The Crystal Hermitage grounds are a delight. In the summer months, Swamiji would often invite the community members to the hermitage for a “garden party.”
There’s a lovely, curved swimming pool that follows the contours of a grassy terrace. It has a blue-tinted bottom that gives the water a cool, refreshing look.
At a garden party soon after the pool was built, a few of us brought bathing suits and dived in.
As a boy, I had spent hours daily in summer at the municipal swimming pool. We lived in Exeter, a small town in California’s Central Valley where the summers were hot and the large city pool was inviting.
I loved to swim underwater and developed the ability to hold my breath for a long time. The lifeguards would throw pennies in the deep end for us boys to chase. It was an unfair contest, because I always got to the pennies first. But I would get bored and let the other boys have their chance.
When I dove into the Crystal Hermitage pool, it brought back those summer memories. The water was special. I knew that it was blessed. I felt wonderful, cruising silently through the depths.
At another summer party. I stood by the pool, chatting with a friend. Swamiji walked over, and after we had exchanged greetings, my friend said, “We were talking about marketing Ananda’s books and events. We were wondering what kinds of people we should direct our advertising to.”
Without hesitation, Swamiji said, “People like us.”
I don’t remember the rest of the conversation, but his words lingered. I wondered, “What kind of people are we?”
At first, I decided, “We are people who enjoy Swami Kriyananda’s books and feel nourished by them.”
But I realized that it wasn’t the whole story.
I had visited the community for the first time in 1974, when I spent ten days at the Meditation Retreat. The moment I stepped on the property, I thought, “This place feels like home.”
I spent most of that first visit talking with the members. And I realized that all of them were, in some indefinable way, a lot like me.
Outwardly, they were unique and individual. They were artists, carpenters, businessmen, mothers, ministers, monastics, teachers, doctors, accountants, and healers. But there was a quality, like a subtle fragrance, that united them.
They shared a yearning for something meaningful and true, and a commitment to open themselves to a higher source of wisdom, joy, and love, and to share it with others.
What defined the Ananda members, beyond their outward roles, was something in their eyes. It was not a thing, but a vibration that was sweet and appealing.
Swami Kriyananda said, “If you want to get to know me, listen to my music.” I sing his music often. On my way to the grocery, I’ll warm up in the car with a little chanting, then I’ll sing the pieces we’ll be performing at Sunday service.
I’ll occasionally drive the “long way” to the store. Trader Joe’s is a five-minute drive, but I’ll take a scenic route through Portola Valley, driving twenty miles for a bag of frozen pineapple.
I’ll sing Swami’s songs, and often an uncanny thing will happen. I know most of the songs by heart. I sing tenor in three groups, so I’m often “on” to perform because tenors tend to be in short supply. Yet I find that I don’t get tired of the music.
When I began singing with the choir, I feared that if I sang “Brothers” or “There’s Joy in the Heavens” too often, I might wear it out – the songs would become stale. How sad! The inspiration would evaporate, and I would be bereft of the pleasure of driving mile after mile for the simple joy of singing.
Instead, I found that the songs held no end of inspiration.
In my early days on the path, I wrote a letter to a direct disciple of Paramhansa Yogananda, Brother Bhaktananda, asking for his advice on how I could develop more devotion.
He replied: “Fathomless depths of love for God lie hidden in the human heart, waiting to be uncovered by the Guru’s liberating discipline.”
Meditation taps those inner springs of devotion, which nourish us more surely than the blood in our veins. We never tire of it. And it is in Swamiji’s music.
Last night, we sang for a group of people who weren’t part of Ananda. I prayed to Master to help us empty ourselves of ego-attachments so that he might touch the audience through us. “Help us to sing as one voice, and inspire these people to discover the love and joy hidden in their own hearts.”
It’s impossible to say whether they were inspired, but as we sang “Brothers,” “Peace,” “Truth Can Never Die,” and “A New Tomorrow,” I felt God’s sweetness, beauty, and warmth extending to them. I realized that all people are Ananda, because we are made of the joy that flows in the fathomless depths of our being.
From “Brothers”: “Though words and customs vary, like waves upon the sea, one life beneath the surface binds everyone to me.”
I love to explore what Ananda is, and who I am, by singing Swamiji’s music. He said, “Everyone at Ananda should sing this music.” It is beautiful because it nourishes us at the level of the soul. It lifts us, because it is of the substance of which we are made.