Saturday Sept 28th: This is my last day at Dhyanidham
for this visit, and truth be told it has not always been an easy visit. Instead of my usual blissful dream on my
first night here, this time I had a nightmare.
In those first days and again these last days, during the days of rain
and even when the sun was bright, I’ve had what my understanding of ayurveda
calls a vata imbalance. For me this
means my body has felt jumpy and anxious, my mind impossible to tether.
This morning in temple I asked myself why I had come. I did have a practice in mind and established
myself in it for 10 days. It was not a
long practice and left many hours available.
During the hours when the electricity was on, I worked on the
illustrated ashram guide I am preparing, as well as on this record. But the feelings of uneasiness never quite
left me.
I had come with plans to receive or at least order furniture
that would make the apartment more comfortable and homey. I had plans to pay for that furniture even
though I did not know how to carry nor exchange that amount of funds. I had plans to do shopping that would ready
the apartment for December of 2014, when Ma plans a big event and I expect to
have other disciples staying with me.
India, of course, had its own plans.
The difficulties of exchanging money took precedence over
shopping. The rains took precedence over
both. The furniture maker, an Indian
disciple who is a master carpenter, took my order, but here on my last day he
had still not returned to take the pile of cash that had been so hard to
acquire.
I questioned the strength of my practice, my dedication, my
ability to achieve the goal. I showed up
to all the morning and evening temple events, even when the rain was fierce and
the early mornings dark without electricity. But was it enough just to show up? So many things I had planned to accomplish here had proved impossible to achieve. I had come a very long way and didn't even have an ironing board or pictures hung to show for it.
The week before I left home, I had contacted some friends who
had shared with me that their nephew was diagnosed with a recurrence of a
serious illness. Almost as an
afterthought I asked them, would they like to order a puja to be done for him
at the temple while I am there? I could
bring back the prasad. They looked into
the offerings and decided to order 125,000 repetitions of the Mrytunjaya mantra
with bij. At the time, we didn’t know
this is a 25-day practice and would not conclude until after I returned to the
States. Nevertheless, when I arrived at the
ashram arrangements were made for a brahmin to perform the japa and I was able
to participate in the sankalpa. Yesterday,
I was told that the brahmin would be at the ashram today and that at lunchtime
I would receive a sacred thread and flowers to take back to the family, though
the japa repetition will continue for more days.
I came to lunch and saw an unfamiliar brahmin eating at
another table. We nodded to one
another. I was served my lunch, said the
meal prayers, and began to eat.
When I was about half done with my meal, the temple priest
arrived. He came to my table and placed
next to me two plastic bags, each containing a thread, a flower, and
prasad. Animatedly, he seemed to say
that he had been waiting for me at the temple.
I apologized. He explained which
packet was for the child and which for the family, then went to get his own
lunch.
I sat with my hands in my lap, looking down at my plate of
food. I was somewhat distressed at yet
another instance where my inability to communicate had caused someone inconvenience. But other feelings came up through that
distress. The two packets of prasad sat
to my left, but I could not look at them.
Waves and waves of energy poured over me from them as I kept my eyes on my food. I felt the same way I had felt when I first
saw Mount Kailash—it was too powerful, too huge, too overwhelming for more than
a passing glance out of the corner of my eye.
I looked at my plate and began to weep. The dining area was crowded with dozens of
local children and adults, and in the midst of their stares I could not stop
crying. I looked at my food and cried and
tried to fathom the energy pouring at me from the prasad. And finally, it swept over me as an absolute
certainty—those two plastic bags were the purpose of my trip.
Many years ago, before I met Ma, I took a simple stick from
Virginia to California and placed it at the center of a medicine circle. The moment I did so, I felt the universe rush
through me. Everything I had ever done,
everyone I had ever been, every step I had taken in my existence had led
inexorably, inevitably, to that one moment.
Now at Dhyanidham, staring at my lunch plate, I experienced
that same sense of absolute purpose.
Everything about this trip--the months of planning, the days of travel, the
hours of anxiety and self doubt--had been about that last-minute, almost
offhand japa request, leading with absolute certainty to the two pulsing
packets of prasad sitting to my left.
Two of the village children came next to me, put their palms
together and said Sita Ram. I cried for
happiness at their well being. I cried
for sadness over my friends’ nephew and other children who suffer. The priest came back to my table. Smiling broadly, he delivered a homily of a
few English words, saying All is God; this person, this creature, this plant,
everything is a creation of God, and so I should be happy. The elderly disciple to my right held my
hands in hers and wiped pretend tears from her face, telling me not to
cry. There was no way I could explain to
them that I was crying because, finally and clearly, my purpose for this trip
had been fulfilled.
