In 1967, I joined Self-realization Fellowship and began studying the SRF lessons, which required that we submit regular reports on our progress.
At the time, Brother Bhaktananda was the men’s course examiner. In response to one of my reports, he wrote: “Your practice seems good, but the thought occurs that you might not be getting enough exercise.”
What did he mean? In the mid-1960s, hardly anyone ran or bicycled for fitness.
Should I join the young people playing volleyball on the beach, accompanied by beer and loud music? It wasn’t an attractive option. I asked Master what I should do.
At work the next day, my supervisor, a retired Air Force colonel, walked up with a smile and pressed a book in my hands. “George, you’ve got to read this book! I’ve been on this program for six months, and it’s done wonders for me.”
It was the first edition of Dr. Kenneth Cooper’s book, Aerobics. I started the program, but waited until I had achieved basic fitness before telling Bhaktananda what I was doing. Then I wrote to him and asked if running was a good choice.
He replied, “Master recommended running as an ideal exercise. The monks are encouraged to run daily.”
That was good enough for me!
For forty years, running played a prominent role in my life. From 1972 to 1976 I worked at Runner’s World magazine. Forty years later, in April 2015, Crystal Clarity published my book, The Joyful Athlete: The Wisdom of the Heart in Exercise & Sports Training.
There were many miles of old logging roads in the hills near Ananda Village. I had favorite routes that I ran regularly. One followed a single-track trail through several miles of beautiful oak forest where bright-green kitkidizze plants brushed my ankles.
I remember jogging into the Village after a long run one day, feeling pleasantly tired. I prayed, “I’ve spent twenty years trying to understand how people can find fitness and happiness by spiritual principles. And now I’m wondering if it’s all just crap.”
I heard Swami Kriyananda’s voice: “Take it seriously.”
Hm, it seems yogis don’t waste words.
A Brief Digression:
When I was a young boy, my mother spoke with respect of the Himalayan yogis. Even in my cynical college years, I refrained from making light of the yogis. “This far I will go,” I remember thinking. “But I will not think or speak disrespectfully of the yogis.”
My mother had some interesting ideas about the yogic masters. I remember her telling me in tones of awe, when I was seven or eight years old, that they were able to communicate by using their intuition.
“When they want to send a message, they make a sound in the other person’s inner ear, like a little bell,” she said.
In my mind’s eye, I envision a scene.
(Tinkling sound, audible to the spiritually initiated.)
“Allo, allo! Are you there?”
And the occult response:
“Yes, hello, who is this?”
“Sri Yukteswar here. Are you available? Is this a good time? Should I call back?”
“No, please go ahead…”
To return to my theme, there were days when God seemed intent on making me take exercise seriously. The lessons could be painful, as when the Divinity would employ a “faceplant” to make sure the lesson would stick.
Recalling my headlong tumbles over the years, I perceive the hand of God in every one. I will never believe that they were administered randomly. To judge by their timeliness, they were skillfully designed for the purpose of reducing my burden of ego. Consider some examples.
It’s the early 1990s. I’m running on the sidewalk by a busy street in Sacramento during the morning commute, with streams of cars speeding by. I’ve lost weight and I’m in great shape, with a nut-brown tan. This prompts my Inner Idiot to gloat: “I guess I’m showing the world what it looks like to be an awesomely fit old runner…”
Bam splat. My bent little finger is a reminder of the perils of swelling vanity.
It’s a lovely morning in the early 2000s. I’m running on the campus of Stanford University, and I’m feeling bedeviled by my inability to resolve an issue with my training. I don’t remember the problem, only that I perilously decide to unload my frustrations on God.
I pray, none too humbly: “I can’t figure out why the hell I’m having such trouble with this godda….”
Bam splat.
Him the Almighty Power
Hurled headlong flaming from th’ ethereal sky,
With hideous ruin and combustion, down
To bottomless perdition, there to dwell
In adamantine chains and penal fire,
Who durst defy th’ Omnipotent to arms.
– John Milton, Paradise Lost
Scraping my ancient body off the pavement, I think, “Well, this isn’t a very dignified thing for a sixty-year-old gentleman to be doing.”
Minutes later, the trail turns a corner in the Stanford community gardens and my frustrations again take hold. I get no further than, “Goddamn it…”
Bam splat.
I pick myself up, now with two bleeding knees instead of one, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.
I think, “I may share my frustrations with God in future, but I doubt I’ll risk swearing at Him!”
I relax and become absorbed in the beautiful summer day.
It’s now the early 1990s. I’m running in the Gold Country Marathon, jogging down a beautiful trail by the banks of the Yuba River. The trail winds through pine and oak groves with fleeting views of the stream. I’m fit, trim, and feeling mighty pleased at having passed a runner who, I’m aware, feels competitive with me.
In short, I’m feeling complacently self-satisfied and oh-so happy to be me.
Bam splat.
The scene now shifts to Mountain View, California in 1996. I’ve moved to the Ananda community to help with the lawsuit that SRF has filed against us, claiming it owns the exclusive rights to Paramhansa Yogananda’s books, photos, and recordings. Although it will take twelve years, we will win ninety-five percent of the issues in the case, according to the presiding federal judge. American law doesn’t look kindly on religious monopolies.
It’s the day after my move, and I’m running in the Palo Alto Baylands, thinking how fine it is to be back in the Bay Area, where I spent my college years. In my mind, I’m planning how I’ll increase my training mileage, enter some local races, and spend many happy hours exploring the trails of the Coastal Range…
Bam splat.
At this point I’ve sprained the same ankle five times in the last six weeks, and this one is a doozy. The ankle swells to grapefruit size and an X-ray reveals a hairline fracture. The faceplant reminds me that I am not here to amuse myself, but to serve my Guru’s work. During my two years with the legal crew, I’m able to run regularly, but I’m aware that exercise must take a distant second place to our fight for religious freedom.
It’s now April 22, 2010. I’ve barely started a run in the Palo Alto Baylands, when….
Bam splat. The worst faceplant ever! I slam into the hard-packed rocky road. Previously I’ve been able to jump up and affirm a positive attitude after a spill, but this is on a different scale. My hands and knees are bloodied, my breath has been knocked out of me, and my nervous system and spine feel battered. I rise painfully and limp to the finish.
Why? What is the message?
It will be the first of three mysterious tip-overs at random intervals during the ensuing four and a half months. The tumbles have no discernible meaning – I’m not even feeling particularly prideful when I fall. What is happening? What is God trying to tell me? Am I paying off some obscure karmic debt, incurred in the distant past? The three falls, spaced roughly six weeks apart, are brutal full-out plunges onto hard rocky trails, and each is worse than the last.
The last two falls happen at precisely the same spot in the Baylands trail, while I’m running in opposite directions. And the last is the worst.
Bam! Splat!
As I lie feeling thoroughly battered, there is no question of jumping up and cheerfully smiling the pain away. I hurt bad. I slowly catch my breath, organize my parts, and lift my ancient frame. A hiker asks if I’m all right. I mumble, “These things happen.” I’m relieved when she turns and moves on.
Back on my feet at last, I take inventory of my injuries. Blood flows from both knees, and my right hand feels numb. Glancing at it, I see that the middle finger is bent in a direction that nature never intended.
Inwardly, I ask Master, “What am I going to do? I make my living with these fingers, working at a computer keyboard all day. I’ve got to do something! I refuse to go to the emergency room at the county hospital, where I’ll spend seven hours waiting to see a doctor who’ll charge hundreds of dollars to fix this blasted finger.”
Following a calm intuition, I grasp the finger and pull it gently, whereupon it snaps into place with a satisfying crack. But I still hurt all over, and not just physically. I feel an ominous dark mood coming on.
Eager to avoid wasting energy on gloomy emotions, I reflect for a second, then feel inspired to talk to Divine Mother.
“Divine Mother,” I tell Her, “You are wonderful! How funny you are! You are hilarious! The way you treat your devotee is a scream. It’s a riot! You and your little jokes – it’s marvelous how much fun you have with your children!”
At this point I’m smiling broadly. And then a wonderful thing happens. With inner spiritual vision, but with open eyes, I see my Guru, Paramhansa Yogananda, in a golden light. He is with his close disciples, and I know with intuitive certainty that he is living in a portion of God’s creation where there is no pain but only unbroken divine bliss. I know that he is living in a place that he describes in his wonderful chant: “where no clouds come, and golden dreams dwell, in the land beyond my dreams.” He is smiling lovingly, and I know that my happy response has pleased him. I realize that the series of gruesome faceplants were meant for this.
I feel wonderful, even though my body is a mess. I walk to the street and climb in the car. As I set off, I say to my Guru, “I’m feeling fine inwardly – maybe we should go to Stanford and finish the run together. What do you think? Would that be all right?” Sensing no objection, I drive to the campus and complete the run – on safe, flat pavement! – while holding my hand in the air to relieve the swelling and pain. For hours I continue to feel joyful and blessed.
My permanently bent finger is a reminder that this world of solid matter is not our home. I know that Paramhansa Yogananda and Swami Kriyananda live in that other realm – the real world where we all, in time, must learn to dwell. The pain of falling was difficult to bear, but it was as nothing compared to the experience of God’s celestial joy.
Later in the day, I wonder if I should seek medical help. I think, “Let me go on the Internet and look up the treatment for a dislocated finger.” But as I browse a few medical articles I notice that the feeling of joy has faded. I realize that Master wants me to rely on him alone – to ask him to guide me, and not seek superficial outward help by my own power.