A Nation of Mystics

by Pamela Johnson

  “No. I’d rather get some sleep tonight. Alex, if we get the machine, you want to take it to your house?”

  “Yeah,” he nodded, thinking. “That would suit me. Why don’t I do the tabbing, and you can move the product around.”

  “Will Honey mind living with the machine?”

  “No. She can even help.”

  “If you have any problems, especially if you start getting paranoid, we can rent another place to work. And we can start paying Honey for her hours.”

  “Jesus, why not start paying Marcie for all the running around she does with you?”

  “Marcie and I are different. We have a baby coming.”

  “Yeah, well, I wasn’t invited to any wedding.”

  “We had our own wedding. We married each other.”

  “Hi,” Marcie said, entering the room. “What’s going on? You two finished talking?”

  “We were just talking about marriage,” Alex told her.

  “Marriage?”

  “Do you feel married to me?” Richard asked.

  “Yes, but … well, wouldn’t it be fun to have a ceremony?”

  “Marcie, I thought we were married on our first trip together. How can we be more married than we are now?”

  The room was suddenly filled with a heavy silence, intruded on by the occasional snap from the fireplace. Richard breathed out a cloud of smoke from a fresh joint, while Marcie sat near him thinking of the baby, carefully holding the hurt inside.

  LISA

  ANANDA SHIVA ASHRAM, SANTA MONICA, CALIFORNIA

  NOVEMBER 1967

  In preparation for Padmananda, the Master’s disciple, the already meticulously clean ashram was scrubbed and dusted. The floors were waxed and polished. Flowers were placed on every table and in every corner and nook of the house. On the day of Padmananda’s arrival, the restaurant was closed for lunch, and all twenty members of the ashram waited at the airport, flowers in hand.

  Lisa could hardly contain her excitement. The Master’s disciple! Here!

  Tears of joy filled her eyes as she watched him approach the group. She blinked to see his face and knelt to kiss his hand. Of medium height, with brown skin and shoulder-length hair, Padmananda walked purposefully among them in a white robe, accepting garlands of bright yellow marigolds. She noted his eyes, dark, light-filled and piercing, the contours of his face angular … handsome.

  “Namaste!” cried one after the other of the initiates, bowing and pushing flowers into his arms.

  Padmananda moved through the group, taking each person’s hands, looking into their eyes, smiling, his greetings playful. Unknown to the initiates, part of his mission for the Master was to choose five from the ashram to continue their discipline in New Delhi. As Krishna came forward to lead him to the waiting vehicle, he had already begun to choose those who would be returning with him to India.

  One afternoon, two weeks after Padmananda’s arrival, Lisa walked the path to her favorite spot in the garden. In the cool, breezy, midday air, she heard the frantic mewling of a kitten. Ahead, near the bench where she’d sat with Christian, she watched Padmananda stroke the head and chin of a tiny ball of fur, murmuring softly. His simple act of compassion touched a resonant chord with her, and suddenly, reminded of the Tara meditations on the compassion of the Divine Mother, she was torn between an odd desire to give him a mother’s love while, at the same time, ask for his paternal advice.

  Impulsively, she called, “Padmananda, may I speak with you?”

  “Of course.” He picked up the kitten, continuing to rub its soft fur. “Please, sit down.”

  But when she finally took a place beside him on the bench, she was at a loss for words, embarrassed. “I’ve had questions over the last months,” she began haltingly. “I’ve been waiting for your arrival, hoping …”

  “What is bothering you, Kali?”

  With direct simplicity, she answered, “Sometimes I feel I’m different from others.”

  Padmananda leaned back to listen, the kitten curling up in his lap. For a moment Lisa hesitated, then whispered, “I’m restless. About things I feel I should already have resolved.”

  “Something unattained? Unfulfilled?” he asked quietly.

  “I have no questions about the Master and the Teachings,” she assured him quickly. “But I don’t know where my life is going. I … I simply crave more than what I’m doing. And there’s a man who disturbs my thoughts in moments of uncertainty, although I’ve taken a vow …”

  Padmananda pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “Here,” he said gently. “Wipe your eyes.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve truly given up some aspects of the world. Desire tempts me.”

  “Perhaps the world calls to you because you still have karma that needs to be completed. Kali, there are two types of desire—false desire and desire based on reason. Desire generated by afflictive emotions—hate, greed, anger, impatience—will trouble you, carry over to the people around you, and distort your environment. But reasonable desires that sustain your life and your heart will certainly lead to enlightenment. To desire to study with the Master, to help build a hospital, to give to someone in need—these are all worthwhile desires.”

  “But my sexual desires,” she tried to explain. “The man who enters my thoughts …”

  “But that is natural. All primal energy is sexual, and all energy comes from one Source. There is nothing wrong with sexual energy. How you choose to use that energy is what is important. I see you practicing yoga and meditation every day. Your yoga will teach you to guide this energy from the root chakra to the crown, the thousand-petaled lotus. But you can’t get there without first feeling the stirring of the root. Haven’t you noticed? Thoughts come and go. Just let them float, like clouds across the sky. Don’t let them disturb your serenity.”

  Lisa felt the lifting of a great weight as she considered his words.

  “I have watched your work,” he continued, “and I fully understand that you are ready to take on more responsibility. I was going to talk with you soon, but this is a good time. I would like to invite you to join the group I have chosen to return to the ashram in India.”

  Lisa’s heart leapt, everything else forgotten. India! The old dream! To be with the Master every day to learn and study! “Padmananda!”

  “Before you accept, you must understand that there are certain commitments. First, you should be prepared to stay in India for at least one year. The first six months will be spent within the ashram compound itself—performing seva, taking teachings, and practicing meditation. The seva will be your service to community and to guru. I would like you to help with the plans to build a medical clinic for the poor. Perhaps you would enjoy working on this project? I can assure you that the amount of work involved will not lead to boredom!” And he laughed, the sound full of mirth and the promise of a future. “But you need to carefully consider whether you want take on this job and its obligations.”

  “Do you actually think I’m worthy?”

  Dispelling the last of her uncertainty, he assured her, “Yes, you are worthy. Don’t you know that you have a special quality of soul, one filled with warmth and selflessness? All that you do is done well.”

  “Padmananda …” she whispered, color rising in her face, remembering that once before, Christian had said the same thing, that she was mindful of all she did.

  He held up a hand. “Let me finish. There are other considerations. Certain financial responsibilities. If you have the resources, there is the cost of round trip airfare and personal living for one year. About $3,000.”

  With a start, she realized this was the amount that must bring her back to Christian. Where else would she get that kind of money?

  “Is it absolutely necessary for me to provide the funds for the trip?”

  “If there’s a problem, we can give you a scholarship. But since many are without any resources, your financial assistance would be welcome.”

  “I know where I could get th
at sum, but I would have to ask the man I’m trying to get out of my thoughts for it. I would have to see him.”

  “Have you thought that perhaps there is something that must be settled between you and this man? Perhaps this is the reason you may have to come together again.”

  “I don’t know,” she answered, slowly shaking her head. “He’s an old friend from my Berkeley days. We used to live together in the same apartment. Not as partners, but as friends. And to be honest, well, the truth is …” Lisa wavered, wondering whether she should mention it, the old inhibitions still on her. Deciding the truth was best, she continued, “You see, he deals in drugs. Pot and acid. The psychedelics. But he’d give me the money if I asked.”

  “I have met others in India from the West,” he said. “Travelers carrying small chunks of hashish and who pray in the temples, hoping to find God through the charas as some of the sadhus teach. Whatever this man is, you clearly have feelings that must be resolved.”

  “It seems so long ago,” and her voice took on a reminiscent melancholy. “I was very young, barely nineteen. I’d started school at Berkeley studying philosophy. But I left to be with a man. Then another. I was always attracted to the same type—aggressive, self-assured, ambitious. Now Christian … well, Christian’s different …”

  “Why is he different?” he asked softly.

  “Well, he’s all those things I mentioned, but he has a true sense of morality, an integrity about his feelings and how he treats other people. When he makes a decision, it’s always with everyone’s best interests in mind.”

  Wondering whether she was rambling on, she glanced up with a small shrug, noting a change, something almost imperceptible in his face. “I think that’s why I could probably accept the money, knowing Christian would never hurt anyone.”

  “Would you feel comfortable accepting money from him?”

  “I did him a favor once. He has offered to repay me.”

  “Would he feel comfortable knowing how you would use the money?”

  “Yes. Even though he has a lot of anger whenever we discuss religion—I don’t know why, because he’s very spiritual. Perhaps it has something to do with his father.”

  “His father?”

  “A missionary. Ironically, Christian grew up in India.”

  Padmananda closed his eyes. “Do you have a way of contacting him?” he asked, his voice hushed.

  For a moment, Lisa thought he might be slipping into meditation, turning away from her and into his own mind. “Yes. I can call him.” Then thinking further, she asked, “Padmananda, would you be willing to speak with him? I’d very much like for him to know something of the Teachings.”

  “Of course I will.”

  And Lisa smiled, thinking how wonderful it would be if Christian entered the ashram and she could put aside her vow of celibacy.

  CHRISTIAN AND LISA

  MYSTIC ARTS WORLD, LAGUNA BEACH, CALIFORNIA

  NOVEMBER 1967

  Almost three months had passed since Christian’s last visit to Lisa at Ananda Shiva. At the moment, he was back in the Bay Area, the upcoming Afghanistan smuggle on his mind. He held a lighter to his pipe, toked, and passed the smoking ember of hash to Dharma.

  “How much hash can we stuff inside each surfboard?” he asked.

  “Maybe twenty pounds. If we’re lucky.” Dharma answered. “And between the two of us, we can claim four boards—about eighty pounds of hash. At $1,000 a pound, that’s $80,000, minus expenses—worth the trip.”

  “And you can bring everything with you to alter the boards there?”

  “Everything. I’ve already loaded all the tools in a trunk. We’ll fly into New Delhi, then go on to Goa and surf the waves.”

  “Great waves,” Bob mused slowly, remembering.

  “On the return, we’ll rent a car in New Delhi and drive to Afghanistan.” Dharma toked on the pipe, blew a great cloud of smoke, and rasped, “At that point, it’s a two- to three-day journey, depending on stops. Once the boards are ready, we’ll drive back to New Delhi and fly home. The surf trip’s a good cover.”

  “Man,” Bob said taking the pipe from him, “I’d like to spend more time discovering beaches. There’s untouched spots no one’s ever surfed before. What about you, Christian? Ever spend much time on the beach while you were growing up?”

  “Yes,” Christian nodded, stoned and looking back through time. “Not surfing,” he said slowly. “But definitely time on the beach looking at waves.”

  On the last day of the Kalachakra initiation ceremony in Madras, on the Bay of Bengal, Christian had watched with a gasp as a monk destroyed the sand painting, one that had taken weeks of construction. Quickly, boldly, with a firm sweep of the hand, the painting was gone, the mixture formless, only single grains of varying color remaining. Then the granules were swept up, and in procession, taken to the seaside, where the sand was scattered into the water.

  Afterward, Lama Loden rested, seated under a colorful appliquéd cloth umbrella, while Christian, Nareesh, Heinrich, and Lama Loden’s young attending monk, Tashi, became boys, building a large sand castle and placing small sticks and stones in strategic places.

  Suddenly, Lama laughed aloud. “See how the waves form! Look! Building, traveling across the water, reaching a peak, and falling to the shore.” He looked at each of the boys, who had stopped to listen when he spoke. “Your mind is like the ocean—your ideas like the waves. An idea builds, is realized, and passes, only to have another rise behind it.

  “Have you ever looked closely at a wave in motion? It is difficult to see the essence of the wave, that which makes it a wave at all. Your mind is the same. If you never still your ideas, how can you truly see the stuff of which ideas are made? Make your mind quiet and smooth like the still pond, and you will see.”

  Christian moved to sit by his side. “But I know the wave is made of water.”

  Lama Loden smiled and reached over to pinch his cheek, a small sting. Christian always had an argument. “You are certain that the wave is made of water? How do you know this?”

  “Geshe-la, I … I’ve been in the water. I’ve felt it.”

  “That is only illusion, Christian. Ignorance. Your mistaken perception is the basis of your ignorance.”

  “But how am I mistaken?”

  “You fail to see that things exist simultaneously on two planes. There is a relative reality and an Ultimate Reality. You see the water as something over there, as if it is self-created, as if it exists on its own. But it is a compounded phenomenon. Nothing is created from nothing. All things have an interdependent origin.”

  Lama looked across the water, then back at the boys. “Think on it. The water formed when this planet cooled. The liquid is composed of hydrogen and oxygen molecules. Molecules are composed of atoms, and the atoms are particles of moving energy. The planets and the position of the moon affect the movement of the wave. Creeks form streams, and streams form rivers, and rivers find the sea. Rain is a product of the waters and nourishes life. We are life.

  “So you see, to think of water as something over there is delusion. There is no separation between it and us. No separation between self or other.”

  “But … I still know that it is water,” Christian insisted.

  “You know only the segmentation of language and utility,” Lama told him seriously. “To become enlightened, you must learn to see the two levels of reality at one time. Yes, of course, you must know the relative reality. Know that the water is powerful, that one does not breathe beneath the waves, but also know the Ultimate Reality—that you and the water are the same. Interconnected. Continuous. Know that life is a process, not a product.”

  “Could the Buddha do this? See both realities at once?” Nareesh asked.

  “This is what it means to be a Buddha. Ordinary beings, like us, always perceive reality a moment behind its actual existence. By the time we realize the present, it has flown. A Buddha has such clarity of mind, such mental discipline, that the mind’s eye i
s opened. Past, present, and future are seen simultaneously.”

  Christian rubbed his hands together, wiping the sand from them, the sandcastle momentarily forgotten. “How can we achieve this wisdom?”

  “To know wisdom, you must get to the nature of the mind. And to do this, you must quiet the mind. Make the pond. Don’t force it. Just let the water be still.

  “Come, practice what I have taught you. Sit in lotus. Do you see? The posture straightens the back. Put your chin down a little. Let your tongue rest comfortably on the roof of your mouth so it is unnecessary to swallow as often. Slightly open your mouth. Relax the jaw. Close your eyes. Set your right hand on top of the left, palms up, thumbs together in dhyana mudra. Very good.

  “Now … let the mind ride on the breath. Breathe slowly, fully, into the stomach. Let your thoughts come to you. Have neither aversion nor attraction to your thoughts. They will come, only to disappear. Much like the waves, thoughts will announce themselves, only to fall back to the ocean of your mind. The essence of this practice is relaxed alertness. Understand the power of prana in the air. As you learn your body, you will see how the breath aids concentration and calms the mind.”

  Christian opened his eyes. “When will ignorance disappear?”

  “When the water stills.”

  “And when will this take place?”

  “When you have a sincere desire to liberate both yourself and others from suffering by understanding the causes of suffering. And after many years of meditation.”

  “Many years!”

  “Still impatient!” Lama Loden shook his head and laughed. “Christian, start now. Before you know it, many years will have passed.”

  Piercing Christian’s daydream, his slight smile, Bob asked again, “Did you go to the beach on summer vacations?”

  “What? Oh … yes. Several summers at the beach.” Then, shrugging his shoulders, Christian asked, “Which way will you travel to Asia? Through Europe? Or west, through Hong Kong?”

  “West. We want to stop and see a brother on Maui. He thinks he can grow good smoke in the mountains. Might be worth a speculation.”