The Impact of a Master
Friends sometimes ask me what the impact is of a Master, or, in my case, the one people know as Maharaji -- also called by his given name, Prem Rawat -- "Prem" meaning love.
Every once in a while, in response to their question, I try my best to quote from one of his talks, not wanting my words to be interpretations of anything he said, knowing how easy it is to confuse the ones I love with my own translations.
There are other times, however, when words, even his, will not suffice -- when the feeling is so absolutely radiant, all encompassing, and grand, that I am taken back to the time before language, the time when not even a single song has yet been sung.
This is the time I feel best about sharing what I know to be true. And one of those times happens upon seeing Maharaji speak at one of his events -- the most recent one being the Shrine Auditorium in LA.
There, I see people -- many people -- having traveled great distances to see this man -- see, feel, and listen to what it is he has to say. They have put everything in their lives, on hold, to be with him, which is, really, the only place for it, especially now when nothing else is needed but self.
These people are being lifted by something lighter than air, unseen. After hearing this man speak, they do not want to rise from their seats. They just sit there, beaming, breathing, beholding something sacred that is oh so easy to feel.
They have nothing to say. They have nothing to do. They have nowhere to go, having already arrived.
If it wasn't for the house ushers, on the evening shift, they might still be there, smiling, soft eyes focused on nothing in particular.
I watch them stand and walk, eyes to the ground like divining rods tracking an invisible current of love. Others kind of bob their heads and feel their way forward, slowly adrift, it seems, in some kind of all-pervading buoyancy.
They are not so much moving as being moved.
And while they clearly notice others moving to the exits, they are not engaging in the usual conversations. Why speak of 9-5 when you are, though no effort of your own, now in the timeless?
Out the door they go, into the night, surrounded by friends, known and unknown, equally enjoying the gyroscopic center of every dervishes' dance since the beginning of time. Home base. The alchemist's stone. The sword. And the rock from which the sword was unsheathed, scented with the perfume of God.
Much laughter. Huge embraces. A hearty round of ordering something everyone shares, remembering a word, a phrase, a story, told just minutes before -- a word, a phrase, a story that continues to reverberate, at such a rate, that at least one waitress -- the one with the beautiful smile -- wonders aloud why the drinks she is carrying to her guests in a tray above her head all seem to be swirling from the inside out.
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