Evolution of Love 2

The Mountain Path

WHEN I look back upon my childhood, it is clear as crystal that I brought an amount of spiritual samskaras into this life. Born into a family of clergymen, many generations, with my father and both my grandfathers ministers of divinity in the Protestant, Calvinist tradition, all interest was focussed
on matters of religion, and I must have been taught how to pray almost before I could talk.

I presume that it might have been in the spring of 1928 when I was five years old. I was playing on a small grass field, baking cakes of sand, then looking up at a. hedge with very tiny pink flowers and white balls as big as marbles.

If anything triggered off what then happened,
I cannot tell what it was. But suddenly
the entire world and I myself were
transformed into light. I fell into samadhi.

But although it was a most impressive event, at the same time it was the most ordinary of all ordinary things. Even so, small as I was,
I decided to keep this as a secret to myself, and in fact, I never talked about it to anyone until the age of about twenty, when the same thing happened in the company of a very good friend, who was reading a text to me,
originating from ancient oriental mystics. Suddenly, and without any warning — as it always does — samadhi as it were dissolved me.

Many things had, of course, happened between the ages of five and twenty. But here was a new decisive point, confirming that it was in the East that I had to look for an answer to the questions I put to all the theologians in my family and many others, but that none could answer, even vaguely.
I continued my reading, but although I found many books of interest, none could explain to me what I wanted to know. But gradually it seemed to become quite desperate, and when, after this second and spontaneous samadhi I discovered that whatever I tried or did, I could not get back to that state, I fell into a deep depression. I decided that I must find a Guru, and that, if I did not find one, life would not be worth living anymore.

It was then that an elderly lady, mother of a friend of mine, lent me two books. The first one was written by Swami Vivekananda, and its title was ' Jnana Yoga', I had no idea that the book, as well as the author, were world-famous, to me it was a book like any other. But when I started to read it, it caused something like an explosion in me. There, finally, I found someone who had been able to put into words what I had been feeling intuitively, but could never have verbalized.

Then, the second book, written by Paul Brunton, did the rest. When I read that there was a living sage in India whom one could talk with, asking questions and getting real answers, blue patches returned to my sky. The only thing I was worried about was, that this sage might meanwhile have left this world, and there was no means to enquire, for it was right in the middle of the war.

But I decided to trust what was written about him, and started to concentrate on him.-- In the Dutch edition of A Search in Secret India, which is called Hidden Wisdom, there was a picture of Bhagavan, which I used during my meditation, and initially, with a lot of effort, I started to concentrate on the heart-center, which, of course, was the tool he handed to us in order to get beyond the phenomenal.

Having rather strong yogic samskaras, it turned out to be quite easy, after a while, to descend straight into this center.

During my meditation hours, I concentrated very hard on Bhagavan, and after a while, I was assured of his living guidance. Yet, this was not enough. It did help as a marvelous preparation, it did melt all depressive tendencies in less than no time; it did help me to see that I was not a body, not this, not that, but it did not place me in my true center.

What I did not know at the time is, that on account of close identification with the body, the body must be brought at least once, but preferably many times, into the living presence of an authentic Master. What I did know, is that I had to see this strange being, in that little Indian town. I concentrated on him, more and more, and sometimes almost fought with him, asking him to help me in my efforts to come and see him. And absurd as this expression now sounds — I won. He made his presence felt, very strongly, and with it came the certainty that I was to see him.

.. it took several years before, finally, in the beginning of 1950, I arrived. As if it happened last night, I can remember the train ride from Madras on the meter gauge; the first view of Arunachala, with the full moon hovering above it — a very good omen, I thought; the fight amongst the porters, who had got hold of my luggage before I knew what happened; the ride in the jutka and the driver shouting " Hey- hey", the accent always on the second syllable. It all just happened, I was no longer implicated. It was as if I had become completely transparent. I knew from friends around the ashram that Bhagavan was terribly ill, but I knew also that I had come in time to see him, and that he had kept his promise to help me in getting there. Nothing in the world could go wrong, hereafter.

It was Roda Maclver, who is still living at the ashram, who took me to him, a few hours later. And when I saw him, from far, sitting on a chair on the little passage between his room and the main hall, I started to tremble all over — not because of nerves or uneasiness, but because of the shock of this confrontation. Here I was — but what on earth could this mean, I, this transparent thing — and there, there, there, on that chair, light Itself, radiant as I had never seen anything or anyone.

Roda introduced me to him, and Bhagavan looked at me. He hardly talked, but his face, his presence, said: "So, finally you're here!" I was invited to sit down, amongst a group of men, perhaps ten, perhaps twenty, my back against the wall opposite him. I look- ed, and looked, and looked. Long ago I had lost all faith, all belief of my childhood years. No god riding the clouds any more; no soul. And now, suddenly, here Light Itself, blazing light, penetrating light, going right through me, like X-rays.

Bhagavan seemed at the same time completely unconcerned, looking around, smiling at the squirrels that ran up and down the trees; exchanging a few words with his attendants; dozing off, now and then for half a minute; then, immediately and fully awake, looking, not at you but into you, casual like one looks into a street, without effort, but seeing in one glance right to the other end and taking note of all that happens in one glance; and then again rubbing his head with his long fingers.

In those days he came out twice a day: two hours in the morning, and two in the evening so that we might have his darshan. To me, those first days, it was the fulfillment of everything I had ever hoped to find — as a matter of fact, it was much more than that. I knew that in the most lucid, radiant moments of my heart, it would have never been possible to imagine even a portion of this blazing Presence, that radiated right through everything and took me away beyond the phenomenal.

The second, or the third day, I had to laugh, about the absurdity that had been my life before. Who was I, to cultivate a garden full of problems? What on earth could have given me the impression that I was so important that I ought to have problems —questions, complicated situations to get out of. And before I knew it, there I was in the middle of this Who-am-I sadhana. But now, in his presence, it was an entirely different matter. In this radiant light, it was so evident that I was not a body, not an ego, that no analysis was needed. This light swept away all my darkness in one stroke.