Ishani and I drove to the Village for a retreat led by Swami Kriyananda. As we settled into our room at the Expanding Light, I decided that I would make it my spiritual practice for the weekend to set myself aside and think first of other people.
It worked well, up to a point. It opened doors for enjoyable connections with people, and for inner feelings of joy and freedom. At the same time, I felt that something was missing.
On the final day of the retreat, two hundred people lined up to come forward and greet Swamiji.
After Ishani and I joined the line, a friend approached and said excitedly, “Has Swamiji read your book, The Joyful Athlete? I’m sure he would love to see it!”
I hesitated, not sure if this was the proper time to show Swami the book. Did I really want to spend my brief moments with him babbling about a book? But my friend’s enthusiasm was strong, and I wondered if she was expressing God’s wishes.
She pressed a copy of the book in my hands. I felt no inspiration to do as she suggested, but I dutifully trudged forward, wondering what on earth I should say.
I had been so self-controlled and happy for the first two days of the weekend, and now my mind was bouncing like a Mexican jumping bean. I could think of no good reason for giving Swamiji the book except that it might be the right thing to do. I was torn between the letter and the spirit of the law, between a tumble of mental “shoulds,” and a calm, inner feeling of rightness.
When we reached the front of the line, I knelt before Swamiji and offered him the book, mumbling a few words.
Swamiji had amazing powers of concentration. He grabbed the book and focused his attention on it, laser-like, for a few seconds, said, “How wonderful!” and then turned abruptly to Ishani and gently took her hand in both of his and spoke to her lovingly, while ignoring me.
On one level, I was dazed, but on another I was delighted. In the eight years that Ishani and I had been together, we had passed through soul-wrenching trials. The first six years were agony, with hard lessons that had come in unrelenting succession. They tore at our hearts and forced us to be more open to each other’s realities. The result was that the shredding of our egos opened portals for a sweet friendship.
Still, there were times when I wondered if being in a relationship was a poor second choice to another, simpler way of life. Amid the storms of trials I would sometimes imagine living in a small room with few possessions and lots of time to meditate, pray, serve, and chant.
After years of struggle, we found ourselves at a point where we were both feeling thoroughly worn out – we had reached the end of our rope. I asked Nayaswami Asha for her guidance, and she invited me to come over and talk. During our conversation, she told me that Swamiji, who was living in India at the time, had said during a recent phone conversation, “Ishani is a wonderful woman. I’m so glad that Rambhakta and Ishani are together.”
What could we do but hang on?
As God painstakingly opened my heart to Ishani’s realities, I came to understand how wonderful she was. And as I sat there, ignored by my spiritual teacher, I began to lead a silent cheer for her. “Yeah!” I enthused – “Pour it on, Swamiji! Bless her from the top of her head to the soles of her feet! This is a worthy soul! She deserves the best that God can give her! Lay on the blessings with a trowel!”
No discipline or rule was required; it was as unforced and natural as my life’s blood, and utterly sincere. As I thought of her wonderful qualities – her complete sincerity, her transparent kindness, her readiness to help others, her focus and dedication – I was eager that God use Swamiji to bless and guide and protect her, and I was completely happy in my prayers. From long experience, I knew the depth of blessings that Swamiji could give. When we rose to leave, Swamiji smiled at me with silent, impersonal understanding, but without saying a word.
For weeks after, I meditated on the experience. It was the single moment of the weekend when I had experienced the greatest happiness and joy, not through discipline or by praying desperately that God of Swamiji give it to me, but by giving naturally and happily from my heart. I realized that Swamiji was showing me that all of the painful lessons had not been in vain, but that they had brought spiritual growth.
In The Holy Science, Sri Yukteswar describes the nature of spiritual progress. After sharing deep wisdom for many pages, he sums up the path with startling simplicity, declaring that it is impossible to take a single step without “the natural love of the heart.”
Years earlier, I had asked Swamiji to tell me how I could develop greater love. I wondered if he would suggest that I do something impressive – that I return to college to earn a medical degree and serve in some impoverished third-world country. Instead, he said, “Bring your wife flowers. Take her out to dinner. She’ll appreciate that.”
I thought of Mahatma Gandhi, who said that the small things we do with love may not be important, but that it is very important that we do them.