© 2002 Christine Baussain
© 2002 French-speaking Association of Readers of the Urantia Book
| Dalamatia, the City of the Hundreds of Caligastia, Dilmun, the City of the Nodites | Le Lien Urantien — Issue 23 — Autumn 2002 | Poem for Jesus |
The countryside is gray under the white sky. As far as the eye can see, the plowed fields are exposed to the fine, insistent rain of late winter. It’s been a long time since hedges and sunken paths lost the battle against land consolidation! At the edge of the village, very discreet behind the high garden wall, the silent ashram seems deserted. But it recognizes me and welcomes me, as usual, with a great surge of joy and love deep in its chest.
On the walls, orange gurus covered in flowers. Arjuna on his chariot. Blue Krishna and his snake. The omnipresent incense. The silence. It’s been a long time since I’ve been here, and I’m so happy to see them again, the ashramites and the few “regular” disciples. The guru is traveling. So much the better, without him there will be fewer people, and the schedule will be more flexible! And then it’s not my guru, the one who initiated me: it’s been three years since he left this plane. I know this one less well, I have trouble making contact.
Pronam, hands crossed on the chest. Barely a few words exchanged, it is in silence that everything happens. But the eyes say so much! However, apart from during meals where it is imperative, silence is not obligatory. But meditation hollows out beings: everything that is not at the Center diminishes.
Small minimalist room, the schedules are on the table. On the wall, the lineage of gurus. Automatically, I set up my things in a rigorous order, which I don’t even respect at home; the rigor, the calm, are a balm on the endemic haste which parasitizes me and which I bring in spite of myself from outside.
The daily routine is well regulated:
The meals, vegetarian of course, exotic sometimes - the Indian touch after the blessing and in the greatest silence. The rules of purity are rigorous: the disciples do not have access to the kitchen, the guru’s cutlery is washed and stored separately, any food is not cooked with any other … The result is delicious, healthy, invigorating. Knowledge of the laws of energy bears fruit right down to the bottom of the plates.
Meetings in the living room, less to discuss than for the simple pleasure of being together. We are not there to exchange news, we are there to seek God, and the weight of this unique goal always in consciousness, the immensity of the task, the shared sufferings connect the disciples of a true compassionate love, a deep listening, a free and sincere interest, the mark of asceticism which empties beings of their superficial self.
In the chapel, meditation. Sitting of the body and mind. Observing thoughts. Being the one who thinks. The one who looks at the one who thought. The one who is. Sharpening the instrument, so that God finally has a chance one day to make himself heard without too much interference on the line… Intense work on the subtle bodies; the yogic knowledge of human energy is unequaled. Unless you are training like an athlete, you do not meditate on a full stomach, or outside, or lying down, or with music - or when you are too sleepy! So twice a day, early in the morning, in the dark (I am often late) and in the evening, after the puja and the singing, meditation. I even add a small slice in the middle of the day, for the pleasure of it!
However, for several years, my path has become more individualized, and it is not without tension. The very marked cultural aspect of symbols weighs on me: I was not born in India, and something that I do not identify well no longer “works”. In addition, I increasingly abandon “orthodox” meditation, the one that I “should” practice: the little drop does not return to the ocean. It remains whole, identical to itself, all pure, all empty, and makes its way (what path?) towards the origin of all things, the sum and support of all existence, a loving and personal source. Beyond words and school definitions, in an abysmal silence, meditation becomes an encounter.
I am having a hard time with this latent separation from a practice of almost twenty years. It saddens me and I can’t talk about it, even to the guru. I know that there is no more transaction, no compromise possible: it is my path or nothing, and even if I had to follow it in the most complete solitude. But despite everything I sometimes have the impression of betraying, of playing the game of a spiritual ego that I know well and of which I am never suspicious enough. I leave the ashram each time a little more peaceful, centered, connected, and each time with this tiny hint of bitterness of being apart. I don’t know anymore.
So ham— I am That.
It’s true though…
Not all abbeys date from the Middle Ages. This one is barely two centuries old, and its fame has long since crossed borders. It has founded daughters on several continents, who carry the glory of Saint Benedict far and wide. Nestled in the heart of the forest, it is worth it: on my first visits, despite the map, I got lost! Today, for the first time, I did not come as a tourist: I am staying.
Small minimalist room, the schedules are on the table. On the wall, the cross. Order, calm, silence, phew. I had promised myself to start the day with lauds - I had crossed out the vigils from the start - but I won’t be able to do it either; we are not here to be heroic… at least not me. The monks, in their cells or in the church, ensure continuity of prayer throughout the 24-hour cycle.
From 9 o’clock in the morning, the office. With vespers and compline, I will have at least three strong moments each day to get a little closer to the Presence.
Little by little, the faithful come out of the hotel buildings, converging towards the church; the monks have their own paths. I do not know of a more spiritually beautiful spectacle, more touching for the soul, than a crowd already gathered heading to the sound of bells, the muezzin, the shofar or, why not, in silence, towards a consecrated place. It is our participation in all the cults of all the universes, the poor little Urantian reflection of the cosmic adoration rendered to the Father. We feel the angels rejoicing. The liturgical calendar is fixed for all of Christendom, and it is sweet to feel how all around the world, on the same day, the same texts are read or sung in all languages and in all possible ways. The brotherhood of men becomes tangible.
Spiritual practice under enclosure consciously relies on the imbalance caused by the absence of the other sex. An assembly of monks does not have the same energy at all as an assembly of nuns. It is more compact, harder, perhaps more closed too. The vertical momentum is straightforward, without embellishment; the completely internalized looks do not invite dialogue, much less confidence. And yet, in the one-on-one, an openness is revealed, a warmth, a welcome, a love, which leaves one touched, happy - the mark of the asceticism which empties beings of their superficial self.
At noon, the meal brings the retreatants together in the large common room; the monks eat separately. Good big “family” food; clearly, here, the body is far from the soul. Indescribable hubbub. We chat, we laugh, we call out to each other; we have to get involved (set the table, go get the dishes, do the dishes, tidy up, etc.) and everything is an opportunity to communicate. The conversations mainly revolve around a) health, b) the weather, the weather has been or will be, c) the life of the parishes. Since we don’t know each other, we have to choose themes that we recognize ourselves in! Prayer before the meal, reading during the meal, silence, in short, the consecrated meal, is for the monks. Perhaps they wanted to please their hosts by granting them this freedom? Clearly, we appreciate it; me, not so much. It will take me several days before I can more easily tolerate this lunch that makes me a little dizzy. But the ordeal is short: as soon as vespers ends, the Great Silence begins, until the end of breakfast the next day. Obviously, it’s hard: we whisper, we talk with our hands, we laugh under our breath - I think of the ashram
Prayer, contact with nature, being concretely cut off from all these worries and varied pleasures which distance one from oneself, work wonders. The experience is there, the Presence settles in immediately, and lasts.
And of course - I will never change - the “periphery” soon weighs on me. Why the ritual? Why the hierarchy of those who transmit and those who receive? Why these dogmas, these hollow and outdated rules, these prayers frozen over the centuries, some of whose words shock me harshly? Slowly, imperceptibly, I regain this position of outsider which sticks to my skin. I can no longer bear anything that comes between God and me, I desperately aspire to a flawless communion with my brothers, in experience and its expression, without restraint, without ulterior motive, in a perfect unity, which visibly does not exist on this planet.
Glory to God the Father almighty,
To his son Jesus Christ the Lord,
To the Spirit who dwells in our hearts,
Forever and ever, amen.
That, in any case, I’ll take.
Périgord, Country of Man. Country of the Spirit, too? Why, each year, so many seminars, meetings, congresses, courses… around religion, spiritual practice, personal development? What is it about this land of Dordogne that we feel so strongly, closer than anywhere else, the presence of the Wholly Other? I don’t know, that’s how it is, that’s all. My first seminar took place here, a long time ago, and since then, hardly a year has gone by without me coming back at least once to a session of this or that.
Today, my heart is celebrating. I am going to see again the one I love above all, the one who has accompanied me and helped me for almost fifteen years, the master yogi who regularly returns from one end of the world or the other to take care of his French disciples. He is not my guru, yet he is my landmark, my reference, my fixed point. He knew me at the very beginning of my path, still in the bud, and each of our occasional meetings has always been a milestone on my path. Several times I have been the astonished witness of his astonishing mastery of energy — always discreetly, gratuitously, as if “in passing”. He is knowledge, he is wisdom, balance, intelligence, simplicity, courage, patience, humility, power, but he is also humor, a sense of repartee and good appetite. Above all, he is love, unconditional, absolute and definitive. He is one of the greatest masters I have ever met, and I have sought him everywhere. He is a jivan mukta, a living liberated one.
My ineradicable and constitutive freedom of thought has always allowed me to keep a healthy distance between his teaching and myself; I take some and I leave some, and it no longer has any importance. It’s been a long time since I reread my notes, I don’t even take any anymore, I listen, I integrate, I apply what I need - and I move forward.
Here he is sitting there in the center of the platform, a small white silhouette in the middle of the flowers. At over 80 years old, he barely looks 60. I hadn’t planned to stay; I’ve already done this seminar, I just wanted, in addition to hugging a few retreating friends, to receive the darshan, the blessing of his simple presence, before continuing on my way to friends who are waiting for me. But in a few words, he changed everything: “But come in! If you want, if you have time, can’t you stay with us a little?” It’s not the kind of offer I would refuse, especially knowing the weight that each of his words can have. So I stayed.
And he teaches. He explains, tells, answers questions, directs the mantras… I have a chair at the very back of the room; two hundred backs separate us. I quickly tire of straining my ears and fixing my gaze; I internalize, the outside moves away… and I lose control. My body weighs more and more, becomes burning, I am surrounded by an indescribable layer of an energy that is almost tangible, it is so dense; inside the body, around, it is frightening, I have no words, I can’t even think what is happening, I abandon myself. Over there, at the same time, he continues to teach. A murmur that has become incomprehensible, except, for a few seconds, a few words just for me, which alone will reach my brain.
After barely an hour and a half, the session is over. The energy has calmed down. No one has noticed anything. He walks past me without a word, without a smile, without a glance. It was the only possible attitude, and I am grateful to him. God knows when I will see him again, but I am not sad. He is such a part of my life that he never really goes away.
My departure is discreet. Unable to speak, I disappear like a shadow, without saying goodbye to anyone. It will take me a long time, alone in the forest, to find balance, to integrate what I can of what I have received, and which will take me months to recognize.
I take the road again in complete happiness. No more questions, no more worry, no more sadness. The nature of reality is Unity. I know it, I bathe in it, it is in me, I ate it. There is nothing that separates, except the mind. It is she who reigns behind appearances, human rules, lines of conduct and schools of thought. With a little less pride in the head and a little more love in the heart, she is there right away, since she is always there. She is at the ashram and at the church, in the forest and at home, she is in the Love that unites us all, the Love of the One Alone Who Is and through whom we have Being, the Love with which I overflow.
It’s so beautiful — it’s so simple — I smile at the angels.
Christine Baussain
| Dalamatia, the City of the Hundreds of Caligastia, Dilmun, the City of the Nodites | Le Lien Urantien — Issue 23 — Autumn 2002 | Poem for Jesus |