This is the final blog on my journey to this soulful country.

One thing that made Ireland so memorable was the Irish people, who with their warmth, quick easy wit and welcoming attitude, immediately captured our hearts. In County Sligo, in North-Central Ireland, we stayed in a converted stable at Lisserlough, a working farm owned by Marie and Joe Duignan, who made us feel completely at home and prepared fabulous meals for us. Our guide in Sligo, John Wilmott, AKA the Woodland Bard, shared his poetry, and his vast knowledge of the plant world and Irish mythology. He took us to magical caves, forests, faerie glens, and his thatched-roof cottage with its wonderful gardens and labyrinth. His harpist partner, Clare Roche, treated us to a private concert and the most delicious scones I have ever tasted. We were loath to leave all of them after four days; it felt like parting from family.

And the hardest to leave behind at the end was our endearing bus driver Seamus, who for two weeks patiently and with great skill and humor shepherded us to all the off-the-beaten path places on the itinerary.

One’s heart can be opened wide on such spiritual undertakings, but a pilgrimage is only as valuable as the capacity to integrate the openings, insights and subtle energies experienced into your familiar life when you return. 

I came  home feeling much more grounded and aware of the ever-present availability of the Divine in the natural world. But perhaps more importantly than that, I was reconnected with a sense of magic, wonder and innocence that is always there beneath the surface, but we lose touch with it. How could I incorporate what had been gained on this journey into my day-in, day-out experience?

I realized that I wanted to disconnect more from electronics – TV, computer, cell phone – and spend more time in quiet reflection in nature. Our addiction to electronics and to left brain “rational” thinking gets in the way of our receiving and benefiting from the healing and restorative capacities of the natural world. You don’t have to travel as far away as Ireland to discover these gifts. We on the Monterey Peninsula live in an incredibly beautiful area filled with plenty of places where the grace of the Divine Mother is readily available. The natural world is ever available when we make time for it.

One of my first decisions was as simple as the choice to eat my lunch out in the back yard rather than in the dining room, which is my custom. The very first day I did this, I was rewarded by a prolonged encounter with a fire-engine-red dragonfly, a symbol of transformation, who joined me at the table.



First it was just buzzing around in my vicinity, then it landed at the edge of the table, preening and rotating around, ever so slowly so I could admire it from every angle. Then it flew to the edge of my drinking glass, only a foot and a half away from me and made itself at home. It spent the entire lunch with me, alternating between flying and perching nearby. I have never been so close to a dragonfly, never mind for such an extended period of time, and it was such confirmation that I was on the right track.

The second decision was to give more time and attention to the plant and animal life around me as I move through the world. I spend a lot of time care-taking our little half an acre, watering, pruning, planting, tidying up. Now, in addition to the chores, I am taking time to commune with the trees, plants, birds, insects, and yes, even those irritating gophers. I feel the comforting strength of the oak trees, the delicate hovering of the hummingbirds as they flit from blossom to blossom, the ephemeral nature of the feathery clouds drifting along in the azure blue sky. And I don’t just do this at home; I am taking this renewed awareness with me everywhere I go. I am also carving out more time to hike and be in the wilds.

The third lesson learned, from the Irish people themselves, is to be more welcoming to the stranger…and by that, I mean even the unwanted encounter or experience, whatever that might be, not just a particular individual I don’t yet know. When I do that, the rough edges of my life seem to soften, and I feel more in harmony with all that is.
I haven’t yet, but I intend to get a bird feeder. On the last leg of our journey, Sharlyn and I went on our own to visit a friend of hers, Ann Clerkin, in County Galway on the West Coast, who is a gardener and a bird whisperer, among other things. Her little sliver of a backyard garden was home to a countless array of birds, who were all her friends.

She had names for them and knew their relationships to one another. Quite frequently, one at a time or in groups, they came to her sliding-glass back door expecting to be fed. As soon as she saw them, her attention was immediately drawn away from conversation with guests, and she jumped up to throw them some currants and have a lilting conversation with her feathered friends. Deep connection, I learned, is available everywhere, not just with people.

I vowed to read more poetry and let it inform my days. It used to be my practice to use my book of poetry by Hafiz as an oracle, opening at random to any page and seeing what it has to offer. But I had fallen out of the habit, so, I am rekindling this practice. Plus, I want to be more exploratory and read the works of poets I don’t yet know. Drawing oracle cards, as we did daily, is another simple way to influence the tenor of your day.

Finally, I am constantly reminding myself that there is magic and mystery afoot in this extraordinary and mind-boggling universe that God has created and we are privileged to inhabit.

Clearly, it is not necessary to make a trip to a faraway land to foster an atmosphere that keeps you connected to what is vital and nourishing and essential to mental/emotional health and spiritual growth. You can make small, incremental changes to your daily experience that can have a huge, qualitative impact on your life. You may have to face the obstacles in your consciousness that have prevented you from taking these steps before but that’s to be expected. At every step of the way, Treatment (affirmative prayer) is a valuable tool in making positive change.

So, I encourage you to pay close attention to what makes your heart sing and orient yourself toward that. It may be that your desire is simple and easily achievable, right here in your own backyard, or it may be that what your heart deeply longs for seems monumental, perhaps unattainable. Even if your heart’s calling seems out of reach, don’t let that deter you. Just take one step in the direction of your objective. In his “Hero’s Journey,” the late mythologist Joseph Campbell reveals to us that the simple act of committing to a course of action and taking the first step activates a force field that begins to orchestrate for you the means to achieve your desires. And I have certainly found that to be true.

I would like to close with an offering Charlene shared with us by Nobel Prize-winning Irish poet and playwright Seamus Heaney from “The Cure at Troy”:

Don’t hope
On this side of the grave.
But then, once in a lifetime
The longed-for tidal wave
Of justice can rise up,
And hope and history rhyme.
So, hope for a great sea-change
On this far side of revenge
Believe that a further shore is reachable from here.
Believe in miracles
And cures and healing wells.
Call the miracle self-healing:
The utter self-revealing
Doubletake of feeling.
If there’s a fire on the mountain
Or lightning and storm
And a god speaks from the sky
That means someone is hearing
The outcry and the birth-cry
Of new life at its term.

I recently gave at talk at the Center for Spiritual Awakening in Pacific Grove about a journey to Ireland I took last spring.
This is the second part of that talk.

Our first destination after arrival in Dublin was the village of Laragh in County Wicklow in Southwestern Ireland where we stayed in simple but lovely cottages in a quiet neighborhood bounded by pastures. Every day started with a morning circle, where we drew oracle cards from different Celtic and earth-based decks, shared our experiences and listened to poetry read by our group leader. The Irish venerate the written word, poetry in particular, so it was only natural to weave into the daily experience the works of poets, from O’Donohue, to David Wright, to Mary Oliver, to W.B Yeats, the country’s most famous and beloved bard. The morning circle set the tone as we embarked upon each day's adventure.

Our first full day, we went to the national park of Glendalaugh, visiting two other sacred wells, the crystal-clear Upper Lake (where no boats are allowed) and St. Kevin’s cell, the site overlooking the lake where the Catholic monk escaped his community to meditate. We walked around the first well three times, a tradition among pilgrims and hung shreds of plant material on a nearby tree, another tradition among pilgrims. This one, however, has proven to be dubious since pilgrims often hang bits of yarn, ribbons and plastic, which may not be biodegradable, so they are damaging to the tree and the environment. Rosaleen’s group also does cleanup on these trees, removing items that may cause harm.

There was something deeply feminine about these wells, opening as they do quite naturally to provide the nourishing, fresh, waters of life from spring’s running deep within Mother Earth. A profound felt-sense of connection with Divine Mother would take root within us all over the course of this journey.

There was a visit to a verdant spring garden on land farmed by the same family for generations. Knockrose Garden was glorious, with a profusion of spring flowers such as honeysuckle, azaleas, rhododendron and peonies glistening with droplets from a recent light rain. A small temple or meditation room that had been built over a well held the presence of the Goddess and Gaia in a quiet but powerful way, and I felt myself relax deeply and open up as soon as we walked in the door. After visiting the garden, we had tea and cakes and gathered as a group in the meditation room, and Sharlyn, who has led circles based on the Goddess tradition for decades, offered this song:

“We all come from the Goddess
And to her we shall return.
Like a drop of rain
Flowing to the Ocean.”

Throughout the journey, Sharlyn would spontaneously lead us in songs to the goddess or Mother Earth that were appropriate to the setting, another way to weave the sacred into our everyday experience..

The next day we drove to the Piper Stones, an ancient stone circle dating back to the Bronze Age. These historic sites, many of which are on private land, are marked with discrete signs, and public access is provided via steps and a one-at-a-time turn-style through the fencing. We entered a pasture where sheep calmly grazed, oblivious to the secrets held by the nearby stones. The presence of the ancients was so accessible--singing, dancing, observing their rituals--in this tranquil, mist-shrouded setting. We all wandered about, as if in a trance, from stone to stone, drinking in their primordial energy, their strength, and the endurance throughout the ages that they represent. We all came away feeling full of something indescribable, something essential to us all that we know deep in our bones but cannot always access--a taste of this profound and undeniable connectivity among all things.

After lunch in Hollywood (a charming village that is said to be the precursor to the Southern California version), we walked a short distance to another discretely marked entrance over and through a fence to a faerie glen. To the Irish, faeries are not the benign little flying helpmates in skimpy costumes as depicted in Disney’s “Peter Pan,” but powerful entities not to be messed with because they can wreak havoc on those who do not respect them and their territory. And they can lead the unwary or easily beguiled (usually men who fall in love with their beauty) off into places from whence they may not return or if they do, it is decades or more later, and they are far worse for the wear.

There are many stories told about determined and overzealous developers who ignored concerns from the local populace about tampering with faerie glens, whose projects then met with one disaster after another. So, in general, the Irish, tend to leave these areas alone, although respectful visitors are welcome.

I don’t know from faeries; I don’t really have a position on the subject, but I will say this: We visited two faerie glens and in addition to being breathtakingly beautiful, when you crossed a certain unseen threshold, you could feel a bright, sparkly vibratory energy--kind of like the effervescent quality of Champagne--that was, well--enchanting.

As each day progressed, the group became more and more acutely aware of the energies of the landscape—the trees, the plants, animals, even the insect life. It became easy to feel into and receive the welcoming of the natural world, and even communicate with the non-human entities we encountered as we walked through dense forests, including one whose floor was covered in bluebells; took a boat ride on a glassy-smooth lake while the captain read Yeats’ poetry aloud; threw ourselves down on spongy grass turf softer than a mattress on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic, and visited a rugged coastline that rivaled Big Sur.

What became patently obvious is that the more we open up and align with the energies of the natural world, the more we feel ourselves to be an inextricable link in a vast web of livingness. When we relate to the outer world from this place of recognizing our essential unity with All That Is, the less we have any inclination to do anything that would cause harm to our environment and the beings that populate it. Yes, we still have to eat, and survival depends upon life consuming life, but when so rooted, we do it with respect and gratitude for the gifts we are receiving.

We are also more inclined to seek out gentle plant remedies, following our inner directives that respond to the subtle energies and information of the plant kingdom. We learn to trust the messages that we receive from our plant friends.

As time went by, the input from the senses became intensified as well. One trip to the Irish Sea, where we visited Bride’s Well, was for me, spectacularly auditory, an experience that I tried to capture in a poem:

The Irish Sea
Whoosh, whirr, swish, swoosh…
Words fail to capture
This aural immersion.
 
The maestro’s baton lifts,
And an avalanche of sound
From a breaking wave
Sweeps diagonally to the right
Across my auditory landscape
Like a bold stroke
From a Sumi painter’s brush
Across a blank canvas.
 
Moon magnetism
Meets vast body of water
Meets rocky beach.
Caressing, cleansing, soothing.
Sighing relief.
 
A sea of sound.
Submersed in sound,
Every cell recognizing
Its birth mother
And rhythmically
Echoing her name.
 
Tasting sound.
Feeling sound.
Sound as lover,
Crooning endearments.
 
The ocean that I am
Responds with its own heartbeat.
Harmonic inhale and exhale,
Breath of life
Aligned with cosmic forces.

Body gone,
Only sound.
The watery symphony
Disappearing me.
 
The sea is eternally orchestrating
This sublime concert.
Just find a front-row seat,
Relax and really listen.

Next: The Heart's Calling #3: Lessons from Ireland

I recently gave a talk at the Center for Spiritual Awakening in Pacific Grove, Calif., about a journey I took to Ireland this spring. I will be sharing that talk with you in the next several blogs.

I had the great good fortune this spring to go on a pilgrimage to Ireland. It was a two-week trip with a small group of about nine people. I was invited by my college roommate, Sharlyn Hidalgo, a spiritual teacher and author who has written several books including “The Healing Power of Trees,” based on the Celtic tree calendar, and “Celtic Tree Rituals.”
 
When I read the description of the journey, entitled “Connecting with the Spirits of Ireland,” I was hooked. The leader, Charlene Ray, described it as “...a sacred and intimate journey to connect with the landscape and beauty of Ireland…focusing on moving mindfully and with great reverence as we spend time reflecting and becoming present to the wisdom of the land and the longings of our soul.”

At the time, I wouldn’t have been able to say for certain what I was hungering for that this trip spoke to me so powerfully, but I have learned not to deny this call. At so many junctures in my life--when perhaps it was time for a change, or when I had depleted my resources and needed rejuvenation, or when I haven’t known quite what to do next--following my heart’s calling has always proven to be the right action, no matter how unclear it might have seemed in the moment.

Ireland is a country with a great mystical tradition. The original race, the Tuathe De Danan, also known as the people of the Goddess Danu, was considered to have mysterious Divine origins, arriving on magical airships on obscure clouds. It is a place that to this day is steeped in the unseen world, somehow managing to weave vestiges of its Pagan roots into the Catholicism that prevails in the country now.

But this is not going to be a travelogue or a treatise on the history of Ireland, mystical or otherwise. Rather, I want to describe a few of my experiences, and talk about how such journeys, large or small, can open you up and prepare you for transformation.

In my case, I have been feeling a sort of restlessness for a while, a sense that something is shifting in my world, without any concrete ideas of what that might mean or look like in time and space. So, when I felt my heart leap after reading the description of this trip, I hesitated not a moment before saying Yes. I agreed to go even before consulting with my husband, which I would normally do about something that was as time consuming and costly as this. Initially, he was not thrilled because it meant that I would miss our annual Memorial Day ranch weekend with old and dear friends, something we have been a part of for over 25 years. He came around, however, when he realized how important it was to me, even if I couldn’t explain exactly why.

The Republic of Ireland is very rural, and the people have a deep connection with the land. Outside of Dublin and perhaps Cork, there are really no major cities, so the landscape is pastoral, lush and green, with patches of emerald green pastureland dotted with sheep and bordered by yellow flowering gorse, a thorny shrub, and Hawthorne trees, which were covered in white blossoms when we were there.

Just gazing at the landscape as we drove along was calming, and I hadn’t been outside Dublin more than a few minutes before I felt my inner being opening up in recognition that, indeed, I was in the right place at the right time.

As I would soon learn, everyone on our trip loved nature and was sensitive and open, so we were very compatible. Our very first stop after lunch was to visit St. Kevin’s Well at Glasnamullen and meet up with our guide, Rosaleen Durkin. Ireland, a cool and verdant island, is blessed with many, many natural wells fed by underground springs. These were places that were revered in Pagan times, sites where people would naturally congregate. Some of these wells later were on pilgrimage routes and thus these spots also held the hopes, sorrows, fears, dreams and prayers of many Christian pilgrims, who sought them out as holy places that could offer relief from their travails.

This lovely well, set in a little glen sprinkled with wildflowers situated just off the highway, would be the first of many that we would visit, each with a distinct and palpable energy. Our guide, Rosaleen, is part of an effort to rediscover and reclaim Ireland’s sacred wells, which in modern times have fallen into neglect and have been, in some cases, essentially lost to human knowledge.

This poem by the late Irish Catholic priest and philosopher John O’Donohue was read alongside the first well. I invite anyone who feels the faint stirrings of some unidentifiable longing in their soul to drink deeply of these words:

For a New Beginning
In out of the way places of the heart
Where your thoughts never think to wander
This beginning has been quietly forming
Waiting until you were ready to emerge.

For a long time, it has watched your desire
Feeling the emptiness grow inside you
Noticing how you willed yourself on
Still unable to leave what you had outgrown.

It watched you play with the seduction of safety
And the grey promises that sameness whispered
Heard the waves of turmoil rise and relent
Wondered would you always live like this.
 
Then the delight, when your courage kindled,
And you stepped into new ground,
Your eyes young again with energy and dreams
A path of plentitude opening before you.

Though your destination is not clear
You can trust the promise of this opening;
Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning
Soon you will be home in a new rhythm
For your soul senses the world that awaits you.

I love that line: Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning!

Next: Morning practices and opening to Mother Earth

On our final day in Tiruvannamalai, I had a small but delightful interchange with an Indian woman who lived on the property adjacent to the ashram. I had taken my blue-green plastic chair out behind my little apartment to sit and commune with Arunachala. While sitting, I took a couple of pictures with my IPad of the metal-roofed, open-air dwelling (which actually looked more like an oversized carport than a house) situated in the flat, grassy field nearby. Over my time there, I had taken an interest in the family, watching them cook and move about their home--their whole lives taking place in plain view. On this day, there was laundry draped over the fence between the ashram property and theirs, and the woman of the household was outside.

She saw me taking pictures, waved and walked toward me. I am embarrassed to admit that at first I didn’t want to meet her gaze because I feared she was going to ask for money, and I always felt conflicted when that happened. Finally, I thought, “What the heck,” and got up and walked closer to the barbed-wire fence. She approached to within 10 feet of me.. We exchanged smiles and greetings, to the degree that we could with no common language. Then, I said, “Wait here a minute,” as though she could understand, which she no doubt couldn’t, ran back to my room and got my last chocolate bar and gave it to her. She looked like she didn’t know what it was, so I said, “chocolate,” as if giving it a name would help. She repeated, “chocolate,” but I had no idea if she understood or not. Finally, after smiling at each other for a bit more, we waved goodbye; I went back to my chair, and she went on about her business.

As I resumed my meditations, her husband, wearing a sarong, walked from the house across the open field to a platform where there was an overhead spigot. He filled up a bucket and, without taking off his sarong, proceeded to lather himself up and take a very thorough outdoor shower. He managed to cleanse his entire body without ever disrobing entirely. Though I felt a little like a Peeping Tom, I was riveted. This couple, quite literally, lives out their existence with only a corrugated tin roof over their heads. To my Western mind, this was incomprehensible. I found myself concerned about how they fared during the monsoon season.

We were to board buses at 7 that evening to take us to the airport in Chennai, a four-hour drive. I had done all my packing the night before but wanted to make one more trip into Tiruvannamalai to spend my remaining rupies. Normally when I went into town, I only took Indian money, but today, since I was all packed and ready to go home, I had both dollars and rupies in my purse.

In our household, my husband normally is the trip organizer, but since I was making this journey without him, I had planned and taken care of every aspect myself. This was my first excursion to a foreign country without him or another close companion, and I was feeling a sense of satisfaction in my ability to navigate on my own. I had been very careful with money and was going home with around $500. I thought my husband would be pleased at my prudence.

In the early afternoon, I grabbed a tuk-tuk into Tiru. I first stopped at the grocery store and got some snacks for the airplane flight. I was so tired, however, that I mistakenly handed the clerk two $100 bills instead of two 100-rupee bills (100 rupees is about a dollar and 40 cents). She pointed out my error, for which I was extremely grateful, and I paid her in the appropriate currency. I went on to a shop I had heard about but not visited before. The man behind the counter eagerly began showing me goods, taking shawls, scarves and pillow shams from their protective plastic bags and unfolding them so they could be seen in their entirety.. However, I only had about $20 (about 1,500 rupees) to spend, so I wasn’t going to be able to buy much.

When he understood my circumstances, he informed me that he accepts American money and credit cards. I told him that I wasn’t going to spend American money, and that I didn’t have any credit cards on me. Being an enterprising sort, he offered to pay for a tuk-tuk ride to go with me to the ashram to get a credit card. After much back and forth, he finally accepted that I was only going to spend the rupees I had. I selected a few items, a couple of shawls and a scarf, then went to pay him. In my exhaustion, I did the same thing I had in the grocery store—I handed him one-hundred-dollar bills instead of rupees. As with the woman in the market, he was honest and pointed out my error. I thanked him, returned the money to my wallet. We talked some more, then I fished around in my wallet, pulled out some bills, paid him, and grabbed a tuk-tuk back to the ashram, my final shopping completed.

When I got back to my room, I decided to count my money one final time to make sure I knew exactly how much I had on me. I counted once. I counted twice. I was $200 short. For some reason, this discovery sent me over the edge, and I broke into tears. I was more distressed by my flakiness--that in the end I had, despite the honesty of the vendors, I had mistakenly given away two hundred-dollar bills along with the remaining rupies.

Amrita next door must have heard me, for she called through the open window. “Are you OK?” “No,” I said plaintively, opening the door and welcoming her into my room. When I told her my story, she just threw back her head and laughed out loud. “My dear,” she said gently with a big smile, “you have just made somebody very happy. Some family will be able to live comfortably for a long time on that amount of money.”

My distress and self-condemnation vanished instantly. I got it in a flash and said to her, "Oh, of course, I was being too stingy with my money. God decided to redistribute the wealth.” I never had a bit of regret after that, though I did wonder who actually ended up with the windfall, the shopkeeper or the tuk-tuk driver. In any event, it’s given me pleasure to think of an Indian family living more comfortably for several months because I couldn’t keep my head on straight.

Just after dark we assembled to board the buses for the trip to the airport. Some of us were staying behind to travel around India further, so I hugged and bid adieu to them, then boarded the bus. The trip to the airport had an unreal quality. By this time, I was so tired from nights of truncated or interrupted sleep and so filled up with spiritual lessons and energies that I was in a daze. I sat staring out the window into a moonless darkness, garishly broken when we passed through villages where glaringly bright lights illuminated makeshift structures. Everything seemed to have an unreal, carnival-like atmosphere.

We stopped again at the same chai stand we had frequented on our arrival trip. I took a pass on the chai, wanting to avoid caffeine-induced sleeplessness should the remote (for me) opportunity to sleep on the plane present itself, and instead watched with fascination a vendor pouring out huge chapatis on a large hot griddle setting off clouds of steam in the night air. So ordinary and yet so infused with beauty.

Sometime before midnight we arrived at the Chennai Airport. I had a scare at the airport entrance when it appeared that an official wasn’t going to let me even enter the building because he didn’t have my name on a list. Somehow it got cleared up, much to my relief, and I was allowed inside. We checked in, went through security and then sat around--a few of us in chairs, many sprawled on the floor--sharing chocolate chip cookies from the German Bakery and killing time until departure.

The four-hour flight to Dubai was uneventful. I was struck again by the sumptuousness of the Dubai Airport, clean, glittery and filled with expensive items for sale. It was such a contrast to the dingy, bare-bones facility in Chennai. We then boarded our 15-hour Emirates Air flight to San Francisco. Again the plane and the service was impeccable, but I don’t remember much about it except that I slept little and binge-watched the British series “Poldark,” finishing an entire season before the trip was over.

It was midday when we arrived at San Francisco Airport. I stumbled through customs and was met by my waiting husband, who after a warm welcome, shepherded me and my belongings to our van. By this time, having slept little for some 30 hours, I was so exhausted I could barely speak. We talked enough for me to tell him that I was on my last legs, and I would communicate after I regrouped a little. I put the seat back and tried to sleep, but I was too keyed up. Eventually, I sat up and drank in the familiar scenery between San Francisco and Carmel Valley. Highway 101 near San Jose, which I normally find congested and fast-paced, seemed sane and orderly after traffic in India.

At home, I ate a light supper and took a hot bath, washing away layers of dry skin and mineral deposits accumulated after a month of cursory cold showers in hard water. It was heaven. I went to sleep at 8 p.m. and didn’t wake up until 11 the next morning. For days it felt like I was neither here nor there.  I instinctively knew that it was going to take me a long time to integrate this experience. People would ask me about my trip, and I was stymied at how to respond, so much of it couldn’t be captured in words. It was at the same time, one of the most challenging and one of the most rewarding months of my life. As it would turn out, I couldn’t even begin to write about it until a year had passed.

When is all said and done, it seems that the theme for this Indian pilgrimage was bringing to consciousness deep-seated fear/rejection psychological constructs that dated back to my earliest years. I was able to meet layers of deeply ingrained beliefs, fears and projections, and I came away with a greater ability to see these quick-as-lightning defense mechanisms that arise when I feel threatened, rejected and/or out of my element. There would be more work to be done, but it was a good start.

Almost three years later I can only say that something was freed in the process, and I am not plagued by some long-standing response patterns that had been a challenge for me all my life. The pure, unconditional love that I experienced while in India is not my ongoing experience, but it was so pure, true and real that it is indelibly seared in my marrow. I have had a greater capacity to relax the ego so that pure Presence, or Beingness, or whatever you want to call it, is my foreground experience with greater consistency.

The point that Devaji makes over and over again, is that this state, which is characterized by peace, love and joy, is not coming from anywhere outside of us. It is not because of someone or something. It dwells within each and every one of us as our own hearts and is simply awaiting our recognition of it. Unblemished and untainted, it can never be destroyed because it is our true nature.

The more time I spend cultivating this inner space, which is ever-present right here and right now, the more it pervades every aspect of my life. So many things have changed for the better since that trip that I cannot begin to enumerate them. Whatever temporary discomfort I might have experienced while on this holy pilgrimage pales in comparison to the benefits that have unfolded and continue to unfold since my return.

While not everyone can take a trip to India, we all can make it a priority to come to know who we are at the deepest levels, if only by making it a practice to ask ourselves Ramana Maharshi’s seminal question: Who Am I?

When you look inside and follow the question to the end of the road, you will find quite a different answer than you might have expected. You discover that you are not who you thought you were. The real “I” is something far beyond what we believe ourselves to be, our limited sense of who we are, the personality and the roles we play. The real “I” is a state of emptiness that is at the same time full (of peace, joy and love). It is quite natural; it never changes and is always available. As we turn to it with frequency, our lives begin to stabilize so that no matter what transpires in the external world, it doesn’t seem to affect our ability to stay grounded in the truth and beauty of who we are..

While a trip to India, or any other sacred place on the planet, though it can catapult you along the path, it is not required to awaken to the Truth. The real pilgrimage is always a journey of discovery into who you really are. that can be embarked upon anywhere, any time..

This poem, which was recently composed at a weekly writing group of which I am a part., reveals how easily it can happen if we just remain still.

                    White is How I feel
                         White is how I feel,
                           Blank and empty
                        Like a snow-covered
                          Meadow in winter.
 
                         I like this quiet mind
                       That can’t kick into gear
                 Even though words are expected.
                     Looking to see what’s here
                 I sink into a soft, gauzy warmth
                         So infinitely preferable
                    To any thought or recollection..
 
                           White is how I feel
                                In January
               When only the spots of yellow
                          On the lemon tree
                            Offer a reminder
                              That one day,
                        Something will move
                    And calves will be birthed
                       And leaves unfurled
                      And this deep resting
              Will yield to the wild energies of life
                           Renewing itself.
 
                            But until then,
                         White is how I feel
             Slow, inward, inclining toward silence,
                           Filling a hunger
                   To connect with something
                        Far more essential
              Than my next meal or assignation.
 
                         White is how I feel
                           When I strip off
                           Names and titles,
                   Costumes and descriptions
                 And look to see what remains
                       Beneath the surface.
 
                     And discover once again
                     That I am made of light,
                      That everything is light.
                 And I might not have noticed
                            Were it not
                      A cold day in January
                   When I had nothing to say.

After the final satsang, there was an eruption of hugs and conversation outside the meditation hall as we had the freedom to talk for the first time in two weeks. So much had transpired, and we were all deeply impacted by what we had shared together.

One of the retreat attendees was the woman with the wise eyes whose purse I had silently admired at one of the public satsangs during our early days in Tiru.  She and her daughter, son-in-law and grandchildren were on a spiritual pilgrimage from their home in Germany. They had been living in Tiru for several months, and after attending a few of Devaji’s public satsangs, she and her daughter decided to sign up for the retreat and attended most sessions.

After we could speak again, I approached her and, in an uncensored moment, told her how much I had admired her spangly purse the first time I had seen her at that public satsang. She immediately asked me if I had a plastic bag. I looked at her quizzically. “If you have something to put my belongings in, the purse is yours,” she said, smiling. Though genuinely touched, I thanked her for her generosity and responded that I couldn’t possibly accept it. She, however, was adamant, so I went to my room, found a plastic Ziplock bag and returned to her. She unceremoniously transferred all the contents of her purse to the plastic bag and handed the beautiful cloth purse over to me. I accepted it mixed feelings, but in the end, the purity of her offering won over my reticence. The cloth bag, covered in sequins, spangles and pearls, was indeed lovely. Smelling strongly of incense, it was frayed in places from being carried by this dear woman, whose name I don’t remember, but whose kind gesture I will never forget. It is one of my prized possessions from the journey.

 This was an auspicious occasion for more than one reason. That night was the full moon, and every month at the full moon, thousands of pilgrims come to Tiruvannamalai to circumambulate Arunachala in a holy ritual called Girivalam that has been practiced for thousands of years. It is said to be a way to achieve mukti -- liberation or enlightenment. The 14- to 15-kilometer route, that runs along the highway outside the ashram, includes stops at temples along the way and takes about four hours to complete. In preparation, vendors set up their wares (including cast-iron pots and pans, always essential to carry on a long walk), and shopkeepers festooned their buildings, setting up chairs and stands outside and offering food and refreshments in addition to their regular merchandise.
After participating in group photos, five of us joined the throng, comprised predominantly of barefoot Indians in traditional saris and sarongs. There was a celebratory feeling in the air that felt appropriate on this, our last formal retreat day. We walked with the crowd for a mile or so in the warm, humid air, basking in retreat afterglow and enjoying the sense of camaraderie, and then turned around and went against the tide, returning to the ashram.

That night I went with two women from the Palouse into Tiruvannamalai to the German Bakery for celebratory dinner. To describe the German Bakery as atmospheric would be an understatement. Up a dark flight of stairs, the restaurant was dimly lit, with a glass-enclosed case full of mouth-watering cookies, cakes and other baked goods on one side and an open-air exterior wall on the other. Rustic closely-situated rectangular tables covered in plastic cloths filled the space. I was beside myself in anticipation of some non-ashram food. The three of us shared pasta with tomato sauce and broccoli, Thai rice noodle pasta and pot stickers, then finished off the meal with mocha-nut, chocolate-chip cake. Though by no means the best food I’ve ever tasted, after so many meals of brown or white rice and mushy stewed vegetables, I was delighted and oh-so-satisfied.

After dinner we relaxed and chatted for a spell, taking in the surreal vibe--a greenish cast lent an eerie air to the entire scene. Sitting at a nearby table against the outside wall were three men, framed by the lush vegetation outside, speaking English with a British accent and exchanging tales of adventures. One with wild hair and eyes, who looked like he had seen and done it all, punctuated his animated conversation with erratic gestures that only amplified a sense that I was witness to some intrigue. It was all good theater, and I slept deeply that night for the first time in a long while.

Next: Departure and Homecoming

Once the retreat formally started and we went into two weeks of silence, I stopped writing regularly in my journal, so I don’t have a good record of that time period. However, on Sunday, Jan. 17, one week into the retreat, I wrote:

There really are not words for what is transpiring here. This deep seeing into the nature of things,  unearthing buried aspects of the personality. I cannot begin to tell of this inner journey. The mind is only today really quieting down. Kindness seems to be the operative word, and the operating instructions are to “take the hands off the wheel;” stop the habit of distraction--which is anything to do with the mind.

In the final week of retreat, I came down with a more serious bout of dysentery. I was consoled in a funny way by the fact that I was by no means alone; most everyone had dealt with digestive issues of one kind or another. For me, however, this was the worst case I had experienced, and it wasn’t responding to homeopathic remedies or to Imodium. Since there were only three days left before we were to depart, I broke down and took the big-gun prescription medication I had brought with me: Cipro, a powerful, but controversial antibiotic that in recent years has been associated with serious side effects. I was determined that I was not going to be left behind in India while the rest of the group went home. One of the sangha members, who had arrived in advance of the main group to handle logistics, had taken desperately ill before we arrived. The illness not only persisted, but he had been too sick to fly home. He joined us for the retreat—by that point he was skin and bones, barely able to stay through an entire satsang. His example haunted me. Fortunately, the Cipro worked, and within 24 hours the symptoms had disappeared altogether. And I didn’t experience any adverse reaction.

   At the final satsang of the retreat, I worked up the courage to read a poem that a week earlier had been at the center off a huge inner struggle. Often when I am in retreat with Devaji, poems come to me quite easily, with no effort at all. Early on in Tiru, Devaji had approached me and encouraged me to read aloud to the group any poems that might come through. At that point, reading my poems set off deep-seated fears, reducing me to a very childlike state of insecurity. A day or so after Deva’s invitation, I decided to read at evening satsang a poem I had written that afternoon. I was nervous and excited in a way that reminded me of how I used to feel as a young girl before a piano recital.

I raised my hand that evening, and, when called upon, told him I had a poem I would like to read. Devaji said no, explaining that it was getting late, and we don’t usually read poems at the evening satsangs (which are devoted more to the Absolute than to personal  matters). Immediately, however, he had second thoughts and reversed himself, saying I could read it after all. But by that time, I was too far gone.  I was reduced to a puddle of mortification. Tears were rolling down my cheeks, and I shook my head no to his offer.

Now, as I recall this episode, it is hard to comprehend my distress: All he was asking me to do was wait for another occasion. But it had taken a great deal of courage for me to even ask. For reasons having everything to do with an early-childhood family environment that made me fearful to speak truth to authority figures. I felt hurt, shamed and slightly indignant. My thinking went like this: “Hadn’t he just invited me to read any poems? And, “I did not know that poetry readings were disallowed in the evenings. Every time I had read a poem in the past, it had been at an evening satsang."

My composure tanked.  I took a rather neutral situation and made it into something very personal. Part of my disproportionate response was connected to a sense that I had done something wrong in asking.

After taking note of my reaction, Devaji then talked about the trap of taking things personally, using me as an example of what not to do—which only exacerbated my inner turmoil. Had I been operating from my healthy adult self at the time, I would have been able to accept waiting for another occasion or I would have been able to go ahead and read the poem when Devaji reversed himself.

It’s hard to explain what happens at these retreats, but essentially, one becomes more sensitized to what is going on inside. In the safe and unconditionally loving environment Devaji offers, adaptive behaviors--developed in childhood to enable the individual to avoid situations that seemed threatening --come up to be recognized, as do the associated feelings. This was a perfect set-up to bring this buried element to light—that small child whose voice had been silenced by a fear-inducing, authoritarian father. (Let me say in my father’s defense, that he loved me in his way, but, by his own admission, he did not like children; most probably because he wasn’t allowed to be a child himself.)

The next day, I spoke of my ongoing painful feelings to others in the group, and they encouraged me to go talk to Deva. At lunch, I asked to see him privately. He postponed another appointment and made space for me to see him that afternoon. I went to his room, feeling anxious; I was determined to be honest with him no matter what the cost.

I told him what I had been experiencing, how I felt judged, humiliated and rejected by him. He listened attentively, and with the greatest kindness, responded that he wasn’t feeling any of the things that I was attributing to him and explained that I was projecting.

 It was crystal clear to me that I was hearing the truth. Then I could see it all. I was indeed projecting onto him my early experiences with my father, unconsciously expecting Devaji to reject my innermost feelings and punish me for speaking my mind. I confessed to him that in my entire life I had never felt free to be myself in my father’s presence, to share my true feelings or openly disagree with him about anything.

Finding the inner resources to face my deepest fears and speak to Devaji about all this, challenging him-- if only slightly--and being received with kindness and acceptance, was a huge turning point for me. It felt as though I had broken through an invisible wall of fear and terror that I had carried for a lifetime. The unpleasant side effect of this deep work had been the digestive disturbance as the body responded to this deep emotional work. Small price to pay.

On the final evening of satsang, I finally read the poem that had brought all this to light.
 
                                     Joy Pours
                           Joy spills over the wall
                         Like a sparkling waterfall
                              Into a riverbed
                Carved by the hand of the Beloved.
                It courses along on its own current,
                           Tumbling over rocks,
                   Pooling in quiet emerald depths,
                       Nourishing root and branch,
                   Following its predestined course,
                          Until finally it empties
                            Into the vast ocean
                          From whence it came.
                              Bliss unto bliss.

                  Then the wall that had obscured
                          The heart’s radiance
                    Begins to dissolve altogether,
                      And the light and the love
                               Pour through
                       From an eternal source
                      Of goodness and mercy.
 
                        How laughable it is
                         To think that God
                 Would ever be parsimonious
                   With its most precious gift –
                                Freedom.
. Next: Breaking Silence

One morning during the final week of the retreat, I decided it was long past time to take a hike up Arunachala. I got up before dawn, dressed and met up with a few others from the sangha, about five of us in all, in front of the meditation hall just as daylight was breaking. We marched off single file, down the path as if we were going toward the old house, then veered off on another path that took us to a barbed wire fence that we had to squeeze through. We continued along a narrow dirt trail; the terrain on either side was flat and rather barren, a few gnarly shrubs and some spindly grass. Here and there were some recent plantings, attempts to restore the natural landscape. One of our group, who had brought a chair, stayed behind just beyond the barbed-wire fence just sit at the base of the holy mountain and absorb its energy.

We were led by a woman from the sangha who had made the trek numerous times and was confident about where we were going. As we started to ascend, the grasses got thicker, the shrubs larger and more menacing—some had thorns on them an inch and a half long—and the terrain rockier. I am an experienced hiker, but I had never before on a hike felt like I did this morning. It was as if my mind were disabled. I couldn’t do anything but focus on putting one foot in front of another. It could have been fatigue, but I attribute it to the powerful energy of the mountain, which works its magic on each person in different ways.

We hiked about halfway up, by now climbing over and around large boulders and through somewhat intricate passageways. The only markers were intermittent stacks of three or four rocks serving as guideposts--otherwise it was not at all clear where to proceed. I was so comforted by the fact that we had a reliable guide because I could never have done it on my own.

When we were almost halfway up the mountain, the quiet was broken by the sound of a voice hailing us.. From atop a high ridge far off behind us, we saw a small figure waving and yelling. We concluded it was Daniel from the sangha. We waved back and continued on our uphill trek. The next thing I knew, I heard footsteps behind me, looked around and saw that it was Daniel. How he had closed the gap so quickly between where he was when he waved and falling in line behind us, I’ll never know. He must be part mountain goat.

Finally, we stopped about halfway up the mountain atop of an enormous boulder with a small stream trickling through it. Tiruvannamalai, shrouded in a blanket of smog, lay below us in the distance. We put down our packs, took of our shoes and washed our feet in the refreshingly cold stream. I enjoyed an apple and an energy bar and then sat and meditated. There is no denying the vibrations on this mountain: My mind could barely move, so powerful was the energy.

After an hour or so, we descended. I had to pay careful attention to every footstep. It would have been so easy to get my feet tangled up in the tall grasses and take a fall. I was again grateful for our more experienced hikers, for I could not have easily retraced our steps. We rejoined our friend who had stayed at the bottom. She, by now, was totally in bliss. We made it back just in time to grab breakfast, take a shower and make it to morning satsang. I am disappointed that I didn’t ever get all the way to the top of Arunachala, but that was not to be on this trip.

I would like to take a short departure to write about dogs. In India, dogs without owners roam everywhere. They look like they all share the same DNA: medium sized, short haired, tan or black and tan, with a face kind of like a Beagle and long up-curled tails. When we arrived at the ashram, a mother and two pups (one black, one tan) who were still nursing, were wandering the grounds. The mother was so skinny, it was hard to imagine how she was able to produce any milk. Soon after we arrived, the mom weaned the pups and basically abandoned them, though periodically she would show up again, usually to start a disturbance..

Members of our group began feeding the puppies, though this was discouraged by the ashram officials, who didn’t want the dogs on the grounds. Nonetheless, many in our group disregarded their wishes, fed and attempted to befriend them, which proved to be generally unsuccessful. One man even got bitten. Nonetheless, over the time we were there, we could see that their health was improving; we could no longer see their ribs, and their coats were looking healthier. We were concerned, however, about what would happen to these pups when we were not there to feed and protect them. Two women in our group had heard about an organization, the Arunachala Animal Shelter (www.arunachalasanctuary.com/index.php), that takes in sick and dying dogs and provides medical and/or hospice care for them. The two paid a visit to this shelter and came away impressed by the love and devotion of the people involved. While the shelter could not take our pups, they did agree to at least give them the necessary shots to give them a better chance at survival, which gave us some comfort. Unfortunately, we don’t know what happened to them after we left.

Next: Winding Down
 

I know it’s been a long time since I last made an entry in my India blog. Forgive me, but I have been traveling quite a bit, including a remarkable trip to Israel (I'll get to that at a later date) and spending time decluttering and shedding possessions, something that seems urgently important.

In my last writings, I shared an experience of words pouring forth onto my blank journal page, seeming to come from the great saint Ramana himself, that basically said, “You’re good enough; you’re pure enough; you don’t have to keep trying so hard.”

The next day I wrote this poem:

                                         The Light That I Am
                           The beauty is opening up inside of me,
                                          Shedding its luster
                                            On everything.
                                      Trees pulsate with life,
                                   Dragonflies kiss the breeze
                                          With their wings,
                                           Then dart away
                                     To the next rendezvous.
                                         The light that I Am
                                           Sits at the center,
                                   Singing hymns of gratitude
                                              For the grace
                                        That has brought me
                                       To this eternal moment,
                               Where peace and tranquility abide..

That outpouring onto the page from who knows where allowed something very old in my psyche to be released—some basic insecurity and self-doubt that has been playing beneath the surface my entire life. I experienced an immediate sense of ease and comfort, both with who I am and with my current circumstances, that has remained with me ever since..

I went to bed early as per usual that night and woke up sometime in the early hours of the morning in an astonishing state: I was totally awash in a profound love, more deep, expansive and unconditional than anything I had ever experienced. The closest I had ever come was holding my beloved daughter when she was an infant. But this wasn’t a love FOR anything or anyone, or love FROM anyone, it was just love – unfettered, unattached, unbelievable! The mind was completely stilled – not a thought crossed my awareness -- and I was totally at peace. Even with my eyes closed, I could see/feel a radiance, a pulsating luminosity.  It seemed the grace of Arunachala, of Ramana, of Devaji was being poured into me, and it was so pure. As my understanding has deepened, I have come to realize that this state is my true nature -- everybody’s true nature -- which for most of us is almost totally masked by our busy, active minds and our conditioned automatic response patterns.

I lay basking in this miraculous bliss for I don’t know how long – it could have been an hour, it could have been three, before it began to dissipate. I wrote some poems by flashlight, and then tried to get back to sleep, but that wasn’t happening, so I finally took an allergy pill.  I drifted off, only to dream about all the mind’s schemes and strategies to get what it wants. It was very humbling. I tried not to beat up on myself too much, but it wasn’t pretty observing how the desire mechanisms work. And it felt like quite a fall to go from that truly amazing grace to all the conditioned behaviors that drive the personality.

 th,
I awoke at 7:56, which was the latest I had slept since arriving in India, with only four minutes to get to breakfast. I scurried and somehow managed to get dressed and out in time to get something to eat. That morning in satsang, I went up and sat in the chair with Devaji, saying little but feeling such enormous gratitude.

The following day the theme of not being able to connect with anyone was back. I watched jealousies and stories about others having more, getting more than me, play across the screen of my consciousness. I opened to it as fully as possible because it was so very persistent and because it was the work I had come to do. According to the non-dual teachings, these painful, contractive experiences recycle until we can see them for what they are: conditioned responses laid down in early childhood that create a protective shell around the true Self. The challenge is not to judge them and not to judge ourselves and try to push the feelings away, but to explore them with acceptance, curiosity and kindness. When they are held and seen through all the way, they dissolve, and we are set free.

It was also interesting how as every day went by, I became more and more comfortable with my surroundings. I had stopped putting on insect repellent -- quite a change from the anxious woman who was wearing mosquito netting over her head in her room at the beginning of the trip. That day I did a complete cleaning of my room and felt even more at home. I cleared off the small built-in shelf and created a little puja (altar) alongside my bed that included a photo of Ramana, the small statue of Ganesha (remover of obstacles), some found peacock feathers and mango leaves arrayed on a glittery pink pillowcase that I had bought. It offered an island of beauty and calm.

The love continued to flower the following day. “Everything has taken on a luster,” I wrote in my journal. “The sense of isolation and rejection has been replaced with a feeling of being at peace with everything. The environment no longer feels hostile and threatening, and I am flourishing in a very narrow universe. When there is silence, so much can be felt and known without words. I am physically feeling better than I have in years. The burning sensation I have been experiencing is at a minimum. I am eating everything and have a good appetite.”

I was still having some trouble sleeping but I found that I needed less of it. I was waking up most mornings before daybreak when the chanting started. Ironically, as time passed, when the early- morning chanting did start, I found I could actually doze off and get more sleep despite the cacophony, which on some occasions was piercing, sounding like shrieking accompanied by persistent thumping drumbeat

One more poem:

Open, Shut
Open, shut, open, shut.
A smile, a cross word.
The light flickers on and off.
The glance of another,
Friendly or hostile
Cannot slake the hunger
For what is real and lasting.
That One sits quietly,
Waiting for the true seeker
To stop being beguiled
By every comehither look.
A golden crescent moon
Smiles down from the
Velvet night sky
And welcomes the dawn.

Next: More on the Inner Journey

Saturday, a week after our arrival at the ashram, the silent retreat with Devaji began. Spirits were high and there was almost a celebratory atmosphere in the compound. A sign-up sheet for “seva” (selfless service) had gone up, and preparatory jobs included washing all the plastic chairs we would be using during satsang, sweeping and washing the tiled floor of the open-air pavilion where we would be meeting, and sweeping the wide walkway that leads up to the structure. I helped wash the chairs and set them up in semi-circles on the tiers in the pavillion. On the morning of the first satsang, we discovered beautiful crimson and saffron flower blossoms floating in a large concrete basin centrally situated on the walkway in front of the amphitheater. Other bowls of floating blossoms were strategically placed around the grounds. Everything was cleaned and polished and made ready for our entry into this sacred adventure.

For me, it was a relief to settle into silence. I am an introvert by nature, and I welcomed a lengthy period of time where I wouldn''t have to converse or interact with other people. The daily routine was to gather at 9 a.m. for satsang (following the same format as at the public events), break for lunch and then regroup again at about 2 in the afternoon for another session that ended just before dinner.

I found myself going in and out of extreme homesickness during the first few days, something that rarely affects me when I’m traveling. This whole India experience was much more challenging than I had expected. It’s so confounding -- wanting to get away from the familiar then wanting the familiar back when it gets dicey. The thing about this kind of pilgrimage is that as you quiet the mind, suppressed material from the past – outworn conditioning, traumas that haven’t been worked all the way through, anything that no longer serves the individual’s personal and/or soul growth – rise to the surface to be seen and dissolved. Everyone on this pilgrimage would go through such episodes to a greater or lesser degree, but we were more than willing to face these inner demons knowing that the payoff is to taste the inherent beauty and love that lies beyond the psychological mind.

Part of my routine when not in satsang was to find time every day to sit and “be” with Arunachala. There was a lovely open spot right behind my little dwelling that afforded a vista of the holy mountain, and I would drag the green plastic chair from my room outside and drink in the view, until, quite naturally, I would sink into meditation.

 And, of course, there was also the rooftop vantage point for communing with the mountain. After the first afternoon satsang ended, I meandered to the old house and sat with others in the slanting late-afternoon light, marveling at the swarms of dragonflies darting about overhead. They were a regular feature, but before India, I had never seen more than two dragonflies in one place at one time, so I was awestruck. The dragonfly, of course, is a symbol of transformation, so it only seemed fitting to see them in droves in this setting. I was fascinated with this beautiful old house, enchanted by the faded elegance, the shapes and angles of the staircases, the weathered surface textures, the colors. Some walls looked like they could have been framed as abstract works of art and placed in a museum. I took numerous photographs.

.The second day, I had a beautiful sitting. I could feel the love inside growing and flowering. After morning satsang, I went into town to pay a 43-rupee debt to a shopkeeper who let me leave her store with a roll of toilet paper I hadn’t paid for because she couldn’t change a 100-rupee bill. In retrospect, it was so little money that I don't know why I didn't just give her the 100-rupee bill and be done with it. En route, I passed by a house with a collection of rocks with cow pies adorned with flowers laid out to dry for fuel. After I paid my bill, I went to “Happiness is My Nature,” a shop that one of the women from our group had recommended. The owner was delightful, and true to the name of his shop. I bought a long white sheer cotton skirt and a white embroidered top for myself, and several decorative pillow covers and a table runner to take home as gifts, spending all of $27. Finally, I went to Ramana Market to get more toilet paper, then took my own tuk-tuk home. I felt a sense of satisfaction to have achieved all this on my own.  A funny postscript:  When I got back to my room, I discovered I had bought paper towels, not toilet paper. Oh well.

Day 3 was rough. I got up at 5 because I was intending to go on a 6:15 hike with some of the others. Intestinal disturbance dictated otherwise. I stayed in bed, skipping breakfast. The symptoms persisted so I talked to Amrita, who gave me some homeopathic pellets to take as needed. I skipped the meditation, but went for Deva’s monologue and the dialogues, then went back to my room to rest. I skipped lunch and afternoon satsang.

At bedtime I became terribly homesick. I felt like an unwanted child thrust into an unloving world. My response, as per Deva’s instruction, was to simply “be with what is” without any story or interpretation.  One of Deva’s frequent dictums is: “How do you know what you want? What you want is ‘what is.’  ” Deva would say that all this was happening by Grace, at the behest of the Beloved for my freedom. In truth, I could make up a million stories to explain what I was feeling, but I really didn’t know what was going on or why I was feeling it so intensely, and there was no way to distract myself here.. I had to face it.

As I was writing about all this in my journal, I realized that as beautiful as my time had been in Ramana’s caves, a part of me had been hoping I would have an experience like that of Miranda Macpherson, a contemporary non-dual teacher with whom I had been studying in the months leading up to my trip to India. While meditating in one of the caves, Miranda, who at the time had an interfaith ministry in the United Kingdom, relates that she received what felt like a direct transmission from Ramana. As she tells it, her mind became completely quiet and out of the silence, these words arose from inside the depth of her being: “Be nothing, do nothing, get nothing, become nothing, seek for nothing, relinquish nothing, be as you are, rest in God.”  From that point on, her life was never the same. Within the next year, her marriage dissolved, she left the organization in the UK she had founded, and she started a new life in the United States. As the thought crossed my mind about wanting an experience like Miranda’s, I shook my head and chuckled, somewhat in disbelief at the machinations of the ego mind – never satisfied, always comparing, wanting something more..

I turned to a fresh page in my journal and suddenly, with no mental activity on my part whatsoever, my hand simply started writing these words:

Come empty into the cave of the heart.
Leave your pretty frocks behind,
For there is no need of them here.
Don’t go looking for me in the city,
Even on the holy mountain.
You don’t have to improve yourself for me.
You are so precious just as you are.
Words cannot describe my love for you.
Your purity and and beauty illumine the night sky,
Like fireworks in celebration
Of your very existence.

My hand stopped writing, and I sat there in stunned silence, staring at the words that had poured forth. They had not come from my mind; it had been completely empty. It felt like they were a message from Ramana himself, responding to all the doubts, self-judgment and fears that had been arising in me. I sat in a state of quiet astonishment and gratitude. Some place in me that had always felt unworthy, frightened and insecure, relaxed as I read and reread the message. I knew that the reference to "your purity and beauty," did not refer to my physical form, but to my essential nature., which I was on this quest to discover..

The next day I felt much better. In fact, I had had begun to feel better as soon as those words were written. And, as if to emphasize a point, fireworks were set off all day long. in the area surrounding the ashram.
That day I wrote this poem:

I am going to have to back up in time a little because I neglected to share a few interesting experiences I had during the first few days I was in India.. On Sunday morning, the third day, I went with a small group to visit an awakened being named Shivashakti, who gives silent darshan (the opportunity to spend time with a holy person) in the lower floor of the house where she lives in Tiruvannamalai in an area near the Ramana Ashram.. We found the house, which was well marked with signs, and entered a large ground-floor room with several large paned windows.. The room was empty of furnishings except for a rattan chair in the center against a long wall. It was about a third filled with people, who were sitting on mats and pillows on a tiled floor. Nobody asked for money, and there were no baskets or signs suggesting donations.

We took places on pillows in the second row in the center and waited about a half an hour, during which time the room filled up with people, Indians and Westerners alike.. A little while after the advertised starting time, Shivashakti made an unassuming entrance into the room from a side door. A tiny older woman with streaks of gray in her hair, she was barefoot and wearing a peach-colored sari. She walked slowly and deliberately to and fro in the empty space in front of the group, making eye contact with virtually every individual as she passed by, smiling and emanating deep peace and love.. The feeling in the room became still and a sweetness prevailed. She never spoke a word, just slowly walked back and forth, gazing beatifically into the eyes of those who had come to be with her. When she made eye contact with me, I could feel a lifting of the anxieties that had been plaguing me, and my mind settled into an open spaciousness. It wasn’t an earth-shattering experience, but it shifted me into a much more tranquil state of mind. She continued slowly walking back and forth, giving this silent darshan for about 20 minutes, then as quietly as she arrived, she left, and people began filing out of the room.

Our minds silenced, a few of us wordlessly walked a short distance down a side street and without much discussion went into a dark little shop with rows of shelves stacked with clothing of all types neatly folded in plastic bags.. It was a bonanza for us all, including the shop-keeper, as most of us found things we liked and wanted to purchase. I bought three blouses, one for myself and two to take home as gifts, forest-green silk pants and a three-quarter-length forest-green dress with a rainbow-colored tie-dye patterning to wear over the pants.. I spent $30 altogether. With these purchases, I felt like I had enough loose-fitting clothing to last me through the month without having to hand-wash every day.

After that, I parted company with the others and headed over to the Ramana Towers dining room to get a quick lunch before heading up to the roof to set up for satsang. The dining room was virtually empty, and a beautiful little Indian girl with enormous brown eyes, whom I concluded was the daughter of an employee, approached my table.. About 4 years old, she was barefoot and wearing a purple cotton blouse and a gathered purple silk skirt with gold embossed patterning. She was magical, a combination of pixie and princess, and seemed as enchanted with me as I was with her.. Throughout the course of the meal she kept returning to my table and smiling, shyly at first, then more easily, and trying to make contact. I could only smile back and try to communicate my interest and appreciation without words, fishing through my purse to find some little trinket to amuse her with – to no avail. This wonderful exchanged lifted my spirits enormously and made the time fly by until, to my regret, her mother gathered her up, and they left the restaurant. Fortunately, I had my cell phone with me and was able to take pictures to remember her by.

.To be honest, I am a sucker for children, and I had also fallen in love with an adorable infant who frequented the dining room at the ashram, the daughter of somebody on the kitchen staff. She was just a little over 1, plump and cherubic, always barefoot and wearing a diaper and shirt, an ankle bracelet and spangly beads around her waist. One morning after breakfast, she came toddling over while I was drying my dishes and delighted me by playing with my spoon, which probably was a novelty to her since Indians don’t use silverware. While we were enjoying this little interlude, a woman from the staff came over several times with a wad of something soft on her index and middle finger and shoved it into the little girl’s mouth, who barely seemed to notice so entranced was she by the spoon. In fact, I never saw her swallow, but she must have, for there was always room for more, though quite a bit of food ended up on her face..
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It was impossible for me to tell who her parents were, for at one time or another I saw her in the arms of virtually everybody on the staff and all seemed quite proprietary toward her.. Though all were very loving and affectionate, they were also strict, and more than once I heard one or another of them admonish her in a stern tone of voice when she would do something that violated their sense of propriety, though in all honesty I could not tell what she might have done wrong. The subtleties of cultural mores were beyond me in this case.. In this observer mode, I felt a little like an anthropologist. It was so easy to see how cultural values are instilled beginning at such an early age. I marveled at the mystery that brings us into this world, all so alike, and then imprints us in ways that result in such different mannerisms and orientations toward life itself. Each of us is part of the same human family, which is a fundamental unity, and yet our life experiences lead us to the conclusion that we are so different. If only we could remember that we all are children of the Most High, and at core, we all want the same things, perhaps we wouldn’t have to struggle quite so much to get along.

I’d like to close with a poem that I wrote during the first week.

Paying Attention
The fan is constantly whirring overhead,
What unceasing love and devotion!
If you’re really paying attention,
The feel of the air
Caressing your body
Incites ecstasy.
It is possible to lose yourself completely,
In the most mundane things.
If you’re really paying attention.