A Disciple's Journal: In the Company of Swami Ashokananda Read online

  Me: It seems that men have much more sexual energy than women. Have they, then, more spiritual energy?

  Swami: No. Why would you think that would follow?

  Me: Well, energy is energy. Sexual energy is transformed, transmuted into spiritual energy.

  Swami: No. Sex is a manifestation of the outward tendency of the mind and senses. It is the strongest manifestation. I also have read reports of the book. I will read the book itself, or look through it, when it comes out. The findings seem quite revolutionary. I think Kinsey has missed a main point. Women find sexual satisfaction in more subtle ways than men. Psychologists know that now. They find it in such things as possessiveness, making a home, and so on. It is a more subtle form of the same thing.

  Me: They use as much energy?

  Swami: Yes.

  That night

  Mara and I came in at 10:30 after dinner at Edna’s to celebrate Mara’s birthday. Swami was in the library talking with Marion Langerman, who was staying a few days in San Francisco. Kathleen and Jo had gone to get some ice cream. Swami welcomed Mara and me.

  In the course of general conversation, Swami said, “Everything in the world that is not connected with spirituality becomes contemptible, futile, and ludicrous. But when even the most common thing is connected with God, it becomes fraught with meaning. If you accept the world as it is without criticism, it will contaminate you; and if you try to understand it, it will also contaminate you.”

  Mara: How will it contaminate you if you just accept it?

  Swami: It will swallow you up.

  My interviews with Swami were seldom private. Although he did give private interviews to new students and to old ones in need of overhauling, the general situation in his small office (which was sandwiched between the library and the back office) was that of a midtown clearinghouse. The activities of the Society in all their complex permutations passed through his hands for clarification, untangling, and solution. The problems of Olema, which included everything from erosion control to fierce boundary disputes with the neighbors, were legion and seemingly unending. In addition, the construction and landscaping of the new temples in San Francisco and Sacramento were complicated matters of constant concern.

  The phone rang incessantly; people walked in and out of his office carrying rolls of blueprints, swatches of upholstery, or pieces of floor tile; financial questions needed his attention and letters his approval—there was, in fact, nothing connected with the work of the Society that did not pass through his office. In spite of all this, he himself seemed never disturbed or at a loss.

  His decisions, his actions, and his reactions were instantly informed by the light of inner being—that divine light common to all life, but which in the crystal-clear mind of the yogi shines unobstructed. He seemed always centered in that light; his mind was always refreshed and replenished by it. He was a serene and clear reservoir from which one could draw buckets of knowledge and unconditional love.

  At one time, Swami thought of delegating responsibility to a trained group of workers, but this proved to be premature. His students, however well intentioned and capable, acted with minds driven largely (as human minds generally are) by egotism and intellectual calculation, not yet by steady wisdom. Intellectual brilliance in itself comes to very different conclusions in its operations than does the mind of an illumined soul.

  Swami’s students were not stupid. They could have been successful in any worldly endeavor. But a religion that purports to be a means of communication between the world of matter and the world of spirit requires a different kind of leadership. The brunt of the work fell always upon Swami Ashokananda. Although this did not consume his spirit, the ceaseless and critical demands upon him took a severe toll on his physical health, which had never been robust, and of which he took little care.

  August 25, 1953

  I was in Swami’s office for half or three-quarters of an hour. In the course of this time, he discussed with Miriam Kennedy the problem of finding a nursing home, at once inexpensive and good, for Mrs. Allan. The telephone rang, bringing to Swami’s attention many other problems. I do not listen to these phone calls with enough attention to know all the complications and snarls that Swami deals with and solves.

  Swami: What are you smiling at?

  Me: Nothing. I feel happy.

  Swami: I do not know, Marie Louise, how we will wind up this season. Pressure, pressure, pressure. It is not right. Can you get me that box over there? (In the box were the color schemes that he and Helen had chosen for the new temple lobby and auditorium. He showed them to me and tried out different colors against wallpaper samples of solid tones.)

  Me: And you should be having a vacation!

  Swami (smiling): Marie Louise, you are very kind and thoughtful, but what can I do?

  Later, in the library

  Swami: Worship of the Impersonal is looking upon others as Brahman, recognizing them as such. Then all smallness and pettiness are burned out. Our miseries all come from the thought that others are human beings—inferior or superior. Service, discrimination, reasoning—(softly) that is great worship.

  Kathleen: We were reading that Holy Mother said that if one did japa 15,000 to 20,000 times a day one would attain God realization. Marion and I were figuring that that would take about five hours.

  Swami: Yes. But what is five hours? Think of how you spend your day. You waste at least five hours. You could be saying japa.

  Marion: But the mind gets tired.

  Swami: Hup! You make a little effort and grow tired, so you give up. It is true that the brain gets tired, but you train it—a little more each day. If you were taking physical exercise, at first you would get tired and you would stop. Then the next day, you would do a little more, gradually increasing. You can say japa in snatches through the day—on a streetcar or bus, for instance, when there is nothing else to do. Do it for five minutes, then the next day increase it a little. That’s the way. Through the day the mind grows calm; all the spaces are filled up.

  Me: Should it always be said with concentration?

  Swami: When you say japa during meditation, it should always be with full concentration; but when you are working, of course you cannot concentrate on it so much. There should always be some concentration; the more, the better.

  (Swami then turned to Marion and asked her where she had had her dinner.)

  Marion: At home.

  Swami: Very good. (Teasing her) You are a holy person. (To us, seriously) Never eat in restaurants, unless you can’t help it. If you want to keep your mind subtle and sensitive, you should eat at home. There are two kinds of people whom food in restaurants won’t hurt: those who are worldly, whose minds are gross to begin with, and those who have realized that all is Brahman—nothing can affect them. Then there is the middle group who must be practical about it; eating out is poison to them.

  Me: Is it because of the people in restaurants or because of the food?

  Swami: If you had psychic perception, you would see that food touched by an impure person changes color. It poisons your whole system; your mind becomes clouded.

  (I asked Swami if there would ever come a time when the world will know a period of peace and become stabilized.) Yes. I believe that we are entering into such a period. There will be peace and understanding between nations. People’s minds will turn to spiritual things. After that, there will be degeneration, an age of darkness and small wars, in about one thousand years. After a rapid climb, there comes a hard fall.

  Me: Is that what Sri Ramakrishna meant when he said, “Only the grass and bamboo will be left”?

  Swami: Yes, that is right.

  Me: Then there is a kind of balance between dark and light in time as well as in space?

  Swami: There is a balance, period. When nations exist as separate units, they rise and fall separately; that is why at any given time there appears
to be both good and evil in the world at the same time. One nation will be up, while the other is down. When the world becomes unified, it will rise and fall as a whole.

  Me: From a great distance, would the times of depression appear to be beautiful, like parts of a rhythmic movement?

  Swami: Why not think of your own life that way? After millions of lives of bondage, you are now swinging up into freedom—into the Absolute. If even in the small, daily things that happen you could take the position of observer, you would live in that Reality. The thing is to have the feeling that It [Absolute Reality] is. (Swami shone, as though he had this feeling.)

  Me: In that way, one would live always in the present and therefore in eternity?

  Swami: Yes. That is right.

  August 28, 1953

  I was asked by a devotee if I would drive her and another to Berkeley. I was none too eager and asked Swami if I should do it.

  Swami: Don’t ask me questions like that. Ask me metaphysical questions but not things like that.

  Me: It is somewhat metaphysical.

  Swami: Not enough. The point is that you people must learn to decide those things for yourselves. Otherwise, you become dependent and unable to make your own decisions. If you cannot make small decisions, then you will not be able to make big ones. One grows strong through small things. Decide it for yourself—but do not do anything under compulsion. You are not obligated to anyone. Always remember that! Never do anything under compulsion.

  Me: What about service to the devotees?

  Swami: You can find your own ways of serving them. If you feel you have to serve them whenever you are asked, life will become unbearable.

  Me: That is all I wanted to know.

  August 29, 1953

  Swami: We must have a place at the Olema retreat for old people. As it is now, they are just at the mercy of nurses. It is heartbreaking. A place like that would also give others a chance to serve. The only difficulty is that people would join the Society simply for that benefit in their old age. But we will have to do something.

  Me: What is the use of old age? Is it so one can learn that the body is no good?

  Swami: Yes. In spiritual life attachment drops away in old age.

  Me: One shouldn’t wish not to have it, then?

  Swami: Why think about it at all? Live in the present. Remembering the past and anticipating the future is bondage.

  Kathleen: What about people who suffer from amnesia? That doesn’t make them free.

  Swami: When one loses one’s memory consciously, deliberately, and voluntarily, that is heaven; but when it just happens, it can be hell. When one just falls asleep, that is nothing; but when one consciously withdraws consciousness from the mind, body, and senses, that is samadhi [ecstatic trance]. It is easy to have samadhi, but you don’t want it; the mind wants variation.

  Kathleen: Well, God created variety too.

  Swami: Don’t talk rubbish!

  September 1, 1953

  Swami sent Jo for some ice cream. We ate it and chatted lightly. Then in the hall on his way upstairs, Swami said, “I think it is time for me to retire.”

  Jo: What will happen to us if you do that?

  Swami (standing in the doorway): If you stay with Sri Ramakrishna and Swamiji, you will be all right. (He beamed at us radiantly.) If you stay on here and do as you are doing, you will have nothing to worry about; you will reach the highest.

  Jo: I wish we could have that in writing.

  Swami: What I say is gospel truth.

  September 3, 1953

  Swami told me that daylight saving time was going off—this after he had scolded me for being one hour late to the lecture. He had said, “Do you want a miserable companion to advise you of these things?” As I left, I pressed my palms together in salute.

  Swami: Don’t do like that! You are an American. Follow your own customs.

  October 8, 1953

  I was talking to Swami in his office when Nancy Tilden and Sally Martin came in. I rose to go, but he told me to stay.

  Swami (to Sally): God is with form and He is also formless, isn’t it so?

  Sally: I don’t know.

  Swami: She wants to swallow the ocean, so she won’t drink at the stream that is always running by.

  Sally: I would be happy for even one cupful.

  Nancy: I am glad the new temple work is going ahead.

  Swami: It is a struggle, but I like struggle. We are lionhearted. Nothing great is accomplished without struggle. Eh? Roar like a lion! (He looked like a lion.)

  (To Sally) If you can’t see God, see the greatness in living men. There is greatness in nature—in huge mountains, in thunder and lightning—but it is an inanimate greatness. Think of the great poets and musicians, the great engineers. Learn to appreciate what is before your eyes; then you will learn to see more.

  October 12, 1953

  Swami: We will sign the contract for the new temple today.

  Me: My, aren’t you glad?

  Swami (smiling wanly): I am too tired to be glad. If I were feeling normal—yes, I would be glad. What is needed are more friends. If we had money, it would ease everything.

  Me: Maybe somebody will come along with lots of money.

  Swami: Not in my time, but it is terrible to leave people with so great a burden.

  Me: You have lifted the real burden.

  Swami: No. Think of those boys in Sacramento who are doing all that backbreaking work. That is not what they came here for. They came to meditate and to grow spiritually.

  Me: People say that those monks have progressed tremendously through working like that. Just from seeing their faces, people have said that.

  Swami: Who?

  Me: Well, Helen, for instance.

  Swami: Even so, Marie Louise, that is not what they came for. Such terribly hard work! I think that is what weighs so heavily here (putting his hand on his heart).

  Later that day

  Swami (severely scolding two devotees): You think of nothing but yourselves. To me it is exactly as though you had rolled in the gutter and covered yourselves with filth. It tears me up. When, after all these years, you still think of yourself, comparing yourself with others and feeling sorry for yourself, I feel as though I had been stabbed in the back. Think of others. Do something for others.

  (There was much more. When he had finished, he turned to me. I had been standing in the doorway, transfixed.) Hello! Please come in. Please sit down.

  (In a more gentle way, he continued talking to the devotees.) If you do not know what to do for others, help them by your very being. Just the tone of your voice, the look in your eyes, can help people tremendously. If you have the right feeling in your heart, every word you say, the simplest word, will lift people.

  One time when I was in the south of India I came to a temple. There was a monk standing there. He looked at me so kindly and said, “Where did you come from?” I will never forget it. There was such sweetness in his voice. In those simple words he imparted such love. When you can get that quality in your voice, you will be doing something. You can’t force it; the feeling behind it is the thing that counts. If you could feel for others, Swamiji would be well pleased with you.

  I have said these things so often. I shouldn’t say them any more. You have given your whole self to God; don’t you see that when you turn around and think of yourself, you are taking back your gift?

  October 14, 1953

  In the morning the offices, it seemed, were crowded with women, coming and going, talking, or milling around. Finally, I was told, Swami blew up and said he could stand it no longer. After laying everyone out, he went upstairs. There had been no magazine work just then, but a few days before much typing and bustle had been going on. Swami had said to me, “All this clacking of typewriters and flapping of papers. Why don’t you move the magazine into
Luke’s apartment? You can divide some of the rent between you. She is leaving in a day or two and her apartment will be empty. Talk it over; make an independent decision.” (Independently, we decided that we did not want Luke’s apartment. However, it became obvious that Swami could not stand any more fuss and noise. We moved to Jeanette’s place, to everyone’s joy.)

  That evening, after the lecture

  Swami (to everyone in the back office): I can no longer stand crowds of people. There is nothing left in this body; it is drained out. My vacation did no good at all this year; it didn’t make any change.

  Ediben: It wasn’t long enough.

  Swami: In former years just a week would refresh me. This time nothing happened. I have been a monk all my life. I have never been accustomed to meeting people, to being around many people. Now my nerves simply will not stand it. I do not mean that I am not fond of each of you—you are all my students—or that I don’t want you to feel free to come here. It is not that; never feel that. But it is all this unnecessary activity: passing in the hall, going to the bathroom, going to the kitchen, going back and forth, talking. I do not mean that you can’t work on the magazine here. When you have reading to do or other work, certainly come here; but I will not have all this last-minute bustle going on. You will have to do it someplace else.

  (He noticed the stark faces of the Berkeley devotees in the doorway.) Well, Sally, you should not hear all this. You are just starting out in life and you have to listen to an old man grumbling. (He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair and looked like an exceedingly young and healthy man.) I used to be able to enter into everything. Nothing was too much. Are you going to the Durga Puja [worship of the Divine Mother as the goddess Durga] in Berkeley?

  Sally (determinedly): Yes. I will go.

  Swami: You do not believe in it. But do you have to understand why air is necessary for life before you will breathe it? You go to the worship. Truth cannot hurt a man, and the untruth cannot hurt him—that is, if he himself is true and sincere.