Shangri-La, Silence and The Last Ride Home

 

Shangri-La

It was sometime in the ‘70s when we rolled into the beautiful valley of Ojai, California. It was there that Ronald Coleman as Conway in Frank Capra’s classic film version of James Hilton’s Lost Horizon, had found his Shangri-La. Ojai is cradled by the gentlest of California’s coastal mountains. Its weather is temperate. Never too cold. Never too hot. The sea breeze gently nurtures the noble oak trees. The winding creeks define the grassy meadows. And time tends to lose its meaning as the rest of the world seems to fade away.

The Ojai valley had been an appropriate setting for Shangri-La, the fictional place with no crime, little conflict, and where people lived in peace to be hundreds of years old with no physical or mental stress to wear down their bodies.

And it was an appropriate setting for J. Krishnamurti to share his insights with seekers of a better life and of a better world.

I knew a little about Krishnamurti. I had read one of his books, The Urgency of Change. The book had challenged my thinking about perception and learning. In the book, he talked about the importance of "seeing the whole". I knew that Krishnamurti had been chosen by his people to be their world leader and that he had turned it down. Apparently he felt that his effectiveness at teaching would be hindered by the lofty and separate position as leader.

My friend and her sister and I followed our map and we fell into a long line of cars that was waiting to turn into an open grassy field that was being used as a parking lot. Vehicles ranging from aging psychedelic Volkswagen busses to family station wagons, hot Porsches, stately Mercedes and my reliable Dodge Dart snaked onto the field and were directed to their temporary spaces. We carried our blankets, thermoses and binoculars and joined the river of seekers of truth. I was excited and there seemed to be an excitement in the air. There was an anticipation of much to learn and of something desperately needed... something to believe in.

We spread out our blanket on a gentle slope and waited along with thousands of others to be shown the path to truth. All eyes looked toward the single chair set in a small clearing with a backdrop of grand oaks. The gentle breeze danced with the oak leaves, and the leaves twinkled with dappled reflections of the sun.

Was this Shangri-La? If we could have stayed there in peace, without doubt and without anxieties, would we have transcended time and aging?

The small, thin, dark-skinned man with a high forehead and short white hair sat in the chair and there was silence. Silence except for the barely discernible dance of the wind and leaves. Then Krishnamurti spoke gently into the microphone and his words wafted over the crowd. All eyes were on him and all ears were listening.

Krishnamurti spoke of many things, but he seemed to be listening as much as he was speaking. He seemed to be listening to the thoughts of the crowd. And he challenged the crowd. He talked about how we listen in two ways. We listen to find out. And we listen to confirm what we already know. He said that the only way we learn, is when we listen to find out. I wondered how I was listening and I wondered how others in the crowd were listening. He pointed out that most of the listening going on was to confirm. As he talked on this subject, there seemed to be a restlessness in the crowd. It was a "yes, but not me" kind of restlessness. A restlessness of denial.

Finally, someone raised their hand with a question. But it wasn’t really a question. The person spoke of their beliefs in the teachings of Krishnamurti, of their beliefs in God, love and beauty. They wanted to know how those beliefs could be deeper and more fulfilling. Krishmamurti was silent for a moment and then he scolded the questioner and he seemed to scold the entire crowd. He pointed out that when we believe in something, we separate ourselves from that in which we believe. We define through our belief and when we define, we cannot be with or experience that which we define. He talked about the beauty of the oak tree and how it is one thing to confirm its beauty through belief, description or definition and another thing altogether to "see" the oak tree, to "hear" the wind in the leaves, and to "be" with the beauty. Accept the beauty. Experience the beauty. And learn from the beauty.

I thought about native Americans, Australian aborigines and the Druids and about Merlin and about the increasingly rare human connection with the rest of nature.

The crowd argued with Krishnamurti for the rest of the session, trying desperately to confirm their own views. But Krishnamurti never relented in the lesson that he brought to the seekers who had come to the valley of Ojai to find answers that were confirmation of what they already believed. He tried to convince us that what we were really looking for was everywhere we went. All we had to do was listen and look to "find out", and not to "confirm what we already knew". And when we all left, many of us realized that we were only at the beginning of our journey. And I imagined that some would abandon their journey altogether.

In Lost Horizon, Conway left Shangri-La because of doubt. He had been convinced by others that the idealism of Shangri-La could not be trusted. It just didn’t stack up with the "real" world. When Conway realized his mistake, he set out on the seemingly impossible journey to cross the Tibetan mountains... alone... on foot...to once again find Shangri-La. His colleagues in London gathered to hear the last reports of Conway, driven like a mad man, finally scaling the great mountain ridge after six attempts, never to be seen again. They lifted their glasses in a toast.

"To Conway. May he someday find his Shangri-La."

And then they lifted their glasses again.

"To all of us. May we all someday find our own Shangri-La."

 ***

Silence

I sat down on the simple chair and took my place in the circle at the silent meeting in the manner of Friends.

I had spent many years coming to know Quakers, members of The Society of Friends. I had learned that they were not puritans and most were not pious, but that they practiced their faith without fanfare or grandiose ceremony. In earlier days, they had shunned music in the meeting house and enthusiasm in the manner of behavior. But that had begun to change as has been chronicled through dramatization in the novel, Friendly Persuasion. Quakers had become a lot like other Protestants by the time that I came to mix with them in Whittier, California during the ‘60s and ‘70s. They had a pretty standard church service with music, a scripture reading and a sermon, but with a longer period of silent meditation. And they looked and sounded pretty much like everyone else, except not so flashy and not so fancy. I never heard "thou hast". I was very impressed with most of the Quakers that I had met. They were sincere. I always knew where they stood. They tended to not be judgmental, and if they were, they were quick to forgive. I had been raised with a large dose of Christian guilt, and I found the tolerance of the Quakers to be refreshing, enlightening and liberating. And the Quakers that I met were unselfish, their lives dedicated to service to others. When they went on a mission, it was not to convert others through persuasion, but to teach how to build and cultivate and grow and harvest. They seemed to exemplify the finest Christian qualities... through their actions.

The Quakers taught me how to pray. I had always asked for things from God when I prayed. And sometimes I not only asked, but beseeched and begged. Give me this. Help me with this. Make that better. Please. Give me a break. Ease the pain. Show me the way. And so on. I even tried to make deals with God. But from the Quakers, I learned a very special and very simple form of prayer.

I learned to listen to the quiet voice within.

Silent listening was referenced often in the mainstream Sunday service. And I found it refreshing to experience the quiet and the focus of the silent prayer periods. But I didn’t understand the power of the process until I attended my first traditional silent meeting early one Sunday morning, before the mainstream session.

There were about a dozen of us at the meeting, sitting in the circle. A mix of old and young and men and women. I sat next to my neighbor (and friend) who had invited me to the meeting. It was in a conference room of the local college. No table. Just chairs. In a circle.

The meeting began as a middle-aged man talked about his rock collection and how much he appreciated it. He described some of his favorite rocks and how he had found them. He pointed out that he was pleased to share his rocks with us.

Then the leader of the meeting made a brief and informal connection between the rock story and a message in the Bible... and invited the group to join in silent prayer, together, to hear and share the lesson to be learned that day.

And it got quiet.

And it remained mostly quiet for about forty-five minutes. A couple of times, friends in the circle spoke suddenly and shared an insight or a question. But mostly just silence. Eyes mostly closed. Just sitting there. Silence.

I knew that the goal was to listen to the quiet voice within, but I couldn’t hear anything with all of the thoughts going on in my brain. My head sounded like Grand Central Station. Confusion. Doubt. Fear. Anxiety. I didn’t know which train went where. So I thought about the rocks to keep it simple and tried to listen. I couldn’t hear anything but my own thoughts. Rocks. Rocks. I started to relax. The rocks in my mind started to take on a life of their own. It got more quiet in my brain and suddenly it hit me like a shock. It shorted my circuits. It came in a jolt. I heard something. Not my thoughts. Not the rocks. It was not a definition. It was not a reason. It was not a voice... It was a feeling. I was hearing a feeling and somehow I knew that the others in the circle were also hearing the feeling. The sensation was at first frightening, but then it became very peaceful and comforting.

I heard community and caring. I heard beauty and tolerance. I heard forgiveness and love. And I heard the life and beauty of the rocks. These experiences wove through me as a gestalt and I understood that there was a voice inside and that it was shared. I heard the quiet voice within. And I learned a new way to pray.

The meeting concluded with a brief reading from the New Testament, but I didn’t hear it. Listening is a full time task.

***

The Last Ride Home

As I try to reconcile events of my past while at the same time trying to make reasonable plans for the future, I find myself drawn sharply to the overwhelming conditions of the present.

My father has Alzheimer’s disease. During the past two years, his short-term memory has become increasingly inconsistent as protein plaque attacks the dendrites in his brain. It has been tough for me and for everyone in the family to see him change and seemingly fade away from us.

He stood tall and straight, a giant redwood, sheltering the scrub pines from the wind and cold. Now he needs shelter, himself, and he bends and cracks from the weight of time.

I have learned much from my father. The satisfaction of hard work and a job well done. The importance of telling the truth. A sense of humor. Respect for others. Diligence.

My father has never been much for talking about personal matters. He was raised by his adoptive father in a stoic environment where achievement did the talking. His adoptive mother was kind and loving, but not a big talker. Dad has always opened up in front of an audience with tremendous charm, but the invisible wall was always there. Personal matters have always been just that to my father -- personal. But certain personal lessons from him remain in my memory.

On success and personal satisfaction:

Get the job done and do it right. If you don’t get the job done, somebody else will.

On racism:

I never saw any color or nationality on the football field. A good block was a good block and a good tackle was a good tackle. Either you got it done or you didn’t.

On being infatuated with a partner in a destructive relationship:

There are a million fish in the sea.

On growing fruit trees:

Make an upside down bowl at the base of the tree so that the water seeps outward to the feeder roots.

More on growing fruit trees:

I stopped by a chicken ranch once a week after school and hauled off all of their chicken shit for them and then spread it on our orange grove. We had the best grove in the valley.

On beauty:

Look at that rose! And smell it! Isn’t that something!

On marriage:

Take good care of her and don’t let little things get in the way.

My father flew up to visit me and my wife and our 8-year-old son last month. We had a wonderful time for six days. Dad had to rest a lot, but when he was up, it was a pleasure to have him with us. We all went to a neighbor’s pool party. We drove to the coast and watched the pelicans feeding off the dock at Half Moon Bay. We prepared meals together. We had some relatives over for a sumptuous dinner and pleasant conversation. I gave my father a bath and scrubbed his feet with a coarse sponge. We took short walks with our dog. And I never felt more love for my dad. 

It was hard for him to get around and he was disoriented often. He had to be helped out of low chairs and he couldn’t walk very far. Each day he wondered when he was going home, and he could not remember how he got to our house. One day, he asked who my wife’s father was - a man he has known for almost fifty years. Through the many lapses of memory, we persevered in the moment as best we could. Smiles and laughter and affection transcended the pain of irreversible change. 

On the night before dad and I drove back to Southern California, dad read a book to my son. It was a Berenstain Bears book about Halloween with an overall message of "Things aren’t always what they seem to be". My son and I sat quietly as the master of drama read to us the simple story. And then we all went to bed under the same roof, secure in the presence of family and in the continuity of love and life. 

The next morning, my dad and I folded into the car for the 400-mile drive down the great central valley of California and to his house in the Pomona Valley at the base of Mt. Baldy. It would be our last ride home together. 

Highway 5 down the central valley is one of the longest stretches of straight road in America. It passes seemingly endless groves and fields of cotton, fruits and vegetables. My dad never slept on the seven-hour ride. He would rest his eyes for a while, then open them, look around and say, "We haven’t gone anywhere. Everything looks the same." And it did. The only things that change on the long straight road are the cycles of the crops. 

About half way on our drive, I looked over at dad and he looked worried. I checked on him. 

"How you doin’? Are you all right?" 

He looked at me with fear in his eyes. "Where are we? I don’t know how we got here. Where are we going?" 

"You’re my dad and I’m your son, Rob. We’re on Highway 5. We came from my house and we’re on our way back to your house in Claremont. We’ll continue down 5 and then over the Grapevine pass, through the San Fernando Valley, and then to Claremont and your house." I looked in his eyes and comforted him. "Everything is all right. I’m here and I’ll take care of you." 

The fear on his face subsided. His muscles relaxed and a slight smile curled up on one side of his mouth. He looked at me with gratitude and love and said simply, "Okay." 

We sat together in silence. We were totally in the moment together. Neither of us really knew how we got there, and neither of us knew how we would get where we were going. No longer the big man with all the power and no longer the little boy with all the doubt. Just two people together on the road. The long straight road through the great fertile valley. The long straight road where we turned our private corner, together. And our love was shared. Completely. 

*** 

At times in our lives we turn invisible corners from knowing to understanding, from holding on, to letting go. And we see things for the first time as they are, not as they should be. And then, in some sublime moment, we come to the peace that passes understanding. Better that this happen early than late on our journey. But that it could happen at all makes the journey worth it, the sacrifice well spent, the struggle well suited and the adventure well sought. 

Sites of Related Interest

Krishnamurti Information Homepage Berlin
The Religious Society of Friends
Alzheimers Disease Menu

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