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Path: One Man's Quest On the Only Path There Is
by J. Donald Walters (Swami Kriyananda)
Gardens- Mundane and
was, as I recall, sometime during August or September 1949 that Paramhansa
Yogananda acquired his last and most beautiful ashram property: twelve acres
shaped by Nature into a steep-sided bowl surrounding a miniature lake. This
"SRF Lake Shrine," as Master named it, nestles serenely in the
arms of a broad curve formed by Sunset Boulevard as, leaving the town of
Pacific Palisades, it makes its final sweep down to the ocean. The property
is one of the loveliest I have seen in a lifetime of world travel.
Soon after Master obtained this property, he invited the monks out to see it. Walking its grounds, we were wonderstruck at their beauty. Happily Master predicted, "This will be a showcase for the work!" Later on he had us don bathing suits and enter the water with him.
"I am sending the divine light all through this lake," he said. Afterward he told us, "This is holy water now. Whoever comes here in future will receive a divine blessing."
Even today, nearly thirty years after that event, merely to enter those grounds is to feel their spiritual power. Often I have reflected that people in distant lands go on pilgrimages for blessings like these. Holy shrines in India, Palestine, and elsewhere owe their sanctity, as this one does in modern California, to the blessings of God-known saints. But in many of those more ancient shrines, throngs of people, eager for mere worldly boons, have diluted the spiritual vibrations. At the SRF Lake Shrine the original vibrations are still powerfully felt, as they are indeed in all Yogananda's ashrams. For not only do those places have his blessings (at Mt. Washington he once told us, "I have meditated on every spot on these grounds"), but since his passing they have been inhabited continuously by sincere devotees.
Soon after acquiring the Lake Shrine, we began the task of preparing it for a public opening one year later. An abundance of trees, shrubs, and flowers were brought in and planted on the steep hillsides. Statues of leading figures in the great world religions were placed in picturesque spots about the grounds, to emphasize Yogananda's teaching of the basic oneness of all religions. ("Where do you want the Buddha to sit?" we inquired one day. Master was standing nearby, directing operations. "The Buddha," he replied with a quiet smile, "prefers to remain standing.")
In the early months of preparation, swarms of gnats proved an extreme nuisance. The fascination they demonstrated for our eyes, ears, and nostrils was anything but flattering. "Master," I exclaimed in exasperation one day, "what irony! Why must this beautiful setting be spoiled by these flies?"
Calmly Master replied, "That is the Lord's way of keeping us ever moving toward Him."
Happily, the Lord found other ways to accomplish this objective. The gnats proved only a temporary pest.
One day we were moving a delicate but rather heavy tropical plant into position on the hillside. Our handling evidently was too rough, for Master cried out, "Be careful what you are doing. Can't you feel? It's alive!"
His sensitivity to all things living inspired sensitivity from them in return. Not only people and animals, but even plants seemed to respond to his feelings for them. His gardens flourished. Tropical mangoes and bananas grew at Mt. Washington, where the climate is not conducive to their survival. Shraddha Mata (Miss Sahly) tells of one day watching what she calls a "rose devotee" that kept turning in its vase to face Master as he moved about the room. "Plants," Master explained, "have a degree of consciousness." Above all, like every sentient being, they respond to love.
Master even felt with certain plants a mysterious personal identity. One day, pointing to an avocado tree by a walkway at Mt. Washington, he told us, "Originally I planted two trees here, one on either side of the path. We had a certain student living here in those days who was deeply devoted. Speaking of him once, I told a few others, 'One of us will leave this work, and one of these trees also will die. This tree stands for me; that one for him. The tree that dies will signal which one of us will leave.'
"Well, his tree died. Soon afterwards he left. He had been very devoted, too. Butöhis devotion fled. The delusion that took him away was the desire forömoney." Master paused momentarily before naming that delusion, to give us time mentally to fill in the blank with our own karmic obstacles, and thus remind ourselves what we needed to work on for our own spiritual welfare.
A pine tree in the eastern part of the grounds at Mt. Washington was dying. In the summer of 1949 Jean Haupt cut it down. Master grieved over the loss of his arboreal friend. "You will see," he remarked quietly to Daya Mata. "The end of that tree marks the beginning of the end of my own life." Strangely worded though his prophecy was, it was to prove true.
Sometimes in his training of us he likened us, too, to plants. Of a certain monk who had been resisting his spiritual counsel, he exclaimed, "What a job one takes on when he tries to improve people! He has to go into their minds and see what it is they are thinking. The rose in the vase looks beautiful; one forgets all the care that went into growing it. But if it takes such care to produce a rose, how much more care is needed to develop a perfect human being!"
Like a divine gardener, Master labored unceasingly for our spiritual development. It took patience, love, courage, and considerably greater faith in us than most of us had in ourselves. For where we saw only our own egos struggling to shed their imperfections, he saw our souls struggling to reclaim their divine birthright in God. Some of his disciples justified his faith in them better than others did, but he extended to all the same vision of their ultimate perfectibility.
I soon learned that one of the most important things on the path, especially for the newcomer, is the wise selection of associates. For even in a spiritual environment there may be a few gossips and grumblers, a few devotees who meditate too little, while others can't seem to get it into their minds that it is they who need changing, not the rest of the world. On the other side, in every truly spiritual organization there are also those who, by their example of selfless service, constant cheerfulness, inward focus, and spiritual fervor inspire in others a constant renewal of dedication.
At Mt. Washington I found such inspiration in numerous disciples. Even today I recall them with gratitude. I think of Mrs. Merck (later, Sister Karuna). Well into her eighties, she worked hours every day in the garden. "Ya," she would say sweetly in a thick Swedish accent, "I lahv de flowers. Dey are my shildren!"
I think of Mrs. Royston, also elderly. She it was who told me of Master, years earlier, running joyously out onto the lecture platform. Her steadfast loyalty and unfailing good spirits epitomized Master's frequent instruction to us: "Be ever even-minded and cheerful."
I think of Mrs. Wright, Daya Mata's motheröat once firm and compassionate. "Great Mother," Master used to call her.
I think of Mrs. Brown, whose joyful loyalty to Master was as much a delight as it was an inspiration. Her joy, by no means callow, was rooted in great inner determination and strength. Mrs. Brown had to contend with prolonged physical suffering; yet she gladly ignored pain to serve others. To me, as no doubt to many others, she was truly like a mother.
Miss Sahly was the older nun whom I upbraided like a "young hothead" during that lamentable episode of the committee. As I got to know her better, I found in her a deep, steadfast devotion, one that brooked no nonsense. It reminded me rather of the efficient professional nurse she had once been. But I found her inwardly warm and sympathetic. Her outward sternness helped me never to forget that the divine quest, though joyful, is at the same time a very serious matter.
Miss Darling, though sometimes a little sharp-tongued (in this respect, astrology fans would call her "a true Scorpio"), impressed me with the intensity of her energy, and with the complete dedication with which she approached everything she did. Master once described to us how, years earlier, she and two of the monks had repainted the main building at Mt. Washington.
"The men," he said, "though larger and much stronger than she, waved their paint brushes lackadaisically to and fro as if making graceful peace offerings to the building. But Miss Darling fairly attacked the walls! Tirelessly her brush flew, back and forth, back and forth, never stopping to think how difficult the job was. That," Master concluded joyously, "is the kind of spirit it takes to find God!"
At Twenty-Nine Palms he once told me, "The day Miss Darling came here (to Mt. Washington), I said to her quietly, 'You have come.' I knew she belonged with us."
Of the nuns, Daya Mata was the one I got the opportunity to know best, and also the one from whom I drew the greatest inspiration. I found her always fair-minded, gracious to all, humble, childlike in her spontaneity. What inspired me most about her was her utter devotion to God and Guru. She had no desire that I ever observed except to do Master's will.
"Is everything all right?" she would ask me when we met in her office to discuss official matters. Ever ready to help us spiritually if she could, she would set organizational problems resolutely aside, even when they were pressing, if at any time she sensed that we needed counseling or encouragement. Into every office discussion she would weave subtle threads of devotional insight and guidance. From her I learned that work and meditation belong not in separate compartments from one another; that rather, when the thought of God is held uppermost, they blend together and become one.
"I feel that you have been close to Master in past lives," she told me once. Our own relationship was more like that of brother and older sister than of junior monk and superior. This relationship, too, as we both realized, was rooted in past lives. I could never express in words the depth of my gratitude for her constant friendship and guidance. It is one of the most precious gifts God has given me in this life.
Of the younger nuns I saw very little. Among the monks, few, it turned out, had been in the work as long as the older nuns. ("The spiritual path is harder for men," Master conceded. "But," he added, comfortingly, "those who get there become very great.")
Rev. Michael (Brother Bhaktananda) was one of the monks who inspired me. Deeply humble ("He has no ego," Master once said of him), and devoted to God: I almost envied him the unaffected simplicity with which he could sum up the entire spiritual path with the statement, "Devotion is the only thing."
Joe Carbone (Brother Bimalananda) was another inspirationöand Henry Schaufelberger (Brother Anandamoy), too, who came a year after me. Both men combined sweetness with calm insight in a way that I found deeply appealing.
Many others there were, besides. I felt it an immeasurable blessing to be living in their midst.
"Of the disciples," Master told a small group of us in the main office one evening, "the first in realization is Saint Lynn. Next comes Mr. Black, and then Sister." James J. Lynn, whom Master always referred to as Saint Lynn, later received from Master the title and name Rajarsi (royal sage) Janakananda.(62) Mr. Black was the leader of the SRF center in Detroit, Michigan, and now also leads a spiritual retreat upstate in Vanderbilt, called Song of the Morning Ranch.
At Twenty-Nine Palms in October 1949 Master said to me, "Those who are with me"öhe must have meant, in tune with me ö"I never have any trouble with. Just a glance with the eyes is enough. It is much better when I can teach that way." He added, "They are saints from before, most of them."
Another time he told me, "Many of the disciples will find freedom in this life." Looking out the window, he saw Mrs. Royston working in the garden. "Even she," he added with an affectionate smile. In a lighter vein he continued, "You know, she was even homelier when she first came here!" He went on to praise her highly for her many years of selfless service and devotion.
To a group of us at Twenty-Nine Palms he once said, "Horace is very nearly there. God is satisfied with his devotion." Horace, as the reader may recall, was the spastic devotee who helped James Coller on the occasion of that disastrous yoga lecture in Phoenix.
James, who was present on this occasion, tried to reconcile Master's praise of Horace with his brother disciple as he knew him. "Sir," he said, "it must be a very simple kind of devotion, isn't it?"
"Ah," Master replied with a beatific smile, "that is the kind God likes! 'He does not reveal Himself unto the prudent and the wise, but unto babes.'"
About James himself Master said several times, "He will be liberated in this life." Once, recalling James's difficulty with organizational discipline, he added jokingly, "I don't know how! But God says so, so it must be true."
The disciple who was the most generous with his anecdotes about Master was Dr. Lewis, the first Kriya Yogi in America, and by now highly advanced on the spiritual path. We would sit for hours with Doctor while he regaled us with stories, some of them amusing, some serious, all of them instructive. They helped us to see how the relationship between guru and disciple evolves gradually into one of divine friendship in God.
Toward the end of October of that year Dr. Lewis and several other disciples, including Mrs. Lewis and Norman, accompanied Master to San Francisco to meet India's Prime Minister, Jawaharlal Nehru. Doctor returned to Mt. Washington with tales of their journey, then went on to share with us other reminiscences of his years of association with Master.
"Master," Doctor reported, "asked me to join him in practicing the energization exercises on the hotel porch in San Francisco." Doctor laughed quietly. "I nearly died of embarrassment! But what good reason can there be, after all, to feel embarrassed about doing a good thing? My self-consciousness had no worthier basis than the fact that our exercises aren't known to most people! Master decided to cure me of this false notion.
"As we were exercising, a policeman walked by on his beat. Master, affecting a guilty conscience, stepped hastily behind a pillar, continuing the exercises there. The policeman glanced at us suspiciously. I was praying for a miracle that would dematerialize me on the spot! But Master went right on exercising as though nothing had happened.
"Minutes later the policeman returned. Again Master ducked behind the pillar. This time the man, his suspicions thoroughly aroused, came over to us.
"'What's going on here?' he demanded. He probably suspected that we were a pair of criminals planning a crime.
"'Oh, nothing, Officer!' Master assured him with an exaggerated air of innocence. 'Nothing at all. We're just exercising. See?' To demonstrate his utter sincerity, he repeated a few movements, then smiled as if in hopeful expectation of a reprieve.
"'Well,' the officer muttered, 'see that you don't get into trouble.' With massive dignity, he moved on. By this time I was laughing so hard inside that my embarrassment was completely forgotten."
Master and his little group had visited a Chinese restaurant in San Francisco. The "vegetarian" meal they'd requested had been served with bits of chicken in it. A lady in the group, a prominent member of another religious organization, had stormed angrily into the kitchen and denounced the staff for this "outrage."
"Master," Doctor told us, "considered an uncontrolled temper a 'sin' far worse than the relatively minor one of eating chicken. 'It's not important enough to make a fuss over,' he remarked to the rest of us. Pushing the bits of meat to one side, he calmly ate the rest of his meal."
That night Master and the Lewises had adjoining hotel rooms. "Master kept the door open between us," Doctor said. "I knew he didn't really want us to sleep that night. He himself never sleeps, you know. Not, at least the way you and I do; he's always in superconsciousness. And he wants to break us, too, of too much dependence on subconsciousnessö'counterfeit samadhi,' he calls it. So I guess he saw here an opportunity for us to spend a few hours sharing spiritual friendship and inspiration with him. We don't get many chances for that any more, now that the work has become worldwide.
"The problem was, Mrs. Lewis and I were both tiredöshe especially so. We'd been traveling all day. 'We're going to sleep,' she announced in a tone of finality. That, as far as she was concerned, was that.
"But Master had other ideas.
"Mrs. Lewis and I went to bed. Master, with apparent submissiveness, lay down on his bed. I was just getting relaxed, and Mrs. Lewis was beginning to drift peacefully off to sleep, when suddenly Master, as though with infinite relevance, said:
"Nothing more. Sub gum was the name of one of those Chinese dishes we'd eaten earlier that day. I smiled to myself. But Mrs. Lewis muttered grimly, 'He's not going to make me get up!' A few minutes passed. We were just drifting off again. Suddenly, in marveling tones:
"'Sub gum duff!' Master pronounced the words carefully, like a child playing with unaccustomed sounds.
"Desperately Mrs. Lewis whispered, 'We're sleeping!' She turned for help to the wall.
"More minutes passed. Then, very slowly:
"'Super sub gum duff!' The words this time were spoken earnestly, like a child in the process of making some important discovery.
"By this time I was chuckling to myself. But though sleep was beginning to seem to both of us rather an 'impossible dream,' Mrs. Lewis was still hanging on fervently to her resolution.
"More minutes passed. And then the great discovery:
"'Super SUBMARINE sub gum duff!'
"Further resistance was impossible! Howling with merriment, we rose from the bed. For the remainder of the night sleep was forgotten. We talked and laughed with Master. Gradually the conversation shifted to serious matters. We ended up speaking only of God, then meditating. With his blessings we felt no further need for sleep that night.
"I was telling you," Dr. Lewis continued, "that Master never sleeps. I've found this to be true even when he snores! One day, many years ago, he was lying in his room, apparently asleep, and snoring quite loudly. I tip-toed stealthily into the room and tied a string to his big toe, doing my best to make sure he felt nothing. He was still snoring peacefully as I crept back to the door. I was about to tie the string onto the doorknob when he stopped snoring long enough to say, 'Aha!'"
Dr. Lewis, finding us keenly receptive to his good humor this evening, related another anecdote. "Master and I were standing on a sidewalk one day many years ago," he said. "when a man riding by on his bicycle noticed Master's long hair, and stuck his tongue out at him derisively. About two feet further on he came to a large mud puddle. Right in the middle of that puddle the front wheel of his bicycle came off. He went sprawling!"
Gradually, Doctor's reminiscences grew more serious. "Late in October, 1941," he said, "Master visited us at our summer residence on Plymouth Bay, in Massachusetts. The ocean is extremely cold there at that time of year. Master, however, on his very first night insisted on going out for a moonlight swim. As he was wading out into the water, we stood shivering and watched him from the shore. Pretty soon he was waist deep. 'By now,' I thought, 'he must be feeling the cold!'
"Suddenly I saw a blue light form all around him. My son, standing beside me with his wife, saw it too. Later, when Master returned from his swim, we told him what we'd seen.
"Smiling, Master admitted, 'I had to go deep in the Spirit to escape the cold!'
"I saw that blue light around him on another occasion," Dr. Lewis continued, reverting once more to a humorous mood. "This happened years later. We were crossing the Mexican border into California. Master had bought mangoes for everyone; the car was fairly reeking with them! I was certain they'd be confiscated at the border; as you may know, the California customs are strict about that sort of thing. But when the inspector came up to examine our car, he said absolutely nothing!
"'How did we manage that one?' another passenger asked me as we drove on merrily into California.
"'I'm sure I couldn't explain the mechanics of it,' I replied. 'All I know is, as we passed the frontier I saw blue light all around us!'"
Doctor's reminiscences took him back to his early days with Master. "In the early spring of 1923 Master told me, 'Be careful of your health next summer.' Caught up as I was in the bustle of an extremely busy life, I forgot his warning. In midsummer, however, I got my reminder with a vengeance. A severe gastrointestinal pain seized me. Days passed; my agony only increased. At last I prayed urgently to Master.
"It was, as I recall, a Wednesday in July when he came to my rescue. I had gone to my summer home in Plymouth. By this time my endurance had reached a low ebb. Very early that morningöit must have been two or three o'clocköI heard Master's voice in the driveway: 'Doctor! Doctor!'
"What a relief just to hear his voice! He had commandeered a car and come all the way from New York in answer to my prayer. Entering the house with two students, he drew me aside. In that wonderful, unruffled way of his he promised me that I would be all right. He then gave me a marvelous yogic remedy for use in such cases. My condition improved immediately; soon I'd recovered altogether.
"During those early years in Boston there was a man who'd been condemned to death for a crime that I, and many others, felt he hadn't committed. The day before his scheduled execution I happened to be with Master, and mentioned this case to him. Master became very pensive. Silently he retired to a corner of the room, and sat there quietly. After some time he returned to our circle with a smile, and resumed conversation. He never mentioned the condemned man. The following morning, however, the news came out in the papers: At the eleventh hour, the governor had issued a pardon.
"You know, we weren't as familiar in those days with Master's methods as you all are now. We didn't know the wonderful things he could do. For that matter, we didn't know what any master can do. By now, people have had years to get to know him better. It was more difficult then for us to have the kind of faith you all have in him. In that episode of the condemned man, for instance, Master never told us he'd done anything to help him. He rarely speaks of the wonderful things he does. It's just that, when things keep on happening around him, you begin to wonder. On that occasion, it was only after the reprieve that I began to suspect strongly that Master had had a hand in the matter.
"You see, he doesn't want to amaze us with miracles. Love is the force by which he seeks to draw us to God. When I first met him in 1920, he said to me, 'Will you always love me as I love you?'
"'Yes,' I said. I could feel his love, you see. 'Yes,' I said, 'I will.'
"But delusion is strong. Sometimes when he talked of the communities we would have someday, and the beautiful buildings, and I saw him living in that little room in Boston, almost in poverty, doubts would assail me. 'When, Sir?' I would ask him. 'When will such big things be possible?' But Master remained serenely confident. 'You'll see, Doctor,' he said. 'You'll see.'
"One day a man came to my dental office and told me lie after lie against Master. He spoke quite plausibly. Worse still, I hadn't any facts to contradict him with. I wouldn't believe his assertions, but I admit that, inside, I was a little shaken. The man left. Minutes passed. Suddenly I heard footsteps outside, approaching my office resolutely. The door opened. Master marched in. Striding right up to me, he gazed into my eyes. 'Do you still love me, Doctor?' he demanded. He proceeded to repeat word for word all that my earlier visitor had said to me.
"Master, I learned later, had been riding a streetcar four or five miles from my office at that time. He had gotten off at the next stop, and walked all that way with the sole purpose of helping me.
"Master inquired, in conclusion, if a certain person didn't owe me a sizeable sum of money. 'Yes,' I said, 'he does.'
"'If you go there now, you will get it from him.' I went there, and the man repaid me immediately.
"In how many ways Master has helped me and my family!" Doctor concluded, gratitude shining in his eyes. "When my mother suffered a severe stroke, he prolonged her life. When my daughter, Brenda, then still a child, was stricken with convulsions, Master cured her.
"I was visiting Master at that time. The news reached me by telephone. As soon as Master learned what had happened, he stepped behind a screen. Moments later he reappeared, his face radiant. 'Don't worry, Doctor, she will be all right. And she will never have another seizure.' One worry, with illnesses of this type, is that there may be future recurrences. But in Brenda's case there have been none."
As we left Dr. Lewis late that evening, we thanked him from our hearts for so generously sharing with us his unique experiences.
During the fall of 1949 Master asked me, in company with several other monks, to demonstrate the yoga postures before Swami Premananda, an Indian disciple visiting Mt. Washington from Washington, D. C., where he served as the minister of an SRF church. I was at best a mediocre Hatha Yogi. Many of the postures I couldn't contort myself into at all. In Master's presence that evening, however, I found myself suddenly capable of assuming even difficult poses with ease. Indeed, from that day forth I was generally accepted as SRF's Hatha Yoga "expert." I posed for the photographs that illustrated the poses in a series of articles in Self-Realization Magazine. If ever anyone was needed to demonstrate the postures, I was the one selected. Master often had me serve lunch for him when he had guests, and afterwards demonstrate the postures to them. Would that all expertise might be acquired so effortlessly!
One day Master, while sitting, chatting with the monks in our dining room, looked at me pensively. "Why don't you grow a beard, Walter?"
"Do you mean it, Sir?" I was astonished. Beards were rarely seen in those days. A couple of the other monks, in fact, later tried growing them, and Master vetoed their plans with the remark, "I don't want my boys looking like wild men!" (Perhaps his feeling was that one "wild man" in the crowd was enough!)
"Try it," he said.
I was grateful when, soon afterward, he invited me to spend a few weeks with him at Twenty-Nine Palms. Lecturing in Hollywood Church with a slowly emerging stubble had threatened to saddle me with the reputation of being Hollywood's first hobo-minister. But, "wild" or not, by the time the beard had filled out I did, at least look somewhat older and more mature.
At Twenty-Nine Palms Master told me privately of his plans to take me to India with him the following summer. Naturally, I was delighted. "I'm sure I could learn Bengali," I said. "I already speak several languages."
"You'll learn it very easily," he assured me. He went on to tell me a few Bengali words: hath (hand), chok (eyes), mukh (mouth), nak (nose), kan (ears). As it turned out, nine years were to pass before I got my first real opportunity to use those words. But I remembered them easily all that time. I had only to recall the day he'd spoken them to me and I could hear his voice again, mentally, as though he were speaking them in my ear.
This was the first indication I had that he might have bestowed on me a blessing far greater than the mere ability to contort my body into a variety of unusual positions: the gift to be able to recall the words he spoke to me exactly as he'd uttered them. How else, I asked myself, could I recall his words, tone and all, even when he spoke them in a foreign language?
One day at Twenty-Nine Palms he told me the story of Lahiri Mahasaya's meeting with Babaji. In Hindi he quoted Babaji's words: "Lahiri, tu agaya (you have come)." Simple words to be sure, but to have heard them once only in passing and still to be able to recall them clearly enough to confirm them in India nearly a decade later, argues a talent greater, I think, than I possessed naturally.
One day he sang us a song in Bengali: "Mukti dete pari; bhakti dete pari koi?" Though in this case, too, I heard the words once only, they stayed with me until I went to India in 1958, and there verified their accuracy.
The interesting thing is that this power, if such it really was, existed only where Master's words were concerned. The speech of others continued to be recalled in the more or less shadowy fashion that is, I suppose, usual in such cases.
At about this time in my life Master began asking me to jot down his words. He intimated strongly that he wanted me someday to write about him. For long hours he would reminisce with me about his life, his experiences in establishing the work, his hopes and plans for its future. He told me countless stories, some of them to illustrate points he was making; others, I suppose, simply because they were interesting, or helped in some general way to round out my understanding of the path. Many of his meanings reached me not only through the medium of words and stories, but by a kind of osmosis, a subtle impression gathered from a facial expression, or from the tone of his voice, or by some even subtler transferral of consciousness.
Often he talked about various disciples.
"Sir," I inquired one day, "what about the young man whom you initiated in Brindaban, during that episode in your book, 'Two Penniless Boys in Brindaban'? Have you ever heard from him again?"
"No," Master replied. "Inwardly, however, he has kept in touch."
"Then it isn't necessary to have outward contact with the Guru?"
"There must be at least one outward contact with him." Master was referring, of course, to a meaningful contact, such as that which is made at the time of initiation.
From other things that he said, and from the fact that he sometimes had disciples initiate people into Kriya Yoga in his stead even while he was alive, I understood that this link with him would be forged by contact with successive generations of those disciples who were in tune with him.
One day I asked him, "What are the most important qualities on the spiritual path?"
"Deep sincerity," Master replied, "and devotion. It isn't the number of years one spends on the path that counts, but how deeply one tries to find God. Jesus said, 'The last shall be first, and the first last.(63)
once met a lady in the state of Washington. She was eighty years old, and
all her life she'd been an atheist. By God's grace, at our meeting she became
converted to this path. Thereafter she sought God intensely. For the better
part of every day, whenever she wasn't meditating, she would play a recording
of my poem 'God! God! God!' She lived only a few years longer, but in that
short time she attained liberation."
Master also told me
stories about several more recondite aspects of the path. "There
was a young man in India who died," he said. "His body was lying
ready for cremation; the funeral pyre was about to be lit. Just at that
moment an old yogi came running out of a nearby forest. 'Don't light the
fire!' he shouted. 'I need that young body.' He fell to the ground, dead.
A moment later the young man leapt up off the pyre; before anybody could
stop him, he ran off into the forest. The family could only cremate that
asked Master one evening, "what about Swami Pranabananda's prediction,
in Autobiography of a Yogi, that he would be reborn shortly after
his death, and go to the Himalayas to live with Babaji?"
reborn. At the age of six he left home." Master smiled reflectively.
"His renunciation at that young age caused quite a stir in his village!"
As Christmas approached,
St. Lynn visited Mt. Washington. This was my first opportunity to meet
Master's foremost disciple and spiritual heir. I found him gentle, soft-spoken,
and remarkably humble. He seemed completely dispassionate, ever centered
in the Self within. As Master introduced each of us to him, St. Lynn smiled
sweetly, but said little. In time I discovered that he took almost no
interest in small talk. A self-made man of considerable worldly means,
he referred hardly ever to his outer life. For all we heard from him personally,
he might have been a man of few achievements. Virtually his sole topics
of conversation were God, Guru, and meditation. Silently he would come
up to us whenever we met him, and bless us. Perhaps then he would offer
us a few words of spiritual encouragement or advice. His mind was always
focused inwardly on God. To be with him seemed to me like standing before
a window onto infinity.
After Master's passing,
Rajarsi Janakananda, as we knew him then, seemed almost to become
Master. His eyes, by some subtle transformation, were Master's eyes. So
perfect was his attunement that our guru's very thoughts became his thoughts.
Master used to say of himself, "I killed Yogananda long ago."
Rajarsi Janakananda, similarly, had attained that state of consciousness
where nothing of the ego remained. It was as if, through him, God and
Guru spoke to us directly.
During the Christmas
meditation that year Master led us in singing his chant "Do not dry
the ocean of my love with the fires of my desires, with the fires of my
restlessness." Over and over we sang it. "Christ is here,"
he told us. "Sing it to him." Later he added, "Because
you have sung this chant today, whenever in future you feel delusion pressing
in all around you, sing it again, thinking of this occasion, and Christ
and Guru will come down themselves to save you. Mark my words, for they
As he had done the
year before, Master spoke to us for some time from the depths of his divine
communion. He blessed St. Lynn, Dr. Lewis, Daya Mata, and several others,
telling them how greatly pleased God was with them.
he continued, "you must try hard, for God will bless you very
much." His words thrilled me so deeply that I'm afraid my meditation
the rest of that day was more on them than on God.
On Christmas Day we
enjoyed our traditional banquet. Master spoke afterward, intimately and
lovingly as he had done the year before. During his talk he said, "The
ladies in the office gave Faye a Christmas present. They addressed it
to, 'Our boss who never bosses.'" Smiling his pleasure at this beloved
disciple, he went on to speak fondly of the garden of souls that was growing
up around him.
Before the banquet,
place cards had been set out on the tables; the affair had been planned
as a restricted family gathering. But at the last moment, numbers of guests
had arrived uninvited. Room was courteously made for them, some of the
renunciates offering their own seats.
In the office afterwards,
a few of us were discussing with Master the inconvenience that had been
caused by the sudden influx of people. A monk expressed his distress at
their presumption. But I had been fortunate to observe another aspect
of the episode.
said, "the disciples were vying with one another for the privilege
of giving up their seats."
smiled blissfully. "Those are the things that please me!"
Master also told me stories about several more recondite aspects of the path. "There was a young man in India who died," he said. "His body was lying ready for cremation; the funeral pyre was about to be lit. Just at that moment an old yogi came running out of a nearby forest. 'Don't light the fire!' he shouted. 'I need that young body.' He fell to the ground, dead. A moment later the young man leapt up off the pyre; before anybody could stop him, he ran off into the forest. The family could only cremate that old man!"
"Sir," I asked Master one evening, "what about Swami Pranabananda's prediction, in Autobiography of a Yogi, that he would be reborn shortly after his death, and go to the Himalayas to live with Babaji?"
"He was reborn. At the age of six he left home." Master smiled reflectively. "His renunciation at that young age caused quite a stir in his village!"
As Christmas approached, St. Lynn visited Mt. Washington. This was my first opportunity to meet Master's foremost disciple and spiritual heir. I found him gentle, soft-spoken, and remarkably humble. He seemed completely dispassionate, ever centered in the Self within. As Master introduced each of us to him, St. Lynn smiled sweetly, but said little. In time I discovered that he took almost no interest in small talk. A self-made man of considerable worldly means, he referred hardly ever to his outer life. For all we heard from him personally, he might have been a man of few achievements. Virtually his sole topics of conversation were God, Guru, and meditation. Silently he would come up to us whenever we met him, and bless us. Perhaps then he would offer us a few words of spiritual encouragement or advice. His mind was always focused inwardly on God. To be with him seemed to me like standing before a window onto infinity.
After Master's passing, Rajarsi Janakananda, as we knew him then, seemed almost to become Master. His eyes, by some subtle transformation, were Master's eyes. So perfect was his attunement that our guru's very thoughts became his thoughts. Master used to say of himself, "I killed Yogananda long ago." Rajarsi Janakananda, similarly, had attained that state of consciousness where nothing of the ego remained. It was as if, through him, God and Guru spoke to us directly.
During the Christmas meditation that year Master led us in singing his chant "Do not dry the ocean of my love with the fires of my desires, with the fires of my restlessness." Over and over we sang it. "Christ is here," he told us. "Sing it to him." Later he added, "Because you have sung this chant today, whenever in future you feel delusion pressing in all around you, sing it again, thinking of this occasion, and Christ and Guru will come down themselves to save you. Mark my words, for they are true."
As he had done the year before, Master spoke to us for some time from the depths of his divine communion. He blessed St. Lynn, Dr. Lewis, Daya Mata, and several others, telling them how greatly pleased God was with them.
"Walter," he continued, "you must try hard, for God will bless you very much." His words thrilled me so deeply that I'm afraid my meditation the rest of that day was more on them than on God.
On Christmas Day we enjoyed our traditional banquet. Master spoke afterward, intimately and lovingly as he had done the year before. During his talk he said, "The ladies in the office gave Faye a Christmas present. They addressed it to, 'Our boss who never bosses.'" Smiling his pleasure at this beloved disciple, he went on to speak fondly of the garden of souls that was growing up around him.
Before the banquet, place cards had been set out on the tables; the affair had been planned as a restricted family gathering. But at the last moment, numbers of guests had arrived uninvited. Room was courteously made for them, some of the renunciates offering their own seats.
In the office afterwards, a few of us were discussing with Master the inconvenience that had been caused by the sudden influx of people. A monk expressed his distress at their presumption. But I had been fortunate to observe another aspect of the episode.
"Sir," I said, "the disciples were vying with one another for the privilege of giving up their seats."
"Ah!" Master smiled blissfully. "Those are the things that please me!"
Janakananda means, "ananda
(divine bliss) through an ideal balance of outward responsibility and
inward spiritual attainment that was perfectly exemplified in ancient
times in the life of the royal sage King Janaka."