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

by Sister Gargi

  September 25, 1952

  Swami (to a group of devotees): You are all cowards. You just mew—you should roar!

  Devotee: We should be lion cubs.

  Swami: You are not even kittens. Sorry kittens!

  3

  ALL IN GOOD TIME

  The trial Voice of India, of which I was the editor-in-chief, was not to be taken lightly. The issues that we produced every two months were supposed to contain our best efforts and to constitute a backlog of articles that we could draw upon if we ever went public and sold the magazine. I not only had to work hard writing brainy articles but also had to put together a comprehensive, varied, and readable journal. Deadlines rushed at us like a steaming train bent on running us down. To write thoughtful articles on Indian philosophy, or simply meaningful essays on Vedanta, was a form of torture to me. My mind could not adapt itself to an outline or even draw one up in the first place. There was, however, no way out. I had to write a couple of articles, a short story, and some poetry every two months or fail ignominiously—an eventuality that was not an option.

  We met the publication deadline for the first bimonthly trial magazine of January 1953 at the end of December. The second deadline of mid-February already loomed large at the opening of 1953. I spent the first six weeks of the New Year hard at work preparing a story (“Shankara and the Outcaste”), an article (“The Vedantic View of Healing”), and two poems (“Night” and “Thirst”) for the upcoming March issue. Writing articles was still difficult, especially with a new deadline bearing down.

  January 5, 1953

  Me (apropos of Vicks VapoRub): I wish there were something one could rub on the brain to make it work.

  Swami: When a starving man begs for food, do you think he has to rub something on his brain to make the sentences come? His desire forms the right words. If you have the desire to say something, the right words will clothe it. Create the desire within yourself. Why haven’t you written down what I have just suggested?

  Me: I thought I would remember it.

  Swami: Do you think writers remember everything? Always write down everything. Haven’t you a notebook? Where is it? When you read, jot down references and ideas. They will be valuable to you. (To others) It is going to take years to teach her method!

  January 7, 1953

  Swami (to a devotee): Do you think Sri Ramakrishna, Holy Mother, and Swamiji will ever let you go? They will never let you lose your way. Theirs is an eternal guarantee. There are ups and downs, but they make you strong. The man who has crossed many mountains is the strong man. Hang on!

  Later that day

  Swami: When I did the worship in India—offering all the different elements to God—I felt that each had been absorbed back into the Infinite. The whole world seemed to disappear, to dissolve into a vast silence. I did not have to philosophize about it. I actually felt it. That is worship. You can actually offer a flower to the Infinite. When the mind becomes subtle, everything is seen as a symbol of God or of some aspect of spiritual life.

  January 8, 1953

  Swami: When ritual is just a matter of form, it becomes binding. It is good only when there is meditation and devotion along with it.

  Me: Psychologically good?

  Swami: Psychologically and spiritually. In spiritual life all psychology is spiritual psychology. One feels the presence of God during worship. I used to take Sri Ramakrishna’s picture into his bedroom after performing the worship in Madras. We did that so he could rest. I put the picture on the cot and went away. When I went back into the room it was just filled with his presence. Such a thing is so much better than one’s own consciousness that one knows it is not imagination. One could not imagine it.

  Me: Would Sri Ramakrishna know that he was there in a picture?

  Swami: Of course he knows. How could he be there and not know? It is not the same as saying he is everywhere. A spiritual manifestation like that is objective.

  Me: But one has to be spiritual to feel it.

  Swami: No, it is not one’s own doing. He comes. There are many fish in the sea; if you go deep you might catch one, but when the fish comes up to you, that is the fish’s own doing. It is like that. Of course, I will admit a certain susceptibility is necessary. A polished surface catches the rays of light better than a rough one.

  Me: It seems to me that only very spiritual people see him. He comes to them. But he wouldn’t come to me, for instance.

  Swami: Who told you were not a spiritual person?

  Me: Well, not enough.

  Swami: It is a matter of unfoldment; it is not something added. One does not have to be especially spiritual. Many people coming here for the first time have felt it. They have remarked upon it.

  Me: I do not feel anything. That is, it doesn’t knock me over.

  Swami: That is because you are here all the time. You have become accustomed to it. If you were to go away, you would know that you had felt it. You would feel the lack; you would miss it.

  Me: Yes. I know.

  Swami: Grow in devotion. Love Sri Ramakrishna, Holy Mother, and Swamiji. They have form only when they are far away, but as you grow close you see they are the formless Brahman. It is like looking at a brilliant light through a small aperture in a wall from a distance. You think it has form—a small round spot of light. But as you grow close and put your eye up to the hole, you see the infinite light beyond the wall. Love Sri Ramakrishna. He is our own. He is infinite joy and love, infinite peace, our very own, the Life of our life, the Soul of our soul. He is also Brahman, Satchidananda [the formless, absolute God]. Don’t analyze it. When you think of him, these things will come to you. They are just there. You know enough about him to have all these things revealed when you think of him.

  January 10, 1953

  Swami came downstairs and seemed for a time restless. “I want you to do something for me,” he said. “Come into my office.”

  I followed him and stood in the door of his office while he jotted down something on paper; then, with an air of conspiracy and looking like a little boy who is up to no good, he said, “Come closer.”

  I went to his desk, and he whispered, so no one could hear, “Now, there are some nuts. I think they are called Macadamia.” He showed me what he had written: Makadamia. “Get a medium-size jar of these. They are round and creamy colored and come, I think, from Hawaii. Maybe Tony’s [a grocery store] will have them.”

  He took out his wallet and from it took a crisp and clean five- dollar bill, adding, “Then also there are cans of almonds. Get two cans.” He smiled a little sheepishly as though we were partners in crime.

  I got the nuts and returned to the Temple. Swami, happy as a child who has gotten into a forbidden jam pot or a cookie jar, took them upstairs.

  Later that day

  Swami told us about Suresh Babu [a lay disciple of Sri Ramakrishna] and of how he carried curd to Swami Vivekananda for many miles on foot so that it would not curdle and be spoiled by the jostling of a carriage. When Swamiji learned of this, he was deeply moved and said, “Whomever he [Sri Ramakrishna] touched, he turned to gold.”

  Swami (speaking of the direct disciples of Sri Ramakrishna): Twenty thousand saints and mystics could spring from the dust of their feet! Such people come only with Divine Incarnations. It was all so natural. No fuss, no long faces—it was a different world.

  January 15, 1953

  Swami: Gandhi’s ideas were far from perfect. Yet he put them into practice. He was a great power. Our [Vedantic] ideas are more perfect, yet we do nothing. We should become powerful, so that many will follow us. How? By living up to our ideals. Live it! Well, it will happen, but not in our time. Maybe you will do it. You have renounced for God. Through renunciation a power is generated. Once you break through the dam, the water will make its own channel and cut it wider and wider.

  January 17, 1953

  Swami: I see so
much suffering and sorrow in the world that I no longer want to prevent anyone from finding happiness where he can. If something helps him, whether it be truth or not, let him follow it.

  Me: But if it is not true, he will find no happiness in it.

  Swami: That is the trouble. But even if he finds temporary relief, that is something.

  January 21, 1953

  Swami talked in the back office to a group of devotees until after 11:30 p.m. Suddenly, in the midst of a sentence, he said furiously, “Go home! All of you go home. Why don’t you go to a nightclub? You just sit here for pleasure; you are not doing anything!” He got up and strode majestically out of the room, brushing by Mara and me.

  Mara (sotto voce to me): Look out! You will get scorched.

  January 31, 1953

  Swami was looking at blueprints, whistling, making faces, nodding, pretending to explain the pros and cons to an imaginary architect, looking up at me, and laughing or frowning. There was purity in his face like that of a baby. This went on for a long time. Then something broke the spell, and he was tearing into someone like a lion.

  February 3, 1953

  Me: Is it all right for me to stuff cotton in my ears when I meditate?

  Swami: No, better not to use external aids.

  Me: It’s very noisy in the morning in my apartment. The people below start getting up.

  Swami: Use willpower. Do you know willpower?

  Me: No.

  Swami: Become acquainted with it. Balanced strength is the true strength. It is like the serene surface of a calm lake. It goes deep, deep. One feels one can give oneself to it and be held securely. If necessary, serene strength can raise waves mountain high.

  February 4, 1953

  Swami: If one boosts the students’ self-confidence in their accomplishments, their ego grows—the accomplishments become associated with the ego. Then they cannot stand the least little criticism; they will go away. Self-confidence has to be crushed for a time, yet accomplishments must grow. When they are no longer associated with the ego, they become acts of worship. It takes a long time.

  February 5, 1953

  Me: I wrote a letter to Luke this morning in a rage. Perhaps I had better not send it.

  Swami: No, don’t do that! Wait three or four days. You should write, but don’t be small. You are thinking of only your own hurt. She has been sick and has a dying father on her hands. I do not say she is right, but don’t be small about it. Be great. You can’t do great things through smallness. Don’t react that way. When you see something wrong, you should redress it, of course, but be strong.

  February 6, 1953

  Ediben, Jo, Mara, and Kathleen were in the back office after Swami’s lecture.

  Me (apropos of Yahudi Menuhin’s hatha yoga practices, as pictured in Life magazine): Why don’t we do that?

  Swami (furiously): Why do you want to do that?

  Me: You said it was good for the health.

  Swami: Get health through your mind. Meditation will tone the whole body. If you practice things like hatha yoga, you will become a slave to the body. You will become bound in it, looking at your face in the mirror twenty times a day and at the face of others. Sri Ramakrishna forbade any such practice. If any of our monks have practiced hatha yoga, they are discountenanced as going against Sri Ramakrishna.

  It is time all of you made a plan for your lives. What do any of you do? You are middle-aged, sagging women. You have been hearing about Vedanta for twenty years, yet you cannot answer a question about it. (He imitated us looking off into space, pondering, hemming and hawing, and finally saying wisely, “Yes.”) All you want to do is play and have little conversations. Organize your thoughts and your life. I have heard you answer questions on the phone; you do not make any intelligent replies. You just giggle. It is no wonder that Vedanta has not caught on. There is good reason for it. You just play. (He stretched his legs out in front of him, lolling back in his chair with an utterly silly look.)

  It is not that you are not good people. You all have many fine qualities. If that were not true, it wouldn’t matter. I would think, “Well, they will do something in their next life.” No! You can now. But you won’t. You are no longer young girls of twenty. It is time you thought about what you are to do.

  February 26, 1953

  Swami: Infinite care, infinite pains—that is the only way, Marie Louise. Work for the Lord as though He were your father, your mother, your friend. He is the all-pervasive Spirit, infinitely good. He is so subtle that the slightest tinge of grossness gives Him pain. That is why we must take such care in His work.

  (The phone rang and Swami talked with Mr. Gutterson, the architect, about the new temple.)

  Me: That was magnificent! You were so tactful.

  Swami: No, not tactful. I have deep respect for man. Man is divine.

  March 1, 1953

  Swami: Did you finish the account? [He had asked me to write an account of the dedication of the chapel at Sacramento, which had taken place on February 28.]

  Me: No. I couldn’t find my glasses.

  Swami (with disgust): If you were not a good person you would be an awful person, you have such bad habits. You didn’t come to the Gita class and you didn’t write the account.

  March 11, 1953

  Swami: Did you hear the minutes? [Minutes I had edited of the Sacramento annual meeting of 1952 and which had been read the previous day.]

  Me: Yes. You made some changes and they were good. I should have thought of them.

  Swami: Aren’t you ashamed? Or are you just happily ashamed? You should be ashamed! If I have to make changes, the burden is still mine. I should be able to say, “If Marie Louise has done it, it is all right. I don’t have to look at it.” But you didn’t take the burden from me. (Abrupt exit.)

  March 14, 1953

  Swami (now referring to the 1952 San Francisco minutes that I had also edited): This is sloppy work. What does “Berkeley members” mean? Simply because Ediben had it that way does not mean you should not question it. Put it in good English. (Pointing out more mistakes) I cannot stand work that needs to be checked; it turns my blood cold. (He made a gesture of consummate disgust and irritation.) You “think,” you “guess”—how can you meditate if your mind is in a state like that? It is the same mind that does this work and that sees God.

  Later Swami asked me to take some dictation. It was the first time he had asked this. I got my research case, in which were two spiral notebooks. The wire spirals had become entangled. I fumbled with them desperately for several minutes and then looked up to see Swami nearly bursting with suppressed laughter, whereupon I laughed also.

  Swami (after reading the re-edited minutes): You have done a good job. It’s all right.

  March 28, 1953

  Swami (in regard to the magazine): If you think that writing comes spontaneously, you are very much mistaken.

  Me: I do think that. If one can write, then one just writes.

  Swami: I am telling you differently. Just swallow it! Go to the source of a big river. What will you find there? Just little trickles—one here, one there, half-hearted, sometimes blocked, sometimes going underground—but all together they eventually make a mighty river. If you are the poet you thought you were, or think you are . . .

  Me: I don’t think I am.

  Swami: Oh! That makes it very easy for you. Humility makes things very easy. “I can’t do anything.” Then no one expects anything from you; you don’t have to make any effort. Just lie back.

  Me: It is not humility. It is just a fact.

  Swami: It is humility, laziness. There is so much going on here. You could make an article every two months about it.

  Me: I am not good at remembering accurately. I always wish I had a recording machine. My brain is not a good recorder.

  Swami: You could learn that. There was a man who used to always ta
ke notes at the Math. The monks didn’t like it because some of the things he wrote were personal but he went on until he had volumes. Most of them were lost, but one or two were intact. I translated one of them. There was a great deal of valuable material. Just jot things down. That is all you have to do.

  The doorbell rang. Kathleen Davis and Jeanette Vollmer came in from the retreat at Olema, where a women’s crew had been working all day long in a gale. Soon other devotees arrived. It was seven o’clock.

  Swami (to me): You had better go now and do your evening work—meditate, eat dinner, write about Ananda. [At that time I was writing a story about Buddha’s chief disciple.] Forget you are living in the twentieth century. Live in the time of Buddha. Tell how the people live and talk. Go with Buddha on his travels. Learn about that period.

  April 13, 1953

  Swami (to himself): What a mess the world is in. He who tries to improve it is a fool. He who tries to get something from it is a fool. (To me) The only thing is to leave it behind.

  April 14, 1953

  Swami: Sri Ramakrishna is the form of Formlessness. As one grows closer to that form it melts into the Formless. Not all forms do that. One can meditate on him to know the Formless God.

  April 22, 1953

  As Jo was binding the trial magazine and I was trying to help her, I touched wet ink on the cover and smeared it.

  Swami (at once noticing this): Take care. In India a diamond cutter will spend months studying a stone. He explores it from every angle, determining all the stresses and strains and flaws. If he hits it in the wrong place, it can fly to pieces. Then finally, after months of study, he gives one little tap, covered with perspiration; it could spell ruin for him. You should take such pains.