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APPENDIX
A Today
is Sunday, February 19th, 1984, and sometime late yesterday, the pain
disappeared from my body. Although
occasionally I still feel a bit like crying when I talk about something
that happened at the ashram, basically I think I’ve accepted and
understood, as much as my intelligence can, whatever is to be learned from
Babaji’s leaving His body, going away from this earth, this form, and
going wherever it is that He goes.
On Monday the 13th, I received a
letter from Joanne, who was with me when I first went to see Babaji.
She was the person I fell into, that is, stumbled on, when Babaji
whacked me that time in Vrindabin and sent me flying.
Joanne’s letter came from Switzerland; she said that she had just
been to Babaji and that He had said that He was tired of all the comings
and goings at the ashram and He wished people would just stay home and do
their work.
We all know what that work is—it’s all the same, always the
same work for all of us. It’s
to love one another, forgive one another, and to forgive ourselves,
constantly, constantly, constantly. So,
here I am—at home, doing what Babaji said He wanted, doing my work.
This is the work that I do: I
talk with people, I remind them of love and forgiveness, and remind myself
of love and forgiveness, and I help them reach God consciousness. That’s
what God is: God is Infinite Love and Forgiveness.
That’s the meaning of what we say when we’re in Babaji’s
presence: “Bhole Baba Ki Jai! Praise,
honor to the Simple Father!” What
is the Simple Father? The Simple Father is the Father who loves so much that no
matter what His Children do, He forgives them.
He gives them another chance, and He forgives them again, and then
gives them another chance. He
never withholds His love. He
may go into a rage, but He never, never fails to forgive them.
He never severs His relationship with them.
Once in love, always in love.
Always, always. Infinite
Forgiveness. So,
that letter from Joanne arrived on Monday.
In the same mail, I also got my monthly bank statement, along with
my canceled checks. When I
opened the checks from the bank, I got a charge that went right through
me. The first one on the top of the pile of checks was one back from the
ashram. I wondered if it was
the one about which Radhe Shyam had written me a note, telling me my check
hadn’t gone through regular channels, but instead had been endorsed by
Babaji Himself. Radhe Shyam
sent the note so I could treasure the check when it came back.
Because mail takes so long between Los Angeles and Herakhan, I
didn’t know which check he was referring to.
Since I can’t read any Hindi or Pali, I couldn’t tell if
Babaji’s signature or endorsement was among the several lines written on
the back of the check. So, I
ran to get other canceled checks from previous months, to see if the
endorsements were the same. They
each differed, so I still can’t tell.
I wonder if it was that check just received, or the one I sent
after that one. I’ll wait. It’s
nice to know that if this isn’t the one, next month or the one after I
will receive a piece of paper that was actually in Babaji’s hand. I take comfort in the belief He knew that I loved Him;
that’s why I sent money to Him frequently. Tuesday,
Valentine’s Day, the 14th, I spent the whole day remembering many of my
friends who had died. I was
so obsessed with death that when I taught my class that night, I talked
about nothing but death. Loss.
I was just overwhelmed with the thought of how many had left me. I
puzzled over how someone I love dies, but that death doesn’t stop my
loving others. What does it
mean that I still go on loving other people? Does that mean that I’m fickle?
Does that mean that my love for all these other people was so
minimal that it didn’t kill me when they died? No!
Isn’t the lesson always forgiveness?
Isn’t the lesson always love? What death teaches me, what all of
these people have meant, is what I thought about all that day. From
all of this preoccupation with death, the only lesson to be learned seems
to be that I’m still alive and it’s my job to love people, just as
much as I loved all those people who left.
And, to forgive the ones who left.
They didn’t leave because they hated me.
They didn’t leave because they wanted to get away from me.
They didn’t leave because I did something wrong that they were
going to punish me for. They
didn’t leave so they could withhold their love, taking themselves away
so I would never see them again. Childish
nonsense! So,
there I was on Tuesday, all preoccupied with this idea of if I create my
universe, do I then, create the deaths of everyone?
Every
illusion I’ve ever created? No.
Because all that’s happened is that I’ve released all that
energy to go elsewhere to become another illusion.
A beautiful, beauteous thing?
So,
that was Tuesday. Wednesday,
I awoke with what I thought was a heart attack.
My chest was in horrid pain. I
was scared and frightened and tried to take comfort from remembering what
Shastriji had told me—that I would live to be eighty-six years old.
I even got in the hot tub before leaving to teach my 8:00 AM
Physiological Psychology class because I figured that I had probably
pulled a muscle, but it didn’t ease my chest much. Then
I went to school and I started to teach my first class.
My chest hurt so much that I canceled that class and my next one.
I was ready to cancel my last class as well but first I wanted to
call home, hoping to be able to contact Louis to come and get me. But
just as I was going to the telephone in the hall to make that call, an
unfamiliar woman came up to me outside my office door.
She said she had been trying to reach me to talk to me about my
death and retirement benefits! I thought this was very à propôs, considering that I felt
as if I were dying. By
the time I finished listening to her, it was so close to the time to teach
my last class that I figured I might as well stay, even though I was still
sore, with my chest aching badly. But I wasn’t so worried anymore, because I figured I
couldn’t be having a heart attack for so long—I don’t really know
what a real heart attack is like. Anyway,
I came home, and the fellow that I have had doing some construction work
for me said that I looked like hell.
He asked if there was anything troubling me.
I said that I didn’t know, that I just didn’t feel good. All
afternoon, first one person, then another came over.
Finally, Joe Moriarty showed up just at supper time.
He was in town, and he just dropped by.
He also said that I looked harried, and I guess I did.
I certainly felt harried. I
felt torn apart, I felt pulled, unsettled, uneasy, and I was still in
pain. Even so, we had fun
together, joking about things that had happened with Babaji during our
trips to the ashram. I
especially enjoyed recalling how He had sent me flying across the room,
and how other times when I’ve fallen in the past eight years were all of
them very definitely connected with Babaji.
I really enjoyed talking about Babaji with Joe.
Right
after Joe left, another friend of mine, Pat Dillon, came over.
He had just arrived when the phone rang.
It was Al Andrews telling me that Jeanne Carr had just called him
to tell him that Babaji had died on Tuesday, Valentine’s Day.
The
instant Al Andrews said those terrible words, at that very moment, I knew
what the pain in my body was: heartbreak.
Instead of resisting it and feeling pain, I gave into it—and it
left! You
know something else? How
marvelous Babaji was? One of
the great things He taught me was: There is no loss. As sad as I’ve been all this week, it’s all sorrow for
myself. That’s the truth.
I know. When
Babaji told me to leave the ashram, a couple of years ago, I felt immense
loss inside of my stomach and inside of my chest!
But then I took a breath, and found out that I could still breathe,
even though. Even though what? Was
God throwing me out of His presence?
How could He? Babaji
is always with me and was always with me.
If He tells me to leave Him, it doesn’t mean any loss.
He just needs the room for other people to come and visit.
He doesn’t want me to hang around Him, He has already enjoyed
having me around. You
see? That’s how I figured
all of that out. And, isn’t
that what this death of His means? He
simply knows that enough of us are grown-up enough that we know our job,
we know how to do it, to really be into loving and forgiving ourselves and
each other, so that He can leave and do whatever else He needs to do.
Whatever it is, who knows? How
am I to know what God does when He goes to do something else?
Or ever, at any time? Or
was it His way of showing us that we don’t need to be afraid of death?
Even God is willing to die—it’s just a refreshment.
It’s a chance to change form, and make new decisions all over
again, to stroll in for another game.
Was this the lesson? Well,
I don’t know, but I felt so sorry for Him. I
felt sad and worried for Him. Was
He in pain, was He scared? Oh
my God, was He alone? At the
moment He felt pain in His chest, did He feel, “Oh, does this mean that
I’m not who I think I am? Who
I’ve shown myself to be?”
And I felt so sorry to have lost Him.
It brought back all those old feelings.
Loss, grief, pain. All
those feelings I thought had begun to go.
Are they still here? Do
I still mourn my daddy so much, and my momma?
And all those people who’ve left?
Of course! Isn’t
that what I was doing yesterday? Mourning
all over again? Has
Babaji died to show me it’s time to give up mourning?
To celebrate life? What
an idea! I
want to say, “For Christ’s Sake!” But
isn’t that what Christ died for? To
show us that life and love are beautiful?
Didn’t He want to teach us to love and forgive one another and
teach us our divinity? And,
to speak only to that divinity? Well,
that was Wednesday night. I was thankful when Louis finally came home, when I could
tell him about Babaji and know that he felt as deeply sad as I did.
It was a relief to have Pat Dillon leave. Oh
my . . . so many teachings
this week. So many. Thursday,
I had no classes to teach, so I stayed at home, weeping, wondering why my
head had thought of death on Tuesday, but my body, my heart, didn’t
break until Wednesday. If we
don’t know a friend has died, do we suffer, still? On
Friday, I met each class but dismissed it immediately and spent the
morning mostly in my office, still weeping, not only for Babaji, but for
myself, too. On
my way home from school I went to the gas station to fill up my car.
I had been so distracted for the two days since I heard about
Babaji’s death that I had forgotten to fill my tank.
It’s only because I live so close to school that it was possible
for me to drive as far as the Union 76 station near my home.
I was sitting, looking down in my lap at my little notebook in
which I keep track of mileage and gas, weeping, and thinking of the vanity
of why we do this nonsense of living, how preposterous it all is, as a
matter of fact. Suddenly,
there were two claps in my ear! I
looked up startled, and saw the gas station attendant holding his hand
out. Without looking at him,
because I didn’t want him to see me crying, I gave him the keys and
asked him to fill it up with unleaded, would he please, and he walked
away. I
became lost in thinking about how Babaji had clapped His hands the last
day I was at the ashram with Him. I was walking way through the grass, on the little path that
leads around to where the woman’s dormitory is, like a basement to the
building His bedroom is in. When
I heard the clapping, I looked all over, across the river, toward the
temples, and I couldn’t find anyone and I couldn’t see anything that
could have clapped with such a strange sound.
I started to walk on, but again I heard the noise of two claps.
This time, I looked up, and there was Babaji hanging over the wall,
laughing at me, nodding His head. He
was way up, on the porch outside His bedroom. I bowed to Him and put my
hands together at my forehead to pranam to Him.
I thought what a marvelous new day it was, with Babaji as the first
person to look at. As I
looked up at Babaji’s face laughing at me, I realized I had better hurry
because Aarati was already starting at the temple, and I didn’t want Him
to think I had overslept—I had just taken longer bathing than usual. So,
anyway, there at the Union 76 station, I was thinking about all that,
looking into my lap, weeping. And
again, the two claps! And
here was this gas station attendant giving me back my keys.
I don’t remember how it happened except that I heard him ask me
if I had been to China! I
answered that I had been there the past summer, and I asked him how he
knew. I watched him answer
me, but I couldn’t hear him. I
was lost in looking at his face. He
reminded me of Babaji. He
seemed to be waiting so I said, “Where are you from?” And,
he said, “Korea,” with the accent on the first syllable, not the
second. He
walked over to the front of the car and leaned over to check the oil, and
I saw he was, indeed, the spitting image of Babaji!
That same fat-cheeked, strange Asiatic face.
A lot of people from Nepal have that look and I’ve seen that face
on some Japanese. But the station attendant looked just like Babaji, exactly!
Here was this Korean, looking just like Babaji!
I
thought of the last conversation I ever had with Babaji.
It was His telling me that I didn’t need to work the next day.
And, my saying that I do work, I work hard.
Then He said that He knew that, but when I came to India, I
didn’t come to work, the next day I was to sit in the garden and not
work. But, I said that the
next day I was leaving. And
He said, “Oh no,” and He sounded just like I had sounded years ago
when I said, “Oh no” when he told me to leave.
I knew in that instant there in the garden that He remembered that
other conversation from years before and He was teasing me.
I laughed. I just
laughed. I was so close to His face, perhaps half a foot away from it,
and I laughed, and said, “Oh, yes!”
And we just stared at each other.
I was so in love with Him, and I still am.
Then Babaji said something and the interpreter said, “Babaji
wants to know where are you going?”
And I said, “To China,” and He said, “Oh.” I
asked, “May I have Your blessings?” and He said, “Of course.” At
the time, I was so proud of myself because I didn’t ask, “May I come
to see you again?” I
thought maybe I didn’t ask because I knew that Babaji would always let
me come and see Him. He will
always let me come to Him. I
don’t have to ask His permission. He
loves me. He is always there
for me. Perhaps
I knew that so certainly that day at Herakhan in front of His throne in
the garden that I didn’t ask. When
I went in for Chundan at Herakhan my last trip, I finally had the sense to
look at and see that the rug by His bed was thin, indoor-outdoor
carpeting. It’s not
warm—it barely keeps the cold out of the concrete or the marble or
whatever the floor is made of. I
wanted His feet to be warm, and I wanted Him to know that I loved Him. So,
a couple of months ago, when I wrote a letter sending a check, I also
asked if, this time, when I came, did I have permission to bring a warm,
beautifully fuzzy, Chinese silk rug for Him so He could have a lovely warm
rug to put His sweet lotus feet down on when He arose.
Now He never will. How
much I wished He could have come to the United States!
How I wish He could have enjoyed all the great comforts available
here, even in my relatively humble home. When
David, the Hopi Elder, came to stay here a few years go, he slept in my
little guest house. He is
regarded as head of one of the highest, holiest people in all of creation,
according to the Hopi Nation. When
he came in the kitchen the next morning, he laughed and said something,
but, of course, I didn’t understand him. Then his interpreter told me David was so pleased because he
had spent the night on a heated water bed—it was a blessing to his
bones. David had said, “How
marvelous that you have given him a new sensation at the age of one
hundred and three.” How
I wished Babaji could have enjoyed it, too. Likewise,
every time I get in my hot tub, I think of how I wish Babaji could see how
nice it is to just get in this warm, wood tub, with the trees hanging over
it. I look up into the sky
and see a star there, which I always think of as Babaji’s star.
And it’s always there. It
was dim for a while this week, because my eyes were swollen from crying.
But then it was back again the last time I got in the hot tub. Shining just as bright as the full moon.
Isn’t
that the lesson? Babaji is
always with me. He’s always
in each of us. Babaji is in
everyone. Babaji is a Union
76 gas station attendant on Beverly Boulevard in the middle of Hollywood,
in Los Angeles, California, the United States. Now,
he has left India. He’s
left cold water. He’s left
walking all those stairs up and down.
Now, it’s time for Babaji to see something else.
He’ll be a gas station attendant.
Or, He’ll be sweet Sachi devoted to Muktananda, teaching her
first graders. Or this
person. Or that one. Isn’t
that the lesson? To see God
totally in one another? Isn’t
the lesson always to talk with one another as if these were our last words
together? We must always show
total faith and love for each other, and act as if there were never any
end. Isn’t that what we
want? Talk
about immortality! I think
that physical immortality is just the most adorable concept I was ever
introduced to. Sorry Babaji
didn’t prove it to me. It
just means it’s up to me to prove it now.
God loves him who helps himself.
So, that’s my job. I’m
going to have to live forever to remember Babaji forever; to prove to
everyone that love endures. Isn’t
that the lesson of Prem Baba, that sweet, lovely man, Temple guard there
at Herakhan? Oh, what a lucky
man he is, twice in his life to have his faith that Babaji will return
tested. Isn’t that the
ultimate? I know that, right
now, Prem Baba is praising Babaji. He’s
jabbering away, the way he always does, singing his praise for the
Herakhan Baba. So,
if he hasn’t lost faith, should I?
I, who haven’t been tested half so sorely, thank God. Isn’t
that the idea of surrender? Isn’t
that what Om Namaha Shivai means? I
surrender to the Will of God. Knowing
that everything that God does is perfect?
Not, what could be. Not,
what I think should be. But,
what is is what God creates and it is perfect because God creates it. My
job is to see the perfection. Constantly!
That’s all there is to it. No
more. But
alone, worn out from crying so much, I felt absolutely unhappy.
No one was grateful to me, no one loved me.
I felt, too, that I hated everyone for not being thankful I was
here. I wanted
to be alone. When
Louis came home Friday evening, that’s how I reacted to his typical
ignoring of me which usually doesn’t give me any offense anyhow.
What difference does it make?
He stays with me—that shows how he feels, not whether he says
Hello when he comes in or Thank You for dinner after he eats, especially
since it’s a drag for him to just eat vegetarian food; he doesn’t have
any real joy without any eggs or milk, and without any flour and sugar
stuff. But,
Friday, as he came in at dinnertime, without preamble, I told him I wanted
him to leave. “Great—get
rid of me and Babaji in the same week!” he said. And
there it was! I was back at
the same thought again. Did I
get rid of Babaji? Yes,
of course I did. I have to
take responsibility for that. I
killed Babaji. I killed my
father. I killed my mother.
And I’ve killed every illusion there is. I
am only all that there is. There is only I. Isn’t
that what it’s all about? Isn’t that the lesson? But
then, if that’s really the lesson, who says I have to play that game?
Can’t I make up another game where I pretend that there are
others? Isn’t
that why I created Babaji? Someone
I could love completely? Adore
totally? A grown, big, lovely newborn baby for me?
That I could pour my whole mind, body, thought, heart, and soul in
to? And,
so, didn’t I kill him to show myself that I don’t need to have Him in
His body to do that? That I
can still do that, not only with a living Babaji, but with everyone else?
Even Louis? So,
Babaji’s death taught me I can still enjoy life with Him gone.
As I look for God, I will find God.
I will know God loves me. God
has not left me. God is
always in my presence. That’s
it. With His body gone,
He’ll come back in another body. I
will see it, I will feel it, I will know it.
All I have to do is look for it in everyone I contact. Because
of Babaji, I have all these people that I know and love that I didn’t
even know existed a dozen years ago.
That’s the truth. Friday ended as I told Louis to forget I’d told him to
leave. Love and forgiveness
reigned again. It
will soon be the anniversary of the day I met Leonard, the day after I
read the first thing I ever read about Rebirthing.
That May twelfth was the first time I ever heard said in that
strange language, “Om Namaha Shivai,” although all my life I had
heard, “God is One. Surrender
to God’s Will. That’s all
there is.” So,
there’s the teaching. Yesterday, this time of yesterday, on Saturday, I was still
sore, I was still crying. People
called. I listened to people.
I went through my rage, I went through my pain, I went through my
sorrow, I went through my doubt, I went through my despair, through my
contempt. Did I go through a
hundred and eight different negatives? Probably. If
not, I’ll have to go through some more. But,
I realize, I now forgive my father for leaving me.
I forgive my mother for leaving me.
I forgive Babaji for leaving me. Billy
came over to bring me a present he wanted me to take to Prem Baba.
Billy said he knew Prem Baba loves hash, and I love to bring him
presents, so he gave me a chunk of hash, wrapped as a gift.
He made it from homegrown grass. I
told Billy, “I’m not too sure if I’m going to Herakhan again,
because I got news this week that Babaji died.” I
was surprised that when I said that to him there was no pain. Today,
Sunday, I don’t want to seem to criticize anything that Babaji did—as
a man or as a God. I want to
surrender to His will and to His intelligence.
If I think He’s wrong, it’s my business to change my
mind, not to change Him. Isn’t
that another teaching from Babaji? To
accept what is, knowing that it’s perfect, because what is, is perfect
in God’s perfect world. That’s
that. So,
it’s such a rejoicing. That is as far as I’ve come.
I listened to Aarati this morning, and I heard Babaji’s voice,
His marvelous, fluid, strange voice, and I realized—ah, look at all
this: I have the voice of Babaji. I
have His handwriting. I have
the mala that He gave me, the marvelous, cool, fragrant mala that He put
around my neck, that was such a shock to me when it touched me, because my
eyes were closed as I was bowed in front of Him.
How astounded I was that He was honoring me that way.
So I have that marigold mala—it’s there in my Rebirthing room.
It’s dried, of course, by now, but it still has the fragrance of
marigold. And it always will
have been touched by Him. And
I have the ruby mala that I gave Him and asked Him to bless for me, and a
bracelet, and another bracelet, and a bracelet for my ankle, and other
little things that I asked Him to touch that He gave back to me, or other
things that He gave me.
I
must make sure that my daughter doesn’t throw away the knitted hat I
gave to her son. Babaji
pulled it down over my eyes as He laughed and threw His arms around me and
again beat me on the back of my shoulders, reminding me again how He had
whacked me on that time on my first trip to see Him. This time with the hat, he hit me just as hard, but it
didn’t scare me or hurt me or bewilder me.
I knew it was just love—how else can two little children show
each other that they love each other except by throwing their arms around
each other and pulling their hats down over each other’s eyes, or
whacking them on the back, or generally just horsing around? He
loved me. He
didn’t take His love away when He left.
He’s just like a daddy who goes away to work.
He just went, that’s all. And,
look at how marvelous it is, how beautiful the logic is.
Does it scare you that maybe physical immortality doesn’t exist?
Well, of course. But
remember that’s an old fear, an old birth feeling.
Breathe and let it go. Death
doesn’t mean a thing. Look
at it this way: If Babaji comes back in my lifetime, even in another form,
so long as He’s recognizable, I will know life after death is possible.
I will feel reassurance and comfort.
On
the other hand, if Babaji stays out in cosmic space. when I leave my body,
not only do I have my mother to go to, and my father, and my dear, dear,
dear friends, but—I have sweet Babaji to go see also.
How marvelous! And
in case all of those lovely people that I know haven’t met Him yet, in
one place or the other, I’ll be able to take them to meet Him too. We’ll
have all time and eternity to do it in, so I won’t have to rush.
It’ll be easy for spirit to meet spirit, the way the wind blows
around the world. It
was beautiful this week in Los Angeles!
A strong wind blew every day.
His essence went into the atmosphere and each one of us breathes
His spirit. The winds rushed
from India across the ocean over to us so we can receive His spirit.
We haven’t lost Him. There
is no loss—only winning. If
He stays There, and there is a There that I will go to, too, He will be
There and I win. And
if there is no There, or if He is not There either, if all we are is dust
created for a few moments by some strange accident, some weird way of
handling energy, if we only think we are alive and we only think we think
and all of this is total illusion, I still win.
How grateful I am that He was here for me—that I have been able
to love Him. Sometimes
I think He was only a master of a man, perhaps some well-trained, devout
youngster who lost His parents and wandered into the wilderness, losing
His mind and becoming so simple that He was uncorrupted by contact.
Like that, He might have come to that cave and have sat there in
His almighty, masterful willfulness, showing them that for forty-five days
He could sit without talking, without moving, without toileting, without
eating, without sleeping, with nothing but His devotion.
Was
it a catatonic stupor? Do I care? It
doesn’t matter. He inspired
love by His simplicity, and He showed forgiveness in His pureness and His
devotion. That’s what
Babaji is. Genora
called yesterday. She said
she was still numbed. She was
going to spend the weekend alone, on the northwest coast of Kawaii, in the
mountains. She hoped that she
could come to terms about what it meant that Babaji died.
When she said that she hadn’t even taken down his pictures,
I asked, “Will you? Will
you keep up pictures of a dead man? Is
that what you’re going to have around you?” She
replied, “I don’t know. I have more pictures of Jesus than I have of Babaji.
I don’t know. That’s one of the things I’ll have to think about.” Pictures
of a dead man? When
I look at Babaji’s pictures, I rejoice, and I know how much I love Him
and how much He has loved me and what a great lesson He has taught me.
It is necessary for me to practice that lesson every minute of the
day. I must love and forgive,
I must rejoice, I must feel gratitude, I must extol and honor.
I must feel that for me; I must feel that for every living
creature. That’s
the long and short of it. I
imagine He just got fed up with people trampling around on the ridges
there, threatening the ecology. They
were destroying the quiet ashram life. It was becoming too big a business. Now only true believers will make the trek up the mountain
where He was, and so things will be better. And—He’ll
appear. He’ll be back
again. He is,
in every one of us. Whoever
you are, reading this, I love you, and I’m glad you have read this.
I want to spread this message because, for me, the only purpose in
His death is the same as the only purpose in His life: to teach each of us
Love and Forgiveness. In
Truth, Simplicity, and Love, |
Stories About Babaji and Other Modern Miracles Current chapter:
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