by Sister Gargi
December 1958
Swami was speaking about the possibility of Richard Nixon running for president in the next election.
Kathleen (passionately): How terrible it would be if we had him for president!
Swami (fixing her with a questioning smile): Why should you care so much?
Kathleen: That’s right. I am the witness. I neither like nor dislike him.
Swami: No. If you had no likes or dislikes, you would be dead. Without them, you would be a blank. Have likes and dislikes, but don’t become entangled in them. Even great souls have likes and dislikes, but there is no glue in them; they don’t get stuck. Look at Sri Ramakrishna—when he met a devotee, his heart went out; he could not contain himself. But he disliked impure people; to them he was very harsh.
December 14, 1958
Swami: My lectures have become simple. That is why people like them better; there is not so much in them. There used to be so many ideas, now just a few. It is like a tree: when there are only a few leaves, one can see the structure of the trunk and the branches; but when they are full of leaves, one can’t see it.
As a lecturer, one must say the same thing again and again. Suddenly it strikes home. Repetition wears away the outer crust; then something deep responds.
Me: One must have tremendous patience for that.
Swami: You have patience because your nature is eternal. To be impatient is to be the child of death. Patience is eternity; do you know that?
Me: I meant that the teacher must have patience.
Swami: Oh, the teacher—that is what teachers are for, that is their job. What would they talk about if not about God and spiritual things again and again?
December 15, 1958
Me: Am I a householder?
Swami: Do you feel you are a householder?
Me: No.
Swami: What do you feel you are?
Me: A monastic.
Swami: No. Monastics live a very regulated, austere life. Your life is in between. But in my opinion, that in-between life is the best for people in this country—particularly for women. And through it one can reach the very highest. It is my experience that an enormous amount of energy is wasted when women try to live together. There is too much tension, so much conflict. That is bound to be so. It is no reflection on the women themselves. Women have sensitive natures; that is their weakness and also their strength. They feel every little thing keenly. Men are more matter-of-fact.
Then Swami spoke of how hard monastic life is—how one can have no preferences and must live according to a strict routine; how one must respect the others with whom one lives and have no ego. The rough edges are all worn off.
Me: Do the advantages outweigh the disadvantages?
Swami: If one can stand it, yes. But generally speaking, women are much better off alone.
Me: Living alone, one can do better and better, can’t one?
Swami: Surely. There is no limit to it. As I said, that kind of life can lead to the very highest.
That evening
Swami was reading the newspaper. Jo, Mara, Kathleen, and Edna were quietly sitting in his office.
Swami: People do not want to go deep into religion. Religion is supposed to make one healthy, well-adjusted, and cheerful; to enable one to keep on friendly terms with everyone, raise a family, and so forth.
Me: Give peace of mind?
Swami: No, not peace of mind. I think that one must kill the mind in order to find satisfaction in a life like that. The deeper instincts must be silenced. It is on the dead body of the deeper instincts that one can build up a happy worldly life. Unless the deeper instincts are dead, how can one be satisfied with the superficial? Those things have no real meaning.
December 30, 1958
At last I sent off my letter to Swami Madhavananda, explaining the things in New Discoveries to which he had objected in his letter to Swami Ashokananda last summer. It occurred to me that I had no personal feeling at all about Swami Madhavananda’s objections. In my reply, I was playing a role. In the absence of any personal feeling, and without being told by Swami, how could I have known what tone to take?
Me: Swami, if one does not react, how does one know how to react?
Swami: Not to react is to be calm. You are learning not to react.
Me: But regarding this letter, for instance, Swami Madhavananda seems unreal to me. I could have replied to him in any way you told me to; I could have been abject, or bold, or—
Swami: Never be abject to anyone! Always remember that! In India they expect you to be abject, to take the dust of their feet, no matter what. Don’t ever do it! Swamiji did not want that. Stand up for what you know is right—but be polite about it.
New Year’s Eve, December 31, 1958
Swami meditated with us at midnight in the auditorium and then stayed downstairs until 1:00 a.m. Someone wished that the new year would be happy for him.
Swami: I can no longer think of being happy. It has been so long since I have been happy; it does not enter my mind. I don’t think about it at all. I just take what comes. I have suffered so much in this life—too much suffering, too much.
I have never before heard Swami speak like this of his suffering, and yet I could not grasp how deep and prolonged his suffering has been for his face was shining as he spoke. The suffering of a worldly man shatters his face; Swami’s face, his very being, doesn’t seem even nicked. Yet sometimes—and increasingly so as the years go by—even he looks tired to the breaking point, and one does not know how he can go on.
A drama of sacrifice is at the very heart of creation. It is a mystery to me. Is it the sacrifice of the Formless to form, or of form to the Formless—of God to God? Living in the company of Swami Ashokananda year after year, day in and day out, one sees enacted before one’s eyes the sacrifice of the self to the Self. It is magnificent and it is heartbreaking, and also it is ennobling and uplifting. One sees the sacrifice and one also sees the transcendence of suffering. There is something here of such great proportions that the tragedies and dramas of the world, of life, seem paltry. Yet it unfolds so simply, so quietly, and so luminously. The days shine, just as Swami’s face shines.
12
BE LIONS!
Swami Ashokananda’s worships were always simple, consisting primarily of meditation. He did not break the mood with an English translation of the Sanskrit scriptures he chanted; it was enough to hear his chanting voice, sonorous like the unbroken flow of water in a mountain stream. One was caught up in that flow and was carried along by it into some inner cave of one’s being. Whether his worship was meant only for a few close devotees—whoever chose to come—or on a larger scale for the general public, it created an atmosphere of profound, yet vibrant, peace in the Temple auditorium.
In deference to Holy Mother’s innate modesty, and with deep reverence for the purity and sanctity of her nature, the swamis in charge of the Vedanta Society in San Francisco did not celebrate her birthday with public worship in the Old Temple. From the Society’s beginning in 1900, they had shielded her. Swami Ashokananda followed this tradition in San Francisco; but after 1939, he or his assistant, Swami Shantaswarupananda, performed her worship at the Berkeley Temple on her birthday. The public was invited and consumed bounteous helpings of prasad [consecrated food] after the puja was over.
Holy Mother’s Birthday, January 1, 1959
Swami Ashokananda performed a private worship at the San Francisco Temple in the morning. After the worship, he talked with Mara and me in the back office while we waited for Kathleen. What did he say? I remember only how sweet it was, how happy, as though Holy Mother was present. Then I drove with Mara and Kathleen to the Berkeley Temple to see Swami Shantaswarupananda’s public worship in the afternoon.
That evening
As Swami talked with a number of devotees in the back office, the conversation somehow got onto
the subject of how the Hindus eat with their hands. Swami upheld the rightness of this method, saying it was natural and that we in the West were afraid to acknowledge that we eat. We pretend we don’t eat; otherwise, we would eat savagely. He mimicked a dinner party, talking graciously to one side and the other while surreptitiously sneaking a morsel of food into the mouth.
Swami: When there is real inner restraint, everything becomes graceful—whether one eats with one’s hands or with utensils. Every expression, every movement becomes unconsciously rhythmical and graceful. An artificial grace, prim and self-conscious, is not the same thing at all. Inner restraint results in beauty. A flower is beautiful because of its inner restraint. The petals grow just so; they do not spread all over. You in the West have restraint, but it is too outgoing, lacking in inwardness. You are too intellectualized. You do not know how to intuit your being as a whole and manipulate it. You do not even know that you should do this.
January 2, 1959
Swami asked me in the library if I would drive Dorothy Peters to Mr. Shinn’s so that she could take more photographs of Swamiji’s statue. I said very sweetly and docilely that of course I would, but inwardly I was furiously rebelling.
Swami: You are a good, obedient disciple.
Me: I am not obedient in all things. (For instance, Swami had told me to write another book—but how could I write a book with so many interruptions?)
Swami (going into his office): Don’t lecture so much. Don’t talk so much. (I followed him and sat down, the tears streaming down my face.) Why are you crying? Don’t you feel well?
Me: I feel fine—but I spend my entire life driving Dorothy Peters to Mr. Shinn’s. I can never do any writing.
Swami (smiling): It is because of Dorothy. You don’t object to driving me to Mr. Shinn’s.
Me: That is true.
Swami: Now, Marie Louise, in this stage of the work one must be ready to do anything one is asked to do and keep on also with one’s main work. We have so few people. You know you are not doing it for Dorothy or for me, but for Sri Ramakrishna.
Me: I know.
Swami: Then why are you crying?
Me (still sobbing): It’s just that (sob) I haven’t been able to do (sob) anything for months and months. Of course, I know I waste a lot of time.
Swami (smiling at me sweetly and tenderly): Be a good girl. Life is hard for you; these are hard times.
Me: But life is not hard for me at all.
Swami: You wouldn’t be crying if it weren’t hard.
Me: I don’t want you to change anything, Swami. It’s just that I want you to know that driving Dorothy takes a lot of time. As long as you know, it is all right.
During this speech Swami cocked his head to one side, pretending that he was listening to profound and amazing statements (many people kept coming in and out during this whole scene). “Hmmm,” he said. Then I drove Dorothy to Mr. Shinn’s.
In the evening Swami phoned to see how I was. I said I was all right and was sorry I had made a fuss. He said, “Uh huh.” Then I went to the Temple and joined the others in the back office.
January 4, 1959
Swami was still downstairs after his Sunday morning lecture when I returned to the Temple after lunch with Bobbie at my place. He asked me to come into his office and sit down. “You may have to drive me to Mr. Shinn’s this afternoon and also tomorrow,” he said. I said, “That is good.” He looked surprised (or pretended to). I said, “I feel bad about what I said. I hope you will forgive me.” He didn’t answer, but I think maybe I am forgiven. “I didn’t mean it,” I said, sitting down. Still no answer. He said he was going to the new temple at 3:00 p.m. and asked me to go along.
At the new temple, a long and concentrated discussion took place about the border for the altar, which Swami said must look structural and not just decorative. He added, “So much fuss over everything, but one cannot do the Lord’s work without a big to-do. We are making a joyous noise.” Later, he continued, “Our heart’s blood has gone into every inch of this temple. In India there used to be an idea that a palace was not auspicious unless several of the workmen were buried alive in its walls. That has happened here. Our hearts have been buried in the walls.”
January 16, 1959
Swami told me that I must buy a warm coat. I said I already had many coats, some of which could be relined for warmth—and besides, my clothes budget could not carry a new coat. Swami said that I must have a really warm coat for cold days so that I won’t suffer. “Don’t record it in your budget,” he said.
So I went downtown and bought a coat at Saks. This I brought back and modeled for Swami. He thought it looked too small over a suit. “You should have a heavy winter suit and the coat should fit over it.”
I took the coat to Edna for her opinion (“not too small”), but I asked her to go with me tomorrow for a more intensive study of the subject.
January 17, 1959
In the morning with Edna, I returned yesterday’s coat to Saks and tried on a leather coat, which Edna at once admired. We returned to the Temple with the leather coat. Swami laughed. “My, Marie Louise, you are certainly surprising!”
Jo did not like the coat. Later, Swami said, “I really don’t think it is dignified enough. It is the style now, but in a few years ladies won’t wear leather coats. But keep it if you like it. You can buy another one a little later.”
This was in the back office. Miriam Kennedy was there. She may have jumped slightly. Swami turned to her.
Swami (referring to me): It is all right for her to spend money on clothes when she needs them. She has made so many sacrifices.
Miriam: Yes, I know. I didn’t think it wasn’t all right.
Swami: She can do that.
(I decided to return the leather coat.)
February 1, 1959
Devotee (about another devotee): She is idealistic.
Swami: It is a destructive idealism. Idealism consists not only of condemning everything that is not idealistic enough but also of finding something to which you can give your life.
February 2, 1959
It was nearly 10:00 p.m. when I went to the Temple. Swami was sitting in the library. With him were Mara, Kathleen, Jo, and Dorothy Peters. Everyone looked very sleepy and I, too, could hardly keep my eyes open. Swami was reading the newspaper.
In a little while Dorothy Madison came in from the auditorium, where she had been meditating. Swami began to explain that people who were trying to live a spiritual life and whose minds had become sensitive could not afford to work among worldly people.
Swami (to Dorothy Madison): If I should send you to serve among the poor, say on Third and Howard Streets [then a Skid Row district], you would become a drunkard in three months. You people cannot stand a worldly atmosphere. You are serving here. It is a higher kind of service. In order that the swamis can give lectures and interviews, many workers are needed.
Dorothy: You mean dusting and scrubbing?
Swami: Yes, all kinds of work are needed—cleaning, running the Society, keeping books, and then there is the magazine. We don’t have enough workers. You should also serve one another. When one of you gets sick, the others should take care of her, and not just among your own coterie.
One should serve, yes. But there are so many things to be thought of in connection with it. People hear a lecture about service, which has to be general, and then go off and start practicing on their own. They are too egotistical to come for individual spiritual instruction. They will bow down to a doctor, “Yes, sir; yes, sir.” They will give their whole lives into the hands of a psychiatrist; but when it comes to the practice of religion, they want to do it their own way.
Swami then talked about serving man as God and related many incidents from his life. As he talked, it grew very late, but his face glowed and he suddenly seemed vital and strong.
February 5, 1959
On the drive over to Mr. Shinn’s tonight, Swami spoke of his experiences with the English people in India.
Swami: When I was a young boy in my home village, I saw some Englishmen. There was a sort of main street, not very wide. An Englishman with a woman on each arm strolled along, taking up almost the entire road. No one could pass, but they were oblivious. They were not even arrogant—to be arrogant, one must make a sort of comparison between oneself and others—but they were unaware that anyone else existed. I remember how white the women’s faces were. They wore tall hats with all sorts of feathers and fruit piled on top, long skirts that swept the ground, and pinched-in waists.
Another time, after I had become a monk, I saw this same attitude. There used to be a ferry that went from Calcutta up the Ganges. Once there was a young English couple on the boat. The girl lay with her head in the boy’s lap and caressed his face; she was completely lost in him. They went on that way during the whole trip with dozens of people watching them. It occurred to me that they didn’t consider that they were among human beings at all; it was as though they were alone in a field with some cattle. They were well dressed, well bred—it was just that to them Hindus were not people, so they acted as they pleased.
February 6, 1959
Swami told us that Swami Vivekananda wants big things from us. Swamiji’s statue has to be a big affair. He wants his price. Everything has to have its price.
After scolding Dorothy Peters for a mistake in regard to Swamiji’s statue, Swami remarked that qualified workers should be given freedom to work. Then he added, “But I haven’t been able to do it yet.”
Swami: First a worker must learn how to work without an egotistical motive. In the course of this training, he might lose self-confidence. But if the teacher can take the worker through that training period, then he can give him freedom in his work.