Hum-dee-dum, tra-la, tra-la . . .
Now, where were we – oh, my gosh! Is it so late already? Almost eight years passed the twentieth century? How time does fly when you’re having fun.
When I was young, I earnestly believed that a pandemic of fun could save mankind. Funny – now that I think of it – I still do, although my outlook has become somewhat more refined. The youthful images of reckless abandon have been replaced by a majestic movie in which every person shines with a child’s countenance, bubbling with the champagne of wise innocence. In this age of global communication and friendship across all borders (let’s just ignore the racists, fundamentalists, fed-up-ists, megamerger-swallowtheworld-industrialist-capitalists and political-power-activists for the moment) we find the ideal setting for the kindergarten birthday party utopia, where care is no longer an ulcer-giving demon in the back of the mind, but a magical, benevolent whim that spontaneously brings luck to others. By ‘fun’, I’m of course referring to the stuff that shines from the pearl of joy, not its wannabe, temporary copy that sometimes emits from the fickle happiness/unhappiness coin. (More on that somewhere below: Just scroll down this site to investigate.)
Things were a lot different back in the days of my great-grandfather, Reverend Christian Saugstad. Not only were those guys bereft of Internet, I don’t think even fun had been invented yet! Imagine leading your followers over one-and-a-half thousand rugged miles to a new, puritan home in the wilderness (from Minnesota to British Columbia). That was hard work back in 1894; no jumbojet-getaway! But I’m sure they experienced something resembling fun after the men spent the first fall and winter on the freezing coast chopping trees, shoveling snow and building log cabins, and then all their wives and children ferried up from the capital in the spring thaw. Well, I guess if reincarnation is the norm, we all bin there; dun that. I ain’t sayin’ that the plastic smell of computers is more inspiring to collective understanding and integration than a five hundred year old cedar rainforest, but the invention of mass-communication terminals and networks have brought us a long way in appreciating each other. Old Rev. C. didn’t even want his people to marry non-Norwegians, not to mention Muslims, Hindus or Jews (although they did somehow manage to get in among the more enlightened aboriginals). 
His son, my grandfather the sea captain, was more evolved in this respect. He brought home his bride from Cornwall after WW1, Norwegian or no. Why, she wasn’t even a conformed Christian. Surviving witnesses in the old Vancouver neighbourhood may still recall the public argument she had one day across the picket fence with Mr. Bible-Thumper next door, insisting that reincarnation of human beings is a natural and inevitable process (“and-you-can-jolly-well-put-that-in-your-pipe-and-smoke-it!”). And that was well before the New Age Revolution began in the sixties. Um . . . Grandma’s reincarnation> Cornwall> Sea captain> Indians> the old Rev.> . . . ah, yes – the Internet: It’s obvious to me, after twenty-five years of daily personal subjective, and international objective experience in Sahaja Yoga, that this new level of global communication is a result of an accelerated inner process of collective consciousness. Naturally, these deep, evolutionary, spiritually powerful, expanding awareness thingies do tend to find ways of manifesting appropriate tools, so it’s no wonder that super-fast, super-portable, super-affordable gadgets and systems have sprouted into common use for the greater goodness of getting everyone universally chummy. I’m also convinced (und ich wuerde meinen rechten Arm darauf verwetten) that as soon as all this evil and bullying and perversion and smug complacency has been played out, that wave of – yes, in your face – LOVE is going to wash over the stage, and we’ll be in for one hell-of-a (oops), I mean, one wonderful show!
You may sayyy I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one . . . And whatever desire you hold on to, is the direction you move toward. It seems we’re shifting into a whole new mode*.
(Stay tuned for further fun ‘n’ fascinating features . . .)
Now, I really must get back to my wood chopping. (I do find it fun!)
(And I truly do admire the seeking spirit of my fore-fathers/mothers, including my own parents, whose appetites for shared goodness and truth, in times of such pervading spiritual darkness, have been encouraging.)
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Suddenly, her hands emitted a soft, cool breeze, and her tense face broke into a lovely smile. She then felt the same cool wind coming out of the top of her head, indicating that this energy, 
experience – but it is regrettable to shatter one’s inner foundations through frivolous free will, thereby scarring the face of future possibilities.
Back in the early twentieth century, someone* came up with an absurd, twisted theory about sexual feelings between children and their parents (recently exposed as being unfounded) and certain followers of this concept, certain of their cause in making sex an open forum (in effect, watering down the potency of this special, intimate act) shouted from the roof tops that, because there are the nazi-like, or old-fashioned minded who try to repress us in our natural expression, we must run full speed in the other direction to avoid disaster. The individual and collective damage done in such a misguided venture is mostly subtle, but there appear obvious signs of weakness and decline which we tend to ignore. We, as a race, are very slow learners.
One sultry evening, a long, cool black man showed up introducing himself as John Lee Hooker’s brother – they were in town for an upcoming concert. He took out his guitar and played to the awestruck gathering. Unfortunately, I sat down nearby and pounded on my bongos. Despite the gentleman’s encouraging smiles in my direction, my wine-drenched mind just wouldn’t allow me to keep pace. (The following morning, an acutely annoyed banjo-playing hippy, who had also tried accompanying the star guest in the park, threw a beer bottle at me when I picked up my bongos to tap along.) This was my early introduction to a liberal, but not entirely liberating, life-style. I went in and out of hippy circles over the following decade, eventually cutting off my freak-flag (long hair) and escaping out of alcohol and drug abuse. (When my fourteen-year-old son recently put his hand on my shoulder and declared, ‘wouldn’t it be great if we could go back to the sixties!’ I couldn’t keep my lip and eyebrows from curling in honest resentment to the sentiment.)
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