India Diary Con't.

[Guest guest]

Well, Mother has been punishing me--perhaps it's more

accurate to say discipling me--for not behaving

properly the other night when I arrived (most

inopportunely, in my mind) at a very quiet moment

in the program, and she kept (or so it seemed to

me) looking at me. Of course, wherever Ammachi

looks, everybody looks, so it felt like 7,000

people were staring at me.

 

The beginning of this story really goes back to

Boston last summer. I was sitting in the back of

the room feeling sad that they had announced that

only those who had not had darshan recently should

get darshan that night. That eliminated me because

I had it that morning at about 2:00 a.m. Still

though, I was feeling sad, thinking that Ammachi

was just like the sea. Just as one will get wet

going in the ocean, the ocean does not care whether

you get wet or not. Similarly, I was thinking that

while Ammachi's blessings were very real, she didn't

care if I came up for a blessing or walked out the

doors and down the street and never came back again.

Thus I was attributing a totally impersonal nature

to Amma.

 

After a while of thinking so, I decided that even

if "the sea" didn't care, I did, and that I ached to

be near Her, whether it mattered to Her or not. This

meant I had to walk all the way up to the front of

the room, something I hated doing, but I knew I just

had to do it. So, feeling very self-conscious, I

proceeded to walk slowly up to where She was, all

the while wanting to disappear, hating being so

conspicuous, and hoping no one (especially HER)

would notice.

 

Well, much to my discomfort, she began looking

directly at me. Feeling (I guess) like an angry

three year old, my eyes blazing indignantly (at

least in my imagination), I inwardly said to her,

"No, don't look at me! Don't look!" There was no

self-consciousness, that was just the way I felt--

like a three year old talking to her mother. To

my great surprise (consternation at first) she started

pointing to me and speaking rapidly in Malayalam.

This conversation (apparently about me) between Her

and Lakshmiamma went on for a minute or two, as I sat

down about 15 feet from Amma. Then Lakshmiamma turned

to me and said, "She doesn't want you to feel sad

about not getting a darshan, but I told her you

were in New York last night. You're from Seattle,

aren't you? I know you."

 

I said, "Yes, I got one this morning in New York...

but...tell her 'thank you.' Then Lakshmi went over

to some chairs farther away and sat down. I thought

that was the end of a surprising and sweet interlude

until the end of the darshan line came, and I saw

Br. Dayamritananda motioning in my direction. (Not

sure if he was pointing to me, I pointed to myself

and said, "Me??") to come up for a darshan all by

myself.

 

Anyway, that's all prelude to this incident Wednesday

night. I had spent time reflecting on the Boston

incident, sort of proud in a way that my inner child

(without trying to) told her, "Don't look at me."

and that she had showed me that she would look at

me whenever she wanted. However, I didn't realize

there was another lesson coming on the subject.

 

After fighting my way through the huge crowd and at

last emerging to the area below the steps where I

thought safety lay, there She was, looking at me.

And since I had been thinking about being like water,

my first thought was, "Oh no, she caught me not being

like water," followed by a wish that she just go on

about her business and not look at me. I thought

about prostrating to Her, but rejected it as too

potentially embarrassing, since I was in a long

voluminous skirt that I tended to trip over and was

carrying my camp stool, a cushion, a bag of song

books, my (orthopedic) shoes and water. Both hands

were full. I thought the uncomfortable moment would

be over in an instant, and I could proceed on up the

stairs unnoticed to the westerners' balcony. I

assumed she would go on about her business. However,

when I took the several steps forward to the place

where one turns to go toward the stairs, I again

looked and She (and perhaps thousands more) was still

looking at me. My feeling at that point (similar

to the Boston incident) was one of anger and

indignation coming up, the thought, "Now don't you

START with me again!" I turned and escaped

ungracefully up the stairs, just wishing I could

disappear. I felt bad about it at the time, and

mentioned it earlier in my diary.

 

Now, however, Mother just can't see me. If I am

among those waiting to greet her on her way to

bhajans, she just doesn't see me at all. No more

is she making eye contact with me as I sit in the

balcony watching her. It's painful, but I think I'm

getting the point that the guru's glance is grace, and

I'm to accept it with reverence and humility. The

truth is that my reactions to her in front of

groups have been based on fear and ego, not love and

humility. She is letting me know that She is the

Guru, and my behavior is not that fitting a disciple.

I will try to do better. I sense that she is not

angry at all, only teaching me a lesson.

 

Thursday I signed up to do prasad that night, that is

wrapping the little candies in the ash packets, four

to a group and handing them forward to Amma. Did

not know if there was any chance I would get to hand

the packets to Her Holiness, but decided it would be

a privilege either way. Well, everyone in our group

was able to hand her the packets for 15 minutes each!

It was wonderful! That's another way I know she's

not really angry with me, because, believe me, if

she hadn't wanted me to do it, circumstances would

have been such that it wouldn't have happened.

 

It's so exciting to sit there by her. Despite the

frenetic activity around her, She is an ocean of

calm. The big challenge is to keep your concentration

on her HAND, not on the parade of humanity and the

interactions between herself and individuals. I think

I did okay. My only perceived goof-up was in getting

a little wrapped up in her half-sari when the fan was

blowing it over me. I'm sorry, Amma! My heart is

yours forever, and any mistakes I make are born of

mental confusion, not wrongness of heart, I hope. My

only goal in life is to serve you and be with you.

 

I need to pack my bag to put it on the bus back to

Amritapuri tonight. There was no running water last

night, and we've already been warned that there will

be none tonight either. Rather a bother. Guess I'd

better pack while it's light, as there's no light on

this porch at night--another reason I get behind in

my diary.

 

Today the porch we're all sleeping on became flooded.

What a circus! As three or four of us were madly

trying to stem the tide to keep the water off the

sleeping bags, the tall Swedish lady whose eyes are

always full of God (Her eyes remind me of my SRF

friend, Corinne) exclaimed, "Oh, it's all my fault!

I was thinking of Amma as an ocean! She always does

things like this to me!"

 

At this point a rather shrewish devotee whom I don't

know zeroed in and said in an unkind tone of voice,

"Yes! It was unconsciousness on your part! It's a

lack of consciousness!"

 

Hurt, the Swedish lady yelped back, "No, it's not

a lack of consciousness! It's not! It's not!"

 

Again, very shrewishly, the other lady said, "It is

too! It is too!"

 

And so it went, as the group of us spun around madly

scooping up water with whatever we could lay hands

on.

 

Finally, the Swedish lady had the last word, saying,

"It's not a lack of consciousness! I can't

explain it, but it's not!"

 

I was thinking to myself how no one in SRF would

behave the way the shrewish woman did to another

devotee. What a circus!

 

After the last program was over on the last day,

around 4:30 or 5:00 a.m., I was among a group of

"Amma pursuers" as she made her rounds of the

Calicut grounds. For the first time in several

days she "saw" me. Her exquisite glance fell on

me--dare I say it?--with the softness of moonlight.

 

Aum Amriteshvariyea Namah.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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