Wednesday, April 27, 2011

My 1968 Grand Tour of Europe

My parents gave me a Grand Tour of Europe as an initiation into life, back in 1968. The export model Volkswagen bus, which cost $1900 new, was a gift which would later be sent home and travel the United States with me. My friend Randy and I started our trip in Holland, where we saw Ann Frank’s upstairs hidden apartment, the famous “red light” district, numerous canals and tulips and learned all about how Edam cheese was made. Most of our trip, we survived on Edam cheese.  Ann’s place and the girls of the night made quite an impression on us. In the museums of northern Europe, we viewed the art of Van Gogh, Rembrandt, Raphael, Da Vinci, Michelangelo, etc., to C├ęzanne, Picasso, Fra Angelico, etc. - yada, yada, yada. Before leaving Germany, we visited a huge beautiful stone castle from 853 A.D., Burg Hohenzollern, complete with three drawbridges and a moat. This place fit every image I ever had of a castle. The doors were ten inches thick! But a day that I’ll never forget was visiting Dachau concentration camp.  It’s now a fully restored museum, but you get the idea of what it once was- full on Hell.
 After seeing the gas chamber valves at floor level, a beautiful butterfly crossed my path in front of the massive crematoriums.  This was like seeing Beauty and the Beast at the same time.  Walking through the yard, billboard-sized black and white photos captured images of emaciated Jewish prisoners piled, dead and rotting.  How can men commit such atrocities?  Is there any hope for mankind?  Is there really a God, and, if so, how could He let this happen? These were some thoughts I had upon leaving Germany. I was only nineteen years old and seeing so much.         
 After trying spaghetti in northern Italy, which was nothing like Mom’s, we ferried over to Greece, reaching the ruins and Oracle of Delphi as our first stop in this ancient land. Over a bottle of yellow wine that resembled piss, an ancient Greek mariner prophesized to me. He had traveled the world and said that I looked like I came from Chile.
After scaling the Acropolis, where the 5th Century B.C. Parthenon sits overlooking the city of Athens, we drove up the western side of Italy, stopping at Rome, Pisa and Florence. The coliseum in Rome seemed to house most of the city’s feral cats, as we visited it in pre-dawn early light. At the Pope’s house, the Vatican, we saw the Sistine chapel frescoes where Michelangelo had painted the ceiling from scaffolding lying on his fricking back! Again, we did yet more museums that left us exhausted. These museums are huge all day affairs. We were getting callous and burned out to the Masters of Western art. The underground Christian catacombs, however, were haunting and fun to explore. This labyrinth of tunnels, eight miles long, contained tombs and secret meeting chambers. A spooky feeling unfolded for me there. These early Christian sure could dig! There were 174,000 Christians buried around the
Apian Way
and Saint Sebastian, Peter and Paul were all buried here too. Now that’s far out!
After visiting the leaning Tower of Pisa, Venice with its black canal water and Michelangelo’s David and Pieta in Florence, we spent a long day at the Pompeii ruins outside of Naples. Volcanic Mount Vesuvius still looms in the background.  Vesuvius erupted on August 24, 79 A.D. burying Pompeii in ash. This archeological city was huge.  We saw frozen bodies of humans and dogs, screaming, as the volcanic ash turned them to stone forever.  Pompeii affected us much like Dachau concentration camp had- memories that leave a lasting impression with some even frozen in stone!”
After driving through the Italian Riviera, we sampled Monaco and the French Riviera, before heading on to Barcelona, Spain. Here, replicas of Columbus’s ships, the Pinta, Nina and Santa Maria, were docked for display.  We were amazed at how very small Queen Isabella’s ships really were.  And we heard flamenco music here, too.  The guitars and flashing rapedo boot heels really stirred our Anglo blood.  I’ve always loved Spanish music and in both Italy and Spain, we heard Tom Jones’s Dear Delia sung by everyone and recorded in numerous languages.
In Barcelona too, we saw the famous ballet team of Rudolf Nureyev and Joan Fontaine perform at night, in a bullfighting arena.  He held the record for high jumping, long distance style ballet and in ’68 they were both world famous superstars receiving a lot of media attention.  We were very blessed and fortunate to have seen them.  Also in the same bull arena, we saw six bulls killed in the matador’s death dance before 34,000 people. This was sad to watch but the crowd greatly enjoyed it.  At least this gruesome sport had a happy ending; the orphans ate freshly killed beef that night.
In France, anti-American sentiment was strong.  The Vietnam War was the cause.  Graffiti of “Yankee Go Home!” was everywhere. This was strange when I saw the French wearing what appeared to be American Civil War caps.  Poor Randy, my traveling companion, stood out like a sore thumb.  He had that blondish brillo crew cut and apple pie look.  I was usually mistaken for French, English, Jewish or Canadian.  We had a Canadian flag on the van’s rear view window, German tourist license plates and a Netherlands decal near the exhaust pipe, so nobody knew quite how to take us.  After four years of French classes, where I was called Robere Rideaux, I tried out my new tongue.  The results were insane.  They understood me perfectly, but their sexy-sounding replies to my standard questions were so fast that I shut down.  Let’s stick with English, damn it!  It’s the universal language and most Europeans speak it anyway, along with four or five other languages.  I should be so lucky.
The Eiffel Tower, the Citadel of Love, was fairly impressive from a distance. Up close it was very rusty and in need of a paint job.  The Louvre Museum was one of the biggest and best yet. Of course, we saw a lot more Flemish masters, Madonna and Child paintings, Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa and a ton of French impressionism.  All the best the world of art had to offer!  How very fortunate we were.  I was having so much fun. Despite their lack of affection, my folks had indeed given me a very great gift. When I finally got mail, I realized that I missed my family immensely. This was my first real time away from home for so long, and being only 19 years old, I couldn’t wait to see them again- especially my sister, Joyce.
We also took in the Follies Bergere and Moulin Rouge- the prototype original seminude stage shows that would greatly influence Las Vegas. There was an authentic forty-foot tall waterfall on stage with beautiful topless ladies descending down on ropes from above, all in feathery costumes. This was a royal night out for us.  We even wore ties, a first for me, as they enforced a strict dress code. After Paris, we ferried over to the iconic white cliffs of Dover, England.  That August night we saw those infamous white cliffs gleaming under the moonlight. Now we couldn’t wait to finally try British fish and chips. We luckily found a vendor still open late at night.  What a disappointment!  Our greasy meal was wrapped in newspaper and the added vinegar made the ink come off all over our fingers, lips and food.
In London, we came down with the Asian flu which was very popular that summer of ’68 but a real pain in the neck, literally.  Our eyes felt like we had knives stuck in them.  We’d tie our black dress socks around them to keep out the piercing light.  We both had very high fevers and probably should have seen a doctor.  But we just sweat it out in the van, taking aspirin and hotter Kool-Aid and tea. As a result of this flu, we didn’t see much of London. We didn’t see much of anything for awhile with those socks wrapped around our eyes.  I remember wandering around Carnaby Street, all spaced out after our illness.   Here we saw the Beatle’s Apple store, which had been previously painted in beautiful psychedelic colors.  Now, it was all whitewashed over and had the word Jude scrawled across the windows.  Was this anti-Semitic graffiti? It certainly looked that way, especially after the concentration camp tour and Ann Frank’s house still mentally on my mind. No, it was soon to be one of the Beatles most beloved songs, Hey Jude.
Returning back to Holland, we picked up Randy’s Texas friend Paul for the remainder of our European experience. He was a Mobile oil kid too. Now, we headed north through Germany again to Copenhagen, Denmark.  Here we saw the famous Little Mermaid statue seated on a rock in the bay.  She was donated as an art gift by Carlsburg Brewery, and later some fool decapitated her bronze head off. Is nothing sacred anymore?  Carlsburg was very wealthy and a patron of the arts.  His brewery had life-sized elephant statues supporting the entrance and gold plated handrails on the guided, gilded tour.  We got roaring drunk in the tasting room and smuggled beer out in our jeans. We were just beginning our youthful experiments with alcohol on this trip. Randy was dry-heaving in a five-gallon bucket, as I somehow drove us to our campground.  We were very lucky not to get a DUI in Scandinavia. Even in ’68, one could get imprisonment and loss of driver’s license for life!  Here, drinking people took cabs; responsible drinking.  I sure didn’t know then that drunken driving would be the demise of my golden years.
We drank heavily again at Touberg brewery.  But this time, we knew well how beer was made and could have cared less about the damn tour.  We only came for that one free hour of all we could drink.  To double our fun, we then did both brewery tours again, back to back.  More vomiting resulted, but this time Randy wasn’t alone, as Paul and I retched right along beside him.
After passing through Sweden quickly at night, we went on to Oslo, Norway and the Norwegian fiords. The people had that Viking look and the natural topography reminded me of my area of Washington State.  In Vigeland Park, we saw many naked statues by the artist of the same name.  There was a monolith about three stories high composed of piled up, naked sculptured bodies.  Another couple of aging crones were on their knees, breasts sagging, looking up at the sky.  These strange stone people reminded me in some ways of the real stone bodies we’d seen in Pompeii.  Also in Oslo, we saw Thor Heyerdahl’s Kon Tiki raft in the local museum.  Downstairs, we could view the small raft from underneath, in an aquatic mural setting complete with mounted fish.  This raft actually fell apart at the end of Thor’s voyage between Peru to Tahiti.  Here it was authentically reassembled for display.  It’s amazing such a small raft actually crossed that large body of water.  Thor’s diary was there too, from which he penned his acclaimed book, Kon Tiki!  Across the Pacific by Raft.  Real Viking ships were on display too, but not quite looking as glorious as the Hollywood versions.
After ninety days abroad, I arrived back home a seasoned traveler, with a taste in my soul for more foreign travel. I found out that traveling is the greatest education, as you see for yourself how things actually are, instead of someone else’s interpretation in a book.
In 1968 our world was still rather innocent and safe for travel.  Today’s world for an American traveler is far different.  Even by ’69, things had begun to change worldwide, especially due to drugs.  I was lucky to see Europe in that window of opportunity I had. I will always be thankful to my parents, forever, for my Grand Tour of Europe. It certainly opened my eyes to the world we live in.

Singer/songwriter Rob Rideout is the award winning author of Still Singing, Somehow. He lives on a farm overlooking Colville, WA with his three cats Baba, Maya and Olive. He just released a second book of poetry, based on his song lyrics and has a CD of original songs scheduled for release May 2011. These songs of three decades are meant to accompany both books.  Rob’s books can be viewed or purchased @ www.stillsingingsomehow.com He can be contacted there too.

My Peyote Meeting

Many years ago, I was having serious problems and facing possible prison time, all because of alcohol. I didn’t really realize fully yet that I was an alcoholic and still hadn’t hit my bottom. I was told I should have my own peyote meeting, as an emergency healing service. I did just that. However, I want to be clear here. I do not want to offend or disrespect the Native American Church or any of its members, by relating my story of sitting up on peyote. With the advent of the internet, it is all out there anyway. I am not disclosing any secrets, only my respect for the medicine and this way of worship.
I arranged with friends Jerry and Mary to conduct the prayer service on their property.  I had attended many meetings there before and it was an easy place for participants traveling from far-off homes to find.  Mary and Chen would be helping me with all the food preparations, thank God.  They both knew how to shop economically, to help cut costs to a minimum.  My meeting ended up costing about four hundred dollars for food, gifts, gas, medicine and help.  When the destined evening finally arrived, there were over fifty people from four different states, who’d all come to pray for me. The news got out about my problem. Who were all of these people? I certainly didn’t recognize many of them. Good God, this was blowing me away already.  I did a sweat lodge with roadman or peyote Chief Lloyd, near Jerry’s pond, to prepare myself.  Then, much political church discussion ensued, as to whether to hold a house meeting too, for all of those who couldn’t fit into the tipi. Everybody was talking loudly at once. Why all this fuss over me?  This suddenly got very heavy, with superstitious undertones, but I said to go ahead with a second meeting anyway, so everyone could be included.  Another roadman friend, David ran that house meeting on Jerry’s living room floor, complete with the crescent moon sand altar and fire coals on a sheet of plywood. 
It’s very difficult to put into words what happened in this healing meeting.  Ted ran the sacred fire, while Chief Lloyd fed me more medicine than anyone had ever seen.  This was definitely way beyond the adult dose!  I ingested peyote as powder, chips, fresh buttons, special golf balls with spit and ash, gravy and tea.  I never puked, but Keith said he felt me changing dramatically, as he sat on his pillow next to me.  I’m sure the colors of my aura rivaled the Aurora Borealis.  Everybody spoke to me about the dangers of alcohol, especially old Peter.  He dumped on some very tough love, and many felt he actually hit me below the belt.  He ain’t heavy; he’s my brother, to quote the Hollies song.  That’s old Peter.  When asked how I was doing, I could barely find my voice- probably a first for me.  The songs and beautiful singing had taken me to somewhere near Pluto. Dimensions were changing inside the tipi.  Sometimes, friends seemed very far away, within eight feet of space. Other times, they somehow seemed larger than life.  I sensed I was in Lord Shiva’s living room, as the crackling fire and crescent moon altar took on a personality of their own.  Then Lloyd prepared four, very special golf-ball-sized peyote. These were to be eaten on my knees, in front of the altar.  The fire was so darned hot that I was sweating profusely.  Peyote likes it hot, I was told, as it grows in very hot terrains of Texas and Mexico.  My prayer smoke would soon be taken, after the midnight water and Lloyd’s outdoor prayers to the four directions for my recovery.  These special peyote balls were in preparation for the cosmic moment.  When I took that prayer smoke, shaking like a leaf, it felt like a window opened.  I now had a direct line to God, asking Him for help with this deadly disease.  All night, I felt as if my life was on trial.  Whether I lived or died would be decided here.  Or so it seemed, to me, on this karmic night of judgment, redemption and guidance. It was intense and very emotional too.  It was a courtroom like no other, that’s for sure. Thank God these kind of experiences happen only once in your life. Let’s hope so anyway.
When the four hundred-year-long night finally ended, I was literally unable to leave the tipi.  Lying down, I saw children’s feet under the canvas and heard the friendly sounds of laughter and loved ones’ voices.  Could I ever put the pieces of my puzzle back together again? Will I ever remember everything everybody said to me? Will I ever come down from where peyote has taken me?  Am I really healed? When I finally crawled out of the door flaps, I nearly fell asleep on the remaining woodpile and started to sunburn. It felt so good to feel the sun’s rays and finally be out of that tipi.  Ted had prayed that if I ever did drink again, God forbid, I would never get behind the wheel. That sadly would be another prayer that wouldn’t materialize, or at least for a very long time.  After they managed to spoon feed me some broth, as I still had no appetite, I helped Lloyd clean up and bury the altar sand, as it was now considered toxic waste and unsafe to be around.  Lloyd and Muriel stayed on, after everybody else drove home. They had to. The medicine was still working heavily on me. I wasn’t even close to coming down. I didn’t want them to go.  Lloyd burned more cedar and fixed special smokes for my mind.  His smokes taste so good, with lavender, sage and anise seeds mixed in with tobacco, that anybody could become addicted to smoking.  He instructed me to call him tomorrow to check in. Then diet for the next three days on the peyote tea, which he had left for me in large mason jars. I would faithfully follow my doctor’s orders. Next, Melinda called me from Tucson, at precisely the right moment, and sensed exactly where I was at spiritually, mentally and emotionally.  She’s done her time with peyote and is very intuitive.  I love Melinda so much.  Her phone call and caring voice meant more to me, at that moment, than diamonds or gold. I felt so extremely open and overly sensitive.  Finally, after being alone awhile and reflecting, the needed emotional breakdown came. As the sun was setting across the desert, I couldn’t stop crying in thankfulness to God.  I realized, once more, how special I am in His eyes, to have so many friends come from so far away to help me out. How could I deserve this?  I’m truly not worthy but to God I Am. This was probably one of the most intense nights of my entire life- another real turning point.  It took a good week to touch down on earth again.  And all of the prayers said around the fire that karmic night did come true for me in time, and each in their own unique ways.
Singer/songwriter Rob Rideout is the award winning author of Still Singing, Somehow. He lives on a farm overlooking Colville, WA with his three cats Baba, Maya and Olive. He just released a second book of poetry, based on his song lyrics and has a CD of original songs scheduled for release May 2011. These songs of three decades are meant to accompany both books.  Rob’s books can be viewed or purchased @ www.stillsingingsomehow.com He can be contacted there too. Also check out Rob’s articles @ http://www.selfgrowth.com/experts/robert_rideout


Saturday, April 16, 2011

A Daily Spiritual Practice

How many people do you know who have a daily spiritual practice; one that they’ve been doing for many years? Most of us are aware of devotional practices, but how many of us actually put any devotion into practical application? Counting myself, I might know of four or five people who have some form of a spiritual discipline. If we profess to love God, then why don’t we make the time and effort, daily, to show that we do care enough to remember Him?
I personally have been practicing a daily spiritual routine, on and off, for over three decades now. Being a student of A Course in Miracles, I begin my day with a reading from Karen Casey’s Daily Meditations for Practicing the Course, which I keep on the toilet for this very reason. I’ve read this 365 Book daily now for over four years straight. It hammers home, in a simple condensed way, many of the Course’s finer spiritual concepts. This is a good way to start my day, by reminding me again why we are here and what it is all about.
Next, I have my ritualistic morning bath – not shower – to cleanse my body and soul before beginning my sadhana. After drying off, I sit crossed legged on my bed, facing my altar. I too have had an altar, wherever I’ve lived, for over thirty years.  On it are pictures of my deceased parents and sister, along with Jesus, Yogananda and Mahavatar Haidakhan Babaji. Other special stones, brass statues and candles decorate the altar. Every home in India has a family altar, which is maybe why I loved India so much. They remember God and their loved ones daily there. My advice is to be creative in designing your own altar. Make one that reminds you of how much you love God and your Self. My altar is not some kind of false idol set-up, but a daily visual reminder of everything sacred to me.
Now it is time to pray. I’ve used this daily prayer my whole life:
Heavenly Father, Divine Mother, Friend, Lord, Beloved God-Jesus Christ, Bhagavan Krishna, Mahavatar Babaji, Paramahansa Yogananda and sacred Peyote; I humbly bow to you all.  May Thy love and light shine forever, on this, the sanctuary of my devotion, and may I be able to awaken Thy love within my own and within all hearts and bring them to Thee. Amen
Being a singer/songwriter, I sing to God on my two stringed Indian dotara- a simple pumpkin gourd mounted to a long bamboo neck; both strings are tuned the same to produce a hypnotic drone effect. As a devotee of Yogananda and Babaji, I’ve learned many chants over the years, both in English and Sanskrit. I begin with the Gayatri mantra, then the Om Shree Ram mantra, both three times, before concluding with Om Namaha Shivaya in a soulful rendition. I’ve been working with this mantra for many decades now, and chanting it daily has helped greatly to get it programmed into the hard drive of my subconscious. After hearing my own voice sing to God, I then sit quietly to meditate. That is how I start my day, every day, year-in and year-out. I love having a daily spiritual practice and hope others will consider making it an option in their lives too. It’s sweet to return God’s love to Him.

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Kava in Fiji

Kava is a mild liquid intoxicant and a large element in Fijian culture.  And it’s legal. This is the liquid drug or beverage of choice in most of Melanesia and Polynesia. Kava or kava-kava’s scientific name is (Piper methysticum) (Piper: Latin for 'pepper', methysticum: (Latinized) Greek for 'intoxicating'). The roots of the plant are used to produce a drink with sedative and anesthetic properties. Kava is consumed throughout the Pacific Ocean cultures of Polynesia (including Hawaii), Vanuatu, Melanesia and some parts of Micronesia. Kava is sedating and is primarily consumed to relax without disrupting mental clarity. Its active ingredients are called kavalactones
This variety of pepper tree takes five to seven years to reach harvest maturity.  When the stems and roots are dried, and then manually beaten or mechanically ground into a flour, cold water is added to create what looks like a mud puddle; it resembles the taste of a freshly ground cedar pencil. One island I visited didn’t dry the roots at all, but beat them green into a split pea soup looking drink, that was much stronger by far. Drying seems to be the way to go for most island folk, however. With my addictive personality, I had a love/hate relationship with this grog or yaqona, as it is commonly called in Fiji.  It seems to be consumed daily there- as a ritualistic ceremony, a “grog break” at a city bank or socially in the villages and towns. And don’t forget the tourists, who consume their share too, be it ever so small.  Both native Fijians and domestic East Indians partake of this narcotic beverage, which seems to be basically a man’s drink. Women partake at weddings and funerals, it seems. I out drank the chief of another village one night and became a living legend- something they would talk about for a long time.  When asked if I was stoned yet, I replied, “You don’t even know the meaning of the word.” You are dealing with one of the original hippies here.  To me, the high was like one beer combined with a mediocre joint.  But when drinking mass quantities, I developed what the Fijians called coni coni or second skin.  This is an intense nerve itch that can’t be scratched- like a snake shedding its skin.  I swore I’d never drink grog again. However, when tomorrow arrived, there was nothing else to do but to drink it again. My thinking was that it made me feel more at one with the natives, myself and this hot environment, despite the consequences. Maybe it did and maybe it didn’t. This rational and pattern would be repeated with alcohol by me later- that damn addictive personality at work. At night in the villages, I often heard what sounded like drums pounding away. However, these were not drums but the beating of kava or yaqona root into powder. The beat goes on, even in Fiji.
And years later, when I returned to Fiji with the lady who would become the mother of my son, that story of me out drinking the chief came back to haunt me there; here I was in the same village again and drinking that mud puddle again, called kava. But this time I learned my lesson and drank less, so I wouldn’t get that irritating coni coni itch!

Singer/songwriter Rob Rideout is the author of “Still Singing, Somehow” and is still singing, somehow on a farm overlooking Colville, WA with his three cats Baba, Maya and Olive. He recently published a second book of poetry, based on his song lyrics. The release of his CD of original songs is scheduled for spring 2011.
To contact, purchase books, view pictures, hear interviews, see videos and read reviews, go to
www.stillsingingsomehow.com

Saturday, April 2, 2011

The Mystery of Babaji

Many spiritual seekers have become acquainted with Mahavatar Babaji, and an artist’s conception of him, through Paramahansa Yogananda’s Autobiography of a Yogi. Some claim that this same Babaji was known as Hariakhan Baba, from the early 1800s till 1922, and that he reincarnated again in 1970, in a cave in northern India, looking much younger but changing dramatically over his fourteen year incarnation. Still others believe the real Maha Avatar Babaji is a different entity altogether; one who had a feminine body in his youth, which changed slowly into an image of a balding Willie Nelson, before he left his body in 1997. This Babaji claimed that both versions of Hariakhan Baba were disciples of him. So, who is the real Babaji? Or are they all just different manifestations of the one and only Babaji?
I personally have had a deep connection to old Hariakhan Babaji and young Haidakhan Babaji, as he came to be known. When my house burned down in 1987, a photo of old Hariakhan Babaji did not burn up. Then years later, when it was time to sell our rebuilt home due to divorce, I prayed deeply to young Babaji for his help, promising to come to his ashram in India, if the house sold. Banks would not finance our house, as it was off the grid with alternative energy, and that alone cut out over ninety –five percent of our potential buyer prospects.  Miraculously, the house sold the next day and I was soon off to India, and to learn much more about Babaji.
As divine providence and karma would have it, I was given young Babaji’s favorite silver silk waist coat as my Christmas present, at his ashram in Haidakhan in 1994. This was a Christmas I would never forget in one of the holiest place on earth. Then I was given a reading by saint Shastraji, who lived with Babaji nearly every day for his fourteen year incarnation. He stated that Babaji had appeared to me three times already in this life and that I didn’t recognize him, but he would be coming again soon. I next attended the opening, full moon night of the 1995 Kumbha Mela festival at Allahabad, with ten million souls in attendance already! Here Babaji appeared to me as time stood still. He asked me in perfect English, “Are you having fun?” I couldn’t find my voice to answer back. Then he disappeared, leaving me totally blessed and bewildered. Yes, I was having fun! And now I felt like Babaji had totally blessed my trip to India and, in fact, my entire life, unbeknownst to me most of the time.
Years later, with the advent of our online cyberspace, I began researching everything I could find on Babaji. There is a lot out there and much seems contradictory and confusing. However, I’ve come to realize what Babaji stated, “I am no body and no thing.” Yogananda said, “Babaji is beyond human comprehension.” How true! I think the various forms of Babaji attract different kinds of disciples. To those who believe Babaji was a manifestation of Krishna and advocated Kriya yoga, he appears as the long haired image known as Kriya Babaji in Yogananda’s book. To those who believe Babaji is Lord Shiva incarnate, he appears as the two versions of Haidakhan Baba. A photo of Kriya Babaji, as seen in a vision, can be viewed at www.stillsingingsomehow.com as well as photos of both old and young Haidakhan Babaji.   I am still confused about the Willie Nelson version of Babaji and why nobody seems to know much about this incarnation. I feel that Babaji can manifest any form at will, including animals. It is his message that is important, not the body. This controversy will never be solved by any rational mind. To me, there is only One Living Eternal God in truth, simplicity and love. That is the Babaji and message that I feel in my heart.
Singer/songwriter Rob Rideout is still singing, somehow on a farm overlooking Colville, WA with his three cats Baba, Maya and Olive. He recently published a second book of poetry, based on his song lyrics. The release of his CD of original songs is scheduled for spring 2011.
To contact, purchase books, view pictures, hear interviews, see videos and read reviews, go to www.stillsingingsomehow.com