Torn to Pieces -- Conversations with my Guru

Be Clear and Straight 1971 Before we had an Ashram, I was on the Yogaville (Satchidananda Ashram) planning committee. We came up with a motto and a goal. I was in charge of getting lots of round pins made that we could wear on our shirts and blouses with Let’s Will Yogaville printed on them. These we would distribute to be worn by those who were taking on this intention. At that time my guru, Swami Satchidananda, the Founder of Integral Yoga, told me, “Make the letters clear and straight.”

Over the years I’ve taken his guidance -- make your letters clear and straight -- also to mean: Make your words clear and straight. Make your sentences clear and straight. Make your conversations clear and straight. And make the teachings clear and straight.


Sing a New Song 1976 As a writer and editor, I listened carefully to the things Sri Gurudev said to us about how to write. “Don’t just collect the writings of others and string them together for an article or a book,” he said. “Use your own experiences, your own interpretation. This is your contribution.”

In the Psalms the shepherd David says, we are each called to “sing a new song” unto God.


Completion 1978 A number of us were traveling on a pilgrimage to holy places in India with Sri Gurudev. We’d been visiting holy temples and sites where great saints had lived and taught. Recently we’d visited the village and ashram of a local, much beloved guru who was the spiritual head of the whole town. He had sat and talked with our Gurudev and showed where his leg was hurting. Gurudev held our host’s leg and stroked it gently. The sage gave us each a treasure, a white top cloth that we could wear as we chose or carry folded over one shoulder. I really loved it.

So thickly populated was this land that everywhere we went in India there were people. Even in the countryside and on rural roadsides there were always people around. But one occasion was different. Soon after our visit with the local sage, we were driving across south India not far from where Gurudev was raised as a child. He stopped our cars and beckoned for us to get out and walk with him silently across a dry, wide barren expanse of open land and rocks. As far as the eye could see, not a soul was anywhere in sight in all directions. We traversed flat dry ground of rocks and stony hollows for some time. Gurudev led us to the edge of a deep crevice or pit in the earth. Looking down into the steep well of jutting stones, all we could see far below was the harsh bottom of the pit. Gurudev then told us a story from his youth.

A local man had disappeared from the community for some time and could not be found. If he was alive, his family had been abandoned. If dead, no one knew and there was no completion, no funeral – just worry and alarm.

As youths, Gurudev and a friend had chosen to go exploring – far beyond the safe areas their parents had given them permission to go. After some time they had come to this very place, and there down at the bottom of this pit they had found the body of the missing man.

He pointed where the body had been lying. I leaned forward and looked down over the edge. At just that moment a slight wind arose and lifted the folded top cloth off my shoulders. I reached out, but missed it as it floated and fell before our eyes -- straight down to the bottom of the pit where Gurudev was pointing. It was a gift from a holy man. As I considered climbing down. Gurudev said. “Leave it.” And that’s just what we did.


Zen Master, Zen Students 1980 I accompanied Sri Gurudev on a visit to the Providence, R.I. Zen Center of the late, ever ebullient Korean Zen master, Rev. Seung Sahn. In traditional robes of Zen monks, his American disciples, heads and chins clean-shaven, listened attentively to Sri Gurudev’s talk. Afterwards they approached him and, curious about his long hair and beard, said: “You’re a monk, are you not?” Why don’t you cut your hair?

He sliced the fingers of his right hand across the fingers of his left. “I could cut my fingers all the same length too,” he replied.

There were no more questions.

There are many ways and styles of carriage one may take on as a stand for what one believes and does.


A Gift from God 1986 Over a long period of time I was editing the Living Gita for publication. Finally, I turned it in to Publications. A few days later, Sri Gurudev called me and asked if my part of the writing and editing of the book was completed.

“Yes, I think so,” I said hesitantly, wondering if I’d missed something.

“Are you sure?” he continued.

I couldn’t think of anything else. “Yes,” I said.

Two days later he had Publications send me a check for a several thousand dollars – which was quite a surprise. I’d done the whole job over the years as Karma Yoga, as a service to the community. He waited until my part was complete so all my efforts were without expectation of financial reward. He helped me make a pure offering.

I called him. “I can’t accept this, Gurudev.”

“Yes, you can,” he said. “You’re householder; you have to earn money for your family. You can accept it.”

That night at a Saturday satsang, a gathering of the community and guests to hear the timeless teachings, Gurudev told us that when God gives you a gift, don’t question it: “Am I really worthy of this or not?” A gift from God – you "accept it immediately," he said.

No questions asked. No justification. Amazing grace, like the old song goes.


My Dad 1989 It was Father’s Day at the Virginia Ashram. I had been invited to give a short talk before Sri Gurudev’s satsang – a sharing of the wisdom. My dad had passed away a year before and I missed him a lot. I told some stories of things I learned from my father when I was growing up, and then stories of things I’d learned from my spiritual father, from Sri Gurudev over the years.

After Gurudev’s talk later that evening, he came over, put his hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear. “Your father was here tonight,” he said.


Torn to Pieces “Even the pious avoid a perfect saint,” said Rumi, the wonderful 13th century mystic poet. “Someone that surrendered and free is a lion,” the Sufi master continued. “Try to be friends with one and you’ll be torn to pieces instantly. In fact, you’ll become a lion. If you want to stay a cow, then stay away.”

After Gurudev had left his body, I dreamed one morning I was in his house talking with him. I told him the mistake I made was trying to get close to him through Shanti.

“You used another’s friendship to be my friend?” he remarked.

“Yes,” I admitted. Then we hugged.

In the dream his children came running, a boy and a girl. “Father, someone is buying our house.” We noticed that the roof needed some support. He looked over at me for assistance. Quickly I called a few people. “Friends, can you spare a few moments to help us shore up this roof?” People came right over and we shored the roof laughing. (It took us awhile to let go each other, so closely were we bonded.)

Half-waking from this dream, I remembered Rumi saying, if you try to be friends with a lion, you’ll be torn to pieces. Someone asked: “Did you try to be friends with a lion?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Are you a lion now yourself?”

“I don’t know, but I have been torn to pieces.”
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