doron’s Dojo/Home. He welcomed us with a warm smile
and green tea and proceeded to tell us about an Indian Guru (who happened to be in
his twenties at the time) who offered a practical way to experience inner happiness.
He played a 45 minute tape of a young, high pitched voice, speaking in an American
accent and talking about how peace can be a real personal experience and not just
an idea or a concept. I felt that I was as close as ever to whatever    I was looking for,
not realizing I had just heard my first Satsang.
During the following weeks I attended weekly Satsangs, listening to people’s
experiences with what they called “Knowledge”. It was the Eighties and the only way
to hear this guru, whose title was simply ’Maharaji”, was through audio tape
cassettes, which were passed among Premies (initiated) and Aspirants. One such
tape made it into our hands, and one evening several of us sat to listen to one of his
discourses. Towards the end he said: “I know there are a lot of Gurus out there who
claim they can bring you peace. It’s like an Ice Cream truck….anyone can drive it
and play the music…. But do they have the Ice Cream? (Laughter in the audience). I
play the music… (more laughter and a long pause….but I have the Ice Cream too!”
(Roar from the audience).
At that moment I experienced something I’d never felt before: A laughter bubbled up
in me, but the laughter turned into something else… I felt filling up from the inside
with a great joy that kept expanding until I felt I would burst. Tears of joy streamed
from my eyes and I realized that this is what Maharaji was offering. The next day I
approached the Sanyasin who organized Knowledge sessions (which are given free
to this day) and asked to receive Knowledge. After a short talk he agreed and a date
was set for a group of Aspirants to meet and receive the meditation techniques of
Knowledge.
It was a sunny Saturday morning when about 9 of us met at ground floor apartment,
donated by one of the Premis. Large cushions lined the walls, curtains dimmed the
summer sun blazing outside while some New Age music played on the stereo. Our
Sanyasin came in and proceeded to demonstrate 4 techniques of meditation, which
we all practiced for some time, until all 4 were imparted. During those moments I felt
that feeling again but this time it came with the brightest light I ever saw, not blinding
but comforting beyond words. A light that emanated love….infinite love.
Avoiding the loaded and muddled word ‘Enlightenment”, I felt I had found something
which very very few people achieved in their lifetime - I had found paradise on earth.
But finding Paradise is not the same as hanging on to it. Marriage, divorce, career
and responsibilities took over my life (as I allowed them to) and for 7 years the
meditation was forgotten. I gained even more weight than before as I juggled my life
in a world that seemed to get harder and harder to handle.
In the winter of 1998 a dear friend, who was traveling the world for 7 years,
contacted me, saying he was going to the Sinai peninsula in Egypt and that we
should meet.

Lauren’s beautiful face appeared at my door. It was early morning, her fair skin
almost blending into the white of the Himalayan mountains in the background. “Is   
this the spirit world?”, she asked. “No dear”, I replied; “Only plain reality”. Our
perception of reality struck me as especially peculiar at the time. There I was,
coming down from an acid trip, telling a schizophrenic girl that this is not the spirit
world. On second thought I wanted to correct myself and tell her “who was I to say it
wasn’t?” But Lauren went back to pacing the wooden balcony, muttering to herself.
It was the Time of Corona, The Great Lockdown, a worldwide plague that forced the
entire world into quarantine, and the three of us were stuck together in a grand
wooden house in a small village in Kullu valley.
Were it not for the ghost of a woman, walking in the garden on cold nights, blanket
over her shoulders but barefoot, it might have been more than pleasant, romantic
even. At 57, I was the happiest I’d ever been: I was fit, healthy, financially
independent and, above all, in love with a beautiful, mysterious and sexy Indian
named Shaoni.
Shaoni, who operated the guesthouse during tourist season, was more than on edge
from Lauren’s presence and rightly so; Lauren had wandered into people’s homes,
exposed herself in public, tore at plants obsessively and was brought back to the
guesthouse twice by police. But, due to the lockdown, they could do nothing, except
beg Shaoni to keep the ‘pagal’ in the house, preferably locked in.
Lauren’s back and forth steps, amplified by the wooden floor, finally woke Shaoni.
She stepped out of her room to a balcony littered with green leaves from the
destroyed Wisrteria dangling over the wooden railing.
“LAUREN! PLEASE DON’T RIP THE PLANTS”. Shaoni’s desperate call must have
jarred something in her mind, since Lauren suddenly stopped and went down to the
garden.
Our eyes met, at first with concern and despair, both knowing that Lauren has
nowhere else to go during this worldwide lockdown. But after a while, as if gathering
strength from our eye’s embrace, the frowns turned into smiles and we drifted
towards one another. It felt as if our combined weight would prevent us from floating
away in world that seemed to be reflected in the presence of the disturbed Australian
girl, now gone from sight.

It was our first year together as lovers although we’ve been friends for 4 years
before. I had been traveling throughout India for some time and landed in a small,
picturesque village, 2000 meters up in the Himalayas. Having arrived with no
advanced booking, I looked for a place to stay. The German bakery at the center of
the village teemed with backpackers and seemed like a good place to start. I sat
down on the long bench between a guitar playing Russian and a red faced German
whose grimy clothes identified him as the owner of the Royal Enfield bike parked in
pieces next to the bench. I ordered a coffee and accepted the joint of Charas which
was being passed around discreetly. “Bom bholenat, Saab khe sat”.
Conversation flowed and I gathered from the group that the more quiet guesthouses
were situated further up the mountain, away from the center. One name came up:
“Rupkatha” at the edge of the village. As I made my way up the stepped
mountainside, along a small waterfall, the house finally came into view. A grand
wooden, English styled, two floored house with a long wooden balcony and various
plants and flowers invading and decorating the entire house. Breathless from the
climb, I was taking the last steps up to the second floor when a travel friend, Jenia,
appeared. We had parted ways in Dharamsala now met again by pure chance.