Autobiography of a Yogi
Crile says, are solar systems. Atoms are the vehicles that are
filled with solar radiance as so many coiled springs. These countless
atomfuls of energy are taken in as food. Once in the human body,
these tense vehicles, the atoms, are discharged in the body’s
protoplasm, the radiance furnishing new chemical energy, new
electrical currents. ‘Your body is made up of such atoms,’ Dr.
Crile said. ‘They are your muscles, brains, and sensory organs,
such as the eyes and ears.’”
Someday scientists will discover how man can live directly on solar
energy. “Chlorophyll is the only substance known in nature that
somehow possesses the power to act as a ‘sunlight trap,’” William
L. Laurence writes in the NEW YORK TIMES. “It ‘catches’ the energy
of sunlight and stores it in the plant. Without this no life could
exist. We obtain the energy we need for living from the solar
energy stored in the plant-food we eat or in the flesh of the
animals that eat the plants. The energy we obtain from coal or oil
is solar energy trapped by the chlorophyll in plant life millions
of years ago. We live by the sun through the agency of chlorophyll.”
{FN46-8} Potent vibratory chant. The literal translation of Sanskrit
MANTRA is “instrument of thought,” signifying the ideal, inaudible
sounds which represent one aspect of creation; when vocalized as
syllables, a MANTRA constitutes a universal terminology. The infinite
powers of sound derive from AUM, the “Word” or creative hum of the
Cosmic Motor.
CHAPTER: 47
I RETURN TO THE WEST
“I have given many yoga lessons in India and America; but I must
confess that, as a Hindu, I am unusually happy to be conducting a
class for English students.”
My London class members laughed appreciatively; no political turmoils
ever disturbed our yoga peace.
India was now a hallowed memory. It is September, 1936; I am
in England to fulfill a promise, given sixteen months earlier, to
lecture again in London.
England, too, is receptive to the timeless yoga message. Reporters
and newsreel cameramen swarmed over my quarters at Grosvenor House.
The British National Council of the World Fellowship of Faiths
organized a meeting on September 29th at Whitefield’s Congregational
Church where I addressed the audience on the weighty subject of
“How Faith in Fellowship may Save Civilization.” The eight o’clock
lectures at Caxton Hall attracted such crowds that on two nights
the overflow waited in Windsor House auditorium for my second talk
at nine-thirty. Yoga classes during the following weeks grew so
large that Mr. Wright was obliged to arrange a transfer to another
hall.
The English tenacity has admirable expression in a spiritual
relationship. The London yoga students loyally organized themselves,
after my departure, into a Self-Realization Fellowship center,
holding their meditation meetings weekly throughout the bitter war
years.
Unforgettable weeks in England; days of sight-seeing in London,
then over the beautiful countryside. Mr. Wright and I summoned the
trusty Ford to visit the birthplaces and tombs of the great poets
and heroes of British history.
Our little party sailed from Southampton for America in late October
on the BREMEN. The majestic Statue of Liberty in New York harbor
brought a joyous emotional gulp not only to the throats of Miss
Bletch and Mr. Wright, but to my own.
The Ford, a bit battered from struggles with ancient soils, was
still puissant; it now took in its stride the transcontinental trip
to California. In late 1936, lo! Mount Washington.
The year-end holidays are celebrated annually at the Los Angeles
center with an eight-hour group meditation on December 24th
(Spiritual Christmas), followed the next day by a banquet (Social
Christmas). The festivities this year were augmented by the presence
of dear friends and students from distant cities who had arrived
to welcome home the three world travelers.
The Christmas Day feast included delicacies brought fifteen thousand
miles for this glad occasion: GUCCHI mushrooms from Kashmir, canned
RASAGULLA and mango pulp, PAPAR biscuits, and an oil of the Indian
KEORA flower which flavored our ice cream. The evening found us
grouped around a huge sparkling Christmas tree, the near-by fireplace
crackling with logs of aromatic cypress.
Gift-time! Presents from the earth’s far corners-Palestine, Egypt,
India, England, France, Italy. How laboriously had Mr. Wright
counted the trunks at each foreign junction, that no pilfering hand
receive the treasures intended for loved ones in America! Plaques
of the sacred olive tree from the Holy Land, delicate laces and
embroideries from Belgium and Holland, Persian carpets, finely
woven Kashmiri shawls, everlastingly fragrant sandalwood trays from
Mysore, Shiva “bull’s eye” stones from Central Provinces, old Indian
coins of dynasties long fled, bejeweled vases and cups, miniatures,
tapestries, temple incense and perfumes, SWADESHI cotton prints,
lacquer work, Mysore ivory carvings, Persian slippers with their
inquisitive long toe, quaint old illuminated manuscripts, velvets,
brocades, Gandhi caps, potteries, tiles, brasswork, prayer rugs-booty
of three continents!
One by one I distributed the gaily wrapped packages from the immense
pile under the tree.
“Sister Gyanamata!” I handed a long box to the saintly American
lady of sweet visage and deep realization who, during my absence,
had been in charge at Mt. Washington. From the paper tissues she
lifted a SARI of golden Benares silk.
“Thank you, sir; it brings the pageant of India before my eyes.”
“Mr. Dickinson!” The next parcel contained a gift which I had
bought in a Calcutta bazaar. “Mr. Dickinson will like this,” I had
thought at the time. A dearly beloved disciple, Mr. Dickinson had
been present at every Christmas festivity since the 1925 founding
of Mt. Washington. At this eleventh annual celebration, he was
standing before me, untying the ribbons of his square little package.
“The silver cup!” Struggling with emotion, he stared at the present,
a tall drinking cup. He seated himself some distance away, apparently
in a daze. I smiled at him affectionately before resuming my role
as Santa Claus.
The ejaculatory evening closed with a prayer to the Giver of all
gifts; then a group singing of Christmas carols.
Mr. Dickinson and I were chatting together sometime later.
“Sir,” he said, “please let me thank you now for the silver cup.
I could not find any words on Christmas night.”
“I brought the gift especially for you.”
“For forty-three years I have been waiting for that silver cup! It
is a long story, one I have kept hidden within me.” Mr. Dickinson
looked at me shyly. “The beginning was dramatic: I was drowning.
My older brother had playfully pushed me into a fifteen-foot pool
in a small town in Nebraska. I was only five years old then. As I
was about to sink for the second time under the water, a dazzling
multicolored light appeared, filling all space. In the midst was
the figure of a man with tranquil eyes and a reassuring smile.
My body was sinking for the third time when one of my brother’s
companions bent a tall slender willow tree in such a low dip that
I could grasp it with my desperate fingers. The boys lifted me to
the bank and successfully gave me first-aid treatment.
“Twelve years later, a youth of seventeen, I visited Chicago with
my mother. It was 1893; the great World Parliament of Religions
was in session. Mother and I were walking down a main street, when
again I saw the mighty flash of light. A few paces away, strolling
leisurely along, was the same man I had seen years before in vision.
He approached a large auditorium and vanished within the door.
“‘Mother,’ I cried, ‘that was the man who appeared at the time I
was drowning!’
“She and I hastened into the building; the man was seated on a
lecture platform. We soon learned that he was Swami Vivekananda of
India. {FN47-1} After he had given a soul-stirring talk, I went
forward to meet him. He smiled on me graciously, as though we
were old friends. I was so young that I did not know how to give
expression to my feelings, but in my heart I was hoping that he
would offer to be my teacher. He read my thought.
“‘No, my son, I am not your guru.’ Vivekananda gazed with his
beautiful, piercing eyes deep into my own. ‘Your teacher will come
later. He will give you a silver cup.’ After a little pause, he
added, smiling, ‘He will pour out to you more blessings than you
are now able to hold.’
“I left Chicago in a few days,” Mr. Dickinson went on, “and never
saw the great Vivekananda again. But every word he had uttered
was indelibly written on my inmost consciousness. Years passed; no
teacher appeared. One night in 1925 I prayed deeply that the Lord
would send me my guru. A few hours later, I was awakened from sleep
by soft strains of melody. A band of celestial beings, carrying
flutes and other instruments, came before my view. After filling
the air with glorious music, the angels slowly vanished.
“The next evening I attended, for the first time, one of your lectures
here in Los Angeles, and knew then that my prayer had been granted.”
We smiled at each other in silence.
“For eleven years now I have been your KRIYA YOGA disciple,” Mr.
Dickinson continued. “Sometimes I wondered about the silver cup;
I had almost persuaded myself that Vivekananda’s words were only
metaphorical. But on Christmas night, as you handed me the square
box by the tree, I saw, for the third time in my life, the same
dazzling flash of light. In another minute I was gazing on my
guru’s gift which Vivekananda had foreseen for me forty-three years
earlier-a silver cup!”
{FN47-1} The chief disciple of the Christlike master Sri Ramakrishna.
CHAPTER: 48
AT ENCINITAS IN CALIFORNIA
“A surprise, sir! During your absence abroad we have had this
Encinitas hermitage built; it is a ‘welcome-home’ gift!” Sister
Gyanamata smilingly led me through a gate and up a tree-shaded
walk.
I saw a building jutting out like a great white ocean liner toward
the blue brine. First speechlessly, then with “Oh’s!” and “Ah’s!”,
finally with man’s insufficient vocabulary of joy and gratitude,
I examined the ashram-sixteen unusually large rooms, each one
charmingly appointed.
The stately central hall, with immense ceiling-high windows, looks
out on a united altar of grass, ocean, sky-a symphony in emerald,
opal, sapphire. A mantle over the hall’s huge fireplace holds the
framed likeness of Lahiri Mahasaya, smiling his blessing over this
far Pacific heaven.
Directly below the hall, built into the very bluff, two solitary
meditation caves confront the infinities of sky and sea. Verandahs,
sun-bathing nooks, acres of orchard, a eucalypti grove, flagstone
paths leading through roses and lilies to quiet arbors, a long
flight of stairs ending on an isolated beach and the vast waters!
Was dream ever more concrete?
“May the good and heroic and bountiful souls of the saints come
here,” reads “A Prayer for a Dwelling,” from the ZEND-AVESTA,
fastened on one of the hermitage doors, “and may they go hand in
hand with us, giving the healing virtues of their blessed gifts as
widespread as the earth, as far-flung as the rivers, as high-reaching
as the sun, for the furtherance of better men, for the increase of
abundance and glory.
“May obedience conquer disobedience within this house; may peace
triumph here over discord; free-hearted giving over avarice, truthful