Greetings, friends.

The following poem I wrote a couple of years ago when I was stuck in traffic (well, actually, I wrote it in my head and pulled over to put it on paper as soon as I could) on Highway One in Carmel, California. I am bringing it to the present moment because it is the end of Car Week here on the Monterey Peninsula, when we have been inundated with supercars beyond our normal share and with 100,000 car enthusiasts and wannabees. All the while, just 25 miles down the road, a fire rages in Big Sur. And so it goes.

I went to my downtown Carmel studio a couple of times this past week, walking past cars that only the one percent could afford, while young men looked longingly, snapping photos to show others on social media how fortunate they were to be in the presence of these societal abominations.

And abominations they are. Sure, the colors are delightful, so much nicer than the generic colors of the road, and the technology is extraordinary, but when so many in this country and in the world are suffering from basic needs, zooming around past fire trucks is a slap in the face of humanity. I just saw posted that 47 private jets are parked in the Monterey airport, many of which are large international ones.

Our species is at the edge of survival. Our ignorance, our severance from All That Is, has led to an existence of extremism, far from balance. And the 40,000 fires on the planet, major floods, the series of megaquakes, reflect it. There are no roads to Heaven, only small trails we have to be mindful upon lest we get lost. But there are superhighways leading to the hell of being further cut off from All That Is in our minds. Since we are part of All That Is, we can never truly be severed but only in our awareness.

Anyway, today is the last day of the circus. The car carriers will be moving out, and I, in my Prius, which I am so grateful to be able to afford, will go about enjoying the scenery as I go off to do my thing.

I wish you all the best and safe travels wherever that may be, and that each day you are filled with gratitude. Thank you for reading.

Cheers,

Janaka

okay
stop your honking
I know you have places to go
people to meet

maybe you’re off to work
or to do grocery shopping
taking out some cash from an ATM machine
perhaps, if you’re lucky
you are going to feast
on some afternoon delight

alright, maybe your supercar
(not too rare here)
Lambo, Bugatti, Ferrari
hates to idle
its low rumble changing gears
from impatience
to rage

but people
just because the light
changed to green
it is nothing more
than a complementary color
from the last one

sure
you might be a doctor
on an emergency call
or a midwife
ready to assist in the arrival of a new life

but I too am helping the sick
not of body
but of mind
and aiding
in someone’s birth

maybe I need a construction sign
to help you understand
and inspire you to reach
into the glove compartment
to pull out that forgotten notebook
and pen
and join me

CAUTION
POETS AT WORK

and when we are done
and the light changes again
we will see a rainbow light
and the road we now travel
no GPS has ever known

— Janaka Stagnaro (first published in Catharsis Chronicles on Medium)

Happy Summer,

I hope it is not unbearably hot where you are. It has been a while since I have created a post. I have just passed 500 subscribers and have over 1,000 followers here on Substack. Welcome to new subscribers, and thank you all for subscribing to Into the Mystic. Thank you for connecting. Your support means a lot.

As my summer is coming to a close (I go back in a week!), I wanted to share what I have been creating. I started the summer teaching summer school, giving art classes in the morning and then making my own art in the afternoon. I produce so much at times that I get backed up on the works that need to be photographed so they can be made into giclées on my site. Today I finally finished processing the last one of the batch.

I like to work in various media. I do that because I am very sanguine, enjoying them all, while going through periods of focusing on one or two. However, being an art teacher, I feel I need to be proficient in various media. So down below is a variety. Because I have so many pieces to share, I am not going to list the titles of each one. I would love to hear which ones you really like.

Watercolors

Acrylics

Drawings

Oil and chalk pastels

Yesterday I was invited by the Luna Gallery in San Juan Bautista, CA, to hang an art piece for their next exhibition. The owner asked for this one in particular. The exhibit, Crossroads of Chaos and Compassion, runs August 22 – October 17, 2026.

As part of the Open Studio Tour of Monterey (my Carmel studio will be open 9/12-13), I will have a piece at the Oldemeyer Center in Salinas, CA. The exhibit runs 8/3-10/1.

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The question of pricing.

Now that you have taken my little tour, I want to talk about the pricing of art. I am assuming that many of you are artists as well, and I am certain you have struggled with the pricing of your work.

Over thirty years ago, an owner of a gallery in Corvallis, Oregon, an artist who left a successful New York art scene to escape the craziness, accepted my work for a Christmas show. I asked what I should charge. “If you want to make a living as a fine artist, you have to ask yourself how many paintings you will sell a month and price accordingly so you can live. Also, you need to remember that what you charge will affect other artists trying to do the same. So if you see it as only a hobby and charge little, you undercut those who see it as a profession.”

I have kept that advice over the years and I charge in the middle range in comparison to local artists in Carmel galleries. I know other artists who charge little and sell a lot more paintings than I do. Often these artists do not live where I do, and the cost of living is less (I was on the Saatchi Art site for a while, which includes hundreds of thousands of artists from all over the world—hard to compete in pricing with someone living in China, for example). And if you are an artist who wants to be in galleries, you have to charge more. For one thing, they are getting 40-50% in commissions, and they see wall space as real estate. And the rent in Carmel is outrageous. And you have to take into account the price of materials and the time it takes (not just the creating aspect) to promote, organize, ship, etc.

Since retiring as a Waldorf teacher four years ago and seeing if I could make it as an artist, I quickly realized that only a few artists can make a living solely by selling their work. Most, like me, have to have a secondary job for support. Fortunately, the Arts Council of Monterey hired me as a teacher artist, which then led to my full-time art teaching at an elementary school. So I get paid to do art every day!

“Only about 1% to 15% of artists make a full living solely from selling their fine art. Industry data shows that roughly 85% of practicing artists earn less than $25,050 a year from their creative work, forcing most to rely on secondary jobs or mixed income streams.”—Google

Do I wish I was included in the 15 percent who can make a living solely by their art? I am not sure. To turn into an artist like Thomas Kincade (a Carmel artist), for example, where you are producing product instead of exploring through art, no thank you. Like van Gogh, I want artistic freedom. And besides, teaching art to children keeps me grounded.

Back to selling, since I have an online art gallery that can make most of my art into reasonably priced giclees, if people want my art, they can acquire it in various forms. Have I sold my originals at less than what I list? Absolutely. For some who have come to my studio and fallen in love with a piece but can't afford the price, I make sure they take it home. Plus, I have periodic sales (you get 20% off your first order on my site), and if you subscribe, you get 25% off every time, and if you are a Founding member, you get 40% (and an autographed book of mine of your choice, and a small original art piece).

I would love to hear from any artists and how you price your work. Have you been able to make a living selling your work? What is your strategy with pricing?

Well, that’s the tour. Thank you for taking it. I hope you enjoyed it. Any favorites?

If you like my art, you can see a lot more at my online gallery, where you'll find a diverse selection of originals, archival giclée prints, and merchandise, including shirts, cups, cards, bags, and more. And if you ever see work I have posted but cannot find in the gallery, please let me know.

Please be sure to LIKE and COMMENT—it helps a lot in getting my work seen by the Great Algorithm.

May you value what is valuable and see what is true. May art fill your days, in whatever form.

In Love and Light,

Janaka

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Every challenge I encounter is a piece of the puzzle of my Self

We, humans,
tend to run from trouble
and seek shelter in security and comfort.
Because of this habit,
we do a lot of running
and seeking in vain.

Life is not about that pursuit,
especially for those who strive
to leave the more animal aspect of being
and rise to a higher plane of existence.
It is about growth
and Self-awareness.
And to do that,
you will be given many difficulties
to struggle with,
work through,
and solve.

And that is a good thing.

When you see this as a good thing,
what were named problems
become simply challenges.
And every hero/heroine
must have a few
to make the story interesting.

You do want an interesting life, yes?
So welcome them.

Besides the hourly affirmation of Every challenge I encounter is a piece of the puzzle of my Self; when you find yourself amid a challenging situation, remind yourself: Every challenge I encounter is a piece of the puzzle of my Self. I am open to a new way of seeing this situation from a higher perspective.

Meditation

Sitting with your eyes closed,
go to the silent place
by watching your breath,
allowing all thoughts to pass gently.

When you come to that quiet place,
let the thoughts about a challenging situation
arise.

Follow the thoughts.
Keep focusing on the situation;
do not allow straying thoughts to sidetrack you.

Be the watcher of these thoughts.

The watcher is free of attachment
to the outcome of any situation.
The watcher’s self-worth
has nothing to do with the situation.

So do not force what you want to happen.
Just be open to whatever ideas come
related to the situation.

If you get a clear idea about possible actions,
that is great.

If nothing comes, and you are still in the unknowing of it all,
that is great too.

Puzzles exist to challenge.
And a puzzle master loves challenges!

— Janaka Stagnaro, excerpt Shasta Keys: Personal Guide to Self-Awareness, key T32 (there are 108 keys to choose from randomly)

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“If you are curious, you’ll find the puzzles around you. If you are determined, you will solve them. “— Erno Rubik

“When I asked God for Brains and Brawn, He gave me Puzzles in life to Solve. “— Swami Vivekananda

Okay, let me say that I have not been a puzzle person; in fact, I find puzzles and their ilk very frustrating. I would not make a good detective or a scientist. I had a student who could solve Rubik’s Cubes blindfolded and would only stop working on a puzzle once he figured it out. I, on the other hand, would just pull the damn squares apart and then put them back with each side filled in with one color.

Legend states that Alexander the Great (who was actually only great at certain things like strategy and tactics) came to an oxcart tied with the Gordian Knot. It was prophesied that anyone who could untie this impossible knot would rule the world. Alex perhaps tried his hand at solving it—maybe for a couple of minutes—then pulled out his sword and severed it. I can relate.

It has taken many years to come to a place where I see “problems” as challenges and work on putting the pieces together. This has been especially true in relationships. When I was young, I would do the not-so-great thing and just cut the rope and say, “Hasta la vista, baby.” So much easier than doing the work. Not too kind, however, offering plenty of suffering to go around. Studying A Course in Miracles helped me to move beyond that limited mindset.

Schism, by Tool (posted below), is intense with its music and imagery about putting the pieces back together.

Do you like puzzles? Has that helped you in areas of your life?

“Who in the world am I? Ah, that’s the great puzzle.” — Lewis Carroll

“Scientists derive satisfaction from figuring out the puzzle. It’s about the quest, not the grail. “— Isaac Asimov

Greetings everyone,

I hope this post finds you well and at peace, and may that peace ripple out into the world.

It has been a while since my last post. For those who are new subscribers, welcome. You may not know that I teach art full-time at an elementary school on the Monterey Peninsula. I started this after three years of semi-retirement from being a Waldorf teacher for over 25 years. During my pseudo-retirement, I had more time to spend in my Carmel art studio and wrote far more on Substack than I do now. However, I post notes daily.

Today’s post, I decided to randomly choose a key from my book Shasta Keys. I can relate to all the keys; however, this one is perhaps the stickiest for me, if I get caught up equating abundance with material wealth. As an American, not at a poverty level, I have more than most in that regard compared to the majority of the world. When I was in the Peace Corps in Cameroon in the 80s, I learned that just because you have lots of money to buy things, does not mean you are living abundantly. My life changed living with people who had little compared to my middle-class upbringing, but whose lives were far richer in terms of community and a sense of being present. There was no rushing to obtain, not like here in America.

Subsequently, neither a well-paying job nor owning a house was a motivating factor for me. As an adult, I have lived out of my car, my classroom, slept on couches, but I did not feel poor.

As this country is once again at war, I see it as a reflection of this scarcity mentality of ever-seeking more, to be greater, to be the best, the all-powerful. Why? Because of the fear of being little. Of being stepped upon in this Darwinian universe of might is right.

The saddest people on this planet are the billionaires, constantly seeking more wealth. As my 20-year-old son would say: “They are absolutely insane. For what purpose?” In Buddhism, one of the realms of hell is filled with hungry ghosts—beings with engorged, ravenous stomachs and pencil-width necks, who are trying to jam food down their gullet but cannot. They can never be at rest, satiated.

Our consumer society caters to hungry ghosts, which it has helped create.

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The following key was randomly selected from 108 keys. In this format, I like to present the keys in a poetic form, which is not the case in the book.

I invite abundance into my life/There is no scarcity in God

────────♦────────

The lifetimes of asceticism are gone
when you believed you had to suffer
to win the love of God.

To lose so that you may win.

God utilizes all the substance of all the universes
to create in the joy of creation.

The Creator asks you to accept your role
as a co-creator of That Which You Are,
manifesting the world’s substances
from your heart.

It is not to bring in wealth
to hoard out of fear of scarcity
or to show off to boost up a false image
of who you thought you had been.

It is not a product, not a commodity.

It is simply to use money as a tool.

And there is no lack,
as the old world would have you believe.

For you to live abundantly
does not deprive others of abundance.
On the contrary,
living without fear of scarcity
allows abundance to flow
from you to others.

It is a win-win situation.

Affirmation

Every hour remind yourself that: I invite abundance in my life. There is no scarcity in God. Throughout the day, whenever you feel the urge to spend money on something, and that constricting voice tells you you cannot afford to do so, affirm: I invite abundance in my life. There is no scarcity in God. Then take three deep breaths and ask your angel, Soul, Higher Self, whether you need to fulfill this urge.

Challenge

Be very generous with money during this period of study. Tip big, give to those who ask for help. Give a feast. Buy some treats for colleagues. Buy a round of drinks. Just be aware of any constricting feelings when you think of doing so. Where do you feel it in your body? Breathe into the uncomfortable place with the affirmation: I invite abundance into my life. There is no scarcity in God. I am free to receive when I give.

— Janaka Stagnaro, excerpt Shasta Keys: Personal Guide to Self-Awareness, key D53

To see more of my artwork and purchase originals, high-quality prints, and merchandise, please visit my gallery at www.janakasartandbooks.com.

Tonight is the night when I take my place among the twelve across the Styx. Here I start, sitting in a pew in the empty church. I gaze at the altar, the cross, and the austere supposedly savior nailed upon it. The one who renounced in the desert the rightful desires of man.

Renounce, I will not this night.

I stand and turn my back upon that image that the priests keep shoving down our throats so we can vomit our confessions and thus make it to a sterile heaven.

I now descend, following a well-worn path, and come to a courtyard in front of an abbey. Yet it is nothing but a façade. I come to the doors where two doormen stand. Above them is a stained glass window, inscribed with words: Fais ce que tu voudras, do as thou wilt.

Oh, I shall.

The doormen, recognizing me nod their heads for me to pass through the wooden doors.

Immediately, I hear the laughter, the shouting, the moans of pleasure. I follow the noise through the turns carved into the limestone, lit by candles attached to the walls, bowing lest I crack my skull and out of submission to my desires.

I then enter the Banquet Hall, bright under the chandelier, and behold fellow gentlemen, friars we mockingly call ourselves, and other distinguished guests, in states of undress, stuffing their faces while perhaps a naked wench gyrates upon their laps or on their knees beneath the tables. Oh Baccus, how you free us from the whip of thou-shall-nots!

But here I do not tarry. Later. I must move on.

I leave and continue into the caves until they fork, one to go back and the other forward to where only the chosen may go. Without hesitation—I have hesitated too many times in my life, always following what my high-born station permits or what the Church inflicts—I follow the secret way.

And there I meet the Guardian, cowled in darkness only eyes can I perceive. He holds a candle.

“Desiderium animae tuae,” he speaks, his words echoing. Thy desire for thy soul. A Soul? What cost is that? My desires are real, my soul, but an idea, a notion none can point to.

I nod. He hands me the candle and waves me on.

Now, no more sounds of earthly delights, only the sound of water. The faint glow of my candle guides me, and my will. Then I reach the dark waters of the underground river. A cloaked figure stands in a boat with a pole in hand. I strip off my gentleman’s clothes and stand as I was born. I take from a pocket two silver coins and hand them to the ferryman, who silently takes them as I take my place.

Across the mirrorless water, we go. It is only a short distance and we reach the other side and another corridor. I walk, still holding my candle, and come to the last chamber, the Inner Temple. In the center is a round table. Around the room stand 11 men donned in black robes, heads covered, each with their own candle. I approach the table where, in a seven-pointed circle, lie seven objects, one on each point.

Each one, I must touch and savor what they offer.

Upon the top point facing me is a black onyx phallus. I go and touch its tip. Flashing into my mind is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She lies upon her back, naked, open to me. She is like Aphrodite herself. If I choose her, I will be the envy of all.

I follow the blood-red line and touch a gold coin. I am rich beyond all imagining. There is nothing I cannot buy. My estates endless, in countless countries. Even nobles seem like beggars to me, and they grovel for handouts.

I follow the line and touch the scepter. I am an emperor. Armies at my command. I hold life and death of all my subjects. There is nothing that can stop me. I can rule the world.

I follow the line and come to a tome with a square embossed upon its leather cover. My fingers trace the square, and I see myself in the halls of Academia, the greatest professor. There is nothing in the world I do not know. Inventions want to pour out of my mind onto blueprints. There is no question I cannot unravel.

I follow the line and come to a key. I touch it and see myself as great as the Pope, the Hierophant whom seekers from all over the world come to. I know the names and signs of demons and angels, whom I can control.

I follow the line and come to a crystal ball. I move my hand around it and see myself able to forecast all future events, what to avoid, and what to acquire. It is like an eye that can peer into the secrets of all men, every lie and every truth.

I follow the line and come to the last and touch a silver trumpet, and I can hear the herald sound forth and then call my name as the greatest ever in whatever field, to whom admirers flock with their praise and their purses.

“Choose now or return, back to the world of mere men,” the figures spoke as one.

In the center of the septogram lies a parchment I had not seen before, and upon it is a dagger. My finger traces its double-sided edges. As it does, the symbols I had previously touched are cut away in my mind’s eye. And I feel a freedom I have never experienced before. There is an emptiness and a fullness simultaneously.

I place my candle in the center as I pick up the blade. I look to my choice, the one I must keep secret. And I prick my right thumb, drawing a red pearl. Below the red writing on the paper, I place my thumbprint, symbolizing that my life is now given over to the search for the Self. I replace the dagger, and a brother comes forward and places a robe upon me. I gather my light and take my place in the circle.

And notice the paper is gone.

—Janaka Stagnaro

The Hellfire Club or the Brotherhood of St. Francis of Wycombe actually existed in 18th-century England, presided over by Sir Francis Dashwood. It was a men-only, pagan-based club with a lot of drinking and debauchery. However, there was the Inner Chamber, for which no record states what happened; only 12 could enter, passing the Guardian and crossing an underground river they named the Styx. Benjamin Franklin, one of the founding fathers of the United States, was a frequent guest of Dashwood.

I watched some ghost hunters on YouTube exploring the elaborate caves Dashwood had created. The caves are said to be haunted by a young lady who was accidentally killed in a prank gone wrong, an imp that causes people to laugh uncontrollably, a dark figure, and an old member who bequeathed his heart to his friend Dashwood. It was eventually stolen by some Aussie in the 1800s, and he roams around looking for his heart.

Since all records were destroyed, I wanted to create a possible scenario. What intrigued me most was the placement of the Inner Temple directly below an abbey. Two stories came to mind, both by Herman Hesse: Narcissus and Goldmund and Siddhartha. Both of these stories have the protagonist start with extreme religious devotion, who later swings to excessive partaking in worldly delights before eventually finding the middle way.

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I see the abbey representing the shoulds and below the musts. Both equally blinding in remembering one’s soul. Both poles are constrictive, and the soul is free of temporal pursuits. I do not believe one can lose one’s soul, but one certainly can lose awareness of it. To be aware of the soul is to be at ease, open, and expansive. Between the two places is a path. I imagine it circumambulates the hill so you can see the land and the distant horizon. If one gently gazes upon the world, one does not look but sees. Just like when one gently performs actions, there is a doing without the doer.

In the two realms of this story, the I that wants something to happen to me is all-consuming. There is no gentleness, only ambition. One ambition is to obtain heavenly delights, the other its opposite. The soul is not ambitious. There is no me to give to but only a great us.

However, both of these poles offer us something in our spiritual development. Wanting to live a religious, disciplined life or choosing one of those seven objects can be beneficial, something for the soul to experience. It is only the drive to achieve it at all costs that is destructive of being aware of the soul.

In the Tarot, the Devil card shows the Devil presiding over two naked figures, the Lovers, who are chained to the block of matter. This is the cart of lust, the I-must-have. But we all know stories of people becoming possessed by what they possess.

When we walk the middle path, we do not lust but love. Love holds nothing; it caresses and blesses. It does not possess. I can love writing, I can love making art, I can love my family. But I do not want to be possessed by them. Nor do I want to possess them. I am free. So many artists I know say they cannot live without doing their art. If that is true, that is a compulsion and thus limiting.

Anyway, I know both places well: The Abbey and The Hellfire Caves. Both offer experiences to visit, but neither place is where I want to live. I will take the wide expanse and enjoy the sunlight, breeze, and twinkling stars and moonlight.

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Thank you for reading. This writing was originally published on Medium. However, I have added some changes for clarification, and artwork.

Happy New Year, friends. May this year be one of walking in Beauty, standing in Truth, and acting for Goodness’ sake.

This is the time for many to make their resolutions for the new year, a time when the gym becomes full for a month and then begins to stabilize to the few gym rats in a month or two. I used to make vows of change and would undoubtedly fail in maintaining them. Why? Because of this struggle between what was, the default mode, and a desire to better myself in the future, and underneath it all was the ego playing its game of never being good enough.

I believe in the art of making better, of working with time and allowing the inner impulse that wants to blossom into a future self. But it has to be done with love. When I approach a canvas with the idea that I need to be good so others will appreciate it and I can prove my worth as an artist, the work becomes a struggle. If, however, I stay in the quiet place in my mind, where no judgment can exist, where unconditional love and acceptance reside, then the work will flow, not from me, but from a place beyond egoic pursuits.

See, the ego, this notion that we are separate from everything, can only exist in its power if we wrap ourselves up in that coffin of a concept of isolation. It thrives on winning and saying, “Look at me!” While looking down on those who fail. And it thrives on failing, on feeling a loser, beneath contempt. Both have to do with not finding true power, of being a speck in a hostile world. True power is remembering the connection to the Divine Self, to All That Is. In that remembrance, the ego cannot exist.

In other words, if you approach making change from an egoic perspective, regardless of the results, you will not find happiness in some future state, because you are not connected to the Self, which is unconditionally happy and is forever in bliss. Happiness does not wait down the road, ready to jump into your lap when you are good enough.

The first step of Lao Tzu’s advice is to watch your thoughts. Mindfulness is key. What are your motivations for the change you are seeking? Is it egoic? Is it something to prove? To make yourself more desirable? Does it lead to expanding your sense of who you are and reconnecting with the Divine or does it continue to keep you locked into the belief that you are a body?

Take health, for instance. If you want to change unhealthy habits to improve your health so you can be a better channel for the Divine to create a better world for all and to continue your journey as a unique expression of the Divine, knowing you are perfect in your timeless being, then such toughts will lead to right action, and new habits will be created and your character will transform. And your destiny will be in harmony with All That Is.

If, however, it is all about looks, for example, which is body-oriented, then you will be struggling each step of the way and your character will be no different at the end, whether you succeed or not. You will not be in harmony with the Tao.

So make a change, after all, life is all about change. Be the artist of your life and create anew on this 3D canvas, while all the while realizing you are loved every step of the way because your Self is untouched by time.

A Dream

On this theme, a month ago, I had a dream/experience. I was dreaming that my left lung collapsed and I was going to die from it. I “woke up,” and lying in the darkness in bed, I felt this dread. At first, I attempted to ignore the dread, but that only made it worse. So I went with it and I came to this place of pretending I was dying.

On that threshold, which now seemed very real, between sleep and waking, the hypnagogic state, I felt myself leaving the body and moving on.

Before this moment, I have had concerns about dying. Not the process. But about things undone and what I would leave behind. I have a huge body of artwork and was concerned about what would happen to it or my books, the ones published and those not yet finished. Legacy concerns, I guess. And there were some places in the world that I wanted to see.

But now, on the threshold, all those desires, those concerns evaporated. They meant no more than a dream. All that mattered in that moment was love. A deep love for my family and in general. All that remained was love. My art, my writing, my learning the guitar, the few things on my bucket list, all faded in importance compared to the blazing sun of love.

And then I awoke, my heart full. And since then, there is no residual resentment when I am called away from playing music, writing, painting and such. A Course in Miracles has been working on me all these years to come to this place, where the only function I have is to respond to the call of Love and to see my brother/sister with the eyes of love. Nothing else matters. Life is a lot lighter when there is only one function, and one that God has bestowed.

My only function is the one God gave me.

1. The idea for today reaffirms your commitment to salvation. ²It also reminds you that you have no function other than that. ³Both these thoughts are obviously necessary for a total commitment. ⁴Salvation cannot be the only purpose you hold while you still cherish others. ⁵The full acceptance of salvation as your only function necessarily entails two phases; the recognition of salvation as your function, and the relinquishment of all the other goals you have invented for yourself.—A Course in Miracles (ACIM, W-65.1:1-5)

Thank you, friend, for taking the time to read these words. I wish you love as there is nothing else. Peace upon you.

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The following poem I wrote nearly 40 years ago, around this time, when my country began ramping up for Christmas, which nowadays happens before Thanksgiving. As an adult, Christmas has been low-key, even with children. Sure, there are the gifts, but in moderation. Without children, it is a celebration of family, but more importantly, it is a time to find the light within—a time for contemplation.

When I returned from my time with the Peace Corps in Cameroon and my subsequent travels to the Himalayas in Nepal, I arrived in the San Francisco Bay Area before Christmas to see family after three years abroad. I went to the large, opulent Stanford Shopping Center and was stunned by the insanity of people rushing around buying, buying, buying. This is not the American Dream, I thought. It is an American Nightmare.

Years later, when my oldest son, in his early twenties, asked me to go with him to a mall the day after Thanksgiving on what is called Black Friday, the biggest day of consuming, my first response was no. Then I decided to make it a practice to find a neutral place and quell my aversion to it all. I sat in a foyer and watched the chaos of people running, shoving, frantically going from store to store before their items of choice were sold out. It was not an easy lesson to refrain from aversion. Even my son realized the madness.

With all that said, here is what I wrote, those many long years before.

Christmas Time

Outside in this city of images of Los Angeles, the world swirls about in madness in this time of celebrating the birth of Spirit and inner Peace. All of Nature, in this time of the longest night, reminds the humans to quiet one’s life and look inside, to make room for contemplation. But in this city, and all the cities of this land, the bright lights of advertisement signs pull us away from traveling upon our breath into the cradle of our souls. And to the malls we run.

O fools, run you hither and thither
To buy things that will only fade away.
With smiles and bright packages
You give gifts that will last
As long as a thought.

You scurry around
Like rats on a warehouse floor,
Cursing and fighting each other
Over crumbs you plan to give with love.

Review your gifts
And see what you wish to get.

What promotion might you receive?

What appeasement of a familial should?

What does the Master give
At this time of celebrating
The birth of the Master?

Nothing more important
Than the blessing of a smile.

Why does the Master smile?

For he sees things as they really are.

He smiles at himself.

Under the heavy foot of time,
As gifts break
Or are torn asunder
Or crumple into tangled shapes,

The smile of the Master never fades.

Why should it fade
When the Master is safe from time?

Smile.

Smile with the knowing of who you are
In the Peace of the Spirit
Of this day.

Go into the quietude
Of the cavern of the Self
And know the Truth.

There is no one to give a gift to;
No one from whom to receive.

Be your Self.

Free from the rampage of time.

And smile.

Smile upon your Self.

And thus smile upon the world.

— Janaka Stagnaro, excerpt for Footprints Along the Shore of an Incoming Time: Impressions of a Fellow Traveler

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Thank you for reading. I wish everyone, in whatever form they practice, a joyous celebration and a time to find the light within the darkening days.

“For God’s sake, he works in the garden section. It is this life you must deal with.”

I woke up this morning with these words, admonishing several dream persons who paraded around in costumes of supposed past lives. The one I spoke of tended to strut around in a Roman centaurian uniform. Two were talking of him as though he was still living that life.

I know the allure, the distraction of seeking to find out what I’ve been in previous lives. Dreams have pointed to such answers, as have psychics and feelings of deep connection. Sometimes it has been helpful, calling on abilities I believed I had already accomplished previously, or to deepen a connection to a personality that I wanted to emulate.

But a lot of it was the ego’s way to avoid the present with all its mundane challenges, to feel special, to long for what was in a melancholic stew.

And then there’s the ploy to keep seeking those lifetimes that prove that I deserve the painful circumstances I have found myself in, that I must atone for.

But all such probing is the ego’s ploy of seeking without the desire to discover the truth. It is the gardener pruning back the leaves of the poison ivy that has invaded the garden, clipping off one after another, without once and for all pulling it out by the roots.

In the ultimate sense, reincarnation is impossible. There is no future, and the idea of birth into a body has no meaning either once or many times. Reincarnation cannot, then, be true in any real sense. Our only question should be, “Is the concept helpful?”…If it is used to strengthen the recognition of the eternal nature of life, it is helpful indeed.—A Course in Miracles (Manual for Teachers)

The only place for truth to reveal itself, to discover one’s divine nature, is in the present. All past events, whether in this life or some other, are symbols of what we perceive from the present. Whether we judge them good or bad. Regardless, they are not real, they are filtered by the lenses of who we think we are now.

In other words, when my mind wants to reminisce on times when it said I was holy or fantastically special, it is just my mind playing mind games, to keep itself in search mode, not wanting to rest in the Silence of the present. I can’t be any holier or more special than who I AM NOW. Even if I AM working in the garden department.

Self Inquiry (Atma Vichara)

Ramana Maharshi taught the simple technique of self-inquiry, of constantly being aware of one’s thoughts and turning them back on the Source from which they arose, by asking, “To whom do these thoughts arise? To me. Who am I?” The true answer can only be Silence, otherwise, they are just thoughts, the workings of the ego-mind. So the inquiry repeats itself until the mind gives up and rests in Silence.

No definition can contain the eternal nature of the Self, of God. They are vain attempts. This inquiry bypasses theory and metaphysical postulations. It is all about going directly to the Source.

At first, it can be difficult, but it is easier to accomplish during meditation, sitting in a morning ritual of going inward. The more practice it, the more the Silence, which is always there, will be revealed. However, the wonderful aspect of this practice is that it can be done throughout the day. You can be silently present, no matter what activities.

The enquiry: “Who am I?” really means trying to find the source of the ego or of the “I” thought. You are not to occupy the mind with other thoughts, such as “I am not the body.” Seeking the source of the “I” serves as a means of getting rid of all other thoughts.”—Ramana

“Who am I” is not to be repeated as a mantra. It is a deep questioning, a yearning to one’s Self, to God. It is like coming home to your estate after years of exploring the world. As you open the front door, servants come and offer you all those things of your past that you had relished or attempt to bring you into the library where you had spent so much time in your studies. But you avoid them, brush them away. All you want is to lose yourself in the embrace of the Beloved who awaits you upstairs.

With every inquiry, you a running up the stairs. With every moment of Silence, you are in Truth’s embrace.

Thank you, friend, for taking the time to read this. I would love to hear your thoughts.

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To whom do these words arise
and settle on the page
in an order designed?

Who will read these lines
and the whispers in between?

How many pairs of eyes
that can still be poked
and tears squeezed out?

I read these words
as I have held my children,
while most who can find me
will just give a shrug.

Perhaps a few
will give an ascended thumb,
yet my books await on shelves
as dishes for ancient silverfish.

God, the 40 years
of prose and poems
have amounted to sales
that would not even buy
a steak dinner at Chez Panisse.

Yet, still I write
like some mucilaginous slug,
leaving a silver trail
for angels to follow in the moonlight.

— Janaka Stagnaro, excerpt from Thoughts Across the I: Poems About Life and Death and Bits In-Between

Thank you for reading. I think this sentiment holds true for any creative trying to make a living in this capitalist, mercantilist system, where worth is often equated with financial success.

I have been talking to several artist friends in the artistic town of Carmel, where I have a studio, one of whom sells every painting he creates (a rarity, believe me), about how difficult it is to make a living selling art. I am blessed to be teaching art full-time in a public school now, and even if my extensive catalog of work were to be sold over a year, it would not come close to what I am earning teaching. My successful friend has an art gallery where he sells his work, but mostly early Californian pieces to support his family. As an art historian, he said most of the artists he sells came from wealthy families, so they could afford to pursue art, or many found secondary jobs such as teaching art. My other artist friend, next door to his gallery, keeps the doors open with what she earns as a nurse. It also helps to have a spouse who brings in the money. Vincent van Gogh had his brother, Theo, to support him, as he had sold only one painting over his career.

When I was writing on Medium (and here on Substack), I saw many writers hoping to make a living doing what they love: writing. Those who love to write will continue to write, even if that dream does not manifest. Others, who like the idea of being a successful writer, will do whatever it takes, even using a bot to write for them. I find this sad.

To be creative is to tap into the Creator within. Using a bot is a soulless act. It is not worth any amount of financial success.

While there have been moments in my artistic career, which this poem reflects, when I have felt like a failure due to lack of financial success in selling my art and books, they are mostly blips. I see the many things that I do—father, teacher, husband, spiritual practitioner, artist, writer, musician, traveler—as spokes on a wheel, all connecting to the Self/God. My happiness does not depend on any transitory spoke.

Knowing this has most likely dampened any ambition I might have had if I thought my happiness, my worth, my definition, was tied to such success. I am afraid I am not obsessed like many famous creatives have been.

One of the blessings of not being dependent on such sales is that I can write and paint in freedom. I am not making a product. I am expressing my journey of self-discovery.

Still…it sure feels good when someone buys a painting or a book:)

Now, I have a particular time and place in mind when I began my artistic journey. But it is not valid. Having taught art to children in various ways for over 30 years, there is creativity at work whether a child is in an art class or even has art supplies. I do not remember drawing or playing with paints in my early years, but I am sure I did. I vaguely remember being graded on some artwork somewhere around fifth or sixth grade and feeling like a failure. Whether this is a false memory, I do not know; I know that around that time, I shut myself off from art.

I do remember drawing military planes and tanks in class, however. I drew a lot of T-34 tanks. I took no art classes in high school, nothing creative besides writing. I was into sports.

It wasn’t until I was preparing to go into the Peace Corps 40 years ago, in my early twenties, that I made a serious effort to do art.

While working at this horrible temp job (just a few weeks), as a collector whose job it was to get people to pay up (I usually told them not to worry about it), I was in a cubicle next to this guy my age who was drawing a dragon.

“Man, I wish I could do that,” I said to him, with a wisp of a fantasy of making art like Roger Dean, the artist of Yes album covers.

He looked at me square in the eyes. “You can. Just go to the library and get a book on how to draw!”

“I’m not an artist,” I hemmed and hawed. Subconscious tapes blared that my self-identity might be shattered.

“Just do it.” And he returned to his dragon.

That night, I went to the library and got a book on drawing. I opened timidly to a page on how to draw a tiger, got a pencil and paper, and did it. I drew a tiger! I was blown away. Doors opened to a new identity.

“What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?” — Vincent Van Gogh

I never saw this angel again to thank him for his encouragement.

I was soon off to Cameroon, West Africa, bringing with me a couple of art books (Pencil Drawing Techniques by David Lewis and Drawing Scenery: Landscapes and Seascapes by Jack Hamm — both of which I still own and are well-worn), pencils, watercolors, a sketchbook, and watercolor paper. And I began to play with art. At my post in the apartment where previous volunteers had created a library, there were also two art books — Drawing from the Right Side of Your Brain by Betty Edwards and Zen and Seeing: Seeing/Drawing as Meditation by Frederick Franck. I recommend all four books.

Here is the first watercolor, which my wife framed for me. She says it is not for sale. It is from a postcard my mother sent me from their trip on the Rhine.

While I did a lot of drawing and some painting, I had not immersed myself in art. It wasn’t until ten years later when I was training to be a Waldorf teacher, that art became an integrated part of my life. It became a facet of my spiritual journey.

After teaching for 25 years as a Waldorf teacher, where art is integrated into all subjects, I worked for the Monterey Arts Council and went into schools that were bereft of art. I currently teach art full-time at an elementary school. While I may whip out a painting or drawing for a demonstration, students will ask how I am so good at art. Then I tell them I have been doing art seriously for 40 years, far longer than they have been alive. Then I repeat my learning mantra: Practice makes better.

I have told this story to many adults who do the same thing I did when they enviously look at my work. If you have the desire to do art, you must apply yourself to practice. So many will say they can only draw stick figures, which is nothing more than a self-imposed limitation from school when they last tried.

So if you want to bring art into your life, go to the library on how to draw. And just do it!

Thanks for reading. Let me know if you have any questions. I would love to hear how you began your artistic journey. I will leave you with a poem I wrote in Cameroon, a presage of who I would become.

The Painter

A million horns sound
The ending of the day, while
The sun paints the sky
Orange in exhaustion, unseen
By the passing red eyes.

They see only dinners on trays;
Martinis on overload.
While their day dies,
His never ends; no unwinding
Of the clock for him.

As others socialize or
Become TV-tized, he sits
By his easel,
Creating the coming day.

— Janaka Stagnaro
from The Throne of the Mountain Kings: Poems Strewn from Africa to the Himalayas

Happy creating…

If you want to see more of my work, please visit my online gallery here.

Last night I had a dream. In the dream, I had a shelf lined with wooden statues, each one intricately carved. They were displayed proudly, these statues I had so painstakingly created. And then he came. The Master. Ramana. And silently, one by one, he pushed them off, with a gentle poke of his finger, each and every one of my statues. And they fell like ducks in a shooting gallery, leaving only an empty shelf.

While no words were spoken, I knew that with each piece knocked off the shelf, the message was: “You’re not this; you’re not this.”

Who is Ramana Maharshi? He was an Indian sage (1879-1950) who spent his awakened years at Arunachala in Southern India, a sacred mountain said to be a manifestation of Lord Shiva. Ramana taught mostly in silence, as he said that silence is the true nature of who we are. And all thoughts, definitions arise from this silence.

One of the practices he accepted for his students was Neti, neti — Not this, not this. Neti,neti is a meditation practice associated with Shiva, who, in the Hindu Trinity, is the destroyer. What does he destroy? Illusions.

All forms, all nouns, all definitions are fated to be destroyed. And if they are what we think we are, then we are bound to suffer.

What were these statues? All the self-definitions that I believed myself to be. A plethora of nouns I wrapped myself into like shrouds. I am a father, husband, Waldorf teacher, artist, writer, son, friend, etc.

How difficult it is not to become a noun in a world of names. It is not that nouns are wrong or that one should renounce nouns, that would be silly and contrived, and impossible. However, the danger comes when one believes these nouns, which come with a label of definitions on the backside of what that particular noun is supposed to be by various standards.

How do you know if you are walking with a label? When you hear the word should. We do it all the time. A woman should be this way, a man another. If you are of a particular religion, or a specific race, there are ways you are supposed to look and act. And when there is fear of not being able to embody a particular definition. History is full of examples of creatives who disregard the fact that they have a family to care for but they are so locked into the definition of being an artist or writer or actor or whatever that they abandon their family. It is not about just creating, because you can always do that, it is about ambition about becoming that desired definition or maintaining their name, their status.

Nouns are nothing but garments that we wear in society to interact with each other. “What do you do?” “Oh, I am an author.” Or we use them to advertise who we are on flyers or business cards. The problem is that just as some people who buy designer clothes go around flaunting themselves, giving the impression of success and affluence, so too do we flaunt these definitions. Look at the bumper stickers of cars in America, such as I am a proud parent of an honor student; I am of this political party, a fan of a particular sport, etc. We become so wrapped up in these definitions, just like mummies. And we forget.

And the opposite is true, where we are ashamed of our labels because we are wrapped up in past regrettable actions, or we are enshrouded by the names imposed upon us by family, teachers, and society. And we believe the labels and wear these shabby garments, presenting ourselves shamefully to the world.

With both the positive and the negative, we forget the subject. I am a CEO, I am a peasant, I am rich, I am poor, I am smart, I am stupid, I am beautiful, I am ugly. The constant variable in all definitions: I AM. The I AM begins every statement. It is the name we all have, —I AM Janaka, I AM Ramana, I AM Mirabai—as Ramana so often pointed out. But the mind focuses on the wrappings.

We forget our nakedness that lies underneath any such nouns.

To come to the truth, to that nakedness, all of our fashioned statues about who we think we are must get knocked down. (And not just those about ourselves, but those we made of others whom we have defined by their actions.) If we do not, then life will do it for us.

We become parents, and then we watch our children leave us. We get married, and the other leaves for another. Maybe we grow wealthy and then watch the financial world crumble. And as everyone will experience someday in some form, we find our body lying on our death bed, gasping for our last breath.

All forms, all nouns, all definitions are fated to be destroyed. And if they are what we think we are, then we are bound to suffer.

Practice

If you want to find the naked truth of who you are, sit in a comfortable position with your eyes closed. Take deep breaths. Now watch your thoughts. Any thought that arises at this time, just say inwardly: I am not this.

In the West, thanks to Descartes, there is the maxim: I think, therefore I am. In the East, it is more: I am, therefore, I may think. So whatever the thoughts, whatever definitions, with each one, whether it is a noble one or a vile one and everything in between, see them on your life’s shelf, so masterfully worked, and gently, one by one, push them off, saying: I’m not this; I’m not this.

Why any thought? Let’s say it is a fearful thought of losing your job. There is a definition behind that fear. What is it? That you believe you are a human being, pitifully small and alone in the universe. If you did not think that, if you knew that you were beyond the definition of being a carbon-based creature, you wouldn’t have fear.

For example, this morning in meditation, I watched thoughts arise about writing this article, about where I wanted it curated, how many views — all in a matter of seconds. I am not this, I affirmed. And I knocked them down. Another article idea started to arise: I’m not this. Vigilant, I kept watching until the shelf was clean. Or at least for a while.

I am not a writer. I AM. A writer is just one aspect of who I AM.

Do this for 10- 20 minutes. The morning is an excellent time to set the focus for the day of finding the truth. With any meditation, keep it stress-free. If it becomes stressful, end the session or just go back to watching the breath.

If you are new to this, it will most likely be difficult. But if you are stressing about the results, guess what? You are subtly defining yourself as good or bad. Practice makes better. Or, in this case, the shelf cleaner.

And if you are going through the day, if you find yourself worked up by some person or by some event, whether it is a painful emotion or even an elated one, no doubt you have wrapped yourself in a definition. If you think you are sad, you are not that. If you think you are happy, you are not.

I AM sad. I AM happy. I AM.

They are just emotions. They are only events. They are just thoughts. Knock them all down. You are not suppressing. You are remembering the I AM before you start adding all the layers upon your nature. It is just that you are not any of it.

Not this, not this. And enjoy your empty, naked self.

Thank you for taking the time to read this. Initially, I wrote this a couple of years ago and it was published on Medium. Today, I made some changes to it. Let me know if you have any questions or want some clarifications.

In my chair
I travel the Outback;
Beyond the beyond,
Back of Bourke.

I walk under a Sun
Too intense for city dwellers
To lug around their grocery bags,
Where no roads lead
To neon-lined malls.

In this outback of my mind
There is nothing
I can find
To rub my leg upon,
To even spit and shine.

My feet are rubbed raw
Walking over the bones of loved ones,
Killed by expectation’s embrace.

I have no face
Beyond the beyond;
No words back of Bourke.

Only a Silence
And a Nameless Name calls me,
Leads me,
To where all things grow without a trace.

Yes, I sit in my chair
And walk the empty Outback,
Beyond the beyond,
Back of Bourke.

And quench my thirst
Without a sound
In the Great Billabong.

—Janaka Stagnaro, excerpt from my book, Beyond the Beyond: Poems to My Beloved Self.

High in the Himalayas, at the village of Gorek Shep at 16,000 feet, where I had a little sleep at such an altitude, I had a dream of traveling to Uluru (Ayers Rock), where I would meet my Aboriginal father. Within two years, I made my way to Perth, Australia, where I began hitchhiking most of the continent.

For as long as I can remember, I have had a fascination with that land, pulling for the Aussies in the Olympics and pretending I was one at parties with a fair dinkum accent. On my way to the Rock, between rides and spending some time in Canberra and Sydney, I went solo into the bush several times. I started hiking solo a few years earlier in Cameroon, while serving in the Peace Corps, and continued it in Nepal. Not only was I accustomed to this solitude, but I also craved it. On this journey, I heard someone in the Outback talk about a place that was so remote that it was “back o’ Bourke.”

When I reached Alice Springs, the nearest town to Uluru, I heard about the multitude of tour buses and the hordes of “ants” crawling upon the sacred site. My desire to visit evaporated, and instead, I hitched a ride to the McDonnel Ranges and camped in a national park that had been previously devastated by a flood, so I had the park to myself.

There is a natural silence in the wilderness that includes the crows, dingos, and any other creature. Since that time in the 80s, and through all my travels and seeking out quiet places, I have learned through meditation that I no longer need to go back o’ Bourke, but can go beyond the Beyond in my mind, anytime, anywhere, which is much cheaper and far more comfortable.

Thank you for reading and taking a little tour of related artwork. May your days reside beyond the Beyond.

The following is an excerpt from The Teachings of Yama: A Conversation with Death. The book is told in a running narrative of shifting scenes of my teacher, Yama, and me. Yama appears as either Death or Dharma (following your Heart/Soul’s path. The latter guise is far more pleasant. The book comprises biographical anecdotes from dream and waking states, imagination, and parables from other teachers. This excerpt was from a dream I had.

I randomly chose this section. It is based on what happened to me in the desert near the Hopi Lands in Arizona, where I lived with this teacher and his disciples. It happened nearly 40 years ago and served as a catalyst for my spiritual journey, although it was not exactly pleasant. But a great learning experience about spiritual glamor and falling from powers.

I hope you will find the following meaningful.

I found myself walking through the doors of a metaphysical bookstore. Yama was nowhere to be seen. Behind the counter sat two men. One of them was rather pudgy, with intense eyes behind thick plastic-rimmed glasses.

“So you have come,” the pudgy man said. “It is good to see you again. So good.”

Again? I had never seen him before; however, I was drawn to him and sat down in the chair he beckoned me towards. He waved his hand and a large mineral appeared.

“This is for you.”

“Thanks” I muttered, not certain about what I had just seen.

The other man said that he was picking up in the Cosmic Records that I was some famous person, and the other agreed and named who I had been, along with even more amazing historical figures. I might as well have been told I was Napoleon or Cleopatra.

I felt a rush of fascination. Maybe it’s true? Maybe I was those people? When they invited me to their land out in the desert, I jumped at the chance. Could this be my Master? I thought. There is such a pull.

The first few days, I lived in heaven. The man with the glasses materialized gems for me, would touch me and send me into a bliss undreamt of, read my mind and explained my past and foretold my future, called down spaceships for me to see, and told me I was his son and that he was the Only Begotten Son of God.

Oh, how special I felt; how special the twelve of us were who served this master. He called us the elite of God, created by God in a special way to lead souls back to God and to prepare for the earth changes and the New World.

Then the days turned to hell as this teacher made mudras (hand movements) and an etheric fire would burn upon my neck with an agonizing force, demanding my total surrender to his will.

Other times, wrathful spirits would manifest through him, changing his face into fearful distortions, and I watched in horror and dismay as this teacher strangled willful disciples. I saw struggling disciples lifted off the ground by their necks who refused to do his bidding.

“You are either with me or against me. If you are against me, you are against God. And God will cast you out into the far reaches of space, into the nether worlds.”

I fled into the desert. I prayed and prayed to be able to surrender to him, who surely was my Guru. He certainly must be my master, for that drawing to be with him, to love him, I have felt with no other person. And who else would have such powers?

Yet...yet...how could God cast me out? How could I get outside of God, Who exists everywhere?

Wait a minute, I said to myself, feeling a growing rage, this is not the truth.

I cannot be outside of God. God does not cast out.

This is not my Guru. I do not choose to follow this path!

*******

As I made this declaration, Yama appeared to me in the desert, a big grin upon his face.

“So you do not choose this path. Why?”

“He is not my teacher. He teaches lies!” I said angrily.

“He is not your teacher? Has he not taught you anything? Is there nothing positive you can bring forward into your future from this? Are there no warnings for your future as well? Or was it all just a big waste of time?

“And if it was a waste of time, and since I am time, then you would be saying that I really do not know what I am doing, that I am meaningless.”

I did not want to hear this. I felt only anger. I felt betrayed, used.

I had bared my soul to this man, who wanted to use me only for his own egotistical plans.

I felt raped.

I kept silent while Yama sat next to me. Neither of us said anything for a long while. Finally, I regained my breath and the anger became replaced by more calm. And at last, some words escaped from my tight jaws.

“By showing me the opposite path, I came to realize without doubt that I cannot be outside of God.”

“Good,” replied Yama, “but why was this other path so alluring for you?”

I thought for a while.

“I was special. He told me about those famous people I might have been. And that I was among the chosen few of God and that we had a special mission.”

Just thinking about it, I could feel the warmth of excitement at the possibility that perhaps this teacher was really who he said he was, and that I may just be what he said I was. How glorious . . .

“Ahem!” Yama said, clearing his throat. “Seductive, isn’t it? How do his new definitions for you, the elite of God, the son of the Son of God, harbingers of the New World, compare with the Infinite, Boundless Self?”

I shook my head vigorously to shake out the deceptions.

“There is no comparison. His is a beautiful leaf decaying upon the floor of an endless forest of trees piercing the clouds.”

“What else lured you?” he asked.

“Powers. Yes, powers. And I thought I was beyond craving powers. After all, I denied what you offered so I may know the truth.

“Still, he displayed powers that I had wanted when I was a child—when I had had the fantasy of being a superhero.”

“Once?”

“Well, perhaps I still may have that fantasy now and then.”

“And what do you think those powers have done for him?”

“They have destroyed him,” I said sadly, for I still felt a love for him. “He has become deluded by them.”

“Yes, the mind has awesome powers, being that it is divinely created. It can do anything.

“If one has not found the Self that is beyond the mind, That which gives the mind its power, then when powers arise, it is nearly impossible not to identify with those powers of the mind and not feel special.

“And that specialness is a cage that cuts you off from all creation.

“And since you feel cut off, you will seek more power to feel expanded. However, that only tightens the noose.”

“Are all powers bad to possess?” I asked, a part of me hoping for some redeeming quality.

“If you want to go beyond my reach as death, just focus on having love for God and a desire for truth. And avoid seeking powers.”

—Janaka Stagnaro

Happy Autumn,

Welcome to new subscribers, and thank you all for subscribing to Into the Mystic. Thank you for connecting. Your support means a lot.

I want to share with you the art I created last month-ish. Today, Wednesday, is my prep day, which is like a little mini-weekend, when I get to prepare for the 600 plus students who will attend my art class at a local elementary school. I am going on two months now and my full-time teaching legs are slowly coming back. I teach classes from TK to 6th grade, so I have to prepare accordingly. The above pumpkin and the others in the following gallery are demos I have made, which hang in the front of the class.

The media used are pastel, watercolor, and crayon.

I do manage to get into my studio at least once on the weekend. My studio is in downtown Carmel. All of these acrylics are based on older intuitive black and white drawings. I have enjoyed revisiting the images with a new medium, working with colors.

The following are a few watercolors. The first two are imaginary landscapes, but certainly inspired by the beauty that surrounds me here in the Monterey Bay area. The two tree paintings, I referenced photos from my journeys. When I reference a photo, I will look at it, then put it aside. I might come back to it again, or I might not. I don’t want to get stuck in the “reality” of the place.

And finally, I end with a pastel, an inner landscape. If you look at it upside down, you might see a head.

Well, that’s the tour. Thank you for taking it. I hope you enjoyed it. Any favorites?

If you like my art, you can see a lot more at my online gallery, where you'll find a diverse selection of originals, archival giclée prints, and a range of merchandise, including shirts, cups, cards, bags, and more. And if you ever see work I have posted, but cannot find in the gallery, please let me know.

Please be sure to LIKE and COMMENT—it helps a lot in getting my work seen by the Great Algorithm.

May you value what is valuable and see what is true. May art fill your days, in whatever form.

In Love and Light,

Janaka

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PREVIOUS POSTS

• PARABLE: The Peacock is a parable about reflections and projections. An excerpt from Parables for the Soul.

• AFFIRMATION: A random Shasta Key and commentary about saying yes to what is brought before you. An excerpt from The Shasta Keys.

NOTES

Check out my notes for inspirational or insightful quotes, writings, and artwork, including my own and that of other artists and writers I admire. I post daily.

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THE PEACOCK

One morning upon a stroll around the farm, a peacock came upon another peacock he had never seen.

This annoyed the peacock of the farm very much, because, after all, he was king of the peahens; and here was this stranger standing so proud and beautiful, without the slightest sign of humility.

“We’ll see how grand this upstart is,” said the peacock to himself.

And with that thought, the peacock struck at the stranger. Yet with every thrust of his beak, the other parried perfectly. Not once could the peacock penetrate through his foe’s defenses.

Nonetheless, continued he did. Until the beaks of both bled.

Finally, the two birds fell exhausted, without either a step in gain.

The peacock stared at the bedraggled stranger.

“Well, stranger, perhaps I did not best you. But at least you do not look so proud now.”

Then the Peacock turned and walked away, leaving behind the reflecting glass door.

—Janaka Stagnaro, excerpt from Silent Ripples: Parables for the Soul

This is a simple lesson, but hard to remember, when people and the world are not doing what they are supposed to be doing, according to what we want/demand to be happening.

We see what we believe we are. We see monsters if we believe we are a monster or have monsters within us we don’t want to see, and we throw them out of the secret chamber within, hoping to exorcise them. But they can’t be rid of them in that way, for they will come back and stare you in the face in the guise of another.

They do not come to attack you but to be seen and invited back into that secret chamber, not to hide but to await your descent down the stairs, carrying a bowl blessed with tears, to wipe the monster’s sullied feet.

In the Tarot, the archetypes of humanity abound, each one hoping to be seen as divine, whether Emperor or Empress, the Charioteer or the Fool, the Devil or the Angel. To play with a full deck, all must be embraced and skillfully expressed.

Yet these expressions are reflections. Some we like. Some we don’t. Some we identify with, others we shout are not me. But no matter which one shimmers in the mirror, the mirror is unchanged.

To see the reflections as they truly are, is to remember the mirror and its permanence in relationship to the fleeting images.

And to remember the viewer watching it all.

Thank you for taking the time to read this. What are your thoughts about life being a reflection of the inner?

Watch a child’s eyes sparkle with the excitement of discovery. A child will run to school if there is the expectation of learning something new, hoping to be thrilled with that natural sense of wonder. The you who you are, created by That Which Is, is a child exploring the Omniverse with a sense of wonder only the untainted child knows. You have come upon this planet to learn what it is like to live in matter, to manipulate it with your mind as a sculptor would manipulate clay.

The you who you are opens the door to the classroom of Earth when you open your eyes each morning. You will learn something every moment of your day, with every encounter, with every thought. Every meeting with a human will give you a new perspective; with everything you meet, you have a chance to interact with it differently than you have ever done before. For the grown-up, learning is usually studying something that can be useful later. Grown-ups even design schools where children learn things to pass tests and eventually earn diplomas to obtain jobs.

The child learns because they live in the soul, and the soul is ever learning about its relationship with God. The child learns for the pure joy of learning, without any utilitarian need. Learn not because you will grow more remarkable in some particular field path. Such a goal is noble and helpful. However, for this study period, see every moment as a gift to learn from, as a child watches a pill bug roll up into a ball in the dirt or another sees with admiring eyes a trash collector perform their task. You do not need to become a biologist or a trash collector; be in the moment and try not to be anything.

Every hour remind yourself: I welcome every experience as a chance for learning. Randomly, stop and look around throughout the day, letting your eyes fall upon a random person or object. Say to yourself: I am looking at this _________ with the fresh eyes of a child. How wonderful it is!

— Janaka Stagnaro, excerpt Shasta Keys: Personal Guide to Self-Awareness, key T54

Thank you for reading this key, which I picked randomly out of 108 keys.

It has now been a month of teaching art full-time in a public school, teaching over 600 students, ages TK to 6th grade. Every day, I witness the loss of that childhood wonder. With each older grade, the light diminishes. It blazes bright with the young child, but alas, it becomes covered by the impositions of media and the daily drumbeat of “learning.” But it is not learning, it is not exploring and making discoveries. It is being assessed to determine if it can effectively process the input of data, allowing the adults in charge to evaluate the pedagogical theories' effectiveness. Otherwise, if the results are not satisfactory, they will tweak and write new books, make new apps, to find the optimum.

In the meantime, that natural wonder that we all possess, that we all come to express and discover in this world, fades under the tombstone of productivity, social norms, and what we are fed electronically.

While the divine is everywhere, even amidst all the noise and commotion of a city, it is easier to experience in the tranquility of nature. Regardless, however, the adult mind needs to shut off, with all its “knowledge.”

Years ago, I read a Tom Brown book. The author reminisced about going into the wilderness with his Apache grandfather. They saw a scrub jay, I believe, and his grandfather asked him if he knew what that bird was. Tom gave its name. To paraphrase what his grandfather said: That is the problem with the modern world. You think that just because you can name it, you know it. You have to observe it, to be with it, in its environment.

And what I would add, if he didn’t, you have to see it with the eyes of a child. To be in the place of unknowing.

That place of unknowing allows for the Great Mystery of Life to reveal itself, in both the outer and inner world.

So with that said, may your eyes shine with wonder and openness this day and all your days.

.

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Happy Wednesday,

Welcome to new subscribers, and thank you all for subscribing to Into the Mystic. Thank you for connecting. Your support means a lot.

For some reason, I'm seeing articles about snakes in my news feeds, including warnings about getting bitten and what to do if you're unlucky enough to have been bitten. One article was about a man hiking in Tennessee who saw a snake and decided to pick it up. It was a Copperhead. It, of course, bit him and he died.

So since Snake is making its presence known to me, which I consider one of my totems due to dream and physical encounters, I have decided to share this anecdotal story about how Snake rescued me from depression when I was serving in Cameroon with the Peace Corps.

Before I do so, I just want to say that my mother, while she was deathly afraid of spiders, would have no problem holding snakes. It saddens me how so many people are fearful of these amazing creatures, whom they find loathsome. In fact, I do not know how any of God’s creatures can be seen in a wondrous light.

With that said, here is the story. Initially, it was published on Medium as a prompt about going into the underworld and coming out transformed.

How a Snake Rescued Me from My Hell

I opened the pot on the counter. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” I asked in my poor French, which should have been better by now.

“Duiker. C’est très bon, le patron,” said the young lady.

Great, a mini deer.

I closed the lid and settled for a hard-boiled egg with hot chili sauce to accompany my Beaufort, my fourth liter of lager for the day.

The beer did not make me happy; instead, it highlighted my disgust towards my situation here in Cameroon, for this resort town for French tourists, for my work — if you call it that — for me and my life.

Holding my beer in this off-license bar while sitting on a beer crate, I looked at calendars of years past, with pictures of happy Cameroonian families realizing that Guinness was good for them.

Duiker. I would love to see a duiker; in fact, I would love to see any fucking animal besides the bushmeat in pots.

Here I was, six months in as a Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV) in Africa, a place I watched for years on the TV show Wild Kingdom, teaming with life. But not here in Dschang. What life there was became dinner. I hadn’t even seen a snake!

The Peace Corps had warned about this time, noting that many PCVs would experience it around the same time I was. The three months of training were over, and all its camaraderie was gone. Now, I was the lone volunteer in a town I did not want to go to. I came to Cameroon with the romantic hope of living in a remote village, where I could write about something truly amazing and emulate fellow PCV and renowned travelogue writer Paul Theroux.

And the job sucked. Not the work itself, but there was no structure, no one telling this 24-year-old what to do, sometimes sitting in the office of Community Development with no one there because nobody felt like showing up. Being white in a county brutally colonized by the French (not to mention the British and Germans), people called me “le chief” or “le patron,” and I didn’t know shit. I felt like I was living a lie upon this historical pedestal of colonialism.

I felt isolated. I stood out like a piece of white chocolate in a bowl of cocoa. And then, to pound me into the orange clay earth a bit more, I received a letter from my fiancé, whom we had planned would join me in a year. She had married her ex-boyfriend. Furniture flew upon that reading.

I slept for long hours, to the point where I had difficulty distinguishing between dreams and waking reality. I was drinking a lot, which was socially expected. At the off-licenses, I would meet my new Cameroonian friends — gendarmes and colleagues. While many of my colleagues were anglophones, most townsfolk spoke French, and my French was hardly great. So, conversations were never deep, and I dislike small talk.

And I kept diving deeper into that dark place. I didn’t even have my music to throw me a lifeline. I thought I would immerse myself in the local music, but I could only listen to so much Makossa and Bob Marley.

One day, I traveled with the department head, engineer, and chauffeur in a 4x4 Suzuki. I was alone in the back. We returned from a village visit where no one showed — “Don’t worry, there’s always tomorrow.” I saw no wildlife as usual.

Then it appeared, slithering across the dirt road, a beautiful black snake.

“Look!” I cried.

“Get it,” my boss commanded the driver.

“No, no, no!” I shouted.

And over the snake, he went.

“You mother fuckers! Let me out now!”

The driver stopped. They shook their heads in puzzlement and nervously laughed as I stormed out. I ran to the snake, whose guts were wriggling out of its skin. It was a Forest Cobra, still alive; heedlessly, I picked it up and shook it at its killers.

“You bastards,” I shouted.

I then put it to the side of the road and watched it die and sulkily climbed back into the vehicle. They were just busting up at this crazy white man. Every day for the next week, they would chuckle when they saw me and shake their head, raising their hands and holding an imaginary snake. No doubt the whole town of 20,000 knew the story (or so I imagined).

While they were having a jolly good time at my expense, I was thinking dark thoughts. I didn’t want to be here anymore. Not just here in his town but on this planet. I felt such self-loathing that I had killed this snake. I had summoned it, and now it was dead.

I fixated on it.

While this may be chalked up to the ravings of a depressed mind, prior to coming to Africa, I had two experiences that showed how powerful intentions could be. Both occurred when I was reading Seth Speaks by Jane Roberts, which discusses how our thoughts create reality (a story for another time).

A week later, we went out to another village. This time, villagers were there, and these impoverished people feasted us with chicken (the natural gesture that Cameroonians, whose generosity I would experience throughout my time there, although I was too much in my hell to see such a beautiful deed). As we were walking along a trail to the fields, I was in the lead. Suddenly, a 5-foot green snake slithered on the trail a few feet from me. The villagers behind started screaming and brandished their machetes to kill it.

That was not going to happen. I blocked the trail while they threw projectiles past my head at the creature. Then the snake turned toward me as I jumped out of its way, and I watched it disappear into the bush.

I had saved it. I had saved a snake. And I was free.

“Just as a snake sheds its skin, we must shed our past over and over again.” — The Buddha

Whether that was a deadly Green Mamba or a harmless Bush Snake, it did not matter. My depression ended, and I came to enjoy my two remaining years in Dschang and later realized it was a perfect place for me. Another volunteer became a neighbor, and I developed some deep relationships and did work I was proud of. And I did see much wildlife later on my travels, although I never did the safari experience.

Over the years, I have had many powerful snake dreams. I nearly stepped on one in Australia (possibly an Eastern Brown), and I have had several profound close calls with rattlesnakes on my hikes here in Carmel Valley, California.

Snakes are powerful symbols. In the West, the story of Eve is associated with evil and temptation. In the East, it is associated with the Nagas, a serpent race of the underworld with supernatural powers, and the Kundalini, the serpent at the base of the spine that becomes awakened when one becomes enlightened. In Native American teachings, it symbolizes the transmutation of poison. It is also the symbol of transformation, of shedding one’s skin.

Did I ever eat a snake? I did and even helped dress a dead Ball Python, which I later relished.

Thank you for reading. May you embrace the shedding of the old.

If you like my art, you can see a lot more at my online gallery, where you'll find a diverse selection of originals, archival giclée prints, and a range of merchandise, including shirts, cups, cards, bags, and more. And if you ever see work I have posted, but cannot find in the gallery, please let me know.

Please be sure to LIKE and COMMENT—it helps a lot in getting my work seen by the Great Algorithm.

May you value what is valuable and see what is true. May music brighten your days.

In Love and Light,

Janaka

(Written by a human)

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RECENT POSTS

• PARABLE: Adam is a parable that reminds us live our own life and not succumb to society’s pressure to do otherwise.

• ANECDOTE: My Drinking Days Gone in a Flash is an account of how my drinking addiction was dissolved with the touch of Grace, a result of studying A Course in Miracles.

NOTES

Check out my notes for inspirational or insightful quotes, writings, and artwork, including my own and that of other artists and writers I admire. I post daily.

PS. Let me know if there is anything else you would like to see in this newsletter or in Into the Mystic.

ADAM

For a timeless while, Adam strolled through the lovely green countryside, relishing the peace that rolled over the gentle hills in a presence like that of the morning fog.

Adam thought not of where he went, nor of whence he came. He knew only that where he was at any particular moment, that must be the place where he was meant to be.

At times, he would blow a dandelion and watch it be carried away in the arms of the wind, or watch a leaf from a tree fall fluttering to the ground; and to them he would call them brother.

Indeed, aimless and free, he floated over the land in joy.

Until one day, when he came to a town.

Down the middle of this town ran a road lined by two brick walls to either side.

Facing these two walls stood the townspeople, lined up and banging their heads against the bricks. In time, like gears in a clock, their bodies would sway back and forth, their heads making a dull thud against the hard bricks.

The sight of two rows of people willfully knocking their heads against two brick walls...well, struck Adam as a bit peculiar, to say the least.

But to each their own, he thought, shrugging and continuing straight ahead through the town, now leaving the cool, soft grass for the hard, lifeless road.

He tried at first to ignore these strange people, to be content with his joyful thoughts. But when he had walked halfway down the road, his curiosity had him ask a man why he banged his head upon a wall.

“What else should I be doing?” said the man, who had paused in his activity. “My father did it, as did his father—for generations down the line. It’s what I’ve been brought up to do.”

“Does it not hurt?” asked the confused Adam.

“What? You mean banging your head? Hell, you get used to it. There are worse ways for a man to make a living.” The man resumed his work.

As Adam stood there trying his hardest to imagine a worse way to make a living, in front of each person, from slots in the walls, fell silver coins. Everyone stopped, picked up their coins, looked to their neighbors to see if they had earned more, then continued striking the walls.

The man Adam had just spoken to held up one of the coins. “See, it makes it all worth it.

“And besides, it gives a man a purpose. It gives him respect. If you know what I mean.” He looked accusingly at Adam, before facing again the wall.

Adam walked away saying to himself: Who needs a purpose anyway, especially one as inane as banging one’s head against a brick wall, just to earn some silly coins?

Is there no better purpose than to be able to send forth, onto the world, thoughts of joy?

Anyhow, what do I care what they think of me?

Yet as he pressed forward upon the hard road, and began noticing the glares of accusation and disgust from those he passed, he found himself stopping several times to explain:

“I do what I do because I find peace in my freedom. I follow only the dictates of my heart. I do not need such a purpose as yours.

“I love simply who I truly am.”

Yet no one made reply. And more and more, Adam would stop to explain. Until, at last, he took his place, at the end of the line.

—Janaka Stagnaro, excerpt from Silent Ripples: Parables for the Soul

I wrote this parable a half a lifetime ago, when I was traveling the world with my backpack, after living in Cameroon working with the Peace Corps. I had returned home by Christmas time after two years abroad, living a simple life. I was appalled at the mad commercialism I witnessed as people ran around frantically buying gifts. I soon picked up my backpack again and continued the journey.

Even with a family to support, years later, I have not felt like I have ever had to bang my head in meaningless work, something which I had committed I would not do and which my angels have made possible. The Covid pandemic helped many people see that they could no longer continue banging their heads for a few coins. I know of several Sustack friends, and , who left the line and took up a simpler, more meaningful life.

In Waldorf education (in which I have taught for over 25 years), how children are motivated to work is to give them meaningful work and to instill love for the teacher, who they see as constantly learning in a variety of fields. As you move up with the children, the teacher must continue to grow, and the bond between teacher/student becomes very strong.

Rudolf Steiner abhorred the idea of classical conditioning, of reward and punishment, as such conditioning should be only used with animals and not human beings. This year, I am an art teacher in a public elementary school. At this school, they use Otter Dollars to dole out to children so that they may buy trinkets, in order to motivate them to do the required work.

In order to get my teaching credential to work in a charter school years ago, I had to do this BTSA program for new teachers in the district. They handed us a giant binder full of worksheets. Fortunately, the pedagogical head at my new school, a Waldorf Charter school, said she would do some of the work for me and a couple of other new teachers. I realized that with around a hundred new teachers to process, and since we would submit them in the last class for return by the end of the class, I knew they wouldn't be read. So I wrote blah, blah on most of the sheets or practiced writing fiction on others. And sure enough, they returned our meaningless work with a check and a well done.

That was what it was like in my schools growing up. Meaningless.

Fortunately, in my art room, I have sovereignty, and I will not use dollars to motivate my students. I will let the meaningfulness of art lead them down paths of discovery.

The principal came in the other day before classes began and said she wished every class had me for four days a week, because of how I taught brought meaning to the students. She confessed to feeling constrained by the drumbeat of assessing every student that the district demands. She, like all my colleagues, has their heart in the right place, but is trapped in a closed system, like a hamster wheel.

The other night, I bit my tongue while dreaming so badly that I bled. While I have shared my views here and there at the school, even with the superintendent, I have to bite my tongue at the norms of a school system that teaches children to grow up to be headbangers, making it all worthwhile by the Otter Dollars for their cracked skulls.

Trusting that the art will soften the blows.

Thank you for taking the time to read this. What are your thoughts about living a meaningful life, to stop banging against the wall?

“Miracles honor you because you are lovable. They dispel illusions about yourself and perceive the light in you. They thus atone for your errors by freeing you from your nightmares. By releasing your mind from the imprisonment of your illusions, they restore your sanity.” — A Course in Miracles

The following was the last story I had published on Medium before leaving the platform. I was just mentioning my pilgrimage I undertook in Australia in the 1980s, and how it had transformed my life, a significant part of which was due to being introduced to A Course in Miracles. So here is that story.

“Ugh! This tastes terrible! What is this music? What am I doing here?”

The final words of my drinking days.

Nearly 40 years ago, while touring/living in Australia, the torment of drinking came to a close, plucked from me like it was a thorn by the grace of God.

I started drinking in my senior year in high school. I had a fake ID and would buy alcohol for myself and my friends. Alcohol made my social anxiety take a backseat for the comic to come out at parties. Plus, it was cool, and when you are labeled among the jocks, you drink. It is just what you do. I was so cool that I would go home for lunch, put some bourbon from my parents’ liquor cabinet in a root beer can, and go to Biology, drinking in class under the clueless Mr. Shepherd’s nose.

High school was a stepping stone to attending Chico State University, a renowned school for partying. The dorms became so bad with partying that many on my wing were kicked out and started I Tappa Coors, a drinking frat without the pretense of doing social good. We drank so much that Coors sponsored us. I would drink to obliteration four days out of the week.

This prepared me for the Peace Corps. Not only did we volunteers drink hard, but the home country of Cameroon, where I served, rivaled Germany in beer consumption (they had a Guinness brewery with billboards showing the whole family with a beer — “Guinness is good for you.” My Cameroonian colleagues expected me to be social and frequent the off-licenses. My highest count of beers was 15 liters in a day. But hey, I was like Hemingway and Hunter S. Thompson. Excess was what writing was all about.

After two years in Cameroon, I packed up my backpack and traveled, enjoying the camaraderie of fellow travelers. I thought nothing of drinking until I had my Damascus moment while hiking solo in Nepal. I had experienced the Presence of God, and that was all I now wanted—Except for those times when the old sodden tendency reared its bleary-eyed head.

And to the nightclub, party, cafe, I would go and imbibe, forgetting what I truly desired. And the next day, I would mentally flog myself for being a worthless sinner, a failure. My travels took me to Australia a year later. On the way, I toured Bali. I was thrown into such mental/psychic anguish—sinner one night, saint the next. I thought I would lose my mind.

When I arrived in Perth, I began the journey of hitchhiking around the continent. Of course, Aussies love to party, and so I kept forgetting and feeling like shit when I did. Only once did I not hitchhike, from Melbourne to Canberra, where I would went to live with an Aussie I met on my travels (they do love their traveling). The only one on the bus was this little old lady. She looked at me, smiled, and beckoned me to sit with her.

I sat down and uncharacteristically began to weep in the presence of this beautiful soul— not the usual response one does when one first meets a stranger. We talked and talked and she invited me to a study group of A Course in Miracles (ACIM).

“You are as God created you” was one of the first passages I remember reading. Everything I read and what we discussed was that there was only love and no one can ever get outside of God, which was counter to the teachings this teacher I met out in the desert of Arizona espoused (a much longer tale for another day). So, after initial resistance, I began to accept that I was unconditionally loved and, in fact, an embodiment of love.

One of the concepts of ACIM is the idea of the holy instant, another name for a miracle or grace. When we work on ourselves, we work in time, going from one level to a higher level. And in that journey of betterment, a lot of striving occurs. It is not easy.

“The winds of God’s grace are always blowing, it is for us to raise our sails.”― Ramakrishna

However, when the holy instant occurs, time is folded up, and you are instantly at that destination. It is a miracle.

That happened to me at this party in Canberra. I was no longer that person who struggled with alcohol. Not by anything I did that night, but by grace. It would not be the last touch of grace in this life. And from that day on, I have had no desire to get drunk again. My older son likes to drink beer, and I will have maybe half a beer for his sake when we visit, for love’s sake.

I have met many who have found Alcoholics Anonymous a lifesaver. And I am happy that they have found a lifeline to leave a life that is so crippling. Finding social support from others striving in the same direction is crucial. The only thing I do not like about it is the definition that members wrap themselves in — I am an alcoholic or an addict.

No, you are not. You are the divine child of God, greater than you can even imagine. Nothing in time can ever affect you. Yes, you/I have expressed littleness by drinking, but it has no bearing on the Truth of our divine nature. You may have an addictive personality, but again, you are not your personality. It is just a vehicle of expression in time.

May you remember who you are and act from that knowing, and be open to the power of grace.

“The holy instant is nothing more than a special case, or an extreme example, of what every situation is meant to be . . . The holy instant is the shining example, the clear and unequivocal demonstration of the meaning of every relationship and every situation, seen as a whole . . . It is a situation of perfect peace, simply because you have let it be what it is.” — ACIM

Initially published in Catharsis Chronicles on Medium.

Happy Wednesday,

Welcome to new subscribers, and thank you all for subscribing to Into the Mystic. Thank you for connecting. Your support means a lot.

Last week was the first time I have missed publishing my Substack newsletter. It was my first week of teaching art at the new school. And tonight is a Back-to-School Night. It has been a wild ride, teaching 23 classes over the week, ranging from TK to 6th grade, with 80 percent of the students being English as a second language, and my Spanish being muy poco. Some of these children are stuck here at school for 12 hours a day, as their parents work the fields to provide us with food. With over 600 students, there is a lot of institutional control just to manage it all. For those new to this newsletter, I have been a class teacher in various Waldorf schools; the largest school I have ever taught at, a third of that size. I hope it will settle down as I get my teaching feet back under me, in order to remain consistent with my Substack writing.

In speaking of writing, several months ago, I woke up with the idea to write a book like Gibran’s The Prophet, but for the 21st Century. I love Gibran’s style, and I readily picked it up along my writing journey, which is most apparent when I write parables. Additionally, the image of a messenger, a guide, or a teacher is an archetype that you will find in my art and other writings as well. While I love the prosetry of Gibran; I didn’t relate to a lot of his teachings and didn’t get through any of his other books.

This is not new to have a book descend/arise from the dreamworld. Two of my books, Silent Ripples: Parables of the Soul and The Teachings of Yama: A Conversation with Death, both originated from the Land of Nod, as R.L. Stevenson called that mysterious land of our dreams.

As I sat with this idea for the day, I needed a name to fit this messenger that wanted to come forth. The Great Reminder kept rolling over in my mind. But that’s not a name. So I searched for names across the world. I was like an expectant parent searching for one. When I came across the name Yadavari, meaning Reminder in Persian, I knew I had found it. And once the name appeared, the words began to knock on my psyche.

The first chapter I wrote was The Arrival of Yadavari. To be followed by: The Creator, Diversity, Prosperity, Food, Freedom, Parenting, Tradition, The Earth, The Cosmos, Relationship, Love, Sex, Peace, Distraction, Company, Anger, Children, Teachers, Technology, The Visitors, The Mind.

The following is a list of other possible chapters: The Body, Leaders, The Soul, The Spirit, Evil, God, Balance, Devotion, and Meditation.

Here is where I ask for your help. What other chapters would you like to see?

I have avoided looking at The Prophet since this idea came forth. Besides a few excerpts I have read, it has been decades since I last read him. I want this book to be fresh. As of now, the title is The Great Reminder.

Now it is my joy to introduce Yadavari, the Great Reminder (still in draft form).

The Arrival of Yadavari

Yadavari sat relaxed upon a knoll beneath an old oak tree. The sun shining overhead, though not too hot. He was a stranger to the land, though a stranger he did not feel. It was the same ground as all ground his bare feet had ever touched. The same air he has breathed and shared with all living things.

He reached to his side and picked up his wooden flute. And played. The breeze carried the notes. He waited. And then they came.

A band of people began to walk the path to where he sat. Some wore business suits, others clothes with patches. Parents holding children, lovers holding hands. Some wore flowers in their hair while others wore uniforms for battle. They sat down before him in silence and listened to the notes, free of rhythms, each one a fractal of hidden songs.

Then the notes ceased and returned to the silence from whence they arose. The only sound, the crows in the distance.

And then one spoke. “Who are you and why are you here?”

Yadavari spoke.

“I am called Yadavari, among many names. I am the Great Reminder, an ancient memory. Each one of you sees me differently, your invisible lenses upon your eyes colored by these times, your upbringing, your biases, and your desires. Some see me as a man, others a woman. But who I am no pronoun can capture.

“I am one beyond labels, of this modern time and not. I dress in this simple white garment to remind you of the white light of our nature, though we operate in the prism of this world, each one with their own hues.

“My garb is simple, for to understand my words, your mind must be simple.”

“Where do you come from?” one asked.

And Yadavari laughed.

“No words can describe the land from whence I come, for the words you use are shaped by this dimension of time that you believe you reside. There is no coming from, for I am simply here.

“Now.

“You want me to say I come from this land or nation.

“But such notions offer nothing to me and offer nothing to you, only a little hook with the bait for your prejudices to swallow. If I say I come from India or America or France or Bolivia, you each will project your past concepts of those lands upon me.

“If I say I am not of this world and a traveler of worlds, what can that offer you? Nothing that will clear your eyes and see me as who I am, for some will respond with fear, while others with infatuation, and others with skepticism.

“All these filters will keep you from hearing and experiencing what I have to offer.

“Why am I here, you ask?

“I could ask the same of you. It is a question you should ask of yourself every day of your existence.

“I am here because I was sent here, as were you. Each one of you called me because of what you feel you are missing. Every one of you--whether you are rich or poor, successful or struggling, in a relationship or single, young or old--believes you are not fulfilled.

“You have spent your lives seeking one thing or another, like restless birds flying from one tree to the next, hoping that one day you will find the right one where you can make your nest.

“But no tree grows in this land or any other that offers this rest that you seek.

“I am here, the Great Reminder, to remind you of your origin and where you are going and where you are right now.

“I am here to answer your questions so that you may go beyond questions.”

—Janaka Stagnaro

Thank you for reading. May you find guidance in your dreams.

If you like my art, you can see a lot more at my online gallery, where you'll find a diverse selection of originals, archival giclée prints, and a range of merchandise, including shirts, cups, cards, bags, and more. And if you ever see work I have posted, but cannot find in the gallery, please let me know.

Ben purchased a print of a chalkboard drawing of Baba Yaga (no, not John Wick) I made years ago for one of my classes.

It came! Janaka Stagnaro is an amazing artist, and being able to look at this every day is a true gift.—Ben

Please be sure to LIKE and COMMENT—it helps a lot in getting my work seen by the Great Algorithm.

May you value what is valuable and see what is true. May music brighten your days.

In Love and Light,

Janaka

(Written by a human)

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RECENT POSTS

• POETRY: The Disneyland of Reality is a poem that reminds us that we are on quite a ride and we might as well enjoy it.

• POETRY: Whispers Among the Tombstones is a poem about golfers playing oblivious to a cemetery.

• ANECDOTE: The Power of Divine Love is an account of meeting an extraordinary woman who found divine love in the most heinous situation, transforming the encounter into a healing event.

NOTES

Check out my notes for inspirational or insightful quotes, writings, and artwork, including my own and that of other artists and writers I admire. I post daily.

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PS. Let me know if there is anything else you would like to see in this newsletter or in Into the Mystic.