Vairagyam in action

[Guest guest]

Many years ago I had the privilage of participating in the reception

and three day visit to our city of a well-known dignitary of a

monastic order in India. The only part of the story that I care to

relate here-and indeed that I clearly remember-centers on a very

fleeting thought that crossed my mind then, and the Swami's eloquent

and conclusive reply to it.

 

The monk, the author of many books on spiritual life, was on one of

his frequent world tours. Just the day before, he had spoken to a

gathering of several thousand in Japan, where Indian spirituality is

still highly revered.

 

I found myself sitting across from the Swami at a sumptuous vegetarian

feast in his honor. And---who knows where thoughts come from? It is

said that if one could trace even one thought back to its true source,

one would become illumined on the spot.

 

But, be that as it may, I began to ruminate; something like the

following: this monk renounced the world at a very early age, in fact,

while still in his teens, and almost from the start, distinguished

himself as an intense tapaswi. His austerities rapidly became

legendary, and earned him the pre-sannyas name of Yati, "ascetic",

from his seniors. Now, he is famous, feted by world leaders, given

luxurious accommodations wherever he goes, and mixes freely with

members of both sexes.

 

The thought was very fleeting, as gentle as a flywhisk across the top

of my head, and then it was gone: "Where is the Yati in all of this?"

 

Of course I had noticed, for instance, that he was taking very small

portions of the delicious food, while I was eating four times what he

did and was still hungry, but then I was young.

 

Did I see a quick, sharp glance as the irreverent thought crossed my

mind, or was it only guilty conscience, as I coughed and shifted

position in my chair? I think I did, because to this day I can still

clearly see the brilliant, penetrating eyes looking directly at me

through bushy white eyebrows. And a clear image like that is often the

sign that something real had occurred.

 

But---all things come to an end, and very soon the Swami was

departing. He was walking rapidly down the ramp to the airplane

carrying his small ocher colored cloth bag, and, as it happened, I was

standing last beside the rail as he came smiling and bidding everyone

goodby. As he approached where I was standing, he was still smiling,

and gave me his total attention.

 

Then a strange and disconcerting thing happened; at the precise moment

that he drew abreast of me-so that I was no longer in his direct field

of vision-his face instantly assumed an absolute calm, and my last two

or three words broke and fell like shards against the shoulder of an

ancient stone buddha.

 

I had a moment of uncomfortable intuition then, in which I saw with

the utmost clarity that even though less than a heartbeat previously I

had occupied his total attention, I was now nowhere in his

consciousness. And I mean nowhere. Buddha's statement on attaining

enlightenment was appropriate here, "Gata, gata, gata": gone, gone,

gone, wholly gone, absolutely gone, gone forever.

 

I would like to be able to say that I took this in with grace and

poise, and remained the witness. But the truth is that my ego felt it

as a terrible rebuff. I thought, "Well, friendship is short-lived with

some people".

 

Of course it is commonplace in ordinary human interactions to contract

one's heart in order to withhold love from someone whom we feel

"deserves it", i.e. has offended us in some way. We punish another by

turning off our heartlight in order to put the other in darkness for a

while. Common enough, but the practice is deadly, because in that

darkness all the troublesome chickens come home to roost.

 

I knew it couldn't be that kind of heart contraction, however, with

this great Swami; nevertheless, my ego certainly felt it as though it

was: "Is this what renunciation is all about?" All I knew for sure

was that I needed to get away from others for a while, and give this

some serious thought.

 

The understanding that finally came to me, and which I still believe

to the present, was that this great soul's lifelong asceticism and

renunciation had culmulated is a state in which he lived wholly in the

present moment.

 

He lived, as it were, in a small, illumined room of profound Purity

and Silence called the present moment. A room which contained nothing

but himself and the whole universe, whom he continuously worshipped as

Virat, the living God. And the room was illumined for him because his

tapas had completely eliminated the unreal past and the unreal future.

 

That insight was a gift from the ascetic to me, and a milestone in my

understanding of spiritual things. We pray, "Lead us from the unreal

to the Real". But what is the unreal? The future and the past do not

exist, and never will. All the anticipations, desires, fears and

worries about the future are fruitless and unreal. So are the memories

of successes and painful failures of the past. But, unreal as they

are, still, they can somehow apparently combine to squeeze out the

divinity and luminosity of the Eternal Present.

 

 

So, I found myself mentally thanking the great Swami for his great

gift to me, this great lesson. That was my Christmas present that

year---and a very appropriate one too. For it is in the present

moment alone that we can receive the Divine and Endless Presence of God.

 

Tanmaya

[Guest guest]

Tanmaya

 

thank u for sharing your story

 

you are that

 

jai tanmaya

 

 

 

, "ty_maa" <ds.james@c...> wrote:

>

>

> Many years ago I had the privilage of participating in the reception

> and three day visit to our city of a well-known dignitary of a

> monastic order in India. The only part of the story that I care to

> relate here-and indeed that I clearly remember-centers on a very

> fleeting thought that crossed my mind then, and the Swami's eloquent

> and conclusive reply to it.

>

> The monk, the author of many books on spiritual life, was on one of

> his frequent world tours. Just the day before, he had spoken to a

> gathering of several thousand in Japan, where Indian spirituality is

> still highly revered.

>

> I found myself sitting across from the Swami at a sumptuous vegetarian

> feast in his honor. And---who knows where thoughts come from? It is

> said that if one could trace even one thought back to its true source,

> one would become illumined on the spot.

>

> But, be that as it may, I began to ruminate; something like the

> following: this monk renounced the world at a very early age, in fact,

> while still in his teens, and almost from the start, distinguished

> himself as an intense tapaswi. His austerities rapidly became

> legendary, and earned him the pre-sannyas name of Yati, "ascetic",

> from his seniors. Now, he is famous, feted by world leaders, given

> luxurious accommodations wherever he goes, and mixes freely with

> members of both sexes.

>

> The thought was very fleeting, as gentle as a flywhisk across the top

> of my head, and then it was gone: "Where is the Yati in all of this?"

>

> Of course I had noticed, for instance, that he was taking very small

> portions of the delicious food, while I was eating four times what he

> did and was still hungry, but then I was young.

>

> Did I see a quick, sharp glance as the irreverent thought crossed my

> mind, or was it only guilty conscience, as I coughed and shifted

> position in my chair? I think I did, because to this day I can still

> clearly see the brilliant, penetrating eyes looking directly at me

> through bushy white eyebrows. And a clear image like that is often the

> sign that something real had occurred.

>

> But---all things come to an end, and very soon the Swami was

> departing. He was walking rapidly down the ramp to the airplane

> carrying his small ocher colored cloth bag, and, as it happened, I was

> standing last beside the rail as he came smiling and bidding everyone

> goodby. As he approached where I was standing, he was still smiling,

> and gave me his total attention.

>

> Then a strange and disconcerting thing happened; at the precise moment

> that he drew abreast of me-so that I was no longer in his direct field

> of vision-his face instantly assumed an absolute calm, and my last two

> or three words broke and fell like shards against the shoulder of an

> ancient stone buddha.

>

> I had a moment of uncomfortable intuition then, in which I saw with

> the utmost clarity that even though less than a heartbeat previously I

> had occupied his total attention, I was now nowhere in his

> consciousness. And I mean nowhere. Buddha's statement on attaining

> enlightenment was appropriate here, "Gata, gata, gata": gone, gone,

> gone, wholly gone, absolutely gone, gone forever.

>

> I would like to be able to say that I took this in with grace and

> poise, and remained the witness. But the truth is that my ego felt it

> as a terrible rebuff. I thought, "Well, friendship is short-lived with

> some people".

>

> Of course it is commonplace in ordinary human interactions to contract

> one's heart in order to withhold love from someone whom we feel

> "deserves it", i.e. has offended us in some way. We punish another by

> turning off our heartlight in order to put the other in darkness for a

> while. Common enough, but the practice is deadly, because in that

> darkness all the troublesome chickens come home to roost.

>

> I knew it couldn't be that kind of heart contraction, however, with

> this great Swami; nevertheless, my ego certainly felt it as though it

> was: "Is this what renunciation is all about?" All I knew for sure

> was that I needed to get away from others for a while, and give this

> some serious thought.

>

> The understanding that finally came to me, and which I still believe

> to the present, was that this great soul's lifelong asceticism and

> renunciation had culmulated is a state in which he lived wholly in the

> present moment.

>

> He lived, as it were, in a small, illumined room of profound Purity

> and Silence called the present moment. A room which contained nothing

> but himself and the whole universe, whom he continuously worshipped as

> Virat, the living God. And the room was illumined for him because his

> tapas had completely eliminated the unreal past and the unreal future.

>

> That insight was a gift from the ascetic to me, and a milestone in my

> understanding of spiritual things. We pray, "Lead us from the unreal

> to the Real". But what is the unreal? The future and the past do not

> exist, and never will. All the anticipations, desires, fears and

> worries about the future are fruitless and unreal. So are the memories

> of successes and painful failures of the past. But, unreal as they

> are, still, they can somehow apparently combine to squeeze out the

> divinity and luminosity of the Eternal Present.

>

>

> So, I found myself mentally thanking the great Swami for his great

> gift to me, this great lesson. That was my Christmas present that

> year---and a very appropriate one too. For it is in the present

> moment alone that we can receive the Divine and Endless Presence of God.

>

> Tanmaya

>