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Prelude to my Journey
It was on the feast day of St. Stephen in 1973 that I left my mothers house in upstate New York and set out upon a remarkable journey around half the earth to seek a living son of god.
This journey would take me to a meeting with a most remarkable god-man, a meeting that had already been predicted by an enlightened sage of my acquaintance, preceded by personal visions and transformations of an unusual nature. In fact, this meeting would be the beginning of the greatest adventure of my life.
Sometime during the year 1973 a curious divine madness came over my whole being, a kind of feverish obsession with the life and person of a particular 19th century hindu saint named Sri Ramakrishna. It increased when a person I considered to be a living sage said to me : "I think one day you will find that Ramakrishna wil be your constant complanion."
And again one Easter when I came into possession of a very fine quality photograph of this great saint of India. I have tried to trace the origin of that divine time for me, but I cannot find out how or why that blissful madness came upon me. I can only say that I fell in love with a long deceased man of God, and that I became amazingly convinced I had known that man in another life and that he had loved me. I was looking for the reappearance, the reincarnation of a certain 19th century holy man, Sri Ramakrishna, the famed god-man of Dakshineshwar. I had discovered that he had several time predicted that he would take birth again two more times, and one of those times he would come in the form of a Baul in West Bengal.
And I became even further convinced that he in fact walked the earth again even now, in 1973, in a new body, and that I should immediately leave everything and seek him out with certain faith by any means and try to stay by his side all my remaining days. I can remember a hundred moments where this strange drama seemed to begin, but I can find no start to this story. Perhaps I search in vain.
I was living at that time in Albany, New York. I had spent the five years after leaving college just searching out holy men and mystics, always trying to unravel and remember and understand the mysteries I had felt and seen on a classical 1966 pharmaceutical LSD trip at the golden coast of California.
Surely, I thought, one of these wise and holy men, who seemed to be flocking to America at that time of mass expanded consciousness could explain the wonders I had seen on that deep night of the blood, the dark night of Kali. Surely there was a way back to that fresh fountain of life of which I had drunk. And surely there was a way to keep that knowledge and vision from dissolving like mists of sad fog on return to our ordinary less conscious state. I yearned to return to the gates of Eden.
I left a promising job in the fall of 1968 and went to live in a fledgling yoga ashram in upstate New York. Was even this imprudent whim a foretaste of the divine madness to come? There I learned yoga, and nights were spent reading together aloud the great eastern and western spiritual teachings.
On my second night in that wonderful place I was handed a heavy tome called "The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna," written by someone simply called "M." and I was told to begin at the beginning. We read aloud from this book every night for a long time, all through the winter. Only years later would I understand my good fortune at having such pure gold put in my hands at the beginning of my journey. I dont remember what I thought at the time. Everything was so new.
I learned yoga and became a kind of hatha yoga teacher. After a time our nightly readings progressed to another wonderful Indian saint, Sri Ramana Maharshi. I dont think I understood then the immensity of what he was saying, but I became extremely entranced by the photograph of him. In my off hours I crafted a fine frame of some hardwood scraps and put his photo in it. I kept that photo of Ramana Maharshi in my room at all times. I was at that time wanting to learn meditation, but usually all I could really do was sit before the picture of that face and adore it. I used to adore it to the point of tears streaming down my face. I dont think those tears had any particular content, other than gladness. I just loved and adored the face that I saw.
I lived in this way for three years, teaching yoga and going to see holy men. I saw Satchidananda, who was residing then in nearby Monroe. And then Swami Chidananda began coming to our place. Both these men were disciples of Sivananda of Rishikesh. It was my first contact with real monks, renunciates, sanyasis. Chidananda impressed me the most, and I even felt he offered discipleship with the name "Shankar" but it I guess it was not to be.
In that time I also saw J. Krishnamurti for the first time. I went to a lecture in New York city. I have no idea what he talked about that day. I only remember that after a while when I held my gaze on him for a time the whole hall seemed to dissolve in yellowish white light, and yet just a hint of a face shining where he spoke on the stage. I had never seen anything like this before. It made me certain that he was true, that there was nothing false in him.
I immediately read nearly everything I could that he had written or spoken and eagerly
There was a light in the sky in those days, a herald called Kohoutek, a comet from afar. It was to remain largely hidden from sight for the time of its journey through our world. It was there, in the sky, but invisible to the common sight of men, and I timed my journey to match its fiery sojourn around our sun.
That was a time of visions, and our hearts were gladdened by the promise of things to come, of hidden things to be made known, and the unfolding of a story of a man of another order, who walked among men to bless the earth and all the life upon it.
As a young man I was made into a child again, to go and seek my father. It was not an earthly father who called me on this journey, but the father of all things. So was this journey written on a living book by a pen beyond all comprehension.
The events which followed would also remain hidden, until the coming of another herald a score and three years later which would not be hidden, not even in the daytime sky, and in the light of which these things could be made known.
All was magic in those days. From the time I left my mother's house I began to feel as if some giant hand had taken me up and was carrying me where it would, altogether beyond the original impulse of my so called will A golden light increasingly surrounded me and I marveled at the descent of a palpable power that seemed to be making my deepest dreams come true.
This was my passion, my obsession, my impossible dream. And it was my destiny to see this dream come true. How it happened, the long years of inspiration and preparation, are important to my tale, for they show the deep magic of high aspiration and yearning loving earnestness which is the key to anyone's inward spiritual path.
Copyright © 1999 by Bill Morgan