"Like a lamp in a windless place that does not waver" --this is how the Bhagavad Gita describes the mind of an awakened being. Released from the pangs of anger, fear, and envy, such a soul remains at peace in the midst of the world, unmoved by the endless polarities of the "pairs of opposites"--pleasure/pain, gain/loss, arrogance/worthlessness, acceptance/ rejection, happiness/sorrow, and on and on.

All this philosophy I understood so well. But philosophy and understanding, I had finally come to realize, could not give me freedom.

I sat in the hall of the Unitarian Church in Boulder, Colorado with several hundred others, waiting for the "satsang" to begin, wondering why I had come. There had definitely been hesitation when a friend had called and invited me that day. "Satsang means 'association with Truth,' " my friend had explained.

I felt resistance. It sounded Indian. I had given up on the wisdom of India. As beautiful as it sounded in theory, I had ceased to believe that its messages and practices could translate into any real benefit for a seeker's life in the West at the close of the twentieth century.

My friend went on to tell me that the satsang was being held by a woman named "Gangaji." That sounded Indian too. More resistance. Gangaji, she further clarified, is a student of her own teacher, an Indian master named H.W.L. Poonja, whom she calls Papaji. She had told me about Papaji before and had offered to lend me some of his tapes and books, but I had always responded without interest.

This particular night, however, happened to be April 26, 1995, the eve of my twenty-sixth anniversary of onsciously beginning the spiritual quest, of being initiated into the sacred practices of the East. And I was deeply discouraged. The date was a reminder of how I'd wasted my youth and my life in an elusive search for enlightenment. I was just discouraged enough to let go of preconceived ideas and judgments, for one evening anyway, and be guided. I agreed to go to the satsang, and talked my husband, Toby, into coming with me.

By the time we arrived at the church, the meeting hall was nearly full. Most people were sitting on the floor, Indian style, with cushions or back-jacks. A few chairs had been set up in the back of the room, but they had already been taken. Finding a vacant spot on the floor about half-way back, I sat down and hugged my knees, cramped between a large man and a bench full of people along the wall. "I'm getting too old for this Indian stuff," I grumbled.

In the very front of the room sat a small couch on a slightly raised platform, flanked by a modest arrangement of flowers and two large pictures of Indian men. I figured these must be Gangaji's teachers, for I had seen the same two pictures hanging on the wall in my friend's house. One of these faces had always caught my attention. The eyes were strikingly beautiful, swimming with compassion and love, and with a haunting depth. I found out later it was a picture of Sri Ramana Maharshi, the teacher of Papaji.

 A video camera and audio equipment were set up in the center of the room. Bright lamps for the video-taping were focused on the raised couch where Gangaji would apparently be sitting. The rest of the hall was dimly lit. I glanced around the room at the many faces of seekers present. Some looked tired and drawn, perhaps from the strain and frustration of years of searching and practice. Others seemed bright and open with the innocent joy of hope and expectation--like mine, twenty-six years ago.

That night, there was no expectation in my heart, not consciously anyway. Again the thought flashed through my mind, why had I come? To please my friend, perhaps? Though the outer "worldly" aspects of my life had been relatively comfortable for the past few years--a loving husband, a beautiful Arabian horse, work I enjoyed, and many wonderful friends--still a deep restlessness plagued me. It was a longing to be free from the "pairs of opposites," to be like the "lamp in a windless place," to live each moment in connection with the Infinite. It was a longing that would wake me up at four in the morning crying out to the universe, "Hey, I DON'T GET IT! I've done everything I can do, and still, I DON'T GET IT!"

A few weeks before, a desperate cry had gone out from my heart for some kind of help. I asked all the guides and masters who had ever listened to my prayers for a flesh and blood teacher, a living example of this freedom I yearned for. By now I had done enough searching and reading and practicing to be very specific about what I wanted--not a person in a book, not a monk, not an Indian, not a disembodied ascended master, not some far-away teacher on a distant continent. As grateful as I was for all the teachings and teachers who had guided me thus far, I knew what I needed now was a flesh and blood Westerner, someone who was living the infinite, someone who was nearby, someone who was just like me.

When Gangaji walked into the room that night, something stopped deep inside with a kind of quiet shock. For one thing, she was Western, with blond hair and about my own age. My friend had neglected to tell me that this teacher with an Indian name was, in fact, American.

As Gangaji negotiated the narrow pathway that had been carefully marked out with masking tape through the cushions and back-jacks, I watched her with an unusual intensity and interest. As she sat down cross-legged on the couch, time seemed distorted for a moment and the room went into slow motion. Something about her seemed familiar, as if I'd known this person for a long, long time. No, it was more than that--curiously, she reminded me of myself.

Gangaji closed her eyes, as did everyone else, so I supposed that the evening would begin with a meditation. I closed my eyes too, but I couldn't settle down. My mind was all over the place and my heart was racing. Strangely, I sensed her presence in the depth of my soul, as if watching my failed efforts at meditation. This irritated me, embarrassed me, or perhaps more accurately, humbled me, because meditation was the one thing I thought I could do really well. After all, I'd been doing it for twenty-six years--to the day!

After about fifteen or twenty minutes Gangaji opened her eyes. Placing her palms together she said quietly, Welcome to satsang. Then she asked for those who had never met her before to raise their hands so she could greet them. I lifted my hand slightly. There were a lot of new people present and it seemed her eyes swept the room quickly. Thinking she hadn't seen me, I found myself raising my hand a little higher. I don't know why it was important that she see me. I didn't really think about it. It was just an impulse.

To my surprise, she glanced over in my direction again and chuckled softly, "Yes, I see you." It was with the tone and feeling that a busy mother might use with an anxious child clamoring for her attention. Embarrassed, I quickly dropped my hand and noticed a strange burning sensation that flashed through my body.

Then Gangaji began to speak to the group of about four hundred, including an overflow crowd in an adjoining room hooked up by video monitor. She spoke very clearly and with a slight Southern accent.

"You are most welcome to satsang. In satsang, very simply you at least hear that you are already completely, totally perfect. And I'm not speaking of your body, or your mind, or your emotions, or the circumstances of your life. Those are inherently imperfect, and will remain imperfect, perfectly so. [Smiling] Okay?"

My mind rebelled for a moment, "Wait a minute! This isn't how enlightenment is supposed to look. All problems are supposed to disappear. You have perfect health, don't you? All bad karma is dissolved. What does she mean, we're already perfect? How can we be perfect when so many aspects of our lives remain imperfect?" But these inner voices soon fell silent. For in the past few years of my discouragement, I had begun to question whether I really understood what enlightenment meant at all. And so, I listened.

"You have taken on some cloak called body, circumstances, thoughts, emotions. No problem with that. What can be the problem with a cloak? A set of clothes?

"Inherently, no problem. Only if you identify that you are those things, you begin to suffer. Because, you see, these cloaks, these clothes, begin to disintegrate very quickly. And if you identify yourself with something that obviously disintegrates, there is great fear and unnecessary suffering and a search for that which is permanent."

My mind was inherently very analytical. In college I had pursued a degree in philosophy and religious studies, and after graduation had traveled the world, studying the mystical traditions of East and West--both intellectually and experientially. I felt I knew quite a lot about truth, and most of my friends respected my philosophical viewpoints. I was not easily impressed with those who professed to know something about spirituality, and usually became bored and critical after a few minutes. For this reason, in the past few years, I had rarely attended lectures or gatherings of this kind.

But as I listened to Gangaji's words, they conveyed a quiet authority and a ring of truth which riveted my attention as no words had done in years. The analytical component of my brain seemed to be turned down. In fact, I soon realized that what was going "in" was not strictly from her words. Something deeper was being transmitted that was penetrating right past my mind.

"This is very good. I'm glad that you have searched for that. And now, STOP! [laughter] Find the searcher. And you will see this is only an image, only an idea, based on the mistaken identity that you are not That which is already whole and complete and perfect and limitless."

What does that mean? Find the searcher. I'd never thought of that. Again I noticed that she reminded me of myself. What was it? The way she pressed her lips together, some of her gestures? I couldn't pin it down.

"This is the last public satsang for a while here in Boulder. Then I will be back for most of the summer. But, plenty of time. We have, hmmm, an hour, an hour and fifteen minutes. Plenty of time. You have spent millions of years to get to this moment of hearing and receiving the Truth. Let's hope it was time well spent." [laughter again]

She seemed to be speaking directly to me. For at that moment, mysteriously, I felt the pressure of those millions of years weighing heavily upon my shoulders. I felt an excitement, too, something electric in the air, like something important was happening, but I had no idea what.

Gangaji picked up a letter someone had written to her and asked for the author to raise their hand, so she could see where they were sitting. In the letter the person was expressing a lot of personal problems. Gangaji quickly and directly cut to the heart of the matter, pointing out that this being who was aware of the problems had not been touched by them, was in fact unchanged, whether circumstances presented problems or joy. I was awed by this response and recognized the truth of it. I'd never heard anyone speak in such a direct and true manner before.

After reading a few more letters, Gangaji began to take questions from the audience. As I watched her interacting with people it was obvious that, like myself, they were receiving something more than just her words. This became even more apparent when one man asked her about his agitated mind. Gangaji didn't even answer him, but just looked into his eyes intently for some time. Finally the man smiled and I could see his whole face change, his whole bearing relax. Gangaji acknowledged the silent change by saying simply, "Yes, that's better."

It was clear that some kind of transmission was emanating from her, unspoken, that could be received by the open heart and mind. Her central message seemed to be, "Stop. Be still." But it wasn't like I heard that and then "did" it. From the moment she'd walked into the room it seemed that a profound stillness had overtaken me--by surprise.

Sometimes Gangaji's response to a question appeared gentle and loving; sometimes she responded more harshly. Each response seemed exactly right for the questioner, stopping their complaining or their intellectualizing, and turning them away from the question, back to the questioner.

The utter directness of her manner revealed a ruthless, unsentimental disposition which I found mildly unsettling. But as I watched her interacting with people I got the strange sense that I was seeing the Freedom I had longed for. Something in the stillness and confidence with which she spoke conveyed this. She knew what she was saying. You could feel it in her words. She knew from direct experience, not from something she'd memorized or read or heard.

About half-way through the evening I found myself wondering, could this be the teacher I had cried out for? Does the universe really answer prayers that quickly? I was awed just considering this possibility. As the evening progressed I realized I was feeling an intense, haunting love for her, and yet definitely also a strong fear of her. For in her eyes I sensed a vastness that could destroy everything I thought I understood, everything I thought I was.

All too soon, the evening was over. Gangaji put her palms together again and said, "Om Shanti", which I understood to mean, "Peace to all".

As she walked from the room my eyes and heart followed her. A deep sense of gratitude welled up inside, and a longing which I did not understand in my mind. The group was asked to sit quietly for five minutes until Gangaji and the staff members who were helping with the information tables outside had a chance to leave the hall.

After a few minutes, people began to file slowly out of the room. As my husband pulled me to my feet, I was in a kind of daze. Something wasn't working right in my brain. Even though there was a lot of commotion going on all around me in the crowded room, everything seemed strangely quiet and unmoving.

When we reached the door I asked Toby to leave a substantial donation in the basket. Our friend noticed the large bill in Toby's hand and commented, "Just a couple of dollars is fine. Nobody leaves that much." But some deep inexplicable gratitude had seized me, and I found myself grabbing the bill from my husband's hand and making sure it reached its destination in the basket.

After satsang our friend invited us over to her house for tea. Achala was from Germany, and since Toby was studying German, they conversed easily together. We sat around Achala's dining room table, sipping hot tea; as she and Toby chatted away about all kinds of things, I sat silent, unable to speak. It wasn't like I was thinking about anything Gangaji had said. I wasn't thinking anything. There was just this unmoving, gigantic stillness engulfing me. I knew something inside me had been radically altered, but I had no idea what or how.

That night as I lay in bed my body still burned with a strange fire. I felt an intense longing to be in the presence of this woman I knew nothing about. She had said this would be her last public appearance in Boulder for a while. Where was she going? I had to know.

I picked up the literature Achala had given me containing Gangaji's schedule and discovered she was giving a week-long retreat starting in a few days in Estes Park, a mountain resort town northwest of Boulder. Instantly I wanted to go.

Early the next morning a phone call to Satsang Foundation & Press, the organization that supports Gangaji's activities, revealed that the retreat had been filled up for weeks and that the waiting list was over a hundred people long! Disappointed, I hung up the phone. Perusing the literature again I found that there would be another retreat in southern Colorado at the end of August. The thought flashed through my mind, "That's even better; it will give me more time to check out this teacher and her teachings before committing myself to a week-long retreat with her." But a strong voice that seemed to come from deep in my soul replied, "That will be too late."

The strength of that voice took me by surprise, and I spent the morning fighting it, arguing with it, reasoning with it. But by the afternoon, I found myself picking up the phone again and calling the Foundation, this time requesting that my name be added to the long waiting list for Estes Park.

Somewhere inside, I knew I was going. There was a sense of destiny about it, like I was being "called," a sense that my whole life up to this point had been waiting, preparing, longing for this meeting.

In the next couple of days I borrowed some videotaped satsangs from Achala and viewed them one after the other. I began to analyze Gangaji's words, compare them to other teachings I had studied, compare her to other teachers I had been with--most of whom were Indian. A critical attitude arose. I began to identify much of what she was saying as coming from a Buddhist perspective and found myself vacillating back and forth, one minute not wanting to go to the retreat, glad that I hadn't gotten in, and the next moment being aware of an inexplicable pull to be with Gangaji again. It made no sense whatsoever. And, in the days that followed, I began to make a conscious effort to forget about the retreat, Gangaji, the whole thing, and busy myself with other activities.

By Saturday I had successfully pushed the retreat into the background of my attention. Then, that night, the night before the retreat was to begin, the Foundation phoned me with news--due to a last minute cancellation, so last minute that no one above me on the waiting list could change their plans, I had been accepted onto the retreat.