an old article on being with Amma...by Kenna's husband..found on the web

[Guest guest]

Om Amrtesvaryai Namah!!

 

Namaste dear sisters and brothers!!

 

was checking thru the "new" listings on Amma thru the Google search

engine...and came upon this wonderful article from 96 by Kenna's

husband, Del, as follows below...

 

 

BEING WITH MOTHER AMMACHI

 

Mother always has tests for me

when I get close to her...

 

by Del Marshall

 

 

It's been nine months since I've seen Mother Ammachi, a year

since I've

been to her lap. I'm feeling uncertain as I approach the big

convention

center where her programs will be presented. Why am I here?

Do I really

need this? Haven't I seen her enough to know she's always

with me?

 

I walk inside, full of questions. My eyes strain to see,

having come from

bright sunlight into total darkness. Why are the lights off?

What kind of a

welcome is this? At any moment, I'm thinking, I could

stumble over a

folding chair and go sprawling on the floor. Is this

someone's idea of

setting a mood? My mood is being set, all right. I'm

severely annoyed.

 

Far overhead, on a high ceiling interlaced with steel

trusses, huge mercury

vapor lamps flicker to life. The only explanation I can

think of for the

darkness is a power failure.

 

I look around. Others look too, confused, blinking their

eyes as if in

disbelief that they can see again. They are strangely

subdued. It's very

quiet in the big hall.

 

On the other side of the room lies a wide, low platform

littered with

microphones, small cushions, a harmonium, and tabla drums.

Near the

front of the platform, in the center, a slightly larger

cushion for Mother. No

fancy thrones for her -- she won't have it.

 

Behind me, a long row of tables covered with cloths: the

book stand.

Under the cloths are books, tapes, meditation aids, incense,

prayer

shawls, pictures of Mother, and small jewelry items embossed

with the

sacred syllable Om.

 

Over in the corner there are a number of long tables

partitioned off from

the rest of the hall. It's the kitchen area, where delicious

Indian food will

be served.

 

Mother's devotees seem to be waking up slowly. The noise

level is

gradually increasing. I find a place to sit where I can see

but not too close

to the stage. I know from past experience that the area near

the stage will

be crowded with those wanting to be as close as they can get

to Mother. I

don't want to be drawn into the covert jockeying for

position that

inevitably occurs.

 

I also find my wife, Kenna, whom I have not seen since we

walked into

the dark hall together. We sit down on our cushions and

relax. It's been a

three hour drive down to Chicago, a hurried settling in at

our motel and a

stressful entrance into the hall. We can use a break.

 

We look around. It's a varied group, mostly dressed in

casual clothing.

Some wear all white and there are quite a few Indians --

east Indians, not

Native Americans -- the men mostly in casuals and the women

in the

traditional saris. No shoes, they're all in the entry way.

And, though it's

quite warm, no one is wearing shorts.

 

After a half hour or so, a hush comes over the crowd.

Devotees begin

moving in the direction of the entrance, forming two lines,

facing each

other. The crowd chants in unison: Om, Amriteshwaryai

Namaha; Om

Amriteshwaryai Namaha: Mother's mantra.

 

The chanting fades as orange-robed monks appear, carrying an

oil lamp

with a smoky flame. The monks chant as Mother approaches.

She pauses

as they repeatedly wave the oil lamp in a large circle in

front of her, still

chanting and tinkling a small bell, welcoming her into the

hall.

 

The short ceremony complete, Mother walks between the two

lines,

smiling and reaching up to touch some of us on the tops of

our heads as

she passes. Here and there, she bends down to squeeze a

giggling toddler.

 

She is so small, less than five feet tall, and yet she is so

powerful.

 

Presently, Mother and her group are assembled on the stage.

The first

speaker, an Indian man, tells a wonderful story about

meeting Mother. He

had been a very busy man, a doctor, with no time at all for

his family. His

kids rarely saw him, and his life felt overfull, yet empty

on another level.

 

After meeting Mother, he felt the need to ask her questions

about his life.

Eventually, he telephoned to her ashram in India and spoke

to one of her

monks. His questions were relayed to her, he received his

answers, and

his life began to change.

 

He started doing things with his family, delegating

responsibility for things

at work to others. He and his family have satsang -- a

devotional service

centered around Mother -- together. Now he is very happy at

home and

grateful for the changes that have come. He even recounts

how their home

was spared from the ravages of a forest fire that raged

nearby, destroying

more than one of his neighbors' homes. He attributes all of

it to Mother's

beneficial influence.

 

Following the doctor's talk, Mother speaks briefly in

Malayalam, the

language spoken in Kerala, south India, where she lives. A

monk called

Swamiji, her most senior disciple, translates. Mother

doesn't speak

English, but she knows when her interpreter has slipped up

and she always

corrects him. Smiling sheepishly, he repeats her corrections

in English.

 

The main thrust of Mother's talk is that we are not aware of

our

connections with each other and other living things, and we

do not love

each other enough. This has thrown our society and our

environment out

of balance. We're already experiencing many problems and

Mother sees

"only darkness ahead" if we do not change. Mother's

recommendation is

that we earnestly seek our spiritual connection, our

connection with the

Divine, because having found that, we will also have found

all of our other

connections and will be filled with Divine love.

 

Swamiji is worth a short description. He displays what I

call real King

energy. He wears the darkest shade of orange in his robes,

indicating his

advanced status. He stands tall, with his arms folded, his

smile radiating

warmth in all directions. His substantial size gives him a

solidity that speaks

of confidence and inspires trust. I try to catch his eye if

I can, because it

always feels good when he looks at me.

 

With his rich, resonant voice, Swamiji leads the bhajans,

the devotional

songs. They are mainly in Sanskrit, a few in Malayalam. The

singing is

call-response and books with the words are available at the

stand, but I've

found that learning new songs in a foreign language and

having strong

devotional feelings are almost mutually exclusive. I content

myself with

sitting and listening, occasionally chiming in on a repeated

phrase that I

recognize. Later in my stay there will be a chance to sing

old songs that I

know well and I will wait.

 

Even without participating in the singing, I am drawn in by

the music. The

rhythm of the tabla pulls me along as the whole group on

stage sings, along

with quite a few in the crowd -- those who have been

following Mother's

tour and have learned the new songs.

 

At times, Mother's voice seems to go right through me, as

she raises her

arms, crying out ecstatically: "Ma! Ma!"

 

But it is getting very hot in here indeed! Sweat pours down

as hundreds of

bodies, swaying and singing, radiate their excess heat into

the motionless

air around them, motionless because there is no ventilation

or air

conditioning. Just before we arrived, the whole system

failed: hence the

darkness.

 

I'm starting to feel queasy and faint. I get up and move

toward the rear. I

pass the book stand, saying hello to faces I see once a

year, faces that

look very tired from trying to keep up with Mother, who

sleeps maybe

two or three hours a night.

 

Outside the hall, I find the air conditioned corridor

leading to the rest

rooms. I sit down on the floor and enjoy the blessed relief.

 

Internally, however, I'm still very hot. I'm annoyed about

the air

conditioning failure. I feel ashamed for not wanting to stay

in Mother's

presence, for being too weak to withstand the heat, and I

feel angry that I

feel ashamed. And I feel ashamed that I am angry and so

forth. I'm really

in a fix.

 

Mother always has tests for me when I get close to her!

 

I sit and stew, while I cool off.

 

Reentering the stifling atmosphere in the hall, I notice a

large overhead

door in the kitchen area. Why not open it for some air? I

inquire. Because

that is what caused the system to fail in the first place,

I'm told. So now

that it's failed and is not working, why not open it? No,

sorry, we can't do

that, is the reply, with no explanation, and I'm annoyed

again.

 

Returning to the air conditioned corridor, I traverse its

length to a double

door at the other end. It's blocked with "No Entry" signs,

which I ignore.

The rest of the building is still air conditioned and

consists of a series of

smaller but nevertheless quite large meeting rooms. I try

the door to the

one next to the big overheated hall I've just left and find

it unlocked. I

notice a series of double doors from this empty, air

conditioned meeting

room into the big hall, all closed but unlocked. Just as I'm

pondering the

advisability of opening them, a security guard approaches

and politely

ejects me from the restricted part of the building.

 

Foiled again! But at least I feel better for having tried to

buck the system.

 

Back in the main hall, which is still ferociously hot,

Swamiji intones the

Om! that opens a five minute meditation. I rejoin Kenna, who

has never

left, and quietly take my seat.

 

After the meditation, darshan begins. Mother moves to a low

chair on the

floor just in front of where she has been sitting and

receives people into

her lap. Long lines form on both sides of the hall and I sit

back to wait. I

know I'll be here until the hall closes in three or four

hours and I know the

lines will be shorter then, so I make myself as comfortable

as I can while I

watch others go up to Mother.

 

Elderly, disabled, and families with small children go up

first. Mother

receives all, giving individual attention to all as she hugs

them, looks into

their eyes, rubs their backs, whispers "Ma! Ma! Ma!" into

their ears and

puts sandalwood paste on their foreheads.

 

She especially loves little children, often laughing with

them as she holds

them on her lap.

 

Occasionally someone bursts into tears in her lap, sometimes

even grown

men, fully two or three times her size. Huge sobs wrack

their bodies as

they let go of mountains of misery they've been carrying.

 

Many come away with blissful expressions on their faces,

barely aware of

the flower petals rolling down onto their shoulders from the

tops of their

heads where mother has placed them.

 

And each clutches a Hershey's kiss, a gift of prasad, or

sacred food, from

Mother.

 

While we wait, Kenna and I visit the kitchen area and sit

down to eat

some of the Indian food that is being served. As usual, it's

very good,

cooked with loving thoughts of serving Mother.

 

Back to our places. There are fewer people now, the lines

are shorter,

and the hall is finally cooling off. We decide to go for it.

 

After a half hour wait, our turn comes. We go to Mother's

lap together.

 

"Madison!" she says to us as she sees us, recalling our home

town, where

we first met her. She always remembers, though she gives

darshan to

thousands of people on her tour, perhaps tens of thousands

more back

home in India.

 

In her lap, I try to be as open as I can, to let in as much

of her love as I

can. It's not easy for me, but it's getting easier. Each

time I see her I am

able to let in a little more than the time before.

 

As Kenna and I fairly float back to our places, blissfully

unconscious of

our falling flower petals, I realize that I know why I came.

Or at least I no

longer feel the need to ask.

 

I spend the next two days as a volunteer guide, helping

people to see

Mother and keeping a watchful eye to gently discourage line

jumpers. I

stand for more hours than I would have thought possible.

 

And I return home to a splitting headache from the stress

of... what?

Trying to please my Mother.

She always has tests for me.

 

 

 

 

© Copyright 1996 Del Marshall.

 

Del Marshall is a glass artist and carpenter, builder, and

general all-round

fix-it guy with an ABD in physics, formerly a computer

programmer from

the old days of mainframe-only computing. He came to Mother

Ammachi

by way of C.G. Jung, I Ching, new age philosophy, and

channeling. He is

also interested in Native American spirituality and

emotional healing.

 

 

 

my thanks to him for originally publishing that on the web...

 

in the Divine Mother's Love,

and in Her Service,

 

as ever,

your own self,

 

visvanathan

 

Om Amrtesvaryai Namah!