AWARENESS AND PERCEPTION 1

P. 70-73

I think the most important idea that came through me this Sunday was: “As you continue to do you spiritual work, your gifts will be made manifest perfectly for you, but none of us know what those gifts are going to look like, how they are going to feel, etc. They will come to us when we are ready and exactly when they are supposed to, and our intellect has nothing to do with the process.

I can get very attached to the form I think my spiritual gifts are supposed to take, and this attachment limits me because a spiritual gift or power might show up for me and I might not event know it is there because I am focusing on my preconceived notion of what it is suppose to be and how it is supposed to show up!

 Much of what is touched upon here is not new, but the way it is presented is new.

We are not used to dealing with these ideas of frequency and vibration. The Aikido master story we read (it is printed in full at the end of this lesson) is a good example. If you have heard this story before, you would still have been moved by it, but you might not have been able to say why.

If we take in the awareness of vibration and frequency, we can get a powerful portrait of the energies involved here. The egotistical flavor of the young student; the anger and sadness of the drunk, and the open, active unconditional love of the old man. You could literally get a feel for all those energies, and their interaction, and you could also get a sense of how low vibrations of thought and action can be transformed (BY LOVE) into higher vibration. Along with that if you are present in a group when story such as this is shared, you can feel the vibrational level of the room change as well.

So what has happened here is that the teachings in this book have opened up a whole new level of understanding and experience. 

We can also begin to notice that even though there is much information coming to us though our senses, that there is also a tremendous amount of information coming to us through beyond the physical senses. 

If someone touches you, you can “know” if that touch is guided by love, indifference, or some other energy. If you are to ask yourself, “How do I know this?” you might not be able to express the answer in words, but you would still know the truth of it.

Know that you know.

For the rest of the  week, we are encouraged to become more aware of the energy we are operating out of and the energy we are taking in.

We are already well aware of what it is like to have an open heart and/or a closed heart. So be aware of that this week, not in judgment but awareness. 

As we do this we can become more aware that we have active choices as to the energy we put out and take in, and the energy/vibration/frequency we are nurturing within our selves.

Have a wonderful week.

Peace.

This story from Aikido master Terry Dobson is one of my favorites because it shows how to bring about harmony by embracing conflict with compassion and understanding: The train clanked and rattled through the suburbs of Tokyo on a drowsy spring afternoon. Our car was comparatively empty, a few housewives with their kids in tow, some old folks going shopping. I gazed absently at the drab houses and dusty hedgerows. At one station the doors opened and suddenly the afternoon quiet was shattered by a man bellowing violent, incomprehensible curses. The man staggered into our car. He wore laborer’s clothing and he was big, drunk, and dirty. Screaming, he swung at a woman holding a baby. The blow sent her spinning into the laps of an elderly couple. It was a miracle the baby was unharmed. Terrified, the couple jumped up and scrambled toward the end of the car. The laborer aimed a kick at the retreating back of the old woman but missed as she scuttled to safety. This so enraged the drunk that he grabbed the metal pole in the center of the car and tried to wrench it out of its stanchion. I could see that one of his hands was cut and bleeding. The train lurched ahead, the passengers frozen with fear. I stood up. I was young then, some twenty years ago, and in pretty good shape. I had been putting in a solid eight hours of aikido training every day for the past three years. I liked to throw and grapple. I thought I was tough. The trouble was, my martial skill was untested in actual combat. As students of aikido, we were not allowed to fight. Aikido, my teacher had said again and again, is the art of reconciliation. Whoever has the mind to fight has broken his connection to the universe. If you try to dominate people, you are already defeated. We study how to resolve conflict, not how to start it. I listened to his words. I tried so hard. I even went so far as to cross the street to avoid the kids, the pinball punks who lounged around the train station. My forbearance exalted me. I was both tough and holy. In my heart, however, I wanted an absolutely legitimate opportunity whereby I might save the innocent by destroying the guilty. This is it, I said to myself, as I stood up. People are in danger. IfI don’t do something fast, somebody will probably get hurt. Seeing me stand up the drunk recognized the chance to focus his rage. “Ah ha!” he roared. “A foreigner! You need a lesson in Japanese manners.” I held on lightly to the commuter strap overhead and gave him a slow look of disgust and dismissal. I planned to take this turkey apart but he had to make the first move. I wanted him mad so I pursed my lips and blew him an insolent kiss. “All right,” he hollered, “You’re going to get a lesson.” He gathered himself for a rush at me. A fraction of a second before he could move, someone shouted “Hey!” It was ear-splitting. I remember the strangely joyous, lilting quality of it as though you and a friend had been searching diligently for something and he had suddenly stumbled upon it—“ Hey!” I wheeled to my left, the drunk spun to his right. We both stared down at a little old Japanese man. He must have been well into his seventies, this tiny gentleman, sitting there immaculate in his kimono. He took no notice of me but beamed delightedly at the laborer as though he had a most important, most welcome secret to share. “Come here,” the old man said in an easy vernacular, beckoning to the drunk. “Come here and talk with me.” He waved his hand lightly. The big man followed as if on a string. He planted his feet belligerently in front of the old gentleman and roared above the clacking wheels. “Why the hell should I talk to you?” The drunk now had his back to me. If his elbow moved so much as a millimeter I’d drop him in his socks. The old man continued to beam at the laborer. “Whatcha been drinkin?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with interest. “I’ve been drinking sake,” the laborer bellowed back, “and it’s none of your business.” Flecks of spittle spattered the old man. “Oh, that’s wonderful,” the old man said, “absolutely wonderful. You see I love sake too. Every night me and my wife, she’s seventy-six you know, we warm up a little bottle of sake and we take it out in the garden and we sit on our old wooden bench and we watch the sun go down and we look to see how our persimmon tree is doing. My great-grandfather planted that tree and we worry about whether it will recover from those ice storms we had last winter. Our tree has done better than I expected though, especially when you consider the poor quality of the soil. It is gratifying to watch 

when we take our sake and go out to enjoy the evening even when it rains.” He looked up at the laborer, his eyes twinkling. As he struggled to follow the old man’s conversation, the drunk’s face began to soften. His fists slowly unclenched. “Yeah,” he said, “I love persimmons too.” His voice trailed off. “Yes,” said the old man, smiling, “and I am sure you have a wonderful wife.” “Nah. My wife died.” Very gently, swaying with the motion of the train, the big man began to sob. “I don’t got no wife. I don’t got no home. I don’t got no job. I’m so ashamed of myself.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. A spasm of despair rippled through his body. There I was standing in my well-scrubbed youthful innocence, my make-this-world-safe-for-democracy righteousness. I suddenly felt dirtier than he was. The train arrived at my stop. As the door opened, I heard the old man cluck sympathetically. “My, my,” he said, “that is a difficult predicament. Sit down here and tell me about it.” I turned my head for one last look. The laborer was sprawled on the seat, his head in the old man’s lap. The old man was softly stroking the filthy matted hair. As the train pulled away, I sat down on a bench. What I had wanted to do with muscle had been accomplished with kind words. I had just seen aikido tried in combat, and the essence of it was love.