Sewell (El Teniente), Chile at night, 1940s.
by Nayaswami Rambhakta
I was born in a mining camp at 7,000’ elevation in the Chilean Andes, on January 21, 1942. The underground copper mine where my father was employed as an engineer was the largest in the world and was critically important to America’s war effort.
The first story that my mother told about my birth was that our dog, Casey Jones, followed her to the hospital where he waited outside until she had given birth, then followed her home.
A second story involved a theory that was popular at the time: that a woman could influence the course of her unborn child’s life by reading appropriate books during her pregnancy. Want your child to be an attorney? Read books on the law. In hopes of influencing me to become a doctor, my mother read medical books. The project was successful, though not in the way Mom hoped. While I’ve never had the slightest inclination to pursue a career in medicine, I’ve always loved books and would become a writer and editor.
I believe it was a blessing that I spent the years from age three to ten in Exeter, California, a small town in the San Joaquin Valley where my father had grown up. When we returned to Chile, it was 1952, the year Paramhansa Yogananda died. I like to think that the Master oversaw my happy childhood, even as he would guide my life for all its remaining years.
I wasn’t a notably spiritual child, though I remember lying in the little Army bunk bed that my father had refinished for me, my eyes closed, gazing at the point between the eyebrows and seeing a beautiful dark-haired woman whose presence evoked feelings of contentment and love.
I had an idyllic childhood. My young companions and I enjoyed the freedom of the countryside, riding our bikes everywhere, and spending hot summer afternoons at the swimming pool. I was a swimmer on the city’s youth team.
Near the end of our stay in Chile, when I was thirteen, my folks put me in an English boarding school in Santiago. My mother was ill from living at high altitude, and the American school in the mining camp extended only to eighth grade. I was bitterly homesick at the Grange School; it was during this painful period that I began to realize that our earthly lives are marked by periods of relative happiness, alternating with difficult tests.
I couldn’t imagine what my life would be like when I grew up. I got good grades in high school without much effort, but the prospect of any occupation that I could envision for myself brought only feelings of dread. When I thought of life after college, I couldn’t endure the thought of living in a little white house with a neatly trimmed lawn and picket fence, and neighbors who would come over on the weekend for barbecues, secretly discontented, competitive about petty things, and careful to avoid meaningful conversation about our inconceivably small place in the vastness of the universe.
The summer after I graduated from high school, my father tried to commit suicide by shooting himself. He was forty-eight, a time of crisis for many men, and was depressed over his imagined failures at work. Such is life’s irony: the company’s CEO had planned to invite my father to take charge of an important mining operation in South Africa.
My father’s tragedy added to my distaste for a life of quiet desperation in the suburbs. When I entered Stanford University in the fall of 1959, it was with no appetite for a traditional education. Plowing through 120 pages of history and English each night and working on problem sets in math and physics, I found no joy, no inspiring answers to life’s important questions: Why are we here? What is the goal? Is happiness possible? Are there eternal values? – And, if there are, what is their underlying structure? What are life’s rich possibilities?
I found no joy in the life of the mind, or in the sterile thought-juggling that was prized in the classroom discussions, where cleverness was rewarded and the larger questions were ignored. Yet on the rare occasions when my courses touched on meaningful things, I did well, earning good grades.
What a mistake it is to educate young people’s minds at the expense of their hearts and souls! Stanford felt like a warehouse of ideas, a fact-factory, a trade school for doctors, lawyers, and engineers, more than a place of true education.
I found solace in singing – I loved to sing the torch songs of Frankie Laine. It may sound silly, but I believe that my heart was searching for fulfillments of a deep kind. I sang in the shower – “High Noon,” “Jezebel,” “One for My Baby.” The songs expressed a yearning for something soul-satisfying. While singing, I seemed to know “This is what it’s like to express the innermost feelings of my heart – and the heart is where my yearning for meaning will be fulfilled.”
At Stanford, most of my friends seemed comfortable in this world, looking forward eagerly to careers as architects, doctors, businessmen, and lawyers.
After my father’s accident, we moved to Los Angeles so that he could attend the Braille Institute. Typically of Dad, he learned Braille at record speed and was soon on the institute’s governing board.
On a balmy summer evening during our first year in LA, I attended a concert at the Hollywood Bowl. A well-known singer of the day, Peggy Lee, inched onto the stage in a skin-tight dress. It took her a full minute to navigate to the microphone while the audience tittered. She sang “Is That All There Is?” – a ballad about a girl who watches the events of her life unfold with wistful detachment. After each episode of joy or disappointment, she asks, “Is that all there is, my friends? Then let’s keep dancing. Let’s break out the booze and have a ball.”
There were other songs that spoke to me of “something more.” Nat Cole’s “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” comes to mind:
I walk along the street of sorrow
The boulevard of broken dreams
Where gigolo and gigolette
Can take a kiss without regret
So they forget their broken dreams
You laugh tonight and cry tomorrow
When you behold your shattered dreams
And gigolo and gigolette
Awake to find their eyes are wet
With tears that tell of broken dreams
Here is where you’ll always find me
Always walking up and down
But I left my soul behind me
In an old cathedral town
The joy that you find here, you borrow
You cannot keep it long, it seems
But gigolo and gigolette
Still sing a song and dance along
The boulevard of broken dreams
I had enrolled at Stanford in no mood for the rah-rah college spirit. I was seventeen, a year too young to be truly engaged with the life of the mind. I spent more of my spring quarter carousing than with my head buried in books, with the result that Stanford encouraged me to spend a year in quiet reflection. I lived with my parents and worked the night shift in the stock transfer division of a bank in downtown Los Angeles, taking night-school classes that I greatly enjoyed. I returned to Stanford with cautious enthusiasm for my studies. I went 3.73 for the year, an A-minus average; I even aced economics, I suspect because the textbook was well-designed and well-written, which I respected.
During my sabbatical from Stanford, I took a course in second-year German at UCLA. The instructor had chosen a fiendishly inviting textbook that cherry-picked the best morsels of Goethe, Rilke, Hugo von Hoffmansthal, Heine, Hesse, and others. I carelessly concluded that German literature would offer me greater meaning than my courses in math and science, and upon returning to Stanford I switched my major to German Studies. I did well in my honors German courses and was selected for a three-year Ford Foundation fellowship that included six months of study at the University of Hamburg, Germany and a year of graduate study at Stanford.
My enthusiasm for German literature, alas, was short-lived, blunted on the rocky shores of Kleist, Grillparzer, Hebel, and Lessing. I remember nothing of their works, only that they evoked a flavor of wet cardboard.
I hung on and wrote my master’s thesis on Ernst Barlach, a sculptor and writer whose plays carried a theme of das Rauschen – the rushing of waves outside the hull of the ship in which we are all sailing. Later, I would remember Barlach when I learned the AUM technique of meditation. Meanwhile:
Wer weiss denn wo wir stehen?
Ob am Morgen oder am Abend?
Wir halten trockne Zweige in trocknen Zweigen –
Wer weiss denn wo wir stehen?
“Where are we standing – at dawn or at dusk? We hold in withered twigs more withered twigs – who can tell us where we’re standing?”
These words, from a German postwar radio play, expressed the frozen anguish of my heart.
Among the few consolations I found at Stanford were the friendships I formed with fellow truth-seekers, particularly with Jack Burns, an intelligent psych major who shared my passion to find meaning. After graduation, Jack would become a monk in a traditional Hindu ashram.
We were part of a small coterie of seekers who met daily at Tresidder Union to discuss literature, art, psychology, and philosophy. Jack and I represented the Eastern faction.
My girlfriend was an artist. I recall a heated discussion between Jack and Carol to which I listened with rapt attention. They debated the best path to truth – did it lead through the intellect, or by direct intuitive perception? I listened, riveted, feeling that I had little to contribute, even though it was my life’s most pressing question.
Jack spoke from the perspective of Eastern wisdom, and to my way of thinking he won the argument handily. How could he not? The sages of the East addressed the most fundamental question of all: “What is it that all people are seeking?” The timeless answer they arrived at by observing the human scene with calm objectivity is: “Behind the colorful multiplicity of their stated motives, what all people are seeking is to experience happiness and avoid suffering.”
Eastern philosophy is a rich elaboration of the details – the methods, traps, and rewards along the way, and the indescribable fulfillment at the journey’s end.
Otherwise, my heart was daily dried and cracked at Stanford. The books I read that offered a hint of meaning had little to do with the curriculum – I recall reading several volumes of Jung in the Bollingen editions, finding it frustrating stuff, and not terribly satisfying to my soul, although it occasionally hinted at a deeper wisdom. There were other books that edged toward meaning but didn’t come right out and say what it was, much less how to get it for ourselves. The poems of Rilke were soaked with hints, as were Hermann Hesse’s novels – Siddhartha was a groovy book, but in the end not revealing or enlightening. I found inspiration in Ananda Coomaraswamy’s Indian Art and Culture, but discovered in its pages no pointers to a practical path to joy.
I had a sense of waiting, of serving an apprenticeship. I longed for joy and love, but I had only the instrument of the mind to guide me, and it was utterly inadequate to the task.
I lived off campus in my graduate year. One morning, while my roommate and I walked up Palm Drive on our way to class, we glanced at our watches and, seeing that we would be late, stuck out our thumbs and trotted across the road to a car that had obligingly stopped to give us a ride. I stumbled, feeling a numbness in my legs. By the following morning I was paralyzed from the chest down. That afternoon, the neurosurgeons operated but were unable to remove a benign tumor that was compressing my spinal cord. I was paralyzed for three years. A second surgery was successful, and I slowly recovered the use of my legs.
Graduation left me free to pursue new directions in my search for happiness. During a trip to Big Sur with friends, we slept out under the heavens, and I had a deep spiritual experience. Gazing at the stars overhead, I felt myself growing smaller and floating out into the unimaginable depths of space. A great silence enveloped me, and a sense of a wonderful, blissful presence. This was the fulfillment I had been seeking.
I felt that if this was the experience that the saints had known, I must be able to find it by following their timeless advice. I began to read mystical literature, including books by Thomas a Kempis, Brother Lawrence, and saints of East and West. I read Autobiography of a Yogi and was grateful for the clear, practical, scientific methods it described, and which, the author promised, when faithfully practiced would lead to inner communion with God.
After my recovery from the paralysis, I took courses toward a teaching credential at the California State University in Long Beach, California, while living with my parents. In my free time, I studied the yoga teachings and worked to recover my health. I took long walks on the beach, praying ceaselessly to know God. On Sundays I attended services at the Self-Realization Fellowship churches.
I eventually returned to the San Francisco Bay Area. Because I’ll include stories in this book of my time in SRF and how I met Swami Kriyananda and moved to Ananda Village, I won’t attempt to give an overview of those years here.
The stories that follow are presented in no particular order, though they tend to be grouped by theme. My hope is that they will serve you on your path.