GPS for the Soul--the contemporary Everyman's search for truth. Finding one's center and inner guide is essential on the road called life. Join the author, Dana Hayne, in her global travels and real life experiences of living communally for thirteen years with a hundred-year-old sage from the jungles of Sri Lanka as she discovers the awakening of that inner guide. Enjoy the author's wit and wisdom as she explores topics such as the first years of marriage, miracles, addictions, fairy food, SIDS deaths, transplants, world peace and more under the tutelage of this master--His Holiness M.R. Bawa Muhaiyaddeen. Dana hopes that by sharing these vignettes from those years that others who are seeking that inner guide will be touched by the principles taught by His Holiness and be inspired to study the universal wisdom he left behind. GPS for the Seoul Wisdom Of The Master By Dana Hayne Balboa Press Copyright © 2017 Dana Hayne All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-5043-8404-9 CHAPTER 1 PART ONE Before Introduction When does it start? Life, that is. Existence, being-ness, whatever I call me — when does it start? Where do I start? They tell us at birth, that Hallmark moment, which is carefully penned next to those tiny, inky-black foot prints on one's birth certificate, a moment so hallowed that it is judiciously tallied and memorialized once per annum by each of us, whether publicly or secretively. But no, they've got it all wrong. I'm certain — because I can remember. When I was three, my family lived on a military installation situated at the mouth of the Panama Canal in the Pacific Ocean. Each afternoon, eager for respite from the tropical sweat and swelter, my young mother put her three little girls down for naps. Not tired, I lay on my bed with Peter Rabbit tucked safely under my chin. As I lay there stroking my friend's ratty and torn ears, it was as though a portal opened and some part of me slipped through to another world. This is where I would commune with before. Poor Peter — the safety he offered paled in comparison to the presence I found enveloping me. This presence was not populated with things or persons but rather feelings — feelings of safety and contentment. Friendly feelings. There was no stuff to all this. Just feelings and light. Bright light. Sparkly and cool. There were no questions disturbing the stillness, just knowingness. I remember exploring the bounds of this presence and how it felt endless. I remember delighting in the certainty of its endless, joyous nature, which was somehow not separate from me. Somehow, I was this expansion. Gradually over time, this portal to before sealed itself and became a dull memory as those I trusted as older and wiser began to graft branches of ignorance onto the pure rootstock of my being. Each of them carefully stuck sticky notes all over me, as if I needed reminders of who I was: Spittin' image of your Aunt Francis. You're good. You're bad. You're right. You're wrong. You're thin. You're fat. You should be a doctor when you grow up. You're this. You're that. You. You. You. Are. Are. Are. From that Hallmark moment, called birth, parents, teachers, priests, and nuns, took turns molding me. Like some bonsai project, they tweaked my uniqueness, this boundless, endless, being-ness into sameness so that today I stand here looking at my hybrid self, imploring the heavens for the wisdom to cleave these grafts and strip me to my original source, leaving me with the resounding question: who am I? The nuns and priests in their long, black, foreboding habits worked hard at molding me. Saturday nights I can remember whispering with my two older sisters, bedded down in the same attic room with me, about the dread of confession the next morning. "Come on, guys! Get serious! We gotta go in that box again tomorrow! We gotta come up with something!" We searched hard among our innocent beings to come up with new and noteworthy sins to report, as "arguing with my sisters and brothers" and "disobeying my parents" occurred so frequently that most certainly we were damned for failure to repent. Desperate to keep the box experience to a minimum, I whispered, "Well, guys, I'm going with number seven," as "adultery" was one of the big ten I hadn't yet presented, to which my older sister, Linda, suggested, "Nope, nope, nope! Best to stick with the usuals." So, sin in hand, I knelt, trembling, in the cold, sterile confessional and waited my sentence from the priest's disembodied voice. "Bless me Father for I have sinned. I did not go to church last Sunday." "This is a grave sin, my child," rumbled the Voice. "You must pray ten Hail Marys, ten Our Fathers and fifteen Acts of Contrition!' Now, that just wasn't fair! I mean really! God went with me everywhere, and we struck up conversations whenever and wherever — bathroom, bedroom, playground. Besides, I thought, it was just too far to walk to church, and Dad was often gone soldiering and not around to take me