He's in town visiting for a couple weeks, and, as my closest friend, I have to mention him in this, my first blog post. I'm talking about a 6'7" nomadic rapping Jewish shaman who at any time may break out into a song and dance or emanate a primordial healing tone that stops people in their tracks.
A case study in sociology should be conducted on people's reactions to him. Some stare in awe, others mock him. Quite often, people recognize him from various places all over the country. Whether they believe he's a crazy homeless man, a scam artist, or an enlightened master, there is one thing these hundreds of people can agree on: Te'Devan is not normal.
In fact, let's face it, my best friend is a lunatic to most. Perhaps I would have agreed at some point in my life. Whether he's pole-dancing in a subway car, meditating in the supermarket, or healing a stranger on the street, he marches to the sound of his heartbeat with better rhythm than anyone I've ever seen. He interacts with others with a quality of social liberation that frees him to break down the barriers that separate him from other people, to truly connect with anyone - and, indeed, everyone.
Normalcy. What a relative concept. Any snapshot of one's life - a single moment taken out of context - may constitute lunacy. Being in a city always makes me much more aware of this. I engaged a "lunatic" in conversation last week on the subway. Once I understood how to decipher his language, I discovered he was a deeply metaphysical thinker. He brought my attention to the necessity and precision of the threads along the lip of a discarded soda bottle.
"Friction! It's Friction!" He exclaimed, wild-eyed with spittle flying. "It's everywhere!"
Imagine the wonder of a world in which everything is new. What would it feel like to see the world through the eyes of one on whom nothing is lost? Isn't it worth the small sacrifice of reputation to be able to recognize the minute details of life for the miracles they are? And what are we, as presumably "normal" people, really saving by clinging to our sanity with such ferocity?
I saw Ammachi in Manhattan last month. She told the story of a man who spent his entire life training to climb the tallest mountain in his country by himself. On the last day of his difficult journey - only 100 meters from the top of the mountain - he slipped and fell off the side of a cliff. As he fell, he knew for certain that he would die. Suddenly, he felt a powerful jolt as the rope around his waist caught him in midair. As he hung he shouted, "Help me! Please, God Help Me!"
Just then, he heard the proverbial thundering voice from on high respond, "Do you really believe I can save you?"
The man answered, "Yes, of course! You're God, you can do anything!"
God said, "Cut the rope that is holding you."
The man, petrified with fear, only clung more tightly to the rope. Days later, a rescue team found the man's corpse, frozen, still gripping the rope around his waist, only a few feet from the ground.
After all what is enlightenment if not abandoning the self for the Self, who knows no social boundaries? If sanity means self-censure for the comfort of others, or a life-long quest for validation, I'd far prefer insanity over such futility.
So stick around, because I have a feeling you may soon find me another homeless, closeted Bodhisattva, in rapt conversation with the trees as the real world spins around me.
"Day after day,
Alone on a hill,
The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still
But nobody wants to know him,
They can see that he's just a fool,
And he never gives an answer,
Well on the way,
Head in a cloud,
The man of a thousand voices talking perfectly loud
But nobody ever hear him,
or the sound he appears to make,
and he never seems to notice,
And nobody seems to like him,
they can tell what he wants to do,
and he never shows his feelings,
And he never listens to them,
He knows that they're the fools
They don't like him,
The fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down,
And the eyes in his head,
See the world spinning 'round."
Alone on a hill,
The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still
But nobody wants to know him,
They can see that he's just a fool,
And he never gives an answer,
Well on the way,
Head in a cloud,
The man of a thousand voices talking perfectly loud
But nobody ever hear him,
or the sound he appears to make,
and he never seems to notice,
And nobody seems to like him,
they can tell what he wants to do,
and he never shows his feelings,
And he never listens to them,
He knows that they're the fools
They don't like him,
The fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down,
And the eyes in his head,
See the world spinning 'round."
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