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A DISCIPLE'S
JOURNAL is Sister Gargi's personal
story of her spiritual training over two decades
by Swami Ashokananda (1893-1969), the illustrious
spiritual teacher of the Ramakrishna Order who
headed the Vedanta Society of Northern California.
Her journal begins in 1950 when the Swami started
to teach her meditation in the Hindu tradition of
Vedanta. Marie Louise Burke, as she was then
known, went on to become a prominent literary
figure in the Vedanta movement and later a
respected
monastic. Sister
Gargi shares the riches of her long and fruitful
spiritual quest. She also shares her struggles
with self-doubt, writer's block, and divorce,
along with the low points of her spiritual
journey. Readers can eavesdrop on spontaneous
moments of spiritual instruction, during which the
author is lifted from a state of uncertainty into
a confident possession of her own being. This
journal gives the reader intimate glimpses of her
inner development through the loving insights and
scoldings of an authentic spiritual guide. A drama
unfolds between teacher and disciple that is more
poignant than fiction.
"This new book by Sister Gargi is the ideal
companion to her notable biography of Swami
Ashokananda. Its heartfelt firsthand accounts pass
the impact he had on her on to her readers. Sister
Gargi is to be thanked for another important entry
in the archives of world spirituality."
—HUSTON SMITH, internationally renowned
author of The World's Religions and
Why Religion
Matters
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SISTER
GARGI (MARIE LOUISE BURKE) is the
award-winning author of the six-volume classic
Swami Vivekananda in the West: New
Discoveries, and other distinguished works.
Her recent biography of Swami Ashokananda (A
Heart Poured Out) received popular and
critical acclaim.
EXCERPTS
(from Cast of
Characters)
We felt a warm and comfortable delight in
being together—the women students of Swami
Ashokananda. Whatever our ages or backgrounds, and
they both ranged widely, there was a camaraderie
between us that made any of our gatherings, large
or small, seem like a reunion of compatriots in a
foreign land, or, more to the point, a
get-together of aliens on planet Earth. We spoke
the same language, which was not understood in the
slightest degree by our everyday associates; we
used the same currency to assess the value of the
things around us; and we understood not only why
some things were valuable and others were not, but
why some things were hilarious and others
stupefyingly
dull. Over and
above these cultural likenesses, and perhaps at
the root of them, was the fact that we loved the
ideal of Vedanta with all our hearts and pursued
it without compromise and without rivalry among
ourselves. Swami Ashokananda's teaching molded our
lives and gave them meaning, and it was broad
enough to encompass and sustain us all.
(from Chapter 1)
In the summer of 1949, Swami Ashokananda
had said he would be my teacher. Although I didn't
know exactly what that meant, I didn't care; I was
overjoyed. Whatever it was, it was what I wanted.
That much I
knew. A
few months later, I had to move with my husband,
Jackson, to the East Coast, a whole continent—and
a whole world—away. In the sweltering July and
August of a Manhattan summer, I wrote several
letters to Swami, telling him of some dreams I was
having. He wrote back to say that they were
"significant." A little later, he sent me some
instructions in meditation, which I followed to
the letter and also with my whole heart and soul.
After a few weeks my brain did a series of what
felt like somersaults. I reported these cerebral
acrobatics to
Swami.
Alarmed, Swami sent a series of telegrams: STOP
MEDITATING AT ONCE. WRITE TO ME DAILY. He told me
the brain ("like an old jalopy") had to catch up
with the meditating mind, particularly when the
meditation was on the philosophical side. He said
he would tell me more when I returned to San
Francisco for a
visit. It
was not until the summer of 1950, during one of my
frequent visits to San Francisco, that his
instructions became more specific. My journal
entries for that year all took place in Swami's
office in the Old Temple, the first Hindu temple
in the Western world
Swami told me to meditate on two specific
holy people. Me: Can't I also meditate on
God? Swami: Just do as I tell you. They are
God. Me: Yes—but with form. Swami: What is
wrong with form? I like form. Me: Yes. But I
don't understand God with form. Swami: Do you
have to understand? Me: Sometimes I like to
understand. Swami (more kindly): Do you
understand how food is digested, how vitamins are
absorbed into the body? Must you know all that
before you will eat? Me: No. Swami: Meditate
as I tell you. It is food. It is not necessary to
understand.
Today Swami said I must never be impatient
about realizing God. If there is quiet
determination, it will come. It is not alone
through meditation that one grows in spirituality;
one absorbs it throughout the day. One must just
go on breathing; one cannot stop breathing.
Breathe like a fish. He imitated a fish and looked
exactly like one—a great benevolent fish in an
ocean of spirituality, breathing in and out
effortlessly and blissfully. I could not laugh; it
was such a beautiful picture. (As I was to learn
later, he was a marvelous mimic, particularly of
animals—lions and cobras and birds. And also of
people—though I never saw him imitate any person
except to his or her face, and then hilariously
and often devastatingly.)
Copyright © 2005 Kalpa Tree Press
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