I was at Swami Kriyananda’s for a private interview. After we had chatted, Swamiji rose and walked me to the door.
Continuing our conversation, he said, speaking forcefully, but with a twinkle in his eye and a trace of humor in his voice, “I’ve told you before – you’re TOO HARD on yourself!”
Later, I reflected that Swamiji had never told me any such thing!
But then I remembered…
Years earlier, when I was in SRF, I had written a series of letters to Brother Bhaktananda, the monk who served as men’s correspondent.
When I joined SRF, I had recently emerged from a dark period. I was at a low point, and was desperately seeking a way to find true happiness and to understand the meaning of life.
I didn’t have a very positive image of my worthiness as a devotee. In fact, I feared that unless I disciplined my thoughts and feelings relentlessly, I might think or feel something that would cause me to fall away from the spiritual path forever.
In his letters, Bhaktananda repeatedly encouraged me to be less severe in my efforts. In one letter, he said, “Learn to relax and enjoy the spiritual path.”
Daya Mata, the SRF president, was scheduled to give a talk at the SRF Church in Fullerton. On the day, the church was filled to overflowing with more than three hundred people.
In the midst of her talk, she paused and turned and looked straight into my eyes.
Speaking sternly, she said, “My Divine Mother is not for those who are hard on themselves and hard on others! She is kind, sweet, loving and forgiving. You don’t have to chisel out your prayers to her in stone. You can talk to Her in the language of your heart!”
She then turned back and resumed her talk.
As I walked home from the interview with Swamiji, I realized that he had been playing a joke. Or perhaps God had put on a show for our mutual amusement. He had spoken to me through Daya Mata, and now he had spoken through Swamiji. Or perhaps it was Swamiji who had spoken through Daya? It little mattered, as in time I realized that in his consciousness Swamiji was wholly merged with God.
For reasons that I will explain later, I believe that Swamiji was born a jivanmukta – a liberated being who came to help his Guru’s mission. He was so completely self-offered to God and Guru that they were able to use him to remind me of that long-ago day when they had encouraged me not to judge myself so harshly.
It would take me years to absorb the lesson and begin to develop a more compassionate view of my weaknesses and failings – in fact, to overcome them by cultivating self-forgetful attitudes of service, devotion, and concern for others’ realities.
Several things helped: first, opening my heart to God’s love by chanting and by singing Swamiji’s songs; then serving the work through writing and editing; and asking God to show me how to behave in all the circumstances of my life.
Whenever Swamiji and I met in those early years, he would often make jokes that, I suspect, had no other point than to help me see the lighter side of the path.
A trivial example. On a morning at Ananda Village, Swamiji visited the elementary school. I went along in my role as photographer. At one point, several small children sat around a table with Swamiji, and one of the boys began banging on a tin drum, making a loud, unpleasant noise. When I started to shush him, Swamiji motioned me to stop. He listened respectfully, and when the boy had ceased his fearsome racket, he smiled and said, “Very good!”
He then turned to me and made a ridiculous joke. There was a man at the Village whose name was Roy Gugliotta. He pronounced his last name “Gugg-liotta,” with a hard “g,” unlike the Italian pronunciation which sounds more like “Gulliotta.”
Looking impish and knowing my background in languages, Swamiji said, “Rambhakta – do you think Roy Guggggliotta eats lasaggggna?” He chuckled merrily.
The spiritual path is sometimes amusing, and sometimes eerily strange.