I waited again, in the familiar Navaho white room… the satsang, yoga, meditation hall at the Divine Shelter, 1607 Race Street, in Denver, Colorado, on October 4,1975… with the ring of “knowledge aspirants” seated upon the carpeted floor, leaning against its smooth walls. It was not long before bai ji, the Indian woman initiator, returned to demonstrate the second meditation technique— music technique.
Again, she struck me, that is— her gentleness, her neatness, the attractiveness of her person, her smallness and the refinement of her features… her serenely joyful presence… her complete focus upon the task at hand, her complete lack of affectation, or hurry.
This refined, kindly, gentle lady was sincere. So was I. This genteel mahatma, this compassionate “great soul”… this gracious initiator of Guru Maharaj ji was serious. So was I.
Again, she struck me, that is— her gentleness, her neatness, the attractiveness of her person, her smallness and the refinement of her features… her serenely joyful presence… her complete focus upon the task at hand, her complete lack of affectation, or hurry.
This refined, kindly, gentle lady was sincere. So was I. This genteel mahatma, this compassionate “great soul”… this gracious initiator of Guru Maharaj ji was serious. So was I.
She may have reiterated her tutelary request which I forgot to mention, “Do not have any expectations. Take what you receive from each technique without judgement. You may, or may not, experience something. Do not worry. Simply learn the technique, focus on the technique, understand it, apply it… and if you have any questions while applying the technique, we will hope to answer them all later. Please. For now, just apply the technique.”
I can no longer remember if what I am about to describe now occurred precisely when bai ji demonstrated the technique to me, which is to say,— I cannot remember if bai ji demonstrated the technique by actually touching me, by physically putting—her thumbs in my ears— or, if she only described what I was to do verbally. As in: “Place your thumbs gently inside of your ear holes blocking out all sound. Gently. You don’t have to push hard.” I cannot remember if my reactions to the music technique were as spontaneous as were my reactions to the light technique, or, if these experiences I am about to describe occurred over a period of repeated applications of music technique.
In fact, the attempt to describe The Music is very problematic for me. Let me state right off that I am not a classically trained musician. In fact, I am musically more or less illiterate; that is, I have never formally studied music, never learned to play a musical instrument, and so, my ear is not a highly trained instrument. Add to this the unavoidably abstract nature of
music itself. If asked to describe a particular piece of music, say, Igor Stravinsky’s Rites of Spring, to you, I am sure that I would be at no less of a loss for precise words and accurate images. However, here goes…
Upon application of music technique, which requires the shutting off of outwardly arising aural sensations, and, the inward focusing of awareness at a point somewhere between the ears,— in the direct center of the head and therefore brain, more or less— I detected the sound of rushing wind, rushing wind through trees, or, perhaps, the sound of a roaring river of water. This initial sound was amorphous, that is, it grew, it blurred, it sounded of so many strange, yet familiar things simultaneously,— it became like the whir of a great gathering of locusts on a warm evening in my childhood in New Orleans, Louisiana, when I used to lie on the cement sidewalk in front of our old house on oak tree lined Audubon Boulevard which retained the heat of a summer’s day— it was a familiar whirring, buzzing, rushing sound— not fearful at first, but it began to get louder and louder, it began to reach ear-splitting pitch, as though millions of voracious locusts… or, like the rising gale of a hurricane!
And then. Without warning. Strange noises began to explode, or is it implode? Strange sounds erupted! A great cacophony— to put it politely, or rather—
All Hell… BROKE LOOSE!!
All Hell… BROKE LOOSE!!
Picture a giant Waring Blender — one of those big glass 1960’s electric blender kitchen gadgets which your parents used to mix up whiskey sours in when you were a kid— remember, you used to sneak into the kitchen while they were partying in the living room; you used to sneak a taste of the sweet, tart pink lemonade that came reconstituted in cans kept in the refrigerator freezer? Sometimes, you even got a few curious, nasty, fiery drops of gin on the tip of your tongue… rum, vodka, whiskey whatever.
Now. That sound of swarming locusts, this rising hurricane, is morphing into the irritating sound of a giant Waring Blender whizzing away on HIGH SPEED!! Ok? So now, into this violent torrent of whirling, buzzing, pink liquidy, sloshing, roaring, gargling sound— imagine taking each section of a symphony orchestra— the brass, the strings, bells, percussion— take the vibrational sound components of each section of a full symphony orchestra (not the valuable instruments themselves, please!)
— the resonant signature of the brass, the trumpets’ blare— the twitter of the flutes, the quiver of the cellos, the— CRASH!! BASH!! CLASH!!! of the cymbals, the rolling thunder of the tympani drums, etc.
Take these disembodied sound sensations— just the great, wonderful, natural jungle… elegant elephant noises… that classical instruments make— at extra high volume— and drop them one by one, at random, straight into the frothing mouth of the Waring Blender which is whirring away at high speed, and, listen to the trumpets, trombones, french horns, violins, violas, cellos, tympani drums, snares, cymbals… as they splatter all over the walls, cabinets, and counters of your kitchen mind. Messy, I admit.
Take these disembodied sound sensations— just the great, wonderful, natural jungle… elegant elephant noises… that classical instruments make— at extra high volume— and drop them one by one, at random, straight into the frothing mouth of the Waring Blender which is whirring away at high speed, and, listen to the trumpets, trombones, french horns, violins, violas, cellos, tympani drums, snares, cymbals… as they splatter all over the walls, cabinets, and counters of your kitchen mind. Messy, I admit.
Or, if you would prefer, simply picture an old fashioned steam locomotive barreling into Grand Central Station at the turn of the 19-20th century at full throttle—with its pistons hammering, bells clanging, and whistles shrieking— colliding with said— same symphonic sound tapestry.
WWWWWHHHHAMMMMOOOOO!!!!!! bing BANG!! tinkle tinkle…
Sound came on like a locomotive train— a great tsunami wave of noise— blasting straight through the sanctuary cell walls of my mind leaving only my two ears standing. I had not time enough to detect a logic, or, an order to it— say: first you toss in the oboes, then the tubular bells, next the clarinets… and you save the marimbas (and the kitchen sink) for the grand finale… I remember no particular rhythm to it, no repetition, no refrain, no theme and variations, no mathematical construct; but then, I’m no musician as I have stated. It could have been Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony colliding with a Brahms freight train in reverse… as I later heard it described by a gentleman from Israel with whom I had “received knowledge”. That is, he was an “aspirant” who was “initiated” in the Divine Shelter just as I was. He was in the same room on the same day then, when we both received the astounding, precious blessings of—
“The Divine Knowledge of Guru Maharaj ji, the Lord of the Universe”.
He, this unnamed, short, wiry, dark haired… passionate young man from Israel, had been in a fiery tank battle in the Sinai Desert when his tank exploded into flames killing all of his companions. He had staggered from the twisted, burning rubble of his intended sarcophagus— undead, and found himself, after one miraculous encounter and another, within a matter
of weeks, at the door step to the Divine Shelter, at 1607 Race Street, in the Capitol Hill area of Denver, Colorado… just as I had staggered from the wreckage of my own college bound existence… from Jeffrey Hopkin’s Tibetan Mahayana Buddhist Nirvana class… to the sweeping wooden, wraparound Victorian porch and the peeling— soon to be painted (by me) as a gesture of service— front stairs of Divine Grace!
All said, I had neither the time, nor, the wherewithal to detect composer, composition, or, quite frankly, to perceive anything which I would describe even remotely as a piece of music. At some point, which I do recall, just when I was about to scream in absolute terror from the intensity of the sound assault from the giant Waring Blender— the gargantuan whirring, whiskey-a-go-go-whizzer-banger-whirlwind — exploded.
I distinctly remember the shattering, tinkling sounds of glass followed by the quieter notes of a gently cascading waterfall. In fact, I suddenly felt as though I was deep in the woods sitting next to a serenely cascading small brook— a moss covered gentle old spot, cool, remote, like one finds in the Smoky Mountains in Virginia along the Appalachian Trail. Ah, what a relief—
“Waterfall, O, nothing can harm me at all
My worries seem so clear and small
With my, waterfall…”
My worries seem so clear and small
With my, waterfall…”
And then. I heard something else. At first, I was not quite sure if I was “hearing things”… or not? It began as a faint flutter of sound— a few distant notes… then, a few more. It sounded like a bamboo flute, or, perhaps the call of an unknown woodland thrush. I strained to hear it again. With… the third ear of my mind.
Yes. There it was. A bansuri bamboo flute!! Distinctly, the piping sound of a far off wooden flute.
I was quietly transfixed by the resonant woodland purity of what appeared to be… I concentrated. Yes!
Yes. There it was. A bansuri bamboo flute!! Distinctly, the piping sound of a far off wooden flute.
I was quietly transfixed by the resonant woodland purity of what appeared to be… I concentrated. Yes!
Either it was a mysterious, Krishna-inspired raga… or, Glorious Father Krishna Himself… “calling the milkmaids home”… then again, perhaps it
was Pan… Yes! Old goat-footed Pan, His Primordial Majesty, piping sweetly to all of us beloved children of the forest.
It was lovely. Soothing. Entrancing…
I noticed that… just like the melodious sound… I… the energetic, subtle aspect of me… was soaring freely. Up my spine and out the top of my head. It was… a delicious feeling.
And then, almost as though waking from a lucid dream, I was called back to attention in the satsang hall. Bai ji was speaking to us aspirants.
And then, almost as though waking from a lucid dream, I was called back to attention in the satsang hall. Bai ji was speaking to us aspirants.
It took an effort to bring my expanded awareness back into the confines of the meditation room, to narrowly focus my mind’s ear upon the conscientious measure of her Indian accented, proper English voice. There was a peculiar, continuous ringing in my ears, like the sound of numerous tuning forks, each with a different pitch, with slight differences in their oscillatory capacities, all vibrating at once, or, like the simultaneous, continuous tintinnabulations of a variety of bells, or, bronze singing bowls.
It is simpler to say: My ears were ringing. In point of fact, my ears were ringing, in a way I had never heard before, or, perhaps, my ears had always rung this way, and I had never noticed it before?
Perhaps I was listening to the cosmic reverberations of the original
Perhaps I was listening to the cosmic reverberations of the original
B I G B A N G ! ! ! ?
The background muzak in the great cosmic elevator to heaven…
Or, was it the renowned “music of the spheres”…?
Or, Paul Simon’s melodic whispers… “Sounds of Silence”.
Who knows? Suddenly, without prior notice, or, a decent explanation. There it was. A gentle, soothing, reassuring… ringing ringing ringing…
It was novel to me at that time. On that fateful Saturday morning, in mile high, sunny Denver, Colorado, in October, 1975.
I have no plausible, scientific explanation for the origins of these unique sounds revealed to me by application of the “music technique” of the ancient “Knowledge of Guru Maharaj ji”. No one had described to me what I was to expect. However, heavenly— “divine music”, is indeed what this apparent ringing is… to my heart’s ears, and, it has never left me for a moment even unto this very day. Although. On frightful occasion, this lovely, quiet sound is drowned out by the horrendous noises of modern existence, and, sometimes—most unfortunately— my noisy thoughts and violent emotions do drown it out as well… or, I get distracted and forget to listen to its reassuring divine harmonies.
I have often thought that perhaps I have contracted some kind of tinnitus— ear ringing disease. But, this continuous current of sound is especially pleasing, rather than, insidiously annoying, really! And so, like Brother Paul says, I… let it be.
Could it be that living, breathing consciousness itself— inherently subjective reality itself,— the always already, continuously arising space of radiant self awareness… the so-imagined “byproduct” of apparently real… “objective reality”… strikes a pleasing chord?
Could this primordial, unspoken vibratory essence be the True Voice of God? The very sound of silence itself.
Rather than the voices we hear in our heads which proclaim this and that. Rather than all of the so-called “spiritual” and “scientific” hogwash that gets written down and declared to be directly quoted as the true voice of higher authority?
Something to think about perhaps over a warm cup of dragonwell tea.
Or not.
pp. 34-38. Me, Myself and the Lord of the Universe. The unpublished, peculiar, hand-scribbled manuscript, circa. 2000.
