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

  April 17, 1952

  There was a meeting of the Society’s members the night before about building a new temple to accommodate the overflowing crowds in San Francisco, to which all said, “Aye.”

  Swami: Are you enthusiastic about the new temple?

  Me: No, not very.

  Swami: Why?

  Me: I am not very interested in buildings. It is because I am too selfish. All I want is to realize God.

  Swami: What will you do when you realize God? Pinch Him? You will serve Him. So serve Him now. That is the way to draw close to Him; there is no other way. Act as though you had realized Him. The bad man becomes good by acting as though he were good. In that way his mind gradually changes. Serve God through all beings. Devote yourself to His service. Well, you know all this; you also do it. But learn to do it more and more.

  April 18, 1952

  Swami (in regard to giving money): Why must you plan your whole life now? Plan each year as it comes. That is the way to be practical. Before you buy anything, think if it is really necessary. I do not say that so much because of the money as because of the mind. Buy only what is essential. On the other hand, don’t get fanatical about it. Have a wholesome attitude. The most important thing is the spirit of renunciation. Keep that.

  April 24, 1952

  Swami (apropos of the new temple): I get into one mess after another. It is very unusual.

  Me: You are very unusual.

  Swami: What makes you think I am unusual?

  Me: All great men are unusual.

  Swami: You think I am a great man because you see me here in these surroundings, lecturing and all that. In other places I would be just an ordinary man. It is the place.

  Me: Wherever you would be, there it would be.

  Swami (after a little time): Vedantic truths are wonderful. They make men great who embody them. Look at Swamiji—wherever he was, people recognized him for a great man. People who embody Vedantic truths understand the human heart. They know how to prod people toward their own light. They understand all sides of a person, yet they are cautious; otherwise harm could be done. They have deep understanding for everything.

  Great musicians used to want to play before the swamis at the Madras Math [monastery], because they knew their music would be best appreciated there. The aesthetic sense of spiritual men is keenly developed, but most important is their understanding of the human heart. Look at Holy Mother—what a wonderful understanding she had. (With great kindness) Somewhere there is a Mother Heart that loves you, no matter what you are or think of yourself. It is hard to believe, but it is literally so. Holy Mother was an embodiment of that Mother Heart. It is literally true.

  May 14, 1952

  Swami: The greatest thing that could happen to mankind today is the spread of spirituality. There must be spirituality of the kind that will not create dissension among men but will unify them. That is Vedanta. It is a spirituality that will coordinate and give meaning to all the greatest achievements of men. The swamis should be contemplative and not busy laying bricks and putting up buildings.

  Me: Why?

  Swami: That is what people want.

  Me: But someone has to lay the bricks, and it seems that only the swamis can do it.

  Swami: When there are enough people trained to do the work, then the swamis can be contemplative.

  Later, talking to a devotee, Swami said how much meditating the monks have to do. “Meditation requires largeness; to become large, one must learn how to work for others, to work unselfishly. One thus becomes big of heart. Without this, true meditation is impossible.”

  May 15, 1952

  When I came into the library Swami was talking to Jeanette and Edna about meditation.

  Swami: When there is consciousness of subject and object, that is not true meditation.

  Jeanette: Is there a time when one feels that it is someone else who is doing the meditation, and you are just watching?

  Swami: No. If that happens, there is something wrong with the head. You should never observe your own meditation. Some people in the beginning watch every little thing that takes place within them. They get caught in that trap. Maybe that is what you do.

  Jeanette: No. My meditation isn’t that good. There is nothing to watch.

  (The conversation turned to the subject of suffering and the presence of evil.)

  Swami: Well, why should there be evil and suffering? Why did God create the world like that? One should ask that question. Of course, you do not suffer, so you don’t ask it.

  Me: No, but I guess if I suffered, I should ask it.

  Swami: You should.

  Me: But then, who am I to say that my suffering is wrong? If I had never suffered, I would not be here.

  Swami: Do you think that one has always to suffer to come to God?

  Me: Not always.

  Swami: Why should it ever be that way? Why should one suffer at all?

  Edna: Because of our mistaken ideas.

  Swami: Why should people have mistaken ideas in the first place? Why shouldn’t we realize the truth here and now? Why suffer? Why should God have created a world in which people must have mistaken ideas and suffer and struggle in order to realize Him? Why did He create it at all?

  Me: Maybe He didn’t.

  Swami: Ah! That is closer to the truth.

  Edna: You said in one of your lectures that nature, if left to itself, does not always take one to the goal.

  Swami: That is my opinion of it. Nature is like a river. The current sometimes flows straight to the ocean or in devious routes—but sometimes the water gets caught in an eddy and swirls around and around, always coming back to the same place.

  Me: What is nature?

  Swami: She is very smart. Well, answer the question yourself. You tell me what nature is. Go on!

  The talk became light and joking. It has been a long time since Swami has been in such fine good humor, relaxed and liking to talk with us, with his mind for a few minutes away from the problems that press upon him from all sides. The air seemed to sparkle.

  May 17, 1952

  Swami: Well, how are you?

  Me: I am very happy, but I do not work hard.

  Swami: Do you think that is cause and effect? You are happy because you do not work hard?

  Me: No. I know that if I don’t get to work, my happiness won’t last. But Swami, I would do anything in the world, anything at all, rather than write. I can watch my mind figuring out things to do.

  Swami (regarding me during this speech with extreme disapproval): Do you think you have any choice about it? Lay it to your heart that you have no choice. You are doing the work of Sri Ramakrishna and Swamiji. Once you break through the dam, the water will make its own channel and cut it wider and wider.

  I had no reply to that, but I had other problems. Like most beginners in spiritual life, I had reached a state in which the enticing come-on of spiritual experiences and dreams had stopped, and I felt doltish and singularly unfit for a life of spiritual striving. I did not know quite how to put this to Swami without whining. I was not unhappy; I was just flat—a surface that neither gave off nor took in light. Everything around me looked as ordinary as I felt. I approached the subject in a crablike manner, from the side.

  Me: Swami, what you spoke of in class last night—seeing the world as excruciatingly beautiful—I have seen it like that a little bit. But I do not see it like that any more. Why is that?

  Swami: When one is spiritual, one sees that.

  Me: Am I less spiritual now than then?

  Swami: There is no endeavor more fruitless than thinking about the past. The wonderful thing about it is that when the inside changes, the outside changes also. It is as though a curtain were rolling up off the face of the universe, revealing a wonderful reality behind. And through that, one can see the pure Spirit shining.<
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  Me: It is really always like that, isn’t it? Right now it is like that. It is here.

  Swami: Yes. He, not It. “It” is living, a living Being.

  Me: I know that I do not really believe it because when I meditate, I try to focus on It—Him—with my thought. If I really believed He were real, I would not think so much; I would stop thinking, and It—He—would be there.

  Swami: Yes, but it is better to think of God than to think of worthless things, even if you cannot always feel His presence. Love is the thing. Without love, nothing can be accomplished. Love Sri Ramakrishna.

  Me: How can I love him if I do not know him?

  Swami: You do know him. He is the Soul of your soul. If that were not true, you would have some reason in saying that you cannot love him without knowing him. But you know him; he is the Life of your life.

  Me: I do not identify the two.

  Swami: They are identical.

  May 27, 1952

  When I sit in Swami’s office, it is mostly in silence while he reads the newspaper or some book. Sometimes he sings or whistles a devotional tune that has a plaintive air about it. Miriam comes in and out with information about buildings and architects. Ediben comes and goes, or the phone will ring and there will be long conversations. Sometimes it is very quiet, sometimes very active. Whatever way it is, I always feel that I want to sit there forever.

  Sometimes Swami looks up at me questioningly. I feel that I should say something or ask some question, but I have nothing to say. If there had been anything on my mind, it loses all significance or I cannot remember what it was. Often I feel stupid (is there nothing in my head at all?). Swami will ask, “Yes?” And I will say, “Nothing.”

  Today Miriam tried to get hold of Mr. Gutterson, the architect for the new temple, to change some plan and cancel an appointment. The architect’s secretary told her that Mr. Gutterson had gone home in order to find absolute quiet in which to do his work for Swami, as he had a deadline to meet. Upon hearing this, Swami said, “Oh, golly! Mr. Gutterson is beginning to act just like a student!” I was smiling at this and smiling also in delight at Swami’s greatness—not because of the architect, but just because of his greatness that one cannot help feeling. It is like a light shining.

  “What are you thinking?” Swami asked me.

  I replied, “Nothing.”

  “Yes, you are thinking something.”

  “Well,” I said, “I was thinking how wonderful you are.”

  “Am I wonderful because I can talk about plans?” he asked.

  “No,” I answered, “it is not that.”

  He went back to reading. Then later he looked up and said, “Think of the Lord: as a mother broods over a distant child, think of Him with that same love.” Then very kindly and almost sadly he said, “There is no happiness in time.” He means he will die, I thought, and he knows it will be hard for me—hard for us all. “Go beyond time,” he said.

  “But it takes time to go beyond time.” I said.

  “Yes,” he replied. “Use time to undermine time.”

  June 1952

  Swami (to a group of devotees): When the lion roars in the jungle, the jackals are quiet. When the voice of Advaita roars out, all the other philosophies are stilled. It is like the sun overpow-ering all other lights and engulfing them.

  Devotee: Even one of those little lights would be enough, if one could only see even that!

  Swami (suddenly majestic and furious): You people all hang on to your little miseries. You are milksops, weaklings, cowards! To show you sympathy is a sin. Go out into the world—go anywhere and see how worldly people suffer. What terrible suffering they endure, and what strength they call up from within themselves, while here you whimper at the slightest thing, all of you.

  This was a long and magnificent speech. I cannot remember it all. These things are delivered with such power that one shakes inside. Often I feel like laughing; his phrases are so apt, so telling, that there is something glorious about them, however much they may strike home—like flashes of lightning, direct and uncompromising. Laugh or cry, one cannot ignore the jolt.

  June 12, 1952

  My life was still chugging along on a plateau, which I suspected was taking a downhill turn. This lackluster mood probably extended to my face and manner, obvious to Swami. I did not have to open the subject or sidle into it.

  Swami: You are trying to change your whole way of living, your whole mind. It needs time. What is the sense of drastically ripping off the old? You do not know what effect that might have on your mind. It is a law that when the young bud grows, the old leaf falls off by itself. When you become established in the new, the old will just fall off. It is not good just to rip off the old leaf prematurely. Are you game to live a life all alone?

  Me: Yes.

  Swami: Spiritual life is a lonely life. One goes from the alone to the alone. Are you game?

  Me: Yes.

  Swami: You could still go back . . .

  Me: I feel that would be suicide.

  Swami: Yes, that is true. Well, do you think you will like this life?

  Me: I think that will be up to me, won’t it?

  Swami: Yes. But do you think you can find what you want in it?

  Me: That also will be up to me, but I don’t know what horrible things are within me that will come up and spoil everything or make things difficult.

  Swami: Sooner or later one has to get rid of them.

  Me: Yes.

  Swami: Spiritual life is always a risk. It is like digging where you think you will find diamonds. Maybe there will be nothing there, but take that risk. No effort is lost—are you game to take the risk?

  Me: Yes. I am afraid of only one thing.

  Swami: What is that?

  Me: Of when you will no longer be here.

  Swami: Go to Sri Ramakrishna and Swamiji. Turn to them. They will always be here, and Sri Ramakrishna will always come. But if you are looking the other way, what can he do? Make a practice now of turning toward him. You will feel his presence. Whenever you need help, he will talk to you and you will talk to him. Sri Ramakrishna and Swamiji will always stand by you; they will always be here. Know that it is they whom you have come to.

  Me: And to you, too.

  Swami: Yes, but they are the main root; we are just the branches.

  June 16, 1952

  Me: Is it because you think I might want to go back to New York that you want me to stay married?

  Swami: What I advise is caution. Spiritual life is like mountain climbing. To exert caution is part of it. You must be very surefooted. That doesn’t imply fear or retreat. Do not think whether you are happy or unhappy—just be.

  July 1952

  Swami (to me): Work that is not consciously done for the Lord is nothing. Fortunately, there is a great Soul presiding over all. Do everything unto Him. It may seem just imagination at first, but later on you will feel His presence tangibly. You will really know that you are doing everything for Him and that He is pleased with what you do, very pleased.

  Swami (to the devotees): You people should not worry. Sri Ramakrishna can push the cripple across a mountain. The explosive power of Sri Ramakrishna is behind you. He turns everything to good use, even your mistakes.

  August 25, 1952

  Swami: Do you think you are going to like this life you have chosen?

  Me: I think so.

  Swami: There is a long way ahead. Have you considered your prospects for the future?

  Me: I haven’t thought of it that way.

  Swami (smiling): Oh, you haven’t?

  Me: If it’s the way it is now, it will be all right. I will just grow older and older.

  Swami: That is one way of looking at it.

  Me: Presumably I will get more and more spiritual, and that will help. If I don’t, it will be too bad.


  Swami: Too bad for whom?

  Me: For me.

  Swami: That is right. That is one way of looking at it.

  Me: What other way should I look at it?

  Swami: It is a good way. Hang on! When things grow difficult, hang on!

  Me: What will happen when all spirituality goes?

  Swami: That is the very time to hang on, when everything seems dry. When a sailboat goes out to the ocean, it is all smooth sailing at first; it is easy. But when the boat hits rough waters, the sailors must hang on and push ahead. The difference is that with the sailboat, one is not sure of the end. Here one can be sure. Be a hero! Are heroes made by success or by their failures?

  Me: By their failures.

  Swami: That is right. Hang on through thick and thin, in spite of everything.

  Me: Yes.

  Swami: Are you afraid?

  Me: No, I am not afraid.

  Swami: I am going away in a few days for two or three weeks. Carry on with your work, and write to me frequently.

  Me: Yes. I hope you will get a rest.

  Swami: I hope so too. If not, I will get stale. The presence of a tired man and a sick man is not good.

  Me: That is not what your presence is.

  Swami: Yes, I’m a tired and sick man.

  August 27, 1952

  Today, Swami announced that we will revive The Voice of India, the Society’s disbanded magazine, starting with trial issues. The board of editors will be Edna Zulch, Kathleen Davis, Luke Williams, and me. The magazine will have to be first-rate. The general concept will be the same as it was originally: it will represent all aspects of Vedanta—devotional, philosophical, historical, hagiographical, and even fictional.

  Swami (pointing to me): She has the time but not the talent of Florence Wenner [the editor of the Society’s original magazine in 1945–46]. She hasn’t the versatility. She is a meadowlark poet. Meadowlarks sing in the spring when they feel like it, but at the first sign of autumn they are heard no more. No one knows they exist.