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https://www.theguardian.com/books/2018/jan/28/12-rules-for-life-an-antidote-to-chaos-by-jordan-b-peterson-digested-read

https://www.amazon.com/This-Timeless-Moment-Personal-Aldous/dp/0916515958

https://www.amazon.com/Between-heaven-earth-recipes-living/dp/B007ET18ZG

As human beings we want desperately to believe.

“Have you met any spiritual people,” a young man asked me.

I refrained from saying, “Every person is a spiritual person.” Instead I said, “Every person who promotes themselves as a spiritual person isn’t.”

He had come to hear my talk THE POWER OF LOVE.

We talked. I found him very interesting to listen to. The next day he called to say thank you.

THE TEN COMMANDMENTS don’t work. If they did the world we live in would be extraordinary.

IN 1968 I discovered The Wilhelm/Baynes edition of THE I CHING. The I CHING teaches that the inferior man tries to create order out of chaos while the superior man recognizes the order inherent in what appears to be chaos. Jane Jacobs, in her own way, states this truth. The Superior Man in THE I CHING is not found sitting at the table of those who see themselves as rich. He is seated with those they who see them self as rich despise. This is what separates Christ from Christians.

Neither do any of the many self help books. Jordan Peterson’s 12 RULES is for the gullible. Unfortunately, there are lots of gullible people.

A few years ago I invited Laura Huxley to come to Toronto as my guest to speak about her experience with Aldous Huxley who took LSD on his deathbed.

She said, “Have you read my book, THIS TIMELESS MOMENT?”

I said, “I will.”

After I had read it I sent her a 14 page stream on consciousness letter. The spirit of Huxley was visibly with me. In it I told her why I would not need her to come to Toronto.

After two weeks I called to ask, “Did you get my letter.”

She said, “I hoped you would see it that way after reading my book. Do you come out to California often?”

“Once in a while.”

She said, “When next you do I’d like to meet you.”

We never did meet in the flesh. It was not required.

Here Krishnamurti explains why Jordan Peterson’s book (and all books like it) is a waste of time..–Reg Hartt 2019–06–1.

 

This Timeless Moment Laura Archera Huxley

 

The day after our arrival in this resort town was a memorable one. It is unusual to meet, within one hour, as I did, three persons of such diversity and prominence: the former Queen of Italy, Krishnamurti, and Yehudi Menuhin. Krishnamurti gave a talk, that morning, of unique intensity. Aldous’s comment on this in his notebook was: “. . . the impression of intrinsic authority that he gives, the enormous reserve of power.” I had met Krishnamurti, superficially, years before when he was in California. This morning after his talk I met him again, with Aldous, and we planned to see each other the next day.

Among Krishnamurti’s listeners were Yehudi Menuhin and Marie José of Belgium, former Queen of Italy. Years before, when I was studying with his teacher, Georges Enesco, I had met Yehudi briefly; Aldous had dined with him and Diana, his wife, just a few days before in London. Aldous had great warmth and admiration for Yehudi. He felt in him an extraordinary inner power and peace over and above his artistic excellence. I have the impression Yehudi was not thinking of music that morning but was under the impact of Krishnamurti’s intense talk. We met Diana and Yehudi later in the week. What a marvelous fusion of talent, kindness, and brilliance! What a pleasure, Aldous and I agreed, to view the world through their bright humor and compassion!

After the talk Aldous and I were walking leisurely in the vast expanse of green in front of our hotel, waiting for lunch. A gentleman, leaving a nearby group of four or five people, came to Aldous and introduced himself; he was the personal ambassador of Marie José of Belgium. She was there, a few yards away, and was inviting us for lunch.

It was an unexpected honor and pleasure.

It was a lively, interesting lunch. There were many similarities between Marie José and Aldous. Both were tall and slender; both had had difficulty with their eyesight; there was, in both, a strange aura of defenselessness that made people want to take care of them; and both had that peculiar kind of shyness which arises not from preoccupation with the self but rather from a concern for causing others to be shy. Perhaps the basic quality Marie José and Aldous had in common was an inner, intrinsic aristocracy, regardless of rank or position or place; it would be evident in the Royal Palace or in the fish market, in the most sophisticated library or in the Brazilian jungle—or even on Hollywood Boulevard.

Marie José was an admirer of Aldous; he had known her mother, the Queen of Belgium. There was much talk about The Art of Seeing, about Krishnamurti, ESP, and life after death. Then the Queen, who was practicing with a new camera, took pictures of us all.

Years before, as a girl of fourteen, I had played one of my first concerts in Turin in the presence of Her Highness, then Princess of Piedmont. As we took leave I told her what a great honor and emotional experience that occasion had been for me. Between that concert and today’s lunch Marie José had participated in history in the making: she had become queen and had been dethroned; her native country, Belgium, had been invaded and its Royal Family exiled. But noblesse oblige: the Queen, of course, said that she remembered with pleasure my performance.
The next day we were invited for lunch by Signora S., a Florentine woman who was Krishnamurti’s friend and hostess. A year and a half later, when Aldous went to Rome for a few days to attend a congress, Signora S. and Krishnamurti were living there. Aldous wrote me, “Signora S. looks after Krishnamurti with enormous devotion—but does it without being a holy woman which is not easy in the circumstances. She is really a very remarkable woman.” I knew exactly what Aldous meant by holy woman. He had had to develop ways to evade the eager solicitude of holy women, for though it sometimes amused and touched him, it also usually embarrassed him. It arose naturally enough from his being famous and pale and handsome, from his having written cynical novels as well as The Perennial Philosophy,’ and from his having been, years before, a vegetarian. Aldous had gone on a vegetarian diet to improve his digestion, but most people interpreted his action as evidence of spirituality. I think that what especially disturbed Aldous about holy women (and men, too, who had the same approach) was that they tended to make their idol into a symbol and in so doing diminish his humanness.

At the Signora S.’s we had a delicious luncheon—the regime was completely vegetarian. Anyone can successfully prepare the good classic American dinner in fifteen minutes—salad, steak, frozen peas, and ice cream; it is nutritious, unimaginative, and satisfying. But a completely vegetarian dinner is very often a failure—understandably so—for to achieve variety and nutrition without meat, fish, eggs, and milk products requires imagination and knowledge, patience, and above all a really Epicurean perception of Nature’s gifts.

At Signora S.’s the food was natural, alive, and varied. Aldous and I praised it and were told that the order and combination of the courses had been made according to the famous Dr. Bircher-Benner of a nearby clinic in Zurich. From recipes for food, we went on to speak of my “Recipes for Living and Loving.” I had been very active in psychotherapy that year and had almost finished my book. Aldous spoke about the origin of the word “recipes”—it is the imperative of the Latin word recipere, to receive—and told our hosts how my recipes had succeeded with some people for whom the orthodox methods had failed. Krishnamurti asked a few quest ions and listened intently. We spoke about vitamins and imagination, solitary confinement, LSD, alcoholism, and the congress on extrasensory perception that Aldous had recently attended in the South of France.

After lunch Signora S. tactfully suggested that I might want to speak alone with Krishnamurti. She and Aldous went into the living room. A large French window opened onto the terrace, where Krishnamurti and I were left alone. The French window was closed, but, as I realized later, Aldous could see us silhouetted against the sweeping view of the Alps. An hour or two later, when we left our hosts, Aldous could not wait to ask, “What in the world happened between you and Krishnaji? You two were gesticulating with such animation and excitement—it almost looked as though you were having a fight. What happened?”

The silent pantomime Aldous had seen through the French window must have been descriptive of our conversation—an extraordinary conversation against an extraordinary panorama. Krishnamurti and I had stood, walked, and sat on the terrace of the Swiss chalet, enveloped by high peaked mountains and pine woods of all gradations of green, light exhilarating green, and the deeper green of the vast mountain pastures. Brightness again, in luminous sky and in shining flowers, in sensuous undulating valleys, in Krishnamurti.

Brightness everywhere.

The first thing I asked Krishnamurti, continuing our table conversation about psychotherapy, was how he dealt with the problem of alcoholism. He said nonchalantly that it had happened quite often that people, after one or two interviews with him, stopped drinking. When I asked how this came about, he said he did not know. He dismissed the subject and asked me whether LSD, mescaline, and the psychedelic substances in general were really of any benefit or just gave a temporary illusion. I told him of the medical research done in Canada in the field of alcoholism—of unexpected and successful results reported by Canadian doctors with a number of hopeless alcoholics who stopped drinking after only one or two administrations of LSD, and without further therapy. Krishnamurti seemed surprised.

He was silent for a few moments. There was something that he was going to say; also I had the feeling that his inner intensity was too powerful for the medium of words. I had no idea what was coming, but I knew something was about to happen. Silently he was holding my eyes with his dark burning look. Then with an extremely tense voice, he exploded, “You know, I think that those people who go about helping other people . . .“ He stopped—then, with an even more piercing gaze, he spat out the next words like bullets of contempt: “those people . . . they are a curse!”

After the conversation at the table I had no doubt that “those people” included me. The accusation and the fire with which he flung it at me were for an instant paralyzing. Then, almost without thinking, I asked, “What about you? What do you think you are doing? You go about helping other people.”

As though he had never thought of himself as belonging to that cursed category, Krishnamurti was taken aback for a moment, totally surprised and perplexed. Then, with disarming simplicity and directness, he said, “But I don’t do it on purpose!” (Neither do I.–Reg Hartt)

It was the most extraordinary of statements. Aldous was enormously impressed by it, and also very touched and amused. Of course he understood it. But I must have looked bewildered, for Krishnamurti, in a softer, calmer way, said, “It just happens, do you see?” Alas, I did not see very well. Krishnamurti continued, “I am not a healer, or a psychologist, or therapist, or any of those things.” The words “healer,” “psychologist,” “therapist” burst from him like projectiles ejected by compressed power. ‘‘I am only a religious man. Alcoholics or neurotics or addicts — it doesn’t  matter what the trouble is—they get better quite often—but that is not import ant; that is not the point—it is only a consequence.”

“What is wrong with such a consequence?” I asked. “I only give people techniques or recipes or tools to help them to do what they need to do—what is wrong in using the transformation of energy to change those miserable feelings into constructive behavior?” That had been what we had discussed at lunch. I knew that Krishnamurti was violently opposed to dogmas, rites, gurus, and Ascended Masters—to all the gadge try of those organized powers whose aim is to impress the masses with keeping the godhead and its graces as their supreme and private monopoly. But I had no idea that he also objected to psychophysical exercises, such as my recipes. Unaware of this fact, I had innocently exposed myself and my work. Now I realized that he had restrained himself during lunch, tactfully waiting until we were alone. He did not restrain himself now; vehemently, with unspeakable intensity, he spoke.

“No! No! Techniques—transformation—no—rubbish! One must destroy—destroy . . . everything!”

 

Fleetingly a thought crossed my mind: how easily such a man can be misunderstood, misinterpreted! I wanted to understand—I knew that he wanted me to understand, but how to ask—that was the question. “But what do you do?” I repeated.

And he repeated: “Nothing—I am only a religious man.”

It had the sound of a final statement, a baffling one to me. Six words, I thought, but hundreds of different meanings, according to each person’s conditioning. Perhaps he was simply restating what Christ had said:

But rather seek ye the kingdom of God; and all these things shall he added unto you.

But I was not thinking about Christ—I wanted to know what Krishnamurti meant by ‘‘a religious man.’’

“What is a religious man?”

Krishnamurti changed his tone and rhythm. He spoke now calmly, with incisiveness. “I will tell you what a religious man is. First of all, a religious man is a man who is alone—not lonely, you understand, but alone—with no theories or dogmas, no opinion, no background. He is alone and loves it— free of conditioning and alone—and enjoying it. Second, a religious man must be both man and woman—I don’t mean sexually—but he must know the dual nature of everything; a religious man must feel and be both masculine and feminine. Third,” and now his manner intensified again, “to be a religious man, one must destroy everything—destroy the past, destroy one’s convictions, interpretations, deceptions—destroy all self-hypnosis—destroy until there is no center; you understand, no Center.” He stopped.

No Center?

 

After a silence Krishnamurti said quietly, “Then you are a religious person. Then stillness comes. Completely still.”

Still were the immense mountains around us.

Infinitely still.

 

 

 

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