For my new book: Beads on One String

When I had just finished a draft of my chapter Ancient Mysticism I had a dream. In the dream there was a saintly man, and he had just read the draft chapter. I asked him his feelings about it, and he said he liked it very much but there was something missing, that I should add to it. I eagerly asked him, "What should I add?" And instead of responding in words, he turned to the front page of the chapter, and wrote in ink the word "Listening." I woke up, and knew exactly what he meant by that. This chapter is what I am adding to that original writing.

There are many levels of listening, and for some reason, in this present modern age where there is so-incredibly-much information, we as a global culture have lost touch with what it means to simply listen to another person, or what it means for one group of souls to listen to another group, or for one faith to listen to another faith. I see an image of most communication being literally pushed outward from an individual, or from a group, or from a faith towards another, when this new stage of listening development reveals a circular (and reciprocal) flow of energy, where the listening encourages more sharing, and one grows through the receiving of what is being share, and grows through the act of communication.

I am reminded of visits I made to the Monastery of the Holy Spirit, in Georgia, where Father Anthony used to tell us about the lives of the monks there who lived by the Rule of Benedict (and he told us some funny monk jokes, and a great story of when the Dalai Lama visited them). What I remember is that the monks there have their time divided each day into preset parts, such as the reading scriptures, devotions and praying, meditation and contemplation as well as other spiritual practices, and then lastly and quite importantly another aspect, vital to the monk, was not doing anything but simply to be and listen for the Lord. This last part struck me as extraordinary. Shortly after writing this above, and unbeknownst to her, my dear spiritual sister Alison reminded me of this practice of "listening" within the Benedictine Order, and so I feel it is confirmed that I should share it here.

How much time do we set aside to just be with and listen to the Divine, to our loved ones, our children, our spouse, our sisters and brothers, our parents, and our friends? If we belong to a certain faith, or spiritual path, do we "tune people out" when we have decided they are "other" and therefore not worthy of being listened to? Do we pre-judge people as unworthy of being listened to?

One of the criticisms I have had of my own spiritual community over many years is that they tend to put up on a stage, with a microphone, only those who have met the Spiritual Master in his human form. Those who have met him purely spiritually (within) tend not to be invited to speak. Even if the same truths be told, the messenger is often deemed unworthy if they lack the stamp of a physical meeting with the Master. This is misguided. My feeling is that it should probably be the opposite, as those whose faith and experience is so strong that they follow the Master year after year without having met him physically are most worthy of being listened to carefully and having our full attention. The difficulty which arises then is that we must use our inner sense, our intuition, to determine the truth as it is shared. This is no doubt a vital process that many are now being called to engage in fully.

Another way of saying the same thing is that if a child were to speak the same truth into a microphone as let us say, St. Francis, or a disciple of Buddha, would the audience be able to hear and receive this truth as told by the child? If not, there is something wrong with the picture. So listening, at least in part, means embracing the Truth of the situation, not simply accepting it based on the package or wrapping on the container of the message. If a drug addict speaks the truth it is Truth and should be honored as such, and that means listening for Truth in and through all forms. How well do we listen as individuals to others? Do we need to remember how to listen, or work at learning how to listen? What are the tools of listening? How well do we listen as a group, or a nation, or a faith, to other groups?

My wife Lilly reminds me, "there have been examples throughout history of leaders and prophets listening to the Divine within them, and within the people surrounding them, which have led to great changes in the world. Martin Luther King listened to the state of his people and their suffering when he put his neck on the line to lead the civil rights movement in a non-violent manner. This led to the adoption of equal rights for minorities in this country."¹

The Prophet Zarathustra listened to the state of those around him when he gave humanity extremely simple precepts, "Think truly. Speak truly. Act truly." And gave them an image of living fire to represent the purity and reality of Beloved God. These seemingly simple commands are even today found to be so difficult to live up to by most people, showing that the path to Truth does not need to be complicated.

Abraham listened to his Lord YHWH ("HaShem") when the Lord asked him to sacrifice his son as a burnt offering, and he listened again when the angel of the Lord commanded him to stop before slaying him. Who can have such obedience, so total and complete?² This story continues to inspire both Jews and Muslims alike.

Prince Rama listened to his step mother, Kaikeyi, when she exercised her "wish" and exiled Rama for 14 years solely so that her son could be made King instead of Rama. Afterwards, when he became King, millions of Hindus were given the example of Rama's divine life of perfect humility, and called him Lord Rama. Over five thousand years later, Rama's story proves to be a constant example to millions of Hindus of how best to behave in a variety of challenging circumstances.

Krishna listened to his disciples, Arjuna and his brothers, especially Yudhisthira, when they decided it was time for war, and Krishna became Arjuna's chariot driver, showing that the divine life can be perfectly at peace in any role. That Krishna could be an integral part of a violent war between ruling royal families gave many a new view about what it means to be attached to the ways of the world.

Prince Buddha listened to his inner voice when it told him he must renounce his royal surroundings, including his wife and child, and live penniless as a wandering mystic until he reached enlightenment. Not that anyone should take this as an example and leave their family, but that a Prince would renounce not only his family, but all the princely trappings for a life of come what may and spiritual austerities was a dramatic example of living from one's gut.

Jesus listened to God, His Father, in the Garden of Gesthemane when they made the divine decision to go forward with Christ's crucifixion to benefit all humanity. The result, as we know, is the perfect story of the man of love despised by those to whom he reached out with perfect tenderness.

Saint Catherine listened to Jesus when he came to her in her bedroom and gently but firmly ordered to her to leave her room, to re-enter the world, and work for him as he guides her. She did, going first into the kitchen to help her mother, then she became a nurse, and finally she corresponded with the Pope in France boldly begging him to return the papacy to Italy. She was made a "Doctor of the Church" although she was barely able to read and write.

Mohammed listened to his own human nature when he decided to flee from Mecca to Medina, when the Arabian tribes sent representatives to his house to assassinate him in his sleep. He was saved by his own disciple Ali who waited for them so that Mohammed could be safe. Such is love. Mohammed humanness was exalted by God, and he became the perfect man to millions.

And Meher Baba listened to the state of the 20^th century world, when he decided that since God's principles and precepts had been ignored by humanity at large, and so in this present Avataric form he would observe total silence. What happens when the one who should be speaking keeps silent so that those who are saying nothing can have the floor? There is an spiritual unbalance which must be balanced, and when Meher Baba speaks, you will hear something real.

I have been asked to give examples of how we can listen more effectively. What I know is that most people seem to listen for what it means to them, meaning, they hear something that resonates with their own experience and then turn the conversation into something they can relate to, usually turning the conversation away from the speaker, so that they have something to say. I am sure we have all been in this situation. To me, truly effective listening means keeping the focus on the speaker, and when drawn to comment (or feedback) to go deeper into what the speaker is trying to get across. In this way, the focus remains on the issue at hand, and does not go back and forth from one person's sense of self to the other. When practicing this, I have found, the intuition may elucidate something fundamental and important in what the speaker is conveying, and sharing that intuition helps both the listener and the speaker to go deeper to the heart of the matter. In other words, the ego must let go of its desire to be the center of attention and to focus fully on the other for effective listening to take place. 

In a group setting, I believe, one group may listen effectively to another when instead of making demands to be heard, the group sincerely tries to put itself into the mind-set of the other group, and listen for the meaning or issues that are being wrestled with. For example, a group of Christians may desire to listen to a group of Muslims, and in order to accomplish this effectively, the Christians must try to put themselves into the Islamic view, and not push a Christian view into that process. By Islamic view, I mean, imagine that you met a prophet who shared with you what the Archangel Gabriel said to him last night, and what you experienced from this man was divinity in action. Try to forget the senseless acts of violence committed in anyone's name, whether Mohammed or Jesus, or for any cause, and just imagine what the early Muslims experienced. It is difficult but certainly not impossible, and the fruits of this type of listening are astounding.

To give another example, I will tell you what Father Anthony said about the visit from the Dalai Lama to the Monastery in Georgia. He told us that when he came to Georgia the Dalai Lama asked, are there monks living here? And someone said, yes, but in Conyers at the Monastery of the Holy Spirit. So, he said, "Let's go there." And he went with his own monks who accompanied him on his tour, and a translator. When he arrived, according to Father Anthony, he wanted to have the Abbot and some of the Roman Catholic monks meet with him and his Tibetan Buddhist monks, to share their "experiences." What astounded Father Anthony was that as the sharing went on over some hours, something became crystal clear to all the monks, regardless of their faith: they all shared the same experience, but the terminology and culture surrounding that experience was different. In other words, at an essential level, each monk had progressed according to common experiential truths regardless of the ideology or religious background. As a Meher Baba follower who had been given numerous examples by Baba of the unity of all religious ideals, this made perfect sense to me, and it was a dramatic confirmation that there is essentially one Divine Truth, and according to Baba one Infinite God for all humanity, no matter how many ways humans have come to regard this Beloved Divine Being, or which names they use to address it in their tender moments.

As a result, there are so many faiths all over the world all striving to move closer to the Truth of Oneness, to please God in one form or another. The question that must be asked is how can we learn to listen to one another? What can each faith learn from the other faiths to help bring a state of Oneness amongst all mankind? I believe if we beseech the Divine for the answers to such questions, that one will surely guide us.

I am now certain that listening is an aspect of love, and love is an aspect of forgiveness, and to me forgiveness is a divine attribute. Let us move closer to the truth of Oneness through practicing that love that God has done his best to exemplify throughout the ages by sending into the world matchless prophets, avatars, masters, saints and sincere lovers of God, who continue to inspire humanity to embrace the Divine Presence in any and all forms.

Notes:

1. In a discussion of this chapter over dinner November 11, 2007.
2. For the story of Abraham and the sacrifice of his son, see Genesis 22:1-14. This is also mentioned in the Quaran.

Pilgrimage to India

November 2007

by Laurent Weichberger

 
Before

In November I planned to visit India with my dear mother, Anne, and sister, Sarah. It would be their first trip to India, while I started going there in 1988, and "know the ropes" already to some extent. I was set to fly on Monday, November 19 from Flagstaff.

 In preparation for this visit, I wrote a new version of a chapter for our new book project, Celebrating Divine Presence (London: Companion Books, 2008), so that I could lay the printed chapter at my Beloved Master's feet in his tomb at Meherabad, India, a small village he founded near Pune, in Maharashtra state. Shortly after finishing the draft chapter I had a dream which inspired me to write another chapter, so I brought both with me.

 Also, on November 3, I had a gathering of the contributing authors of Beads on One String, and it was an extremely powerful meeting, during which I felt God's presence quite strongly. One of the group, a delightful Christian, wrote a card to me which I got just before heading off to Los Angeles for my flight to Germany, where I would continue to New Delhi. The card said, in part, "I really enjoyed the gathering of us on Saturday – lots of holy people."  She had joked that if some of her friends could see her participation at the gathering, they may think less of her, but here in this beautiful card (titled by her "Conversion" and with her original art work on the front of St. Francis holding out his hand to a leper), she was recognizing people of other faiths as "holy" which to me was a partial fulfillment of the work we had started as a multi-faith group. This to me was a perfect send off to India. Thank you.

 Monday

So, finally, Monday November 19 came, and I had not one or two, but four flights to make to reach India: Flagstaff > Phoenix > Los Angeles > Frankfurt, Germany > New Delhi, India.

 Everything was fine until I reached Frankfurt, where there was a few hour layover, at which point I was quite tired from the three flights of traveling.  So, I laid down a blanket (my friend Asher in Flagstaff had given me) on the airport floor at the gate for my next flight, and promptly fell asleep. I was awakened by a Sikh woman holding a baby girl, maybe 2 years old, and she said it was time to wake up, and pointed to the Lufthansa gate agent who was taking tickets, etc. Then she told me it was not her, but the baby girl who pointed to me saying, "we should wake him up." I took this as a sign that Baba (and perhaps the Archangel Raphael which Jody spoke to) was helping me in my travels J

Tuesday

So, I made my Frankfurt connection and arrived in Delhi alone. I had intended to reach India a day before my mother and sister, so that I could arrange everything at the hotel and find a car, and pick them up at the airport, having had a chance to relax first myself. I had a reservation at a "Bed & Breakfast" which appeared on a list my mother had sent me, as she was interested in such a B& B in India. I decided to check out a "gold standard" B&B before subjecting them to this experience, knowing that a good 5 Star hotel was the only safe bet in India. Even the idea of a B&B in India made me laugh. In any case, I found a taxi and headed for the B&B. Unfortunately I had a young driver who stopped about 15 times to ask directions from various people along the way as to how to find the B&B. Eventually, we did find it, when bleary eyed I saw a glimpse of the address on a tiny sign on a road we slowly traversed in the dim Delhi lighting of a distant suburb called "Civil Lines" (very Indian). I told the driver to stop, and jumped out of the taxi and said, "Flag Staff Rd." I found it. I had chosen the B&B because it was a gold one on Flag Staff Rd. and felt the coincidence was too good to pass up.

Wednesday

I slept there from about 3 am until 1:40 pm the next day (Wednesday). I had heard a strange phone ringing tone, twice, while sleeping, and thought half-presently, "What is that sound?" But ignored it and went back to sleep. Finally I got up and went out of my room, and found the owner sitting outside at a table, with a cell phone. He had been calling my room, which was the sound I had heard. He said he was calling to wake me up for breakfast, and that he had to leave soon for town, and wanted to make sure I was okay. I liked him. They had wanted to charge me for breakfast, but I explained that a B&B means that breakfast is included, so they dropped that charge (also very Indian).

The atmosphere was not gold, it was weird. There was a large clown doll hanging up on the wall in the courtyard outside my room, wrapped in clear plastic (to keep it nice) kind of looking down on me as I ate breakfast, a little horror-movie-ish, and some other plastic kids riding toys (think big-wheel) also wrapped in plastic. Then the owner's dog came into my room courtyard and tried to pee on the patio, but I scared him off in mid-pee. Weird. Definitely silver, or bronze, not gold. Anyway, no B&B for mom and sister.

The owner told me, "There is a park where you can walk nearby..." and gave me directions to the Nehru Park where I did have a great walk and saw a troop of monkeys which obviously lives there. The park is quite large, as when you are inside, you cannot see out to the surrounding city, which is the capital of India. It made me happy to see many generations of monkeys in the troop, including babies. From previous experiences I knew that they could be dangerous, and so I kept my distance and did not try to feed them.

After the walk I went to the five star hotel we had chosen for my mom and sister's first night in India, The Oberoi Hotel, ultra posh. More like seven star, and seven star pricing too. I was obviously underdressed, but so what. I got there at a perfect time, and took a self-guided tour of the place. Let's just say it is one of the nicest hotels I have ever been in, period, East or West. If you didn't know you were in New Delhi, you could have been anywhere. I even found a bakery which sold brie cheese, croissants and served a real latte, yum.  I boxed the croissants and brie for later, in case we wanted to eat them at strange hours (jet lag has its ways).

After stashing the food and my knapsack in the room, I went out to the International Airport with a driver in a hotel car (for which they waived the expensive fee, probably upon seeing my poor attire). The flight from Chicago bearing my kin was delayed, so I had some time to kill. I decided to buy them each a fake flower garland, after all how many times do you make your first trip to India? And then as I continued to wait, I got hungry and tired, so I found a stall that sold "Nescafe" and a veggie-roll-thing (think Knish with spiced vegetables).

In the back of my mind, since arriving in India, I couldn't help but feel, "Oh Baba, all I want to do is come down from Delhi to you, but here I am waiting for them to come and then we plan to see the Taj Mahal, and other things, and I have to wait until Saturday..." My ongoing feeling of wanting to be just with Meher Baba at Meherabad, but agreeing to show them some great sights first...

As I ordered and waited on the line to pay, a man directly in front of me had his shoulder partially blocking my vision of a sign on the back wall of the stall which I was drawn to read.

In its partial state I read,

"Management is not

 responsible for your

    longings."

When he paid and moved away, I saw the "be" and laughed. Baba was teasing me, and I felt his presence and love with me, guiding me.

Mom and sister arrived, and I garlanded them as they emerged from the immigration section. We soon were off in the hotel car to the many starred hotel and relatively early to sleep.

Thursday

Now, I knew that they wanted to see the Taj Mahal, in Agra, many hours of driving south... and that we had from Thursday until our flight Saturday down to Pune to accomplish that. So, when I woke up (jet lag) at some ungodly hour, and knew they needed to sleep, I went down to the Business Center and started to research ways to get to the Taj Mahal. I found a tour company that had a bus trip there, and called them. I made a reservation to join their trip which left at 7am that morning. The alternative meant we would get dangerously tight in our travel back and forth, if they wanted to see lots of things... in any case, I booked us three for that bus. Then I asked the hotel front desk how much it would cost to have a hotel car take us there, and it was about four times more expensive. Okay, definitely the bus.

So, they slept on, and as 7am neared I decided to wake them and tell them that we are leaving for the Taj Mahal now. It was madness getting them up and down to the lobby by 7am, but we managed to get everyone down there, with all our bags, and one of them showered, and sister grabbing some buffet breakfast goodies, but about 7:20am, and the "bus" was basically a van, with a couple from Wales patiently waiting for the tardy Americans.  Now we were off to Agra.

The trip from Delhi to Agra was a bit of a culture shock for mom and sister, as they saw for the first time India in daylight. They can share about that, I just enjoyed the ride, and prepared to show them the Taj. We stopped for lunch at about the half-way point at a fine hotel, and continued on, arriving at Agra around 2 pm. Gasoline vehicles are not permitted near the Taj, to keep it clean, so we took a camel cart the final distance to the front entrance. We all liked the camel cart, and then we were given a guided tour (part of the price we paid) and a good time was had by all. Amazingly, afterward, we made the entire journey back to Delhi, arriving quite late. Not wanting to spend the money on the Oberoi again, we took a room at a fewer star hotel, but a nice one, called Icon Towers. This was arranged by a Delhi Baba-lover, Priti, who had found out I was coming to Delhi and emailed me that I should contact her. When she found out we had no place to stay upon returning to Delhi she made this arrangement for us. What an angel.

We found out that the Taj is actually closed Friday, so that was the only day we could've gone, as we had to fly on Sat. from Delhi, so... perfect. We slept well at the new hotel.

Friday

Friday was set aside to see Delhi, and the one attraction I really wanted to get them to was the Qutub Minar, a giant Muslim tower built in a special park. It was also my sister, Sarah's birthday, and we decided to celebrate by going out to a nice breakfast at the Hyatt, before seeing the Minar... We got a driver from the hotel, named Hardeep, and he had a sort of mini-van for us to ride in... we had our gourmet five star breakfast (along with candle-in-a-pastry and singing) and set off for the Qutub Minar. Mom and sister wanted to visit a tailor as well, so we told Hardeep about this. He said the tailor is on the way to the Minar, so we went to the tailor first. After much shopping for clothes, we finally found the Minar, and enjoyed the ancient park and ruins there. I purchased a book about that place, and read parts of it as we walked around the special points of interest there. The Minar itself is the highest point in Delhi, and built in different stages, a true Muslim monument. Meher Baba himself took people to visit the Qutub Minar, and even climbed its inner stairs to the top. The stairs are now closed.

After that, the ladies wanted to get some food and drink so we told Hardeep this and having a decent command of English, he took us to a sort of three-star restaurant back at that Nehru Park, where I had walked with monkeys. I hadn't seen the restaurant, but the park was recognizable. I told the restaurant owner that it was my sister's birthday, and when we ordered chai for everyone after the lunch, he arranged for an entire cake to be brought to our table (very Indian), with candles. When we saw the cake, Sarah blew out her candles and we told them to tell our driver, Hardeep, to please come inside and join us. Then we cut the cake, for Sarah, and us, and pieces for Hardeep, and the owner and staff of the restaurant, and still there was more cake leftover.  After eating his piece of cake, and while sipping chai, Hardeep went into convulsions, like a seizure, and he fell first forward and then sideways onto me, who sat next to him on his left side. He lost total control of his body, and being a large young man, I had to help him to the floor. The owner brought a pillow and put it under his head, and we could only watch as his body contorted due to the convulsive seizure. His mouth started to froth, so I turned his head to one side, to allow it to drain, as he was basically on his back, and then being strong I turned his whole body sideways, so that he could be more comfortable, laying entirely sideways, and I started to repeat Meher Baba's name in a whisper.

After some minutes, he slowly came back to himself, and was tremendously disoriented. At first he wanted to stand, so we helped him to stand up, but then he didn't want to move, and just leaned against the table, and didn't want to move at all, just half-leaning half-standing, looking distant and he started to cry and moan, a deep hoarse grieving moan. I tried to lead him out of the restaurant, but he refused to move. So I left him there, and went outside with mom and sister. We knew he couldn't drive, in fact, if this seizure had occurred while driving us around Delhi we could all be dead. Our belongings were locked in his van, and he was leaving the restaurant. I told them to get back to the hotel and that I would make sure Hardeep was okay, and pay him for his driving us that day, and meet them back at the hotel. They didn't like the idea but agreed.  Before long, though, Hardeep was coming down the stairs, out of the restaurant. The owner spoke to him in Hindi, and assured us all would be well. He arranged for his own son to drive us back to the hotel, and then decided we should all go back together. Hardeep came to slowly, and responded to the owner, and was in somewhat of disbelief about the seizure episode, saying it had never happened before. That it happened in the restaurant, I felt, was Baba's Grace. The owner was also clearly a man of God, and made this know to me. Wow.

I paid Hardeep more than we agreed upon, and hugged him, and we said goodbye with tears in our eyes. We drove with the owner to our hotel, and finally rest before heading down to Pune.

Saturday

This day had been set aside to fly from Delhi to Pune, where Baba was born, and then on to Meherabad, where his Universal Spiritual Centre at Meherabad was established by him in the 1920s. My mother, Anne, has a spiritual connection with Qutub Hazrat Babajan, Meher Baba's first Spiritual Master, and her tomb is in Pune under the Neem tree which she lived (she was homeless). I knew that I must bring her to Babajan's tomb before we proceeded to see Him at Meherabad. Baba's family home is also in Pune, so we went there first (they have visiting hours). My sister particularly liked the case in Baba's room that had his personal items including, "Baba's favorite marble."

Then we went on to Babajan. Since I first visited her tomb in 1988, there has been a dramatic shift in that the tomb keepers are Muslim, and while they used to keep Baba's photo there, they no longer seem to do that. Also, they opened a sort of Muslim library next door to her tomb. We purchased a cheap garland and some incense and mother and sister garlanded her tomb, gave the incense to the tomb keeper, we all bowed to her and we left.

This post is continued in Part II :: see above on this page.

I had few goals for myself on this journey, as follows:

1. Get my mother and sister to the threshold of Meher Baba's tomb (Samadhi) at Meherabad.

2. Acquire some things for my beloved wife Lilly, which I knew she wanted.

3. In so far as possible, with Baba in the Samadhi, forgive my father for his suicide.

4. Visit the "Pumpkin House Orphanage" which friends and family in Georgia have been instrumental in founding.

5. See about building a house on Meherabad land, where I wish to retire one day Baba willing.

 The third point was something that had been brewing in me for a long time, and was brought home to me more recently during a weekend seminar with Don Stevens, a longtime close disciple (Mandali) of Baba's, during which we focused on the topic of Forgiveness. I had brought up my dilemma about not having my father present in my forgiveness process, and the hurdles this presented me with. In the end, I decided that I would simply do my best with Baba, and leave the results to Him. Thank you Don for insisting on the importance of forgiveness on so many levels, this has helped me greatly.

 On the way to Meherabad, I spotted a number of road-side flower-wallas, and suggested to mom and sister that we could get a nice garland to place on Baba's Samadhi, to which they agreed. I told our new driver, Kailash, that we wanted to stop at the next garland-walla, to which he also agreed. We found our garland and paid for it, and I noticed a little hungry puppy, which I fed with some of our butter-biscuits (a biscuit in India, and England, is a sort of cookie for us in America).

 Before long we were singing in at the old Meher Pilgrim Centre (which is now the Trust Pilgrim office), and then up to Meher Baba's blessed Samadhi with our garland, still fresh. This being Anne and Sarah's very first time visiting Baba in India, I wanted it to be as special as possible, so we entered the Samadhi together, three-as-one, holding a giant rose and jasmine garland. I stepped up on the left side and with one opposite me, and one at Baba's feet, we three laid the garland down lovingly with a soft, "Avatar Meher Baba Ki Jai."

I prostrated myself at Baba's blessed feet and said a few words to Him, I don't remember what, before leaving them to have their own experience with Baba. Emerging from the tomb, I got my Prasad, and sat down on the wooden bench where I have been sitting for almost twenty years now. As soon as they came out and there was no one else wanting to enter the tomb, I rose and entered the tomb again, this time alone. I believe it was on this second entry that I consciously formed the intention and gave my forgiveness to my father, Philipp, departed now since his suicide in 1985. I told Philipp, "I forgive you," and some other things, and asked Baba to help me, and him, in this process, as without Baba I feel that I am helpless to reach across the chasm of death. I was surprised that this forgiving was not difficult, it was not emotional, and totally undramatic. It just felt right, and timely, and good. I believe I shared more with Baba, and then when it was time, I got up again, and departed. Knowing me, I probably got on the line at the Samadhi a third time, but honestly, weeks after returning from India, I cannot remember that, so I will just say that time at Meherabad slowly slips away as the fragrance of the Master's sweet love overpowers the senses, and one realized that what is truly important is loving the Lord of Love, and most of what busies our minds in the West of truly meaningless.

 After the flight down from Delhi, then Baba's family home, Hazrat Babajan's tomb and now our arrival at Meherabad, you can bet we were totally spent. So, upon finding our rooms at the new Meher Pilgrim Retreat, I think mother and sister realized, "There is a God, and She is Horizontal."

 I told them, as lovingly as possible, that they are safe now, and that as I am also tired, I may or may not see them at breakfast in the morning (I have long felt that missing a meal in order to sleep a little is worth it)... And that tomorrow, Sunday, is a "Meherazad-day" and so I would be riding the special bus that takes Baba-lovers to Baba's home. In trying to explain all this to Sarah on the way to India, I said the easy way to remember the difference between Meherabad (where we slept at the centre) and Meherazad is this:

Meherabad = Baba's Tomb, as he is buried here with his close disciples (Mandali).
Meherazad = Baba's Room, as he lived the last years of his life there with his Mandali.

 In Persian Meherazad means Meher is Free (meaning unbound), whereas Meherabad means Meher is Flourishing. I wrote a whole paper about what the name Meher means, so I will not get into that here, except to say of course it is Baba's first name. To be honest, his given name was Merwan S. Irani, and the Meher Baba name was given to him by his early circle of disciples. Okay.

 A little food and much needed sleep for them, while I went to party that I had just been invited to, and danced on the rooftops, literally.

 Sunday
We rode the bus to Meherazad, which takes about 45 minutes, as the route passes through Ahmednagar, what was a small town which is growing steadily year by year. Also, it seems that with each passing year, the amount of time we have to visit there is cut down a bit. In the old days (1980s) we could go in the morning, then they would serve lunch there at Meherazad, some would lay down and nap here and there, and then we would have an afternoon session (in Mandali Hall with Eruch, or Mani, or on a special day with them both together)... no more.

 In the short time we did I have I had to work fast to get them a hug from dear Meherwan Jessawala (Eruch's saintly brother), then to Baba's Room, then to visit the remaining women Mandali, especially Arnavaz, whom I love dearly. Then I wanted them to see "Seclusion Hill" as Baba himself called it, to get a stone from there, and finally into Mandali Hall, so they could see where Baba sat. Wow! By the time we did all that the bus was loading up and ready to roll! Sarah and Arnavaz seemed to hit it off instantly, which was great.

I think it was Sunday night at dinner, back at Meherabad, that I met the group of Persian students that were studying in Pune, but had all come from Iran. In any case, they were delightful, and as I sat with them we shared about Persian poets, and culture, and I believe it was "Rose" that recited a few lines of Rumi, in Farsi (the Persian language), and I asked her to tell me the meaning in English. She said the lines were from a famous poem by Rumi which he spoke to his son, while he lay dying on his deathbed, and it was his last poem for his son (maybe his last poem period, I don't know).

 The title is literally, On the Deathbed, and I was deeply moved by it. I guess Rose was sufficiently aware of my sincere interest in Rumi and this poem, as the next day, Monday, she appeared standing before me, at the outdoor seating area of the centre dining area, holding out a piece of paper printed with a poem towards my receiving hands...

 Monday

As I read the poem in English I was deeply touched by Rose's care for me, that she would go through the trouble to find a computer, search on-line for this poem, and print it out for me. Then I saw that below the English text, in the lower right was the Farsi original from which the translation was made. This also made me happy, as I could refer to it later, if I had any questions on the meaning of the translation. I could easily tell that the translation was made by someone fluent in Farsi, but perhaps not an English poet themselves. I decided to work on it a little, to bring it into good English shape so that I could better appreciate what Rumi was sharing with his beloved son. Rose sat with me outside on a bench as we went over the English line by line, and when I questioned a word, she could refer to the Farsi herself and tell me the word Rumi used. I know a tiny bit of Farsi, and so I knew what Rumi meant in one case, as soon as I heard the word.

 Upon return the states, I decided I would re-write the poem, where needed, when I write my Journey to India story, so as to keep the majestic poetic nature of Rumi as intact as possible, while adhering to the meaning of the translation I was given. This poem follows now. If I have strayed from the Master's intended meaning, it is due to my ignorance, while if it is aligned with his intent, it is due to the Grace of my beloved Master, Meher Baba, and our Master Rumi:

On the Deathbed

Go, rest your head on a pillow now, and leave me alone.

Leave me in ruins, exhausted from this night journey,

in undulating waves of passion until the dawn.

Either stay with me, and be forgiving, or if you like be cruel and leave.

Run away from me, away from danger, find the path of safety far from my peril.

We have crawled into this corner of grief,

turning the water wheel with a waterfall of tears.

There is a murderous tyrant with a heart like black quartz, yet no one says, "Prepare to pay him the blood-money."

Faith in the King comes easily in lovely times,

but try to be faithful now and endure all this, pale lover.

There exits no cure for this anguish except to die.

Why should I say, "Cure this pain" knowing this?

In a dream last night, I saw an Ancient One in the Garden of Love,¹

Beckoning to me, saying softly, "Come here."

On this Path, Love is the precious emerald, the gorgeous green that banishes dragons...

Enough! I am losing myself.

If you are a cultured pearl, study something classical,

a history of the human condition, and never settle for

mediocre

poetry.

~ Rumi

 1. the phrase "ancient one" is a translation of the word "Pir"
which is a term rich with spiritual meaning, connoting a Saint, Sufi, or real Dervish.

It was not until I was on my return home from India, that I contemplated more deeply the way this poem came to me from Rose. I had not told her, or any of her Persian companions at the Baba centre, that I was in process of forgiving my father for his suicide more than twenty years previous. I never shared with anyone during the trip that this was going on, or that one of the most difficult aspects of my process was not being able to achieve any type of real closure as my father was so totally out of reach. And yet, here was a poem from Rumi to his own son, on his deathbed, and so many lines of this wondrous poetry remind me of my own father's poems and style. So, it was somewhere between India and home that it dawned upon me that Baba himself had found a way to let me know that he heard my prayer and was present as I forgave my father, and this was His Way of letting me know that He is with me in my process. Now, re-writing it in late December for this piece, I notice for the first time the line: "Either stay with me, and be forgiving, or if you like be cruel and leave." As I re-read this, I feel Baba's confirmation, His ways are vital and alive, and He is most present.

 Thank you Baba.

 After that, we three had a date to visit the Pumpkin House Orphange, run by Stella Manuel Pillai, an incredible Indian Catholic who was inspired my Mother Theresa. I had met Stella on a previous trip to India, before there were any children in the Orphanage, and it was still in the planning stages.

 I could write a-whole-nother-paper on the orphanage visit, so instead I will just put a photo here that I feel speaks more eloquently of the tremendous work that is being done there for the love of God, for these thirty two delightful little ones. 

DSCN0998

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Tuesday

There are three "Meherazad days" for the pilgrims, Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday... there may be others, but this much is certain. Since we had to fly on Thursday back to New Delhi, this was my last opportunity to visit Meherazad on this trip. I went without mom and sister, who managed to find their own way back to the Ahmednagar bazaar. On the bus I realized that I can't go to Meherazad, as I had made a date to meet with the builder at Meherabad, about a house that my friend Julie is trying to build there, with me as a potential future roommate. That is a long story, but what happened is that I decided to "strike a match" to that plan, and just try to call him and tell him that I will be back after Meherazad, which is more important to me. I hate to stand anyone up ever, yet I somehow manage to do this about once a year, totally unintentionally of course. I saw Gary Kleiner (the Meherabad Meister Supreme) on the bus, and asked him if I could make an emergency cell phone call to Sharad, about my spaced out plan to go to Meherazad at the same time as our appointment. We tried, multiple times, no service, or when we did connect, we had about three static-filled seconds to convey a complex message. Hopeless, as my friend Don Stevens would say.

 When I arrived at Mandali Hall, there were film cameras, and a seat set up for a speaker, which I guessed would be Tex Hightower, a close student of the famous ballet teacher Margaret Craske, who was a close Western disciple of Meher Baba's. Of course, Tex had a story of meeting Baba in Myrtle Beach in 1952, and the details are quite dramatic, to say the least. If you haven't heard his story, find him and ask him, you won't be disappointed!

 In any case, I sat there, next to sweet Devana Brown and we laughed a lot listening to Tex's amazing stories, his early life at Jacob's Pillow (See www.jacobspillow.org where he met Ms. Craske, as he refers to her)...  and on to the life ahead with Baba. I had my notebook with me, and took some notes. One of my favorite things Tex said was that he realized during this period of meeting Baba that, "Silence is not just the absence of sound, it is the presence of silence."  He also related that Kitty Davy said to him in Myrtle Beach in 1952, on Saturday (presumably just before he met Baba personally) "It doesn't matter how you take Baba, just take Him!"

 When he got to the part of the story where he ascended the steps to the "Lagoon Cabin" at the Meher Spiritual Center, with Baba awaiting him inside, and his divine experience within that small sacred place with the Divine Beloved, something inside me melted, like a fuse that blows, and I just started to weep, and weep. Devana reached a tissue back to me, and somehow that helped ground me, and bring me back from wherever I was with Baba. Wow.

 I stumbled out of Mandali Hall and on to the bus... the trip went fast for some reason, and as I made my way towards the pilgrim retreat, there was a worker holding a sign that there was a phone call for me. I knew it was my missed date. I called him and we agreed to meet immediately. He showed me the land Julie had purchased, and the construction site for the JessicaFlint home, and the other lots and who we could expect to move there, etc. I asked a lot of practical questions, took a lot of notes, and all in all, I accomplished what I needed to for this building project... and then was happy to move on to another part of the day.

 We had a date to have tea with Amrit and Dara, a most special couple, and kin to Baba and so we delighted to share some time with them at their new home at Meherabad.

 We went from there directly to see Christine and Martin, to whom I had been introduced by Don on a previous visit. They also had moved to Meherabad, and we were happy to wind down the evening with a glass of actual wine. Thank you dear friends.

 I believe this was the night that one of Rose's friends, a stunningly graceful and vibrant fellow named Neema played for us on his Daff, a sort of drum with a metal beaded thing that resonates at another level, giving it a sound of terrific depth. While playing he would sing in Farsi, different lines from the poets, or Masters, and the whole effect was actually quite intoxicating. I loved listening to him.

Wednesday

This was our last day at Meherabad. I know at least two things happened, because I wrote them down (and dated them)!  I had gone to the morning arti, when Baba's lovers not only bow down to Baba, and surrender themselves to Him, but they delight in singing their hearts out to Baba on the porch in front of his grave. That morning, my old friend Elaine sang a ghazal that Meher Baba had composed himself, and so I was tremendously happy at hearing my Divine Master's words, and when I saw her again at breakfast, I asked if I could please copy down the translation which she had read out before singing it to Baba... She agreed, and here is a version of Baba's ghazal, based on what Elaine allowed me to copy from her sacred notebook.

 The ghazal has no title:

Baba Big AncientOne

When in my heart I saw the form of my Beloved,

Wherever my glance fell I only saw God Almighty.

He is that matchless one that appears in matchless forms.

I myself saw that unknown one manifested in thousands of forms.

Not only this entire material world,

but my honor and my religion I sacrifice to Thee.

My heart and the richest blood in my body, my very soul and the life of my soul,

And everything else within me I scatter at Your Feet.

I believe it was early this afternoon when I bumped into dear Eric Solibakke, an American poet who lives in Oslo, Norway, and now also Meherabad. I love this man! He makes my wearing purple pants look like a pin striped suit. His colorful attire, and soulful countenance makes my day brighter whenever I come into his gentle contact. We spoke about many things that afternoon, including the Perfect Master of Greece, the role of intuition, and many other uplifting subjects. Later, he also handed me a printed paper, this one contained Baba's holy words from a discourse that reminded Eric of our conversation regarding intuition. I record here below what Eric printed for me, as it is a pivotal part of that discourse, The Place of Occultism in the Spiritual Life: Part II (6^th edition) p.97-98. Compare this to what Baba's ghazal says above, it is fascinating how everything is interlinked:

"Once the aspirant has the bliss of the darshana of a Master, that sight gets carved on his mind, and even when he is unable to establish frequent personal contact, his mind turns to the Master again and again in an effort to understand His significance.

"This process of establishing mental contact with the Master is essentially different from merely imaginative revival of past incidents. In the ordinary play of imagination, the recall of past incidents is not necessarily animated by a definite purpose, whereas in establishing mental contact there is a definite purpose. Owing to the directive power of purpose, imagination ceases to be a mere revolving of ideas and reaches out to the Master through the inner planes and establishes contact with him.

"Such mental contact with the Master is often as fruitful and effective as his physical darshana. The inward repetition of such mental contacts is like constructing a channel between Master and aspirant, who becomes thereby the recipient of the grace, love and light which are constantly flowing from the Master in spite of the apparent distance between them. Thus, the help of the Master goes out not only to those who happen to be in his physical presence but also to others who establish mental contact with him."

After such a full and rich day, I had to end it with a visit to Baba's blessed Samadhi, our last chance before an early morning departure. What can be said about the love that flows between the lover and the Beloved?

"Things that are real are given and received in silence."