We asked her owner – a mechanic under the same car – if she had any brothers or sisters.  He had bought her on a street corner in San Francisco and didn’t know.  The following day, overrun by her puppy energy, he offered to sell her to us.  I bargained her down to $35 and then brought her home as a surprise for Loveleen.  We had a dog!

Almost instantly, she captured our hearts.  When it came to picking a name, it came to me in a lucid ‘aha.’  My special “pet” name for Loveleen was “My little babushka.”  I called her this with much much love and to give it away to this little puppy was no small sacrifice.  Sensing her importance to us, the name was bestowed on her… our little Babushka.

Babushka was indeed a terror as a puppy, relentlessly yanking on my pant legs and Love’s skirts.  She came with us everywhere – even to my construction job.  Her first trip in the back of my truck made her pee, poor thing, but soon after she came to love her windy chariot.

At the time, I didn’t like leashes.  To me they represented control and ownership, and I wanted Babushka to feel free and independent.  There were times, I’ll admit, when I screamed out in terror when cars came a little too fast or a little too close, but her childhood was truly fun-filled with adventure and freedom.

As a tiny puppy, we never really imagined she would grow to become a big dog, but in her “teenage years”, those little bent ears stood up, her snout popped out and she grew.  Our little toy became a big toy – now with wolf-like features.

Years later we had her DNA test done and discovered she was an equal four-part mix of Chow Chow, Alaskan Malamute, Akita, and Komondor.  That combo, when flooded with love, is how you make a Babushka.

The reason I’m writing this is because today, fourteen years later, our little Babushka has moved on.  It was hard to know then just how much of a part of us she would become.

Some fun Babushka stories…

One of the first astonishing events in her life happened when we left her in the back of Loveleen’s Karmann Ghia one day to quickly go into a store.  When we came back, I noticed a wet paw print on the seat.  I looked around to see where the wetness had come from.  Did she pee in the car?  After lots of looking, we found the near impossible.  She did indeed pee.  She had gone through a mesh net between the back seat and the trunk area into a jar that was tipped at an angle on its side.  The jar was filled with pee without any spillage.  Not bad for a 3-month old puppy!  Good girl!

Another miraculous event happened that I shudder to even mention.  One day, Loveleen had tied her on the driveway to the back bumper of my truck.  It didn’t occur to her that I might drive off without noticing she was tied there, but that’s exactly what happened.  I had to leave in a hurry and drove off unaware.  Even worse, at this point, not only did we leash Babu because she had become aggressive toward other dogs, but we kept a full body harness around her to keep her from choking herself any time she lunged.

I had driven about two blocks before a neighbor waived me to stop and I looked back in cold horror to see Babu’s empty harness dragging from her leash.

By this time, Babu had become such an integral and beloved part of our lives.  It’s hard to convey how much of our love we had entwined with this little being.  The image of what may have happened to my angel was more horrific than I could ever express.  I turned the truck around in horror to face whatever destiny lay waiting.  When I got home, there she was!  Alive and well, standing with Loveleen in front of our house, wagging her fluffy tail.  I ran out to hug her and to receive her long kisses – both of us knowing just how close a call it had been.  Loveleen had watched in terror as I drove off with Babu running behind my accelerating truck.  That the harness miraculously slipped off her is something hard to explain.  As I held my baby girl in deep gratitude, a praying mantis came from nowhere and landed on my hand.  Grace.  True story.  Thank you.

But the biggest miracle by far was that for fourteen years we were all able to share a deep and priceless bond of love.  I won’t lie.  We’ve been good caretakers.  Babu got her walks every day – she was showered with love and treats, and sometimes went for hikes through the redwoods or rolling hills.  But what we’ve given to her can never compare to what she gave to us.  Babu was a part of our lives.  A big part.  But we were a much bigger part of hers.  She loved us profoundly.  Wherever I went, she would follow.  Whenever I looked up at her, she would be watching me.  Whenever we drove home, she would be waiting, always overjoyed to see us.  Her love was extraordinary.

One of my favorite things was getting kisses from her and looking into her innocent eyes while she kissed.  Oh my lord, what a precious being.  Knowing that she was dying, I made sure to do this often.  Though it may sound odd, Babu and I would stare into each others’ eyes while she kissed me – sharing together an exchange of love – two beings radiating all of our love toward one another. The love that flowed was universal and overflowing.  In love, we were true equals.

Babu was blessed to live a healthy life, though her last month was hard.  Most everything began going wrong.  Diabetes.  Kidney disease. Liver disease. Infections.  Seizures.  Loss of mobility.  No appetite.  Through it all, she stayed loving.

We did everything we could.  If she was to die, we wanted it to end on the right note – in harmony with the beauty and joy of her life.  Deciding when to let go is a decision I wish on no one.  That we were able to compassionately make this decision is something most take for granted for animals, though it’s a nearly taboo subject for people.  This is something that ought to change.  It is said that one’s state of mind at the moment of death sets the course for what comes next and is therefore of utmost importance.  What matters most is that one’s mind is with love.

This dog appeared before us just minutes after Babu's passing.

Knowing in our hearts that it was Babu’s time, Loveleen drove my truck as I lay with Babu in the back – my arm over her fluffiness, our heads pressed together, feeling the tremendous loss that had arrived.  It was in the back of my truck that she was laid to rest.  I could feel her pure white spirit surround us.  Minutes later, a young dog appeared on the hill above us – a fluffy white dog with a puppy energy and an eerie resemblance to Babushka.  It sat and looked at us as if to say “I am here. I’ve crossed over. I’m OK.  Life goes on.”

All animals – every one of them – are our kin.  We need to respect and treat them as such.  Thank you, little Babushka, for all of your love and protection.  And thanks to all the beloved beings of the world.  Happy 14th Birthday on this Valentine’s Day.  We’ll love you forever.

When I think of the power of my own punch, connecting with someone’s fragile face, I can only imagine its effect: broken bones, knocked out teeth.  When I imagine myself being hit in the face, and having my own bones broken and my own teeth knocked out, I can only imagine it to be horrible.  In the movies and on TV you see fight scenes every day.  It’s made to seem so trivial.  It’s insanity.

The other day our neighbor invited Loveleen and I to a shooting range to fire his various guns.  We went for the experience.  I’ve shot BB guns before, but never anything real.  I was taken aback by the power of these guns.  We started with the .38s and 9 mm and moved to the .357 magnum, 45s, and rifles.  Holy crap.  How a person could ever hold one of these, aim it at another living being, and pull the trigger, just blows me away.  It’s violence on a whole other level.  The bullet blasts out with thunderous force at a lightning speed, blasting a hole into another person’s body.  Talk about insanity.

These days, people are sensitive to the lead in their paint or kid’s toys, etc.  Why shouldn’t they be?  Exposure can cause brain and blood disorders.  To add outrageous insult to radical injury, these unforgiving bullets are actually filled with lead!  How insane is this?  Before going to the range, I went to my local sports store, walked in, and bought a box of .38s and a box of .45s – just like that – as easy as buying chewing gum.

Sure, we had a lot of fun shooting the guns.  It was great.  But shooting at paper targets, and shooting at living things are very different matters.

Later that night, we went to Non-Stop Bhangra, one of San Francisco’s most happening dance events.  I don’t know if it was the gun firing or what, but that night, I felt particularly alpha.  On the dance floor, I had the thought that if ever I was to get into a fight, tonight would probably be the night.  Testosterone raging, I was feeling a lot more brazen and fearless than usual.

When we walked out of the club to leave, this guy gave Loveleen a lingering sleazy look and I stared him down as I sometimes do.  Generally, this is just a little game that goes on with guys.  Never before has it led to anything.  This night, however, was an exception.  I’m not sure if my look was a little more threatening than usual or just a case of bad timing, but the guy’s friend saw it and called me on it.  In a matter of seconds, three or four buddies were all ganging up for a fight.  This was not something new to these guys and they weren’t kidding around.  I sized up the situation.

In my life, I’ve been in fight scenarios on several occasions.  I’ve always drawn the same conclusion that there is no way to win.  If I win the fight, I do so by hurting another person.  To me, this is a loss.  If I lose the fight, I get hurt.  This is also a loss.  So a fight is a complete lose-lose.  There’s nothing at all to gain.  So I find these situations awkward because the only solution is to get out of it, which can appear weak, but so be it.

So I walked away.  Loveleen and I walked to the car and the guys crossed the street following.  One of them opened my car door.  I closed it.  He opened it again, at which point Loveleen couldn’t believe the audacity of these fuckers and got out of the car and started barking at them like a vicious Chihuahua.  It was pretty cool to see the fight in her, but at the same time, though guys won’t usually touch a female, I couldn’t leave this up to chance, so I got out of the car to defend her.  The bouncer and others ran across the street when they saw the situation inflame and nothing happened, though it was a crazy little flare up that escalated from nothing to potentially much almost instantly.

Who knows what could have happened (to them of course).  You never know; they may have even pulled out a weapon.  I wouldn’t be surprised.  It’s amazing how stupid people can be.

I realized later my mistake.  It’s not that I backed down like many people might conclude.  It’s that I reduced the first guy to his sleazy stare, instead of seeing him as a good person with sleaze issues.  Had I connected with the good in him, the flare up never would have happened.  My bad.

Death is big.  We each comprise the story or fundamental fabric of one another’s very beings – stories stitched tenderly into our own hearts – with no design for removal, ever.

The Story of Sandra is a special one – one that reached its natural conclusion.  In her 34 years, she lived fully and completely and lived out her life to its end, having arrived at a state of absolute acceptance.

We’ll all miss her immeasurably.  In our hearts, miraculously, Sandra doesn’t leave the trauma of an unfinished story – robbed of us before its telling; she leaves instead an exceptional story – one with a happy ending.  Strange though it may seem, we are left satisfied, thankful for having had this explosion of joy grace our lives.

Sandra celebrated her 34th birthday in style.  Friends and family traveled from all across the globe to be in her company – all of us knowing it was her end – and all of us celebrating a Grand Finale… of a life brilliantly lived.

Sandra didn’t disappoint, leaving on a high note, with a HOWL!

AAAAHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The more I painted, the better I got. I got to the point where I could genuinely express myself – the complex and intense spirit and emotions that were inside. I developed a sharp sense of balance and composition. I could take a piece of paper and make it into art.

In college, I signed up for a class on 3-Dimensional art, and it was there that my art world began to blow open. Our assignments were designed to encourage us to utilize space and the various senses – to challenge our limited notions. I began to realize that even if the purest of genius were expressed and captured on a canvas, it was still just a 2-dimensional piece sitting in a much vaster, multi-dimensional world.

At some point, the idea of painting 2-dimensional pieces, though so fulfilling, began to seem limiting.

In that class, I had an epiphany. I realized that architecture allowed art to be brought into the third dimension. In architectural expressions, people would walk around inside of the art, living their lives in it, being transformed by it.

But there was a greater epiphany. I realized that we were in it now. Students would create pieces and say “Here is my piece,” and the rest of the class would sit around and critique it, but defining where it started and where it ended was but another limiting box. I looked around the art room and saw the various pieces. I saw the tables filled with supplies. I saw that the art room itself – in all its complexity and originality – far surpassed any of the individual installations.

It was my turn to present. I hadn’t made a piece that week. I took a roll of construction barrier material and threw the end of it over a string crossing the room. The rest of the roll laid on the table. The group gathered, and I said “Here is my piece.” It didn’t make sense. What exactly were they supposed to be looking at? Was it the roll of construction barrier? No. That was simply the entry portal. The barrier stretched to the table. The table was part of the piece. And everything on it. The room was part of the piece. And everything in it. The class was part of the piece. Everyone. The piece was this moment. This unique expression of space and of time.

Every moment is a canvas. The role of a Life Artist is to awaken to that awareness and express him or herself within the now.

I also realized that not all art was optimal for living in. Some art is beautiful; some art is disturbing. As an artist, there is value in expressing that which needs to be expressed. The world is dynamic, and we need different things at different times, but if art has the power to transform, then I personally would prefer living in a piece that is full of beauty – and to be transformed by that beauty – and not in a space of disturbance.

It was there that the seed of my future was planted – that architecture could be utilized as a transformative element to shape our inner states.  And that the world itself, and every single moment, is a rich tapestry waiting to be reshaped through our expressions.

Walking around the world as a Life Artist, one becomes the brush itself and the whole world becomes the canvas. We are all artists, collectively painting and shaping our world, though very few of us are awake to the profundity and responsibility that comes with being that artist. What have you cultivated inside? What is it that you have to give, that you have to express? The role of a Life Artist is to dive deep within – to grasp, to touch the most exquisite of gems they can reach – and then to step back into the world and hopefully, with love, leave their own, unique and precious mark.

During this time, I was deep into dream analysis and mandala making. Through both, I developed keen insight into my own psyche – both in understanding my whole self, and gaining intuition in how to grow and delve deeper.

Some time after the operation, both in my dreams and in my mandalas, all evidence suggested that a woman was about to enter my life. In my mandalas, she was portrayed as yellow, and so I was pretty certain that she would be blonde. I was so certain, in fact, that I staked my entire conviction to the legitimacy of my dream and mandala efforts on it.

When it actually happened, I wasn’t at all looking for it or even aware that I was anticipating it. It just happened.

I was in the Whitney museum in New York City with my mother when I met her and we started talking. Coincidentally, it turned out that she was living strikingly close to our home in Connecticut and so we offered to give her a ride back.

Claudia and I became best friends.

The unusual thing about Claudia was her beauty. She was from Santiago, Chile, and was so extraordinarily beautiful that it was actually disarming. I remember ringing her doorbell to find her opening it and each time becoming totally mesmerized. We once asked a guy on the street for directions, and his jaw dropped and he stood there stunned, not able to say anything. She was that beautiful.

It took me two months to actually kiss her. And when I did, it was very similar to telling my mother about my chest. I couldn’t do it. I knew I had to. It was do or die, but it made no freakin’ sense to my rational mind. Why kiss? It wasn’t logical. All I knew was that I needed to do it. Face to face with an internal conflict I
couldn’t overcome rationally, I finally took the plunge, and mechanically kissed her. Very quickly, it became natural, and transformed into something extraordinary.

Though best friends, we were very different. I was an artist and wanted to change the world. She wanted an upper middle-class home, with good jobs, and a maid. I knew we weren’t destined to ride into the sunset. Claudia came as an utterly magical gift from the Heavens, and she helped to turn my life around.

The whole turkey association is barbaric and outdated. Aside from that, it’s a definite keeper.

Image from: GourmetGiftBaskets.com

Though my life was rich and meaningful, I lived it almost entirely internally. I had very little real contact with other people and after a prolonged time living this way, the total alienation became too uncomfortable to bear. Something inside of me was crying out for some kind of human connection, for touch, for love.

I had lived with gynecomastia for 5 or 6 years. This means I had lived in deep secrecy and shame for all this time. I had endured so much, had carried a heavy burden, and felt like I was finally at a breaking point – I was suffocating. Something had to change.

I realized that I needed to break the silence and reveal my secret.

Finally the day came where I mustered up all the courage I had and approached my mother. I told her that there was something that I had to say. She listened and waited. The words wouldn’t come out. I had no other option but to force the words out. There was no place to retreat to. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.  I stood there trying, as the time ticked. She must have understood how important this was to me. She waited.

I don’t know how much time passed as I was caught in this stalemate, but we stood there for a long time, until finally I… managed… to… just… barely… get – the – words – out… and finally, finally, finally, they had been expressed. I had told my mother about my chest condition and how traumatic it was for me.

I went back to my room and drew a mandala – a wide open circle that went way off the edges of the paper. The dam had been broken. Change was to come.

My mother got busy trying to find a solution, and she discovered that an operation was an option. Soon, the operation was over, and I was finally normal again. Well, sort of.

Continue to: Know Thyself – Part V – A Boon from the Heavens

Image by © cloud9999

Later I developed another boil in my nostril – an extraordinarily painful infection that made the whole side of my face swell. I went to a different doctor, who prescribed another antibiotic and gave me a prescription for a super “big gun” antibiotic just in case that one didn’t work. Neither worked.

At first I didn’t know what I had, but only after the boils started to multiply was it diagnosed as staph.

In India, I can afford to see doctors. In America, the medical system is designed primarily as a major profit-making industry (in cahoots with the pharmaceutical and insurance industries), and only secondarily as a health care system. I’ve worked hard in my life, but haven’t done so for money. Thus, I’m one of those people who completely falls through the cracks.

The point of this entry is not to talk about what I’ve been going through, or how the system is unfair, or whether or not I should get a job with insurance. The point is that in going through this experience, it’s become clear that our current system is a health crisis in the making.

What I have is not highly contagious, but it’s contagious. I know for sure because I passed it onto Lovele~en (sorry, Love). Recently, the news has been full of accounts of MRSA, popularly known as the “superbug”. What’s crazy is that MRSA kills dead 1 out of every 5 people who get it – it kills more people in America each year than AIDS.

Since Loveleen got it and has insurance, she was cultured and ours is not diagnosed as MRSA, but clearly it’s also resistant to every antibiotic we are given. This is very dangerous.

To have people walking around with contagious, deadly, antibiotic-resistant bacteria is not a good thing. It will spread, and effect lots of people. Clearly these bacteria continue to evolve faster than we can develop antibiotics for them, and pose a great danger to society at large.

The best thing to do is to treat it immediately and effectively. But here’s the catch. It’s the people like me who fall through the cracks that present the gravest danger to society.

It’s not such a big deal to take someone’s culture, do a lab sample on it, and write them a prescription for what will treat the problem. But when a disproportionate, exorbitant price tag is attached to this simple procedure, then many people will choose to suffer through it, or attempt to find their own cures. Suffering through a broken arm, a rotting tooth, or even cancer, frankly sucks – but people, sadly, do it all the time. The people who fall through the cracks will also suffer through MRSA and other evolving contagions – and they will walk around spreading it to everyone. And that’s when our greed-based system will be bitten in the ass by the karma of its own making. Like it or not, leaving people behind is soon to become a major liability for us all.

There is, of course, a solution.

Images from (in order): macmcrae.com, altham.com, folioplanet.com

It’s a great solution, because it feels good to just open everything up and say: ‘please, come and enjoy these books! Don’t worry about the price; pay what makes you feel happy paying.’  There are only a handful of examples of people doing this kind of thing, but it generally seems to work out, the most publicized example possibly being Radiohead’s new album.

The real value in the Gift Economy is that the interaction between ‘buyer’ and ‘seller’ becomes more familial.  In a family, we rarely charge each other for things.  There is a bond that exists and a medium of sharing.  Everyone looks out for one another.  It’s this same philosophy that brings family economics to society at large.  Whether it works or not is anyone’s guess.  So far, there are plenty of examples of it working.  It’s certainly a noble experiment though, because what you get when it succeeds is a society built around giving and trusting, connected and caring people.

For those of you who don’t know, Here Come the Tickle Bugs! was written and illustrated by a good friend of mine named Uncle Sillyhead III.  It’s a children’s book that has a tendency of becoming the favorite book in the house, probably because it encourages oodles of unstoppable giggles.  I would love to see every kid between the ages of 1 1/2 to 3 grow up with this book.  The joy kids get from it is priceless.  And it’s a great book for learning to read, up to about age 6.

I also encourage everyone to email Unc himself and order a bunch of books to distribute, especially for the holidays.  It’s kind of fun when you can have people pay whatever they want. :)  His email is Uncle –at– TickleBugs.com.

For another great Gift Economy book, check out the legendary Cooking Com Bigode by Ankur Shah — ‘vegetarian improvisational peasant fusion cuisine for the 22nd century’.  A must. :)

• In the U.N.’s recent report Livestock’s Long Shadow, scientists concluded that the meat industry generates nearly40% more greenhouse-gas emissions than all the cars, trucks, SUVs, ships, and planes in the world combined. The report also found that the meat industry is “one of the top two or three most significant contributors to the most serious environmental problems, at every scale from local to global.”

• Researchers at the University of Chicago determined that switching to a vegan diet is more effective in countering global warming than switching from a standard American car to a Toyota Prius (in fact, it’s 50 percent more effective).

• Environmental Defense also recently reported on its Web site that if every American substituted vegetarian food for chicken meat in just one meal per week, the carbon dioxide savings would be the same as if more than half a million cars were taken off U.S. roads.

If we ever want to seriously address global warming, we have to acknowledge the catastrophic impact caused by factory farming – wasted resources: land, food, energy, water, rainforest, animal suffering; pollution: feces, water, air, global warming.  The only reason factory farming is generally overlooked as a primary cause for global warming is because acknowledging this inconvenient truth would bring a feeling of shame to those not ready to take personal responsibility.  And that’s most people.

Do you love your planet enough to stop eating animals?

*This information was extracted from a letter to Al Gore from Ingrid E. Newkirk, President of PETA

–> visit: www.GoVeg.com/eco
–> also visit: http://www.veganoutreach.org (source of image)