Even though I plunged into the ashram and Swami-ji’s teachings, I kept my eyes open to make sure I wasn’t getting sucked into a so-called “cult”. Cult groups were one of my college study areas, and I was well read on popular literature about cults, particularly non-judgmental books written by sociologists and other academics.
“Cult” is/was a pejorative term then widely slung about by “de-programmers” and other detractors of any alternative religions. It usually described any group that didn’t meet super-fundamentalist Protestant approval. Sociologists who took a more scientific approach were in general agreement that a real cult had to meet certain defined criteria, though the list could be a bit flexible: (a) absolute obedience from followers was demanded by the leader; (b) the leader and other top members were exempt from their own rules; (c) members were not free to leave the group; (d) members were not allowed contact with their families or non-member friends; (e) members were required to work for free in various ways for the group; and (f) members had to surrender all their personal property and funds to the group.
Swami Satchidanana’s group scored extremely low or not at all in most of these areas. The biggest exception was that monks and nuns did turn their personal property over to the group, but that is often expected in monastic orders of most faiths. Surrender of property or money did not apply to lay members such as myself, though donations were always welcome. Yogaville visitors might also invited to preform karma yoga (union with the Divine through selfless service) such as helping in the kitchen, but this was never required.
I became a regular at the ashram, even when Swami-ji wasn’t present. I tried to visit for a weekend at least once a month, and occasionally stayed longer for retreats or other multi-day programs. As dormitory space was virtually non-existent, I usually spent the night tucked into a sleeping bag in the back of my truck. After about a year of visits, I asked for and received formal spiritual initiation, and was given a personal mantra (a Sanskrit prayer) to chant silently while meditating. I took initiation in the same "class" as my kirtan-leader's husband, making us something like spiritual brothers.
Back at my work nothing improved. I was still at odds with my supervisor and most of my subordinates. One of the human relations officers suggested that I might profit from taking the Dale Carnegie Course, which was available at government expense. At that time the basic Dale Carnegie Course ran for 14 weeks, and met two evenings per week.
Most people think of Dale Carnegie classes as lessons in public speaking. That is only partly true. These classes do teach speaking techniques, but are also about building self-confidence, leadership skills and improved human relations. The course material is what my sweetheart (also a Dale Carnegie graduate) describes as spiritual values in a secular setting. Dale Carnegie training is not about “getting your own way” by calling people “assholes” like another self-help course that was popular at that time. One of the most important principles of Dale Carnegie's teachings is “You can’t change anyone else, you can only change yourself”.
Not surprisingly, my supervisor was extremely dismissive of the Dale Carnegie material, although he likely knew almost nothing about it, and he never asked any questions. His response was, “You’d better not try any of those Dale Carnegie tricks around here.” There are no tricks.
Our class materials were drawn from Mr. Carnegie's famous book How to Win Friends and Influence People. The usual format for each evening was one or more two-minute talks (plus or minus ten seconds), usually on an aspect of our lives as called for in that session’s theme. The talk usually had to be about our own success, or failure, in applying a human relations principle -- for example, “The Greatest Human Relations Lesson I Ever Learned Was . . . .” The instructors and the lessons were always affirming and upbeat. There was lots of class participation, including warm-up cheers and applause. After most sessions, the class voted for the best presentation and the most improved speaker, with those members receiving a modest award (a greatly treasured mechanical pencil) for their accomplishments.
The public speaking part was a snap for me. I’ve never had a problem giving lectures or speeches. I had taken public speaking classes in both junior high and high school, and also had some acting experience. What I did learn was to streamline my talks by using concise language and eliminating elements that weren’t important to the story. I always rehearsed my material, and pared it down almost exactly to the two-minute limit.
On the other hand, I more or less flunked the memory improvement part. I have always had a difficult time remembering people’s names (thank goodness for name tags in the class), and was terrible with the other memory techniques as well.
I loved the Dale Carnegie classes, and by invitation took the course again for free, with added duties as a teacher’s assistant.
Although I had become a disciple of Swami-ji, that didn’t mean I was in any way barred from hearing the teachings of other spiritual masters. In fact, Swami-ji encouraged having darshan (being in the presence) of other teachers, visiting churches/temples, or reading spiritual works from all faiths. Teachers from other faiths were frequent guest lecturers at the ashram, including Tibetan Buddhists, Jewish rabbis, Catholic monks and other Hindu gurus. I was quite comfortable with Swami-ji's liberal views on this.
Swami-ji did recommend against “guru hopping”. If you really want to make spiritual progress you must truly follow only one teacher (darshan excepted). Sri Ramakrishna used a simple parable to explain this. He said if you want to reach the roof of a house, you can take the stairs, use a ladder, or climb up a rope. All are valid methods, but you will never make progress if you first put your foot on the ladder, next switch to the stairs, followed by trying the rope. You must eventually choose one path, then stick to it. This has always been something of a problem for me, as I have tended to flip-flop between Buddhism and Hinduism as my spiritual needs change. Fortunately, Swami-ji's organization was a "big tent" that included learning about and appreciating all faiths, though his primary teaching was sort of "Hinduism-light" for westerners.
My friend the kirtan-leader had many local contacts in the Hindu-oriented and New Age spiritual communities, and always seemed to know when an interesting event or a visit by a spiritual teacher was scheduled in our area. I took advantage of several such opportunities.
Darshan with a noted Vedic scholar, Swami Chinmayananda, was one of these events. The swami was mainly in town to minister to the ex-patriot Indian community. My kirtan-leader, her husband, and I were the only westerners in the audience. Swami Chinmayananda gave a college-level lecture, explaining karma and rebirth, with lots of Sanskrit terms connected by arrows on a whiteboard. Good stuff, but heady. What I remember most about his talk (which was really excellent) was that he had a telescoping pointer topped by lurid pink puff for visibility. When he was not waving the pointer at the board, it rested between the toes of his bare feet as he sat on the edge of the stage. At the end of his lecture, the swami presented each of us with a really useful book explaining Sanskrit words and Vedic concepts. I still have that paperback on my spiritual bookshelf.
Just before my military service ended, my kirtan friends and I enjoyed several evenings of darshan with another noted spiritual teacher, Sant Keshavdas. Sant-ji, as he was usually known, was not a swami, but rather was a pundit or a purohit (both names for Hindu lay teachers). Sant-ji was a great story teller, and I learned several of my favorite Indian tales from him via his tapes. He was also a master harmonium player and singer. It seemed Sant-ji could almost make his harmonium talk. He frequently inserted lively songs into his stories and instruction.
Sant Keshavadas, 1983, described by a friend as the "Jimmi Hendricks of the Harmonium".
During one of his lectures, Sant-ji taught us to recite a particular mantra he favored, including how to count the repetitions on our finger joints if we lacked a mala (rosary beads). Then he announced, “Now you are all my disciples.” A bit presumptuous of him, but no harm done. Yet.
During a break in the lecture, my kirtan-leader introduced me to Sant-ji. After learning my worldly name, he dramatically threw his head back and closed his eyes as if calling for divine inspiration, pinched the bridge of nose, then pronounced, “Garutman, that is your new name.” He certainly did this sort of thing with style. As I stammered my thanks, he wandered off to lay a few more names on the unsuspecting.
I was quite surprised by this name (another monicker for Garuda, the Thunderbird-like mount of Lord Vishnu). I had been contemplating asking Swami-ji for an Indian spiritual name. My friend noticed my discomfort and asked, “It’s the name, isn’t it? He just surprised my husband with a name too. If you aren't comfortable, why don’t you write to Swami-ji to ask him if you should keep the name, or if he would like to give you another.” So I did just that.
On my next visit to the ashram, I encountered Swami-ji’s secretary, who told me that Swami Satchidananda had selected a "lovely" new name for me (everything was "lovely" to this lady). I was to be Ganapati, an alternate name for the elephant-headed deity Ganeasha ("The Remover of Difficulties"). I later heard that when Swami-ji received my letter, he pretty much hit the ceiling. This wasn’t the first time Sant-ji had tried to poach Swami-ji’s disciples. I was told Swami-ji fired off a pretty stern letter to Sant-ji warning him again to leave his disciples alone. In Santi-ji's defence, he had no idea I was Swami Satchidananda's follower. I feared that I had stirred up hard feelings between two spiritual heavy-weights.
The elephant-headed god Ganesha, "The Remover of Difficulties", aka Ganapati. His statue is at the door of many Hindu temples. A small offering to Him is thought to ensure success in prayers to other deities.
Several years later at the LOTUS dedication ceremony in 1986, I again encountered Sant-ji. I fell at his feet and begged him to forgive me for the trouble I had caused him. He graciously reassured me, “There was no problem. Swami-ji and I are good friends.” It was the last time I saw Sant Keshavadas, as he passed away a few months later.
A few days after Sant-ji dropped his "name-bomb" on me, I received word that my billet in the armed forces had been eliminated in a RIF, or “Reduction in Force". I received an honorable discharge, and a few days later was on my way to a new life with Swami Satchidanada at his ashram.
