Swami Kriyananda As We Have Known Him

Saving the Planet

noreply@blogger.com (Asha Praver) — Fri, 18 May 2012 16:40:00 PDT

[Listen to Asha read this story]

Several people dedicated to ending war and banning nuclear weapons came to Ananda to try and enlist Swamiji’s support for their cause. Their presentation included a graphic description of what would happen if a nuclear bomb hit an American city. Using charts, graphs, and full-color illustrations, they explained how people would be vaporized, incinerated, burned, scorched, and, if that didn’t get them, poisoned by radiation.

Using fear to motivate people is not a tactic Swamiji admires. When you increase fear, you create more of the very consciousness you are trying to eradicate.

When the anti-war advocates finally paused long enough for Swamiji to get a word in, he said, “A hundred years from now almost no one who is on the planet now will still be here. Whether we dribble off a few at a time over the next century or all go out at once in one big bang, once we are in the astral world, it won’t make any difference.”

Then more seriously he said, “When cataclysms come, as my Guru said they will, those who die will be the lucky ones. The real suffering will come to those who live through it.” He paused a moment to let his words sink in.

“I know you are trying to do a good thing,” Swamiji said sympathetically, “and I don’t want to dampen your enthusiasm. But the only way to change the world is by changing consciousness—above all, by changing your own consciousness. Everything else is just a symptom. I prefer to work on the cause, which is consciousness itself.”

On another occasion, a man presented Swamiji with a long list of ecological disasters that had happened or would happen soon unless something was done to prevent them. He wanted Swamiji to put the resources of Ananda into solving these problems.

Swamiji listened patiently then said, “We are already doing exactly what you ask. All the problems you describe are caused by wrong consciousness. If everyone in the world lived the way we do at Ananda, these problems would simply cease to exist.”

Buying a Car

noreply@blogger.com (Asha Praver) — Fri, 11 May 2012 16:37:00 PDT

[Listen to Asha read this story]

The event was a “new age” ecumenical gathering called Meeting of the Ways. It was held in San Francisco and included leaders from the most prominent yoga and meditation groups in America. The day before the public program started, there was a reception for the spiritual leaders and a handful of their students so they could meet one another.

A few of us came with Swamiji in his car, an old, well-used Chevrolet that he had bought for $75 through a government surplus auction. The paint was faded, but the car ran well. It was spacious inside, and had a large trunk—important features, since Swamiji seldom traveled alone.

The reception was held at a large home in one of San Francisco’s more elegant neighborhoods. We were a little late, and most of the guests had already arrived. Both sides of the street were lined with parked cars. There were several Mercedes, a Rolls Royce or two, and even a chauffeured limousine. The majority were late model cars of no special distinction. Swamiji’s car, compared to even the humblest of them, was a sorry sight.

As we walked toward the house, Swamiji said, “I have to get a new car. For myself, I don’t care. In India they understand renunciation and would respect me for driving a car like mine. When I met the Shankaracharya of Kanchipuram, whose position might be compared to that of the Pope, he was receiving people out of doors, seated on the ground under a palm tree.

“In America, however, where money is easily come by, when people see me driving a car like that, they think, ‘If he can't afford a better car, there must be something wrong with his teachings.’ I don’t want anything fancy. That, too, would give the wrong impression. Just something nice enough so people don’t form a negative impression of us.”

Soon after, Swamiji received a large donation and used it to buy a new Chevrolet. About a decade later, when that car needed to be replaced, he went to a local auto mall. One car he rather liked was a certain American model; I think it was a Buick. The ride was smooth and quiet, the trunk was large, and the seats were very comfortable. Swamiji had trouble with his hips, and comfort was important for him. The only drawback was, it was marketed as a luxury car, even though it wasn’t that expensive. The advertising was meant to flatter the ego.

“In the brochure they gave me about the car,” Swamiji said, “all the people looked so unpleasant. Puffed up with pride as if to say, ‘Now I have arrived.’ I don’t want to be one of them.”

So he bought a Nissan.

“It isn’t as comfortable as the other one,” Swamiji said, “but I feel more comfortable driving it.”

A Way of Life

noreply@blogger.com (Asha Praver) — Fri, 04 May 2012 16:30:01 PDT

[Listen to Asha read this story]

(Told by an Ananda devotee)

Swamiji was one of several guest teachers sitting on the raised dais at a large yoga center waiting his turn to speak. It was a casual event and the speakers were all in rocking chairs.

The room was hot and stuffy and the talks were a little dull. Swamiji was gently rocking back and forth with an abstracted air. Still, watching him was more interesting to me than listening to the speakers, so I was astonished when suddenly he simply disappeared!

Unbeknownst to him, the chair had been rocking not only forward and back, but also slowly across the platform until it simply fell off the edge with Swamiji in it.

Even though it was a total surprise to suddenly be tumbling off the stage, Swamiji didn’t make a sound. He just hit the ground, got up, lifted the chair back into place, sat down, and resumed rocking. It all happened so fast, only a few people even noticed.

On another occasion, this time at Ananda Village, Swamiji and his chair also fell off the stage. He was giving a lecture, sitting in a chair which had been placed so close to the edge of the raised platform, that a vigorous gesture by Swamiji sent it toppling over.

This time, everyone’s eyes were on him, and the whole audience gasped in dismay. Swamiji, however, made no exclamation of alarm or gesture of surprise. In fact, he barely paused in his lecture, but stood up immediately and continued talking as if nothing had happened, even while others lifted the chair into place so he could sit down again.

In and of itself, falling off a stage is not a significant spiritual event, except that these incidents illustrate an interesting quality in Swamiji’s nature: He lives in the “now” and is not unsettled, therefore, by sudden, unexpected changes. Rather, to him, such changes are just part of the natural flow, and not worth exclaiming over.

Master said, “What comes of itself, let it come.” For Swamiji, this is more than an aphorism—it is a way of life.

“Take care of the minutes,” Master said, “and the incarnations will take care of themselves.”

I Need Time

noreply@blogger.com (Asha Praver) — Tue, 01 May 2012 20:38:55 PDT

[Listen to Asha read this story]

A man in the community was about to make a serious mistake. His judgment was clouded by desire and he could no longer tell what was spiritually right for him.

When Swamiji heard about it, he called the man on the phone. “Please don’t do anything until we have a chance to talk,” Swamiji said.

Reluctantly, the man agreed—on one condition. “The situation is complicated,” he said to Swamiji, “and I’ll need at least half an hour to explain it to you.”

“You can have as much time as you need,” Swamiji replied.

Later, however, Swamiji said to me, “The truth can be spoken in a minute. It is self-justification that takes a long time.”

Analysis or Devotion

noreply@blogger.com (Asha Praver) — Tue, 01 May 2012 20:38:54 PDT

[Listen to Asha read this story]

“I’m not making the spiritual progress I hoped for,” an over-intellectual devotee said to Swamiji. “I think I need to improve my powers of analysis.”

“No!” Swamiji said, forcefully, as if to remove from the devotee’s mind—and even from the air between them—every trace of that word.

Then again, more quietly, he said, “No. Analysis won’t help you. Love God. What you need is to develop more devotion.”

Circles

noreply@blogger.com (Asha Praver) — Fri, 13 Apr 2012 14:13:00 PDT

[Listen to Asha read this story]

When the formal interview was done, Steven, the journalist, began to ask Swamiji some personal questions of his own.

“I am a Gemini,” Steven said, “and am curious about everything. It’s hard for me to stick to just one spiritual path. I feel like I might be missing something, so I keep jumping from one to another.

“Each time I meet a new teacher and start a new set of practices, I feel like I’m accomplishing so much. But spiritually I keep ending up right back where I started.”

“Going in circles,” Swamiji said, “does give one a certain sense of accomplishment. The bigger the circle, the greater the sense of accomplishment.”

“What is the answer then to all my doubts?” Steven asked.

“Peace,” Swamiji said. “The experience of peace resolves all doubts. There are many true paths. Choose one and go deeply into it. Until you do that, your mind will always be restless.”

Are You Saved?

noreply@blogger.com (Asha Praver) — Fri, 06 Apr 2012 14:10:00 PDT

[Listen to Asha read this story]

(Told by Gyandev)

I was one of fifty people from Ananda on a pilgrimage with Swamiji to Israel in 1985. One day we went to Nazareth and, after visiting the holy sites, we were moving through the lively street scene. Swamiji was enjoying the passing show when suddenly a young Arab man, apparently a Christian, accosted him with considerable fervor: “Do you believe Jesus Christ died for your sins?”

How would Swamiji answer that one? He couldn’t sincerely say “Yes,” but to say “No,” could invite a harangue, or even damage the young man’s faith—which Swamiji no doubt considered an even worse outcome. I thanked my lucky stars the question hadn’t been directed toward me!

Swamiji wasn’t troubled at all, however. In a kindly yet penetrating manner, he simply asked, “How can God die?”

The young man wobbled in shocked silence for a few moments, then departed.

Revolving Door

noreply@blogger.com (Asha Praver) — Sun, 01 Apr 2012 14:11:29 PDT

[Listen to Asha read this story]

Swamiji was the guest of honor at an Ananda elementary school event. A little girl, nine years old, asked him, “How old are you?”

Swamiji replied, “Let’s put it this way: When I was your age, you were an old woman.”

For a moment she looked at him wonderingly. Then she seemed to understand and walked thoughtfully away.

Age Difference

noreply@blogger.com (Asha Praver) — Fri, 16 Mar 2012 08:35:00 PDT

[Listen to Asha read this story]

Swamiji is 21 years older than I. When I became his secretary, I was just 25. Despite my youth and inexperience, I held strong views on many subjects and didn’t easily give in, even if it was Swamiji who disagreed with me. Decades later, when I began to work with strong-minded young people, I appreciated how respectfully Swamiji had treated me.

“I want to thank you, Sir,” I said to him one day, “for the kindness, patience, and respect you have always shown me. Never once in all these years have you referred to my age.”

“I've never thought about it,” Swamiji said. “I don’t see even children in terms of their age. Age is just a passing phase of the body. The soul is ageless.”

I’ve made the mistake of thinking that Swamiji disciplines himself to behave correctly. I’ve come to understand, however, that his behavior is not an act of will. It is the pure reflection of his consciousness.

Head to Heart

noreply@blogger.com (Asha Praver) — Fri, 09 Mar 2012 08:33:00 PST

[Listen to Asha read this story]

(Told by Peter Kretzmann)

I was born at Ananda and have lived here all my life. When I was six years old, Swamiji was in the dining room at the Retreat, and for some reason all the children started going up and hugging him.

At first, I held back—I didn’t want to do it just because everyone else was. Finally I decided my feelings were sincere and I went up and put my arms around him.

Swamiji was standing up. My head was resting on his heart and my little arms went only halfway around him.

I remember thinking, “Hugging Swamiji is different than hugging anyone else!” It caught me off guard. Waves of peace and joy were coming out of him and going into me. I was so happy just standing there with my head against his heart. I’ve never forgotten that hug.

The Heart of a Child

noreply@blogger.com (Asha Praver) — Fri, 02 Mar 2012 08:17:00 PST

[Listen to Asha read this story]

(Told by Sara Cryer)

I have always appreciated the way Swamiji relates to children. He doesn’t patronize them, as some adults do. The soul is ageless, even if the body is young. But the consciousness of a child is different. Swamiji recognizes that and takes it into account.

My son Rama was nine when we went to visit Swamiji in Assisi, Italy. We were having dinner with Swamiji at a local restaurant. My son was the only child at the table and he desperately wanted to be part of what was going on, but the conversation was too adult for him to join in.

On the table in front of us was a basket of two-foot long breadsticks that they often serve in Italy. Suddenly Swamiji grabbed one of those breadsticks, pointed it at Rama like a sword, and called out, “On guard!”

Instantly, Rama seized a “weapon” of his own and a battle royal began! It went on for several moments until, with one daring stroke, Rama broke Swamiji’s “sword” in half and was declared the winner.

A few days later at the Sunday Service, Rama got in line for the blessing. When Swamiji is blessing, he doesn’t relate to you as a personality. It is a sacred soul contact.

In his arms, Rama carried “Minkey the Monkey”, a stuffed animal who was his constant companion, as real to him as any other friend.

Swamiji touched Rama at the spiritual eye and solemnly blessed him. Then, with just the hint of a smile, Swamiji put his finger at the spiritual eye of Minkey the Monkey and blessed him, too.

“Swamiji makes people happy,” Rama said. “When I grow up, I want to be just like him.”

Single Mom

noreply@blogger.com (Asha Praver) — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 08:14:00 PST

[Listen to Asha read this story]

(Told by Helen Purcell)

With no job, and two children to support, I felt all alone and in desperate need of spiritual guidance and inspiration. A friend had recently moved to Ananda and she suggested I come there for Spiritual Renewal Week. I knew nothing about Master, and had never met Swami Kriyananda, but I had promised God I would walk through every door He opened for me, so I said yes.

Usually I sit in the back of any crowd, but for Swamiji’s first class, I sat right in the front row, virtually at his feet. Directly in front of me there was a large photograph of Master.

Swamiji spoke about the need to “open the heart.” That phrase struck a deep chord within me. I stared into Master’s eyes and he – not the photograph, but the living presence behind it – stared back at me.

I was intensely aware of Swamiji’s presence, too, but his words had become a musical hum and I no longer followed the meaning. The three of us – Master, Swamiji, and I – formed a triangle of energy. My heart filled to overflowing with an inexplicable sweetness. I knew I had found my home.

In two weeks, I packed up all our belongings, rented out our house, and came to Ananda. The only housing available was a converted shed, which at that time didn’t even have indoor plumbing.

My daughters, eight and eleven years old, were appalled by our sudden change in circumstances, and often spoke longingly of the comfortable home and the friends they had left behind. It took every ounce of my energy to earn a living, take care of my children, and keep my attitude upbeat so as to lead by example. It was a difficult transition.

New Year’s Day is my birthday and Swamiji was holding an open house for the community. My children were away visiting their father—we had been divorced for many years—so I was free to go. I decided to walk the two miles to Swamiji’s home.

It had been snowing for days. The forest was magical, pure white and silent, except for the occasional whoosh as a branch released its accumulated load of snow. It could have been a beautiful walk with God, but I was feeling sorry for myself, and all alone on my birthday. Inwardly, I prayed to Master.

“I am so grateful to be at Ananda,” I said, “but you know it hasn’t been easy. I’m not asking for a husband, but sometimes I feel so alone. I long for someone just to hold my hand.”

Swamiji was standing in the doorway of his house, greeting the community members as they streamed in.

When he saw me, he reached out, took me by the hand and drew me to stand next to him. He didn’t say anything, or even look at me. He just went on greeting his guests, holding my hand, the way I hold my children when we walk through a crowded place and I want to be sure they don’t wander away from me.

After about five minutes, when everyone had arrived, Swamiji turned and smiled at me so sweetly, as if to say, “Don’t worry. You are not alone.” Then he let go of my hand and we went into the living room so he could begin the satsang.

Puzzled

noreply@blogger.com (Asha Praver) — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 08:01:00 PST

[Listen to Asha read this story]

After the earthquake in Assisi, Italy in 1998, tourism dropped off for awhile. Many small businesses went bankrupt. The Ananda community there is twenty miles outside of town on a rural road. A small restaurant, serving mostly coffee and sweets, opened on that road just after the earthquake happened.

“When so many businesses are closing,” Swamiji said, “it took courage to go ahead and open anyway. I’d like to help the owner make a success of his business.” Whenever Swamiji drove to town he made a point of stopping at that restaurant for a coffee and something to eat, greeting the owner like an old friend.

Swamiji had recorded many of his songs in Italian and he brought one of those CDs for the owner to hear. “Perhaps your customers would enjoy it if you played music like this,” Swamiji said.

Once when Swamiji went in, the owner had fresh strawberries and ice cream as the specialty of the day. Swamiji’s enthusiasm for the dish seemed to boost the owner’s spirits. Often Swamiji and his group were the only customers in the restaurant.

The owner played Swamiji’s CD whenever he came in, but it is doubtful that he played it at any other time. “His mind is too restless to listen to my music,” Swamiji said later.

A friend accompanied Swamiji to the restaurant once and afterwards remarked, “It is obvious that the owner likes you, but I think he doesn’t quite know what to make of you. He looks at you in such a puzzled way, as if he were trying to figure you out.”

Swamiji laughed and said, “Years ago, a young man at Ananda Village traveled with me on a lecture tour. He was a nice man, but complex, with many crosscurrents of ego. Every morning at breakfast he would stare at me in just the way you describe. Finally, after a week, he said in exasperation, ‘I just can’t figure you out!’

“I told him, ‘To figure someone out means to understand his motives. You can’t figure me out because the only motive I have is to serve God.’”

A Kiss

noreply@blogger.com (Asha Praver) — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 08:53:00 PST

[Listen to Asha read this story]

(Told by an Ananda devotee)

The child was retarded, and the unaccustomed energy of having Swamiji and our whole tour group staying in her home as guests of her mother was making her loud and unruly.

She was about fourteen years old and a formidable force in the middle of the kitchen where we were trying to make breakfast. I had no idea how to react; I just wanted to get away from her. Swamiji, however, knew just what to do. He put his hands on her shoulders and planted a huge kiss right on her cheek.

Instantly, she calmed down – and so did I.

That simple act by Swamiji taught me more than words can ever say. Faced with disharmony and chaos, my impulse had been to run away. Swamiji’s instinctive response in all circumstances is to give energy and love.

An Unhappy Couple

noreply@blogger.com (Asha Praver) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 08:50:00 PST

[Listen to Asha read this story]

Once when Swamiji was traveling with Lawrence* in Europe, they went out to dinner with a married couple who are friends of Swamiji's, but not connected with Ananda. Afterwards, Lawrence exclaimed, “What a relief to get away from those two! The negativity between them was so thick you could cut it with a knife.”

“It was?” Swamiji said. “I didn’t notice.”

Lawrence was incredulous. “How could you not notice?” He rattled off several examples of the unkind and disrespectful way they had treated each other. “It is a wonder they are still married.”

Swamiji was silent for a moment, then he said, “I never saw them in that light. I don’t like to give energy even to the thought of negativity. But I see now that I did respond to it. As I think back, I see that all my comments were directed toward trying to create harmony and understanding between them. I hope it helped.”

Lou Gehrig's Disease

noreply@blogger.com (Asha Praver) — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 08:44:00 PST

[Listen to Asha read this story]

(Told by Hassi)

My husband was forty years old when he was diagnosed with ALS, more commonly known as Lou Gehrig’s disease. He was a carpenter—a big, robust man. We have four children; the youngest was three. I knew the medical facts but I still found it impossible to imagine that my husband would never get better, that this disease would weaken him, paralyze him, and then take his life.

A couple of years later, reality had set in with a vengeance and I was beginning to see what I was up against. Every week I drove my husband to the doctor. He had long since lost the ability to drive himself. Afterwards we would stop at a local bakery and have coffee and a treat. If he felt well enough, we’d sit inside. If not, I’d bring things out in a bag and we’d eat in the car.

On this day, he wasn’t feeling well and I went in alone to place the order. As it happened, Swamiji was standing in line in front of me. I was about at the end of my rope. Every part of me was screaming, “This is too much. I can’t do this! Nobody could do this. I want to be a wife, not a nurse. I want a husband to help me raise these children, not an invalid I have to push around in a wheelchair.” I am not proud of how I was feeling, but, well, there it is.

When I saw Swamiji I thought, “Maybe he could talk to Somebody!” God? Master? I didn’t care Who, I just wanted Somebody to do something. There were so many things I wanted to say to Swamiji, but all that came out was, “I don’t think I can do this.”

Swamiji looked at me with such compassion and said simply, “You’ll get stronger.” In other words, don’t try to swallow the whole thing at once. Just take one teaspoon at a time. It was the perfect advice for me. I know how to put one foot in front of the other.

Several years after the diagnosis, when my husband was really sick, he asked Swamiji, “How should I pray?” The question behind it was, “Should I accept this as God’s will or should I ask to be healed?”

Swamiji answered, “Don’t pray for anything. Just pray. Be in a state of openness and communion with God. Put your life in His hands.”

Swamiji’s answer was a huge relief. Adding to the difficulty of the disease itself was the lingering thought in my husband’s mind that he had to do something about it. Now Swamiji was telling him, “Just be with God.”

I did get stronger, as Swamiji said I would. And the last years of my husband’s life were the sweetest years of our marriage.

Called on the Carpet

noreply@blogger.com (Asha Praver) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 08:30:01 PST

[Listen to Asha read this story]

(Told by Jayadev)

I always tended to be a rebel, getting into arguments with teachers, neighbors, and anyone in authority.

Even at Ananda I decided, “No one will boss me but God!” For a while I got away with it. No one interfered with my way of doing things. Then Swamiji appointed a new director for our community in Italy. As soon as I saw him, I knew I was in for a hard time.

It wasn’t long before we got into a big fight, not with our fists but with words. I didn’t hide my resentment and he threw his uncharitable opinion of me right back in my face. We argued at high volume even in front of others. It was a bad scene and I came close to leaving.

Then Swamiji came to Italy for a visit. Someone told him what was going on and he sent word that he wanted to see me. Once again, I thought, I was being called on the carpet. I expected a big scolding and was ready to battle for my beliefs.

To my surprise, Swamiji was kind to me. He invited me to sit on the couch and served me a cup of tea. We chatted a little about this and that. Then he said, “We don’t want ‘Yes-men’ at Ananda. You should always think for yourself.” I was so surprised! I had expected him to say, “Get in line, or else!”

He then added, “Just keep this in mind. Negativity has its own momentum. If you keep on criticizing others, your negativity will carry you right out of Ananda, and Ananda is where I think your heart wants to live.”

When he spoke those words I felt so much love from him, it was like a wave that flattened me against the couch. I couldn’t move. It was, for me, a moment in Eternity. Finally Swamiji said gently, “I think it is time for you to go.” I backed out of his house, without ever turning away from him: hardly my usual way of treating someone in authority!

I resolved, “I won’t be so stupid as to let myself be taken away from a place of such harmony as Ananda.”

It took time for me to change, however. I still hadn’t altered enough when, one day, Swamiji said to me, “You are a jewel.” What a surprise! Then he said to the director, “He is very sincere.” It didn’t flatter my ego for Swamiji to say these things. What it told me was that he saw behind my argumentative manner to the shy, self-doubting little boy I really was.

Love is more powerful than fighting. I would never have believed it if I hadn’t experienced it myself. Swamiji tamed me.

Soul to Soul

noreply@blogger.com (Asha Praver) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 08:28:00 PST

[Listen to Asha read this story]

(Told by Liladevi)

By the time I got to Swamiji’s lecture it was standing room only and I had to sit on the floor of the middle aisle. It didn’t matter where I was in the room, when Swamiji began to speak, I felt as if he were inside my spine, speaking directly to my soul. I don’t know how else to explain it.

And many of the things he talked about were issues I was facing right at that time, as if his whole lecture was just for me.

“My lectures are really conversations,” Swamiji says. “It is the consciousness of the audience that determines what I say. I never prepare in advance. I just pray to Divine Mother, ‘Use me as your instrument. Inspire me to say what You want this audience to hear.’”

When the lecture was over, I stood at the edge of a group gathered around Swamiji. Our eyes met and I said simply, “Thank you for everything.”

“I am so glad you came and we could have this time together,” he replied.

Even with so many people present, Swamiji was still conscious of us as individual souls.

The Love of One Devotee

noreply@blogger.com (Asha Praver) — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 11:49:34 PST

[Listen to Asha read this story]

(Told by Lalita)

During the hours when Swamiji was having open-heart surgery, I led a prayer vigil in the temple of the Ananda Sacramento community where I lived. A few others joined me, but mostly I prayed alone.

Swamiji was in a hospital nearby, and afterwards I wanted to go see him. Each time I tried, however, so many others were there before me that I couldn’t get in.

When he got out of the hospital, he came to our community to rest for a few days before returning to Ananda Village. The operation was a major one; they had placed an artificial valve in his heart.

Before I could tell Swamiji about the prayer vigil, or how disappointed I was not to be able to see him sooner, he asked to speak to me.

“I am so sorry you weren’t able to visit me in the hospital,” he said. “But I felt your love.”

Swamiji was so weak and in so much pain he could barely speak above a whisper, yet he used the little energy he had to reassure me. People all over the world had been praying for him, and still, in the midst of it, he sensed my tiny consciousness. I was so moved I couldn’t even reply.

It Must Be Lonely

noreply@blogger.com (Asha Praver) — Mon, 03 Oct 2011 19:02:29 PDT

[Listen to Asha read this story]

Adjacent to the lobby of the hotel where Swamiji and a few of us were staying there was a small jewelry store. For hours every day, a woman sat alone behind the counter.

“I never see any customers in there,” Swamiji said.

There was nothing in the shop that Swamiji wanted to buy, but the next day we went in. “Every day I see you sitting here,” he said. “There are so few customers, what do you do all day? It must be lonely.”

She seemed startled to be addressed in such a personal way, then touched by his kindness.

“I read,” she said. “I have a little paperwork to do.” Her voice trailed off. “It is lonely,” she said. Her eyes filled with tears.

Swamiji offered no words of comfort; he was silent and still. I was standing next to him, and suddenly I was enveloped in an expanding sense of joy, emanating from him. He was reaching out to her with his spirit. Suddenly her eyes shone with happiness. When Swamiji saw she had received what he had come to give her, he wished her well, and we left the shop.

After that, whenever he went by, Swamiji would greet her through the window. Often, then, she would come to the doorway and watch him until he was out of sight. Just seeing Swamiji seemed to ease her loneliness.

Chapter 1: Moments of Truth

noreply@blogger.com (Asha Praver) — Mon, 03 Oct 2011 18:58:04 PDT

[Listen to Asha read this story]

“Softer than the flower, where kindness is concerned; stronger than the thunder, where principles are at stake.”

Vedic definition of a man of God

Introduction: Vivid in My Heart

noreply@blogger.com (Asha Praver) — Mon, 03 Oct 2011 19:02:47 PDT

[Listen to Asha read this story]

The first time I saw Swami Kriyananda was in a tent set up behind the Beta Chi fraternity house on the campus of Stanford University, in Palo Alto, California. It was late November 1969. He was in his early forties. I was twenty-two years old.

Usually the tent served as an expanded venue for the parties for which the fraternity was famous. It was the ’60s, though, and everything was changing. Someone thought it would be interesting to invite a swami to speak.

I had attended Stanford University, but had dropped out after only one year. I had hoped to find teachers there who were not only knowledgeable, but also wise. It soon became apparent to me that my professors, though brilliant in their own fields, were groping in the dark for happiness even as I was. So I left.

Soon after, I discovered the Bhagavad Gita and the teachings of Sri Ramakrishna. Even as a child, I had the feeling that something far more important was going on in life than most people were aware of. At first, I thought the adults around me were all in on the secret and were just holding it back from me as a kind of elaborate practical joke. “Soon,” I thought, “they will reveal it to me.” Only slowly did I come to know that this was not the case. My parents and teachers were good people, intelligent, honorable, and kind. For the most part, though, they accepted life as it appeared to be and expected me to do the same.

Once I discovered Eastern religion, at least I had a name for what I was seeking: Self-realization. Still, I had no idea how to turn these high ideals into an actual way of life. I read about the saints of many religious traditions, hoping to find in their example a way to bridge the gap between theory and practice.

Their stories were deeply inspiring and I devoured book after book. The circumstances of their lives, though, were so different from my own. Catholic monasteries, Indian ashrams, Himalayan caves, leper colonies in the middle of the jungle – their example proved to be of little practical value. My life was becoming one of quiet desperation.

Then Swamiji walked into that tent and everything changed.

I was in the last row of the bleachers, way up toward the top of the tent. I had wanted to be closer to the stage, but my companions insisted on this faraway perch. The choice proved felicitous, I daresay, God-inspired, for I was directly across from the entrance and high enough to have a unobstructed view of Swami Kriyananda when he walked in.

Swami means teacher. Ji is a suffix denoting both affection and respect. From the moment I saw him he was Swamiji to me. The image of Swamiji coming through that doorway is as vivid in my heart today as it was the moment it happened.

He was dressed in the traditional orange robes of an Indian Swami: a long loose fitting shirt and a sarong-like garment called a dhoti. He had a neatly trimmed beard and long hair, brownish in color, which hung straight and thin down his back.

He was slender, a little less than six feet tall. He moved with a certain grace and gave the impression of great strength, although more like a dancer than an athlete. Later I heard the phrase “lion-like Swami.” It described him perfectly.

The instant I saw him, the thought flashed in my mind, “He has what I want.” With a determined step and what I came to recognize as his characteristic posture—straight spine, slightly raised chest so as to meet life “heart-first”—he covered the short distance from the doorway to the stage at the center of the tent. By the time he reached the platform, before I even heard the sound of his voice, I had forged with Swamiji a lifelong bond.

He gave a lecture, but I don’t remember a word of what he said. All I remember is that when he finished, I thought, “This is the most intelligent man I have ever met.”

Somehow I picked up a few facts. Swamiji is an American, although he was born in Europe, and spent his childhood there. He is a direct disciple of Paramhansa Yogananda. He had been part of Self-Realization Fellowship (SRF), the organization Yogananda founded, but now he was on his own. He lived in San Francisco and taught classes all over the Bay Area to earn money for a community he was starting in the Sierra Nevada foothills, about four hours away. He called the community Ananda.

I owned a copy of Yogananda’s classic Autobiography of a Yogi, but I had never read more than a few pages. The devotional tone and the plethora of miracles had not appealed to me. On page 9, the yogi Lahiri Mahasaya materializes in a wheat field to deliver a spiritual message to Yogananda’s father. I don’t think I even got to page 10.

Now, with renewed interest, I tried again. If Swamiji was devoted to this book and its author, I had to give it another try. This time, I was enthralled. I couldn’t understand why Autobiography of a Yogi had not held my interest before. Later I understood that my first meeting with Swamiji opened my heart not only to him, but to Paramhansa Yogananda as well.

It wasn’t long before I threw in my lot with Swamiji and moved to Ananda.

The idea of writing this book came very early in my time with Swamiji. I have always had a deep longing to help others, but until I met him, I didn’t feel I had anything meaningful to give. Now I was eager to pass on to others all that I was learning.

I began giving classes for guests at our retreat, which I filled with stories about Swamiji. I longed, though, to make a more lasting contribution. Though I hardly felt qualified to write a book, I began to write down my experiences with Swamiji. When I spoke to him about it, he was reassuring.

“You don’t have to do it now,” he said, “you can do it later when you feel ready. I will help you.”

In the many years that passed between the first time we spoke of it and when I actually began to write this book, Swamiji referred to it only occasionally. It was always in my mind, though, and, I believe, also in his, for I see now all the ways in which he helped me, just as he said he would.

He included me in so many situations where I didn’t really belong except that to be there helped me understand the breadth of his work and the depth of his consciousness. Whenever his attitudes or actions were obscure to me, he would patiently explain what he was doing and why. Whatever I asked, he would answer. In this way, again and again I was able to test my intuition against his explanations, until gradually I gained the confidence to write this book.

What follows is not a biography in the conventional sense. You will learn about many of the significant events and achievements of Swamiji’s life, but it is not a comprehensive account. There is no chronology or sequence to the stories that follow. Sometimes events from different time periods and different locations are included in the same vignette. It is a biography of consciousness – Swami Kriyananda as we have known him.

Many people have shared their stories with me. Some names are included; others have preferred to appear in the book only as “an Ananda devotee.” When there is no other attribution, the first person accounts are my own experiences. I have also described the experiences of others as I observed them, or learned about them from Swamiji himself. Names that appear first with an asterisk (*) are pseudonyms.

Unless it is clear from the context that the individuals involved are from India, devotees referred to by a single Sanskrit name are Europeans or Americans upon whom Swamiji has bestowed these names as a spiritual blessing. Swamiji’s appointed spiritual successor, for example, is Jyotish, which means inner light. Jyotish’s wife, and partner in leading Ananda, is Devi, which is a name for Divine Mother. My name, Asha, means hope.

The name Master refers only to Paramhansa Yogananda.