VERY EARLY THIS MORNING as I flew high over the Himalayas, waiting for the Sun to rise, I thought about what to write on this, my first home page.

One of the strange ironies of the internet is that the people who have the least to tell say the most. Like me. As human beings go, I am not wise, nor particularly kind, nor very smart, nor talented much in any special direction. And yet here I am talking about myself to you, whom I have never met, and whom I may never meet in the flesh -- at least not in this life.

I don't make a lot of money (I don't make any money), I don't have a husband or children, or a high-powered job. I am not particularly musical, I don't draw or paint very well, I'm not too athletic, or even that coordinated, I don't have a big heart that moves me to work much for the poor and downtrodden. I do make a decent secretary -- but who wants to be a secretary?

I love animals, but I'm too impatient to take care of them. I like children, but I'm not ready to be a mother. I like men, but I don't know anyone I want to spend a life with. Or even a night with.

So, you see, I'm in a bit of a quandary about what to write about myself. There's just not much to say.

I have a sister, Sof, who is God's gift to humanity. I love her to death. Well, maybe that's not the best way to put it. Our parents are nice people, and did a lot for us growing up. I see them holidays. But they're thoroughgoing materialists, and I don't have much in common with them now. My father is in international banking, is obsessed with his golf swing, and spends every spare minute in his walk-in humidor or on the cabin cruiser. My mother bakes croissants and cakes for local charities when she's not steaming at the club or carousing Bergdorf's and Barney's with the girls.

My sister Sof was the first one in the family to delve into the world of the Spirit. She fell in love with a guy who was studying with a Sufi Master named Hoom. And when the blackguard took off for a five-year retreat in the foothills of somewhere in the mystic East, Sof replaced him with the Master Hoom. She began to flower. And then I met my own spiritual teacher.

I bumped into him, literally, on MacDougal Street. I almost knocked him over. I was on my way home from a film class at NYU Extension. The first thing he said to me was, 'Do you have any money?' Maybe not his exact words, but something like that. I don't normally give to beggars, but something about this man moved me strangely. He invited me into a restaurant where he was eating with a friend. I had more fun that afternoon than I'd had since summer camp in the Catskills fifteen years before. I paid for the meal, but he never again asked me for a cent.

I realised that my life was about to change drastically -- and it did. Within a week I had this man, who is something like ninety years old, and whose name is Patra, and fourteen of his students living with me in my loft. Luckily it's a big loft.

Now they have their own center, but for awhile my place was like a spiritual comedy club.

I saw that my life so far had been pretty much wasted. I had put all my time and energy into cherishing, enriching, hating, promoting and defending a self that didn't even exist. I realized that life is so much more than getting and spending, so much deeper than the passing thrills and chills we endure chasing our tiny, silly desires. I woke up -- slightly.

That's about it for now. If you want to know more about Patra and the spiritual school he tends, click on The Door to the Bunnysattva link.

The Door to the Bunnysattva

What is the Bunnysattva Sutra?

The first ten pages of the Sutra

The Bunnysattva

Me in my last life

Thanks for readingthis far -- most people have itchy mouse fingers. Good luck in your spiritual search, whether you know you are on one or not. I do the correspondence for the Bunnysattva Sangha and there are so many letters I rarely get to answer my own. So if you write me, chances are I won't have time to write you back -- but I will definitely read it, and pray to the Bunnysattva for you.



Om Bunnysattva Soha