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An Encounter With Rattlesnake Integrity |
| June 29, 2005 by admin |
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A personal story by Stuart Camps, director of Fear-No-More Zoo. (Photo at right by Geekly is of a rattlesnake unrelated to the story. Some rights reserved.)
It was a beautiful rattlesnake; about four feet long, as thick as my forearm, and with a large handsome rattle. His skin was fresh and rich. Having caught him to move him safely to an area away from people, I now sat just a few feet from this calm, elegant, clearly perceptive and sensitive reptile. He was in no hurry to race off among the bushes and rocks, so I decided to stay around also.
From the moment I caught him, this snake showed no fear at all. Now, alone, away from the distractions of the small crowd that had been around us during the capture, we paused together for a moment. I was suddenly moved to praise him for his handsome appearance, his beautiful rattle, his smooth, flickering tongue. Being a mature snake, who had lived a good many years, he remained calm, steady, and quietly confident -- motionless -- his tongue slipping out from his mouth every few seconds.
Most snakes have an integrity that few humans achieve. As we sat, quietly exchanging energies and appreciation, I understood, or was reminded again, of his simple "beingness". We had connected with each other as equals at heart, both of us existing within the same Life, regardless of our apparent differences in form or function. When I rose and left, the big old rattlesnake stayed unmoving, except for his "feeling" tongue, reminding me further of our mutuality, despite appearances and apparent differences. I thanked him for his trust and instruction.
NOTE: Please always maintain complete care and respect around snakes. They can be dangerous if provoked or startled. |
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Bhagavan Nityananda With Animals |
| June 23, 2005 by admin |
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[The following story about Bhagavan Nityananda (189?-1961) of Ganeshpuri, India is excerpted from the book Nityananda: The Divine Presence by M.U. Hatengdi (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Rudra Press, 1984).]
Late one evening in 1950, devotees were sitting outside the Ashram on the western side. The Master sat in front of them on a raised area that was enclosed by a small ledge. Behind him was a drop of about six feet into the fields. There was little talk, but even when sunset brought darkness, no one wanted to leave before the Master.
After a time, a pair of bright eyes materialized out of the darkness, steadily approaching the group from behind the Master. At first it was thought to be a cow, but as the animal got closer, it was clear that these were the bright eyes of a big cat. Strangely, no one was able to utter a word or to shout a warning, yet all had a sense that trouble would be averted. The tiger paced up slowly until it was directly behind the Master, then lightly balanced on its hind legs and rested its forepaws on his shoulders.
Without moving at all or looking back, as if he had been expecting the animal, Nityananda lifted his right hand and patted the tiger's head. Satisfied, the tiger jumped down and disappeared towards the Mandakini. Later, the Master said tigers are the vehicles of the goddess and since this was the abode of Vajreshwari, tigers were to be expected.
Many tales are told of the Master's ability to understand animals; in Udipi the Master used to tell the owners of a caged parrot that they should release the bird, since it just cursed them all the time. Eventually, Nityananda released the bird himself. On the other hand, in Ganeshpuri during the early forties one devotee always brought his caged parrot for the Master's darshan. In my own experience, during a visit in May 1944, the Master interpreted the song of a nearby bird: "He is saying that it will begin to rain in three days." The bird's weather prediction proved correct. And in yet another instance during the Ganeshpuri days, he reassured a devotee who was frightened of snakes that the nearby cobra was harmless, since it was chanting. |
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Brownie—A Dog Story |
| June 21, 2005 by admin |
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[Abbreviated from the book Next of Kin by Roger Fouts (New York, New York: Avon Books, 1997).]
By the time the sun was going down our Chevy flatbed was piled high with boxes of cucumbers. It was time to head home for dinner. My nine-year-old brother, Ed, headed out on our older brother's bike, chaperoned by Brownie (our dog). Twenty minutes later the rest of us clambered onto the truck with my twenty-year-old brother, Bob, driving.
As the truck drove along the well-worn tire ruts it kicked up a huge cloud of dust that covered us on all sides, making it impossible to see more than two feet ahead. After going along for a while, we suddenly heard Brownie barking loudly and very persistently. We looked down and we could just make her out next to the front fender. She was sniping at the right front tire. This was very strange behavior. Brownie had come to the fields hundreds of times and had never once barked at the truck. But now she was practically attacking it. Bob thought this was odd but didn't give Brownie much thought as he plowed ahead, even as her barking became more frenzied. Then, without further warning, Brownie dove in front of the truck's front tire. Bob hit the brakes, and we all got out. Brownie was dead. And right there in front of the truck, not ten feet away, was Ed, stuck on his bike in a deep tire rut, unable to escape. Another two seconds and we would have run him down.
Brownie's death was devastating to all of us. No one doubted for a second that Brownie had sacrificed her own life to save my brother's. She saw a dangerous situation unfolding, and she did what she had to do to protect the boy she had been baby-sitting for so many years. |
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The Awareness of Monkeys vs. Human Propaganda |
| June 14, 2005 by Stuart |
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Overlooking the half-moon beach (shown at right) where Pacific green turtles have recently been coming in to lay their eggs, Adi Da Samraj spoke at length with some of His devotees about the way human beings propagandize each other into ignoring the subtler dimensions of existence—ones which monkeys and other animals easily and naturally participate in.
Adi Da Samraj: The awareness of monkeys is of a different type and potential than humans' awareness, but it reaches beyond sheer grossness. That is why monkeys have obvious sensitivities. Monkeys have more participatory awareness than human beings tend to.
Animals, even all non-humans, participate in subtler aspects of the structures of cosmic existence. They are essentially participating in the same reality as human beings, but they do not have all the mind that human beings have. Therefore, non-humans do not have that obscuring, propagandizing mechanism to convince them out of being aware that there are energies subtler than the physical. That there are such energies is just so. Sensitivity to the subtle realm of energies does not involve thinking about its existence or having the existence of a subtle realm of energy be proven. The subtle realm is just the case, and non-humans participate in it naturally.
(Shown at left is Toby, a colobus monkey who used to live at the Hawaii Fear-No-More Zoo.)
Much of subtle awareness should simply be as natural to human beings, as it is to non-humans. Yet you have been civilized out of the awareness of it, talked out of the awareness of it. There is propaganda that says what you can know, what is official knowledge, what is allowed knowledge, allowed belief, allowed doings, allowed participation in reality. Such propaganda is proclaimed as official and propagandized very heavily.
What you see on TV is the message. That is the level on which human beings are living. It is just a glom of organisms in association—talkety-talkety-talkety-talkety-talk—exploiting the potentials of the gross perspective only.
It is a consumer-world, strictly that. It is propagandized to be that, because people are not naturally merely that. No. Human beings have to be psychically, psychologically impinged upon to have their field of awareness reduced to that. Yet, human beings are propagandized into that state, by just the gross force of their collective collision with one another.
Some people, of course, have something left over, some space left over, much of it just the natural kind of space in which non-humans live—a little more etheric, a little more psychic. Some people, therefore, may think such sensitivity is remarkable—and so it is, by comparison. Or they think it is crazy. If you show as much sensibility as a baboon you are regarded as crazy. In other words, if you are participating in the larger sphere and field of psycho-physical reality, more than the propagandized human being, you are outcast, shunned, and regarded to be kind of insane.
That is part of how such sensitivity gets propagandized out of the field of awareness. It is not permitted. If you are so sensitive, you are laughed at and you are ostracized. |
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The Rattlesnake That Didn't Strike |
| June 14, 2005 by admin |
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[From the book Animal Talk, by Penelope Smith (Hillsboro, Oregon: Beyond Words Publishing, 1999)]
My only knowledge of rattlesnakes came secondhand, from Western movies where the cowboy shot, or had his horse trample the dangerous creatures before they struck. My first encounter with a rattlesnake in 1982 showed me a whole different aspect of their nature.
We were hiking in the hilly trails of Griffith Park in Los Angeles with our dogs. Rana, our female Afghan, was running just ahead of us, when I heard the loud rattle. We got Pasha on the leash and quickly caught up to Rana, who was less than a year old. She was bouncing around and woofing at the large, coiled-up rattlesnake. The snake was ready to strike, and Rana, in her great excitement, did not heed my pleas to come or move away.
I knew that if I hurriedly grabbed for her, the snake might strike me. So I calmly told that snake that we did not mean to harm him; Rana was just a puppy playing. I was going to reach for Rana and take her away from disturbing him, and we would walk in the other direction. I respectfully asked if he would uncoil and go the other way. I then grabbed Rana's collar and pulled her away. The snake stopped rattling, uncoiled, and traveled in the opposite direction.
To find out more about Penelope Smith's work go to www.animaltalk.net. |
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Anandamayi Ma Visits Margosa and Banyan Trees—A Story |
| June 14, 2005 by admin |
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This story about the great Indian Teacher Anandamayi Ma is excerpted from Anandamayi: Her Life and Wisdom, by Richard Lannoy (London, 1996). Shown in photo at left is Anandamayi Ma.
One afternoon, after taking their midday meal, a small group of companions set out by car for Lucknow. After they had passed Unnao, a lady sitting bundled up in the back of the car in gauzy white robes exclaimed, “Look, Didi, what a lovely little village!” The woman addressed as Didi looked indifferently at the passing view. In all directions stretched the same unchanging expanse of farmland, dotted here and there with clusters of trees and the mud huts of villages. It was a typical scene in the monotonously vast Gangetic valley. Their car swept on, raising a cloud of dust in its wake; with the sun high in the sky the scene was shadowless and almost devoid of color. “Weren't those trees beautiful,” the lady in the back persisted as the car sped on. “Come on then,” replied Didi patiently, “lets go back and look at them.” “But the car has already taken us some distance away,” responded the other with some hesitation. “never mind,” Didi put in, “let’s go back, driver, please!”
When the car had returned most of the way, it turned off the road and bumped down the track between fields. Silhouetted against the vast horizon, a distant peasant went about his work. The car came to a halt at the edge of the village. The lady who spotted the trees got out of the car and set off at great speed in their direction. Without turning towards the other members of the party, she commanded them: “Bring the basket of fruit and all the garlands that are in the car.” Didi did has she was bidden, carrying them all in her arms as she ran to catch up. There was a pond beside a large house with tiled roof and smoothly molded mud walls. Beside the pond stood two young trees, one a banyan, the other a margosa, growing side by side.
By this time villagers began to collect, curious to know what brought so unusual a vehicle as a motorcar to their rustic dwellings. The woman in the cotton robes of dazzling whiteness cut a striking figure amidst the dun-colored surroundings, the dun colored garments of the villagers and several dun colored dogs. Her fine jet-black hair fanned out over her shoulders and her pale skin was as faintly lined as the delicate grasses silhouetted against a whitewashed wall nearby. She looked about her with keenly alert eyes; a smile came to her lips as she gazed intently at the two trees. Around her a hush fell, the gathering crowd of villagers astonished by the commanding presence of the stranger. She approached the two trees and started caressing their branches and trunks with great affection. Pressing her forehead again and again to their trunks she said in soft but clearly audible tones: “Well, well, so you have brought this body here to see you.” Everybody looked at the trees with blank incomprehension, there being nothing to distinguish from countless others dotting the plain. The woman, nevertheless, seemed to hold everyone in silent thrall.
“What is the name of your village?” she enquired.
“Bhawanipur,” was the reply.
“Who planted these two trees?”
“Dwarka,” someone offered.
“Is the owner of this land at home?”
“No, but his wife is over there.”
The group of visitors, who were now being watched with intense curiosity by a cluster of children, turned and saw the owner's wife approaching. Addressing the woman with sweetness of tone and expression, the visitor in white told her: “Take good care of these two trees and worship them. It will be for your good.”
Then she took garlands from Didi and decorated the trees with them and distributed all the fruit from the basket to the incredulous villagers. Without the faintest notion of who she was, they all assumed postures of deferential respect towards her, as if they perceived her to be of exalted station. Yet they could instantly recognize her as one of themselves, a simple woman, simply dressed and accustomed
to village ways. She moved easily among them, but paid tender attention to the numerous children while at the same time encompassing one and all within her friendly and attentive gaze.
She turned back whence she came, closely followed by the crowd, who were now smiling with awkward pleasure, yet still dismayed by the inexplicable attention conferred on them and on a couple of trees by a bunch of total strangers.
“Margosa and banyan -- Hari and Hara!” exclaimed the lady.
“Now you've given these trees the names of gods,” Didi declared in wonder.
Then the lady in white asked them: “Do you repeat God's name? Even though you may not be able to do so daily, at any rate now and again perform puja (worship) and sing kirtana, or religious songs, under the boughs of those trees." Then she turned to her companions. “How extraordinary!” she observed, “those trees were pulling this body towards them as people might. The car was carrying us away from them, but it was just as if they caught hold of the shoulders of this body and dragged it back in their direction. This kind of thing has never happened before.”
As the visitors got back into the car, one of the villagers diffidently enquired of the driver who was the great lady who had referred to herself as 'this body'?
“Anandamayi Ma of Bengal. Remember this visit well, for she is a holy person and she never does anything without meaning.”
For more information about Sri Anandamayi Ma visit this link: www.anandamayi.org. For more spiritual wisdom about trees, see Fear-No-More Zoo's spiritual life of trees section. |
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"Planet Bytes" is a service mark of the Avataric Samrajya of Adidam Pty Ltd.
Original photos & writings are
© 2005-2006 The Avataric Samrajya of Adidam Pty Ltd, as trustee for The Avataric Samrajya of Adidam.
All rights reserved. Perpetual copyright claimed.
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