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 On
Sunday morning Toby loaded my suitcase and down comforter
into our mini-van, and we set out for Estes Park, driving
north on highway 36. Since we owned only one car at the time
and Toby would need it while I was away, the plan was for
him to drop me off at the retreat, then come back to pick
me up eight days later.
Winding
up a forested canyon, the road took us through some of the
most beautiful scenery in Colorado. But I hardly noticed.
A strange mixture of joy and foreboding tugged at my emotions.
The whole thing began to seem a little crazy. I was being
dropped off for an entire week with a bunch of people I
knew nothing about and with a teacher I'd only just met.
It made no sense to my mind. And yet there was also this
inexplicable thrill deep in my soul, and a mysterious "knowing"
that what would take place in the next few days would alter
my life forever.
Toby
sensed something strange too. "I feel like you're not coming
back," he said. "Not the same, anyway."
We
arrived at our destination in the early afternoon. Situated
in a high mountain valley about forty miles from Boulder,
Estes Park is a beautiful mountain resort area, famous for
its lofty peaks and as the gateway to Rocky Mountain National
Park. After check-in and registration, Toby found my room
by following the directions given to us at the registration
table. It was in the main lodge, right next to the satsang
hall. No other belongings were in the room, so I assumed
my roommate hadn't arrived yet. It was a large room with
its own bath and a beautiful view of the mountains. There
was one set of bunk beds by the door, and a double bed along
the window. The bunks didn't look very comfortable and I
preferred being by a window where I could have fresh air,
so I asked Toby to put my suitcase and down comforter on
the double bed. After seeing that I was comfortably situated
he informed me that he had studying to do at home and needed
to get right back. We said goodbye to each other and he
left.
It
felt very strange having him leave me there like that. In
the nine years we'd been married we had never been apart
as long as eight days before. However, having an image of
myself as very independent, I pushed aside the feelings
of aloneness. Looking over the retreat schedule, I found
that there were more than two hours before dinner--enough
time to complete my usual evening routine of yoga and meditation.
I took a shower, and then, as I was preparing to do some
yoga postures on the floor, my roommate arrived.
I
could see she was disturbed as she sized up the bed situation.
Finally she informed me that she wouldn't be able to sleep
in the bottom bunk, due to claustrophobia, and was concerned
that the top bunk wouldn't hold her weight, for she was
fairly heavy-set. It seemed I had no choice but to give
her the double bed.
That
evening Gangaji greeted us with a short satsang. There were
about a hundred and fifty people present, most sitting on
the floor. I picked out a spot by the side door, against
the wall, in between a chair and a table with a big plant
on it. I felt unsettled; in the hours since Toby had dropped
me off, my apprehension about being in this place with all
these strangers had heightened.
I
don't remember much of what Gangaji said that first night,
except:
"To
realize the Truth of your Being you must be naked, exposed,
and willing to die."
This
struck me as a bizarre, outrageous thing to say. I hated
being naked, carefully avoided exposure of any kind, and
had no idea what she meant by "willing to die." And this
very private, shy person had no intention of making any
changes in those directions.
As
I listened to her welcoming the group to the retreat, I
felt resistance rising by the minute--resistance to her,
resistance to being there, resistance to this group of strangers.
What was I doing, trying one more "spiritual" thing?
Judgments
began to arise: these people probably haven't been practicing
as long as I have; they are probably beginners, for whom
a quiet retreat like this might bring some sense of peace.
I had spent years on silent retreats in Asia and Europe,
many of them four to six months in length. I not only knew
how to quiet the mind with my meditation practice, but had
been trained how to teach others to do this, and had taught
the practice for years. I knew how to silence the breath
to almost nil. I had even experienced certain of the siddhis,
yogic powers. What was I doing on this beginners' retreat?
What I really needed was something more advanced. What I
really needed was to find the missing piece.
Meanwhile,
Gangaji was suggesting that this time on the retreat was
a time to "see what has not been seen," to recognize what
it is you are trying to get, and what it is you are trying
to stay away from. And then to STOP--stop all moving toward
and all moving away. "Retreat is a time to stop."
I
didn't understand that. There were a lot of things I stayed
away from, had to stay away from. I was a private, stay-to-myself
sort of person. For I sensed there was a purity deep within
and that the outer world constantly presented so much possibility
of pollution.
It
was not much more than twenty minutes that Gangaji met with
us that first night before dismissing us so that all might
rest from their traveling. For many had come a long way
to attend this retreat with Gangaji.
I
went back to my room feeling anything but restful. Some
deep inner turmoil was churning inside. As I climbed the
little ladder to my top bunk I felt eight years old again.
My sister and I had shared a bunk-bed long ago, and I had
always had the top one because she used to walk in her sleep.
I
lay there trying to get comfortable and realized my body
had developed a strange burning again. I thought, "Maybe
I'm getting sick. Surely I have a fever." My roommate was
asleep and snoring. I felt uncomfortable sharing a room
with someone I didn't know. At home I was used to having
my own room, even separate from my husband. A profoundly
reclusive nature was etched deep into this personality,
and it needed a tremendous amount of space.
After
an hour went by with no sleep in sight, I began to cry.
At first I was concerned that I might disturb my roommate
and tried to cry quietly, stifling the tears. But her hefty
snores remained undisturbed in spite of my sobs. Relieved
of my concern I let the tears flow unchecked, sobbing into
the early morning. I had no idea why I was crying. I just
felt horrible, trapped, alone in a way I had never felt
alone.
About
halfway through the night a plan formed in my mind to escape.
I would call my husband in the morning to come get me. There
would probably be no refund of the retreat fee at this point
and he'd probably be mad, but it was worth it. I was deeply
uncomfortable and unhappy, probably sick, and I had to get
out of there.
But
as the morning light grew brighter, I felt easier--which
made absolutely no sense. After sobbing the entire night
I should have been exhausted, a zombie, an emotional disaster
area. Instead, I felt cleansed, deeply cleansed, and much
lighter. I decided to hold off on calling my husband.
In
the satsang hall that morning I found the same spot available
against the side wall as the night before and once again
hunkered down under the plant, between the small table and
a chair. The man sitting on the chair smiled at me in a
friendly way, but the sense of being an outsider was still
vivid. I was used to attending retreats with people I'd
been with for years, grown up with, known like family. There
was a sense of being lost, alone, of not knowing what was
going on.
Someone
announced before satsang that the hall would be available
twenty-four hours a day for "sitting," but there was to
be no yoga or reading or napping going on there. I wondered
what this "sitting" was. I had always used a mantra in my
meditations. But by then I had learned that Gangaji taught
no techniques, gave no mantras, encouraged no practices
of any kind. I wondered, "Then what are all these people
doing sitting there so silently? Doing nothing?" There was
no opportunity to ask anyone about it because the retreat
was being held in "conversational silence." No one was supposed
to speak, unnecessarily, outside of satsang. And I was not
about to ask any questions in satsang--not yet anyway.
By
the time Gangaji arrived, snow had begun to fall outside
the wide picture windows. The mountains looked ethereal,
wrapped in white mist. Several people spoke about how thrilled
they were to be present in satsang with Gangaji in such
a beautiful place. I, on the other hand, sat there feeling
like I'd been dropped in the midst of someone else's family
at Christmas time, watching everyone else open their presents.
Gangaji
began that morning like this:
"So,
how will we pass this time? There is a great benefit of
being removed from the normal day to day routine. But I'm
not speaking of that. I'm speaking about internally. How
do you spend your time? What are you thinking about? Are
you thinking about getting something, or losing something,
or keeping something, or keeping something away? If you
are, it's wasted energy."
That's
exactly what I was thinking. Keeping myself away--away from
all these people I didn't know, away from all this spiritual
jargon that seemed so foreign compared to the language I
was used to, away from this teacher who spoke so grimly
of being "naked, exposed and willing to die."
Gangaji
continued:
"That's
the usual, of course. Whatever the focus, whether it's getting
the next meal, or getting the next experience, that's the
usual.
"So
the opportunity of retreat, of a silent retreat, is first
of all to see how you are spending your time, and then to
stop. Just like that, with no more discussion."
She
began reading a letter.
"Beloved
teacher: Last night I was breaking with anger, fear, despair.
I saw addiction everywhere. I saw my whole life as nothing
more than various patterns of addiction."
She
stopped reading and looked up, zeroed in on the letter's
author and gave the person a hard look. She picked up a
nerf ball that someone had put on her couch and threw it
at the person. Everyone laughed.
"This
is the addiction, right here. To make this statement: 'I
saw my whole life as nothing more than various patterns
of addiction.' You give that addiction up. Really, this
deserves to be deleted, finished."
To
my amazement, Gangaji proceeded to rip off a section of
the person's letter, wad it up in her fist and throw it
behind her, while everyone laughed. The poor person must
have been dying. Is this what she meant by "willing to die?"
I knew I couldn't handle it and right away decided against
writing her any letters.
Then
Gangaji told a story from her master.
"You
know this story Papaji tells? He was walking in Rishikesh,
and he met a very old yogi on the path, who had this magnificent
staff he was walking with. And so they sat and talked and
had a very nice meal together.
"Finally
the yogi said, 'You know, my teacher passed to me very many
powers, many siddhis. The most powerful one was the siddhi,
the power of immortality. And this staff gives me this power
of immortality. But there was one that he could not pass
to me, because he had not realized it, and it was the power
of freedom, the truth of freedom.'
"And
the yogi said to Papaji, "I see in your eyes that you know
this. You have this power. Can you pass it to me? I have
been waiting for so long."
Suddenly
I was riveted by this story. I too had been waiting for
so long, practicing for so long. I too had attained siddhis,
but not freedom.
"Papaji
said, 'Yes, I'm very happy to.' And he reached for the man's
staff and he broke it, and he threw it in the Ganga. He
said, 'Now you will die like all men, and in that, realize
who dies."
This
really shocked me, and stopped something deep inside. I
had understood enlightenment to be synonymous with relative
perfection, with having powers. A previous teacher I'd been
with had emphasized the need to achieve perfection of the
physiology as the vehicle of consciousness, of the possibility
of controlling karma and the forces of nature, and developing
yogic powers--these powers being, in fact, the proof of
one's level of consciousness. Whether I had understood him
correctly or not is now irrelevant. But this idea of developing
something, of perfecting myself in some way, was deeply
rooted. I had worked at it for years. This story of Papaji
and the yogi now suggested that powers and relative perfection
meant nothing. One could have the greatest of powers, even
immortality of the body, and still not have freedom. Something
about this story rang true deep in my soul. I listened more
carefully as Gangaji continued.
"So,
it is very useful to know how to calm the mind. But if this
becomes some kind of power to keep away, or to avoid, then
it is useless. And you break it. You throw it away.
"You
understand? If you then substitute having a quiet mind as
your goal, break it. Throw it away. It's just another goal.
You will realize a quiet mind--and you will still be searching
for true freedom."
I
swallowed a dry lump in my throat. The arrogance of the
night before drained out of me. She was talking about me.
I was that old yogi. I had learned how to quiet the mind,
the breath, the body. I had studied the yogic powers. And
still I was searching for true freedom.
"From
the beginning I have said to you, I am not teaching you
yogic powers. There are places where you can go and learn
yogic powers. And there's nothing wrong with that.
"I'm
not teaching you anything. I have come to invite you into
the depth of your being. This cannot be taught, and it is
not a yogic power. It is the willingness to give up all
powers. The power to suffer, and the power to be happy.
It's the willingness to have that be broken and tossed aside."
In
spite of the pain of this revelation, in spite of a kind
of hopelessness it brought up, in spite of all the resistance
in the mind, there was a deep undeniable "knowing" that
what she spoke was the Truth. The willingness she spoke
of was the willingness to awaken from the dream, rather
than continually trying to perfect the dream. It was a rude
awakening. It was the willingness to toss aside all attempts
at personal attainment and fulfillment.
I
felt a "crack" somewhere deep inside as I became aware of
this willingness. Something let go that had been held tightly
before. It was as if, in that moment, Gangaji broke my yogi's
staff. Her next words hit their mark like the arrow of an
exquisite marksman. Slowly and deliberately, as if directly
to me, she said:
"Now,
you who thought you were at the top are just like everyone
else. Now, we begin. Now, you can know freedom."
Surprised
by Grace by Amber Terrell, 241 pages
Published
by True Light Publishing, Boulder, CO
ISBN
0-9656670-0-6
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