– Portland Book Review, Vol 2 Issue 6

Sumangali Morhall’s Auspicious Good Fortune details one woman’s spiritual awakening in beautiful, lyrical prose that sometimes reads like poetry. The rhythm and cadence of her voice is easy to fall into, easy to find peace in. This piece of writing is not merely a memoir or a spiritual journey or even an ode to a lost Guru and way of life that so few of us are able to find. Sumangali’s writing offers a unique window into the pacing and thinking of a person who has found a balance between her “interior world and the outer world” – giving her reader a visceral experience of that balance.

The story she tells flows fluidly from the specifics of her physical reality to her own conscious interactions within herself. Sumangali’s adept use of language allows for such fluidity – allows for the reader to follow her implicitly as new connections are made. In one of my favorite sections of the text, Sumangali describes a moment in which, while painting her walls a bright mango, a delivery man asks her what she is doing: “It’s a living room,” I returned, “it wants to look alive.” This fluid moment, this insight into a new way of seeing our reality, is what captured me the most throughout her story. Everything about her new world became a balance of an interior truth and an outer reality. It is this very simple representation of thought that makes her writing to be very compelling.

This is going to go right next to the copy of Thich Nhat Hanh’s The Sun My Heart on my bookshelf, easily placed so that anytime I need a quick pick-me-up, or some comfort in my purse, I can easily grab for one. Both My Heart and Good Fortune are similar in that way – they are comfort food books. Yes, both are considered “spiritual” texts, but above all both do so on an intimate, personal level. Morhall’s spiritual journey is inspiring and hopeful and honest … but above all, her prose is intoxicating and raw. While reading, I felt many times as though I was receiving a bright, warm hug.

– San Francisco Book Review, Vol 3 Issue 6

Carl Lewis and Baroness Flather Unveil the World Peace Dreamer Statue

I was extremely fortunate to be part of an event entitled “A Moment’s Peace” on July 28th. Renowned Olympians, peace leaders, artists and musicians came together in London to celebrate the Olympic spirit of peace and universal friendship.

Nine-time Olympic gold medalist Carl Lewis highlighted the event by unveiling the “World Peace Dreamer” statue, a bronze sculpture of Sri Chinmoy holding an Olympic-style peace torch, which will be offered as a gift to the City of London. “This statue will remind us of the highest ideals of the Olympic Games – peace and friendship between all nations,” Carl Lewis said. “Sri Chinmoy was my mentor for more than thirty years, and the most peaceful person I have ever known.”

Joining Carl Lewis on stage were fellow Olympians Tegla Loroupe — former marathon world record holder — and Bob Beamon, CEO of Art of the Olympians, whose Olympic long jump record 44 years ago remains unbroken. “This statue embodies the same spirit of oneness, brotherhood and friendship which has infused the origins and traditions of the Olympics, both ancient and modern, and which to this day gives the Games their unique appeal,” Tegla Loroupe said.

I was so touched by the speeches of these illustrious guests. They each offered views and ideals that were personal and full of personality, but each with a similar profundity. What struck me most was their courage to remain hopeful in a world that does not always dare to believe in the ideals of peace. There was an all-pervading sense of brightness, a dignified light-heartedness and wide-reaching unity.

Archbishop Desmond Tutu could not be present, but had recorded a beautiful and heart-warming speech which was shown on a huge video screen. His daughter, Reverend Mpho Tutu, was present and spoke beautifully. She noted that the event gave the next generation the opportunity to step forward – it was as though a torch was being handed on. It seemed just so, as other daughters were there to represent many pioneering luminaries: Dr. Bernice A. King, daughter of Martin Luther King; respected philanthropist Khaliah Ali, daughter of Muhammad Ali; Marlene Owens-Rankin, daughter of Jesse Owens and managing director of the Jesse Owens Foundation. Also present, and entirely captivating, were Sibongile Mkhabela – CEO of Nelson Mandela’s Children’s Fund, Portuguese Paralympian Jorge Pina and former President of the General Conference of UNESCO, Dr. Davidson Hepburn.

The event was organised by the World Harmony Run, and hosted by Cathy Oerter’s Art of the Olympians (AOTO), founded by four-time Olympic discus champion Al Oerter, to help Olympians promote the highest ideals of humanity through their creative talents. In that vein, the ceremony was followed by a performance by Boris Puroshottama Grebenshikov, who offered a specially written song with the London Choir. Then the “World Harmony Art Exhibition,” featuring paintings by Sri Chinmoy, opened at the University College London. The exhibition was like a world in itself, I cannot remember ever seeing so many original artworks by Sri Chinmoy.

It is hard to put into words how powerfully uplifting this event was. For me one of the highlights was being able to perform a song by Sri Chinmoy during the ceremony, which seems to perfectly sum up the spirit of day.

A moment’s truth
Can and shall make the world beautiful.

A moment’s peace
Can and shall save the world.

A moment’s love
Can and shall make the world perfect.”

— Sri Chinmoy, from Europe-Blossoms

• All photos by Ashish Zubaty at the Sri Chinmoy Centre Gallery
• AIPS: World Peace Dreamer Statue unveiled »
• A Moment’s Peace 2012 Official Website »
• Related at Sumangali.org: Making a Wish for Peace »

Step into a world that is or could be or may have been or even is yours and look at the infinite wisdom offered throughout the pages of the life that is Sumangali Morhall.

Gently and beautifully written this is a peek into the journey many take over the course of a lifetime trying to discover happiness, a purpose to life or even their chosen pathway through life.

Morhall tells her story from the perspective of a child growing into adulthood, all the while challenging the boundaries; some of her own making and others, that of society.

Always looking for love and acceptance she trod many pathways – that of music, corporate executive, salesperson, student, traveller and waitress to find that whatever she was looking for was not at the end of any of those particular roads.

It was not until she was at the lowest of one of the many low points of her life, she decided to attend a meditation session held by the Sri Chinmoy group she began to find the true pathway for her life.

Learning to accept that which is offered was one of her major accomplishments during a time of persistent ill health; coming to terms with the reality that much of her life had been lived in the shadow of shyness, could possibly have been of her own making and finally, accepting that for her the pathway to happiness in her life was the gentle way of reflection, meditation and acceptance.

Along the way she also discovered happiness is inside everyone if you care to look.

Empowering and enjoyable this is more than at look into someone else’s life – it is a course in how to come to terms with the reality of life while all the while having the courage to overcome challenges and never, ever giving up on your journey of discovery, as you never know what is waiting for you just around the corner.

– Blue Wolf Reviews

It all began in France. Two weekends a year the British Sri Chinmoy Centres meet with the French on their home turf, and twice a year they come to us. June was Montpellier. There’s only one flight a week from anywhere near me, which seemed a handy excuse to spend a few days with Hita Hirons, and to catch up with her latest painting adventures. Hita’s mural of the Indian goddess Mahalakshmi graces the walls of Tripti Kulai, a vegetarian restaurant run by students of Sri Chinmoy. Photos cannot do the goddess justice – certainly no photos of mine – but here is a close-up of one exquisite foot, a garland of flowers and the beads of her sari trailing in water. Sublime.

The trip brought back happy memories of similar weekends. That intense silvery light of the South of France, mountains covered in rough sweet-smelling greenery and yellow blooms. Fruit that tastes so perfect I eat it for fun, and not just because it’s good for me. Crème de Marrons for breakfast. The clang of bells on the necks of goats as they trot home for milking. Fresh medallions of chèvre in greaseproof paper. Most of all it’s always the easy company, the laughs and chats, the songs and the rich silences alike.

Then it was the start of a meditation course in York. Similar classes are offered free of charge in cities all over the world, introducing meditation techniques and spiritual inspiration, based on the teachings of Sri Chinmoy. I love these opportunities to meet local people interested in meditation – some of whom are trying it for the first time, and others who have practised for a while.

It was also birthday week, which brought back many sweet memories of birthdays past. The highlight of my own was the first night of the classes, but I looked forward equally to the birthday of a friend – she may or may not want to reveal her identity in the comments – who traveled all the way by train from London for a cream tea in York. It was a happy and decadent day spent mostly chatting in Betty’s Tea Rooms, closely followed by chatting in the other branch of Betty’s Tea Rooms.

Halfway through the course it was time for a very new experience: marshalling at a Self-Transcendence Triathlon in Portishead. The good thing about wearing a marshal bib is that it helps keep out the rain – no such luck for the participants, but I suppose they already planned to get wet. The slightly unnerving aspect of wearing a marshal bib is that the participants assume far higher levels of knowledge in the wearer than she might possess. The frowns of concentration paid off though, and all the swim laps, in all 4 lanes and all 4 waves, with all the right colour swim caps, were recorded by our team, then swiftly transferred from their soggy pieces of paper to the relative safety of a computer. Once my own official jobs were done, it was a chance for some impromptu cheering and handing out of water. Despite the almost wintry conditions, it was a joyous and uplifting event. Not being of a sporty nature, I’m surprised how much I’m already looking forward to the next one.

Where will life’s adventure lead next…

Article first published by John Gillespie as Book Review: Auspicious Good Fortune: One Woman’s Inspirational Journey from Western Disillusionment to Eastern Spiritual Fulfilment by Sumangali Morhall on Blogcritics.

Auspicious Good Fortune is English writer Sumangali Morhall’s first published work, a novice author and student of an Indian spiritual master writing more than adeptly of her lifelong journey from spiritual novice to adept. Or as such things are put on lush, inviting book covers, “One woman’s inspirational journey from Western disillusionment to Eastern spiritual fulfilment.” For once you really can judge a book by its attractively designed, accurately described cover.

Morhall is from an arguably unique generation in history, a generation which grew up taking the fruits and freedoms of feminism for granted. Coming of age in the late 1980s, she literally had the world at her feet, and like few women before her, was able to study, travel and work in almost any field of her choosing. In the pages of her autobiography, she literally does.

To borrow the mantra of Joseph Campbell, completely unhindered in the ability to follow her personal bliss, Morhall seeks happiness and satisfaction in multiple jobs, countries, relationships and experiences: gaining an art degree, lead singer of a band, teaching English in Thailand, partying in London, scuba diving and nearly marriage in Mexico, shoplifting and retail store manager, business degree from a prestigious university, job in a London fashion house; she tries it all and willingly walks away from it all, including a model-musician boyfriend, to wear a sari and join what is traditionally one of the most patriarchal, male dominated realms — a spiritual community — where by her own compelling account, she undeniably blossoms.

Amongst the near horizonless flotsam and jetsam of our internet age, the sea of world-weariness, cheap cynicism, aimlessly drifting intellectualism and obscure speculation, the sincere, affecting, beautiful words with which Morhall describes her sometimes stumbling, sometimes running search for enlightenment are like a life-raft floating far beyond, and the depth of wisdom on board, pearls from deep beneath.

Auspicious Good Fortune is potentially an instant classic of the world of spiritual literature. Like the writing of Christopher Isherwood, an English author better known as the father of modern gay writing, but also a lifelong member of the Ramakrishna Order, and author of several seminal works on spirituality, Morhall’s book possesses the rare distinction of being the product not just of an authentic devotee and spiritual insider — Morhall a student with a rare close access to the recently belated New York guru Sri Chinmoy — but a genuinely talented writer as well. Also like Isherwood, Auspicious Good Fortune surprises with its candour and willingness to throw back the cloister curtains, the search for inner truth speckled equally with tears of frustration and jewels of bliss.

Heart on sleeve and on page, Morhall writes directly from the heart, with endearing honesty and captivating charm. Hers is the pure, unaffected voice of child, but a child who has meditated for over two decades, and whom possesses piercing insight and depth of both spiritual and worldly experience. Morhall may be a novice author, but in Auspicious Good Fortune she is no novice of the spiritual realm. If Eat, Pray, Love were to become serialised, this would be concluding edition.

A subtly emotive, poetic writer, with a keen eye for the delicate and minute, so well written and metaphorically masterful is Auspicious Good Fortune, it is as if Emily Dickinson herself has entered the realm of biographical prose. By her own admission more adept at poetry than prose, Morhall is at her lyrical and transcendent best when discussing her genuinely inspiring — and at times genuinely miraculous — experiences with Indian meditation teacher Sri Chinmoy, whom on the basis of this heart-felt account, one can’t help but want to know better.

Morhall presents us with a conclusion that echoes the wisdom of ancient sages quoted within her very pages: to find a spiritual master and to follow the life of inner truth is the most auspicious path of all. Auspicious Good Fortune is the highly recommended tale of that search, and furthermore, the tale of what is found.

– John Gillespie

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Feel free to judge this book by its cover. Lush and inviting, the writing is beautiful, refined and immaculate as the gerbera gracing its front. Described as ‘One woman’s inspirational journey from Western disillusionment to Eastern spiritual fulfillment,’ it is really much more: a journey into the sensibility of the human heart, longing for the ineffable.

Morhall’s story is told with disarming simplicity. Here is the voice of a poet, speaking in prose – reaching always for the truth and beauty in things; and at a loss before ugliness, meanness and injustice. There is never a sense of embellishment or exaggeration – only authentic, keenly felt experience, related with a resonant and discerning sympathy.

Auspicious Good Fortune is not a rose-coloured promo piece for her teacher
Sri Chinmoy and the spiritual path he established. Morhall writes equally of her struggles, misgivings and discomfort as of her happiness and fulfilment. Auspicious Good Fortune affirms the goodness and beauty of life. Beautiful in itself, it brings forward the beautiful in us. Such words – leaving us glad to be alive – are auspicious words indeed.”

– The Melbourne Review

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This story of a Western woman becoming disillusioned with her Western lifestyle and, through a number of twists and turns, finding fulfilment as a spiritual disciple of modern Guru, Sri Chinmoy, is both heart-warming and informative.

The book is beautifully written and well-crafted. The pace of the story, whether through the chapters where the author is chasing everything that Western society offers or those set during her years studying meditation with her Indian spiritual master, is gripping. It gives a rare insight into the fascinating, conflicted life of a very modern spiritual seeker.

Morhall makes no secret of her initial scepticism about the likely outcome of her spiritual search, yet after reading her candid account of life as a disciple, there can be no doubt that she loves her chosen lifestyle.

This is a personal memoir that spans childhood, career and relationships and the sudden near-death experience that transformed her life, yet it is the insight into how she struggles to adapt to the ways of the East, and to put them into practice in her modern world, that is especially captivating. It is an extraordinary tale and highly recommended.”

– Kindred Spirit Magazine

Nowadays I don’t get paid at all per leaflet, never mind two pence, but I have just the same feelings of dignity and satisfaction. I have spent the last few days leafleting door-to-door for a free meditation course in York, offered by the Sri Chinmoy Centre. Sri Chinmoy himself preferred that whenever his students make contact with people, we do so in person wherever possible. A phone conversation is more meaningful than an email; a hand-delivered leaflet is more tangible and personal than a website listing. It is said that each person in the Western world encounters hundreds if not thousands of advertisements in the course of a day. Don’t get me wrong, my day job is web design, so I know the world moves on, but I feel it is exactly those methods now considered outmoded due to their labour-intensity, that can be the most meaningful. For me it’s like comparing the service of a family-run corner shop to that of a clinical out-of-town hypermarket.

In a spiritual sense I also consider leafleting as part of my own sadhana, a service I aim to carry out with care but detachment, without seeking outer reward or any specific result. It’s not particularly easy or comfortable, but it’s definitely simple. With the generous helping of sunshine England has enjoyed this week, it has not exactly been a hardship for someone who usually works indoors. Like running a certain distance, or repeating a mantra a certain number of times, the satisfaction of leafleting is in the challenge and self-discipline itself. Life is complicated, or at least it is when we are at the mercy of our thoughts. Immersing myself in any straightforward repetitive task is almost like immersing myself in meditation – complications seem to dissolve as though they never existed. So, strange as it may seem, I do it for selfish reasons too – inner tuppences, as it were, for my inner piggy-bank.

We don’t cold-call – either by phone or by knocking on doors. No disrespect to anyone who does (although personally I don’t like being canvassed by call-centres) that’s just not our way. We know not everyone will be interested, and why should they be – we only want to share what good fortune we have with those who want it. Whenever I feel reluctant to go out leafleting, I only need think how thankful I was for the free classes I went to myself fifteen years ago. Thankful to those who went before me, for not hiding away their own inner treasure in the Himalayan caves, but for sharing it with me when I needed it most, right here in the everyday Western world – a Bristol public library in my case. Within moments, I am putting on my shoes and heading out with a heavy bundle of printed paper in my bag.

* * *

Maybe it is my Cancerian nature that lends me a love of domestic property – the protective shell, the private domain into which we retreat from the world and its chaos, to rest and renew ourselves. I’m not big on window-shopping – not for clothes or shoes or furniture or the sorts of things for which people generally window-shop. I window-shop for houses or flats, or empty plots of land with dreamy potential. I even window-shop for shops. “An Englishman’s home is his castle,” they say. Genders aside, my own home is tiny and simple, but it is certainly my castle. For me the home is extremely important – some would say irrationally or disproportionately so, but that’s just how I am. Only with special care and reverence would I approach another person’s castle.

Castle gates are sometimes rusted and leaning, wedged into their casing, grating on the ground, groaning reluctantly, or squeaking alarm. Some are peeling or splintering, held together with bits of old rope, the catch replaced by a bungee or a bicycle lock. Others are varnished oak, or glossy black iron in ornate curls, moving with the noiseless grace of a ballroom dancer.

Some gardens are forests of nettles and dandelions, or jungles of ivy. Others are prim rosebush borders and clean-shaven lawns, fresh with the perfume of grass-mowing. Some are all of herbs and meadow flowers, giant poppies like crepe paper, the air mellow with lavender and heavy with the hum of bees. Others are all of crunchy gravel and manicured box hedges. Some are yards of flat paving, full of toys and wellingtons and bicycles, or empty except for a cat dozing in the afternoon sun. Others are so alive with flowers and vines they wind up the sides of houses, adorning windows and street signs.

Some doors are up steps, or down; others are at the side under awnings. Some are flat and newly painted, or tired from neglect; mullioned or inlaid with a stained-glass ornament. Some doors have dogs inside them, flattened back-legged against the glass to my own height, or yapping at knee-level, or silently snatching their paper prize unseen from within.

Some letterboxes have scratchy brushes or bits of carpet inside to keep out the draughts; others have other letterboxes inside for the same reason, or even all three at once. Some open top to bottom, others from side to side; some are nailed shut and don’t open at all. Others have vicious springs, or only make a gap big enough to post a thimble through. Some are just holes cut into the door with nothing to negotiate, or are wide and willing enough for the Sunday papers – magazines and all. A rare few are coupled with huge brass knockers that I long to rap – for the great echoing horse-clopping sounds I know they would make.

Homes speak volumes on the rich variety of human character. Leafleting reminds me of that beautiful tapestry which is humankind. All these people live in my neighbourhood, yet even houses sharing the same street can hint at such a wide spectrum of life. I love that we are each so individual. I love that meditation does not just appeal to people of a particular age or location or income bracket. I know that in approaching almost any house there is a chance that what I am about to offer is exactly what is wanted or needed within.

It was the morning rush hour, some time in early 2007, at an especially ordinary subway station in Washington DC. An unassuming busker played violin, wearing jeans and a baseball cap. During his performance of 43 minutes he made $32. Not a bad haul, until you find out he was Joshua Bell, one of the most highly acclaimed virtuoso musicians in the world. Three days earlier, one of the cheaper tickets to see him play at Boston Symphony Hall would have set you back $100. In concert he can earn something in the region of $1,000 a minute: the same man playing the same pieces on the same violin.

The violin was hand crafted by Antonio Stradivari in 1713, during what was known as his ‘golden period’. The performance was to begin with Chaconne from Bach’s Partita No. 2 in D Minor. According to Bell, it is “not just one of the greatest pieces of music ever written, but one of the greatest achievements of any man in history. It’s a spiritually powerful piece, emotionally powerful, structurally perfect.” [Source] It is also considered one of the most difficult pieces to master for solo violin, and is said to celebrate the very breadth of human possibility itself.

And almost nobody noticed.

Only one woman recognised Bell, and was responsible for $20 of his $32 takings. Most of those who seemed to pick up on anything special were children, but they were whisked away by harried parents in the rush to work. Others threw in a perfunctory handful of pennies as they passed, perhaps just out of duty or habit. Some did recognise this was no ordinary busker, but a man demonstrating considerable skill and a deep connection with the music he was offering. Woefully few noticed anything much at all though, buried in their own thoughts and iPods, fixed on some future moment — the start of a working day, a business meeting, a deadline. Many queued to buy lottery tickets at the top of an escalator, well within earshot, not knowing they already had a winning ticket to see and hear one of the greatest performances they may ever witness in this lifetime.

I am not saying getting to work on time or getting children to school is unimportant; I am not saying I myself would have recognised Bell — far from it — but just reading about it saddened me and made me wonder about this age of stress and bustle. Are we so ruled by clocks and achievements that we have nothing spare for beauty and expression? Are we even looking and listening at all, or are we quite literally losing our senses? It was a deliberately tough challenge on the part of those who set up the experiment — rush hour commuters caught in their routine are bound to be a fairly downbeat and inflexible crowd, especially in such an uninspiring setting — but the response is still saddening.

It certainly made me think.

How can I augment my own tiny jigsaw piece of this world, treasuring it more and thus perhaps in some microscopic way raising the general awareness of its wonder? This world is itself God’s great Experiment. Will I then rush past it, flinging behind me a few spare pennies at His creation? Or will I let myself be ravished by His constant outpouring of surprise and adventure?

* * *
I remember a few months ago walking through a railway station somewhere in the north of England. There was a series of hoardings, each featuring a photograph of a destination that could easily be reached from there by train. One was a stretch of moorland, reminiscent of some enigmatic Brontë novel, fading back for miles, as though into the very mists of time. Another was a futuristic angle on a city, all glass and metal, like the winning project in some architectural award scheme. I was not reading the words, but only glancing at the pictures, imagining the sounds and smells that might go with them. A third was of higgledy-piggledy shops and houses, so bent with age they were nearly leaning into one another’s facades across a cobbled alley. The scene was almost ridiculously quaint, like a fairy-tale illustration born of an over-active imagination.

“Imagine living there!” I thought to myself for a tiny moment of childlike joy, before I realised where it was: York. I do live there.

My home is just outside the city walls — a two-mile circuit of stone begun by the Romans two thousand years ago. Through the middle ages, York is said to have been England’s second most powerful and consequential city after London. It also then became the northern capital of the Church of England, and the building of its imposing cathedral was soon under way. Known as a ‘minster’ — originally a missionary teaching church — it is now the second biggest Gothic cathedral in northern Europe, after Cologne. It holds the single largest example of medieval stained glass in the world, some of the other windows dating back to the twelfth century. With the rise of York’s importance, the protecting city walls became increasingly fortified, and its four portcullised entrances more elaborate. Since then, apart from retaining its religious status, its power and influence have faded almost to nothing. Its modest size and relative insignificance have thus kept it safe from war damage and inappropriate development. It remains a rare jewel of England, a delicious layer-cake of eccentricities, a living picture book of almost impossible charm.

Appreciating this city is never a conscious effort for me; each time I walk to town, the sight of it really does take my breath away. The streets are so small and condensed, the buildings such a raggle-taggle patchwork of styles and eras, only a slight turn of the head can reveal a whole new undiscovered story. Admittedly some days I appreciate it more than others. When caught in a downpour of hail, or when the ice on the bald cobbled pavements has not been gritted, or when I am quite simply in a rush to get things done, no I do not stop and wonder at the enchanting marvelousness of it all, I just want to get home. But today, sobered by the story of the violin, I am running all my errands at an ambling pace, and via all the tourist routes. Not exactly a hardship on the first sunny Saturday of Spring.

One of the things I love most about this place is that people are almost always here because they want to be. There is no significant business other than tourism, and although it sits exactly halfway between London and Edinburgh, York is not really on the way to anywhere. People visit here from all over the world precisely to be fascinated, to be swept away by legends of conquerors and gladiators and Viking ships, to walk into a living folk tale or a ghost story. Many are children, and those who are not are either escorting children or taking a childlike view. They walk slowly, smilingly, gazing in all directions. They pause to point out a gargoyle in a nook, they queue patiently for a table at the best teashop, they listen attentively to buskers; they are constantly stopping, looking and listening, because that is exactly what they came for. This is perhaps the opposite end of the sensory spectrum from a Washington subway station in rush hour.

Naturally it is a slightly different matter to see these sights every day, to do the shopping and other chores in the middle of a tourist attraction, but today I give all my attention to the people around me, and immerse myself in their wonderment. Two girls walk hand in hand, tiny feet in great big boots, smiling and laughing at a shared story, talking all at once in a Japanese jumble of memories. A hen party gabbles across the bridge, bursting with loud and insalubrious laughter, high precarious shoes, identical devil horns covered in pink feathers. A regatta is under way — teams of university rowers heaving red-faced along the gloss of the river. An elderly couple cling to one another for strength or out of familiar habit. A tiny child peeps out from a fabric sling on the chest of its father. A little boy strides ahead of his parents with a blunt wooden sword and a plastic Roman helmet, protecting them from sudden marauders. English in countless accents, languages I have never heard; faces I have never seen and will never see again. Everyone is looking, listening, stopping, smiling, captured only by a constantly unfolding moment; ordinary people doing ordinary things, fully engaged in God’s virtuoso Performance.

Walking home along the tops of the city walls, I hear the peal of church bells fading behind me. I peer over the battlements to see the long green banks full of daffodil buds, ready to explode into their annual sea of yellow any day now. Stepping down at Micklegate Bar — the old main entrance to the city — I pass one final cluster of visitors, and a woman’s voice is the last I hear. Glancing at the heavy bag of vegetables on my shoulder, she turns to her companion:

“Imagine if you lived here…”

HERE and NOW
My life must learn
How to become
The life of the world.”
–Sri Chinmoy
[Source]

Read more of Inspiration-Letters #25 at SriChinmoyCentre.org »