Wednesday, May 9, 2012
ORGANIC
Organic
“Live Free or Die—“
It’s the motto of the state of New Hampshire,
USA.
I’m house sitting here in Keene—
3 cats sleeping,
93 plants growing,
4 trees dancing towards the ceiling…
Am I living freely?
Would I be willing to die if I could not?
I meditate as I take a winter walk
from lower Main to upper Main…
For 22 years I have studied the Teachings,
worked daily to destroy my ego,
but it is a Phoenix
that resurrects to mock me, no matter.
I have bathed in the Sacred Ganga with questionable sadhus,
I’ve jumped in the icy Deschutes, after sweat-lodge cleansings
and I’ve skinny dipped quite alone in the murky pond
behind my mother’s humble house.
In all places I offer prayers to the four directions,
but I am coated with desires, like a swan
drenched in the oil spills of Greed...
How many lifetimes does it take to be truly free?
I pass the entrance to Keene State College
And note the sign:
“Enter to Learn. Go forth to serve.”
This is the whole earth message—
East, West, North, South….
Give up the little me
for the big We.
At Brew Bakers Organic Coffee Shop,
I stop the Inner View,
shut if off like a TV.
I drink a single espresso,
and grow inexplicably happy…
remembering nothing, not needing
to do anything,
or be something.
In the blinking cinema lights
of the movie theater next door,
in the brown, beige, grey
of Metaphysical March
I let go …..
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
The Medicine of Mother Love
.
THE MEDICINE OF MOTHER LOVE
By Terry Reis Kennedy
There is a terrible sadness that floods the heart of a mother when her children are no longer children and she’s no longer an on-duty mother. When my three children were little I couldn’t wait for them to grow up so that I could have some time to myself. Then, when they left the nest, I suddenly had all the time in the world. And I didn’t like it. I had never lived alone in a house before and I was more than a little lonesome. Before long, I decided to buy myself some birds to keep me company.
One morning I went out to the aviary and I found my new parakeets quite happy, jabbering away. The canaries were singing as if all life depended on them. But on the floor, my brand new Silky chicks weren’t doing so well. I’d purchased them the day before. But the farmer had sold them to me too early. In my ignorance, I’d carted the trio home in a paper bag. The farmer didn’t say a word; he just counted the money.
On closer examination, I noticed that one of the Silkies had died. I picked it up, checked it over, wondering if the jealous parakeets had dubbed it intruder and pecked it out of existence. But no, there were no beak marks. Nothing broken or bent. Merely the stark emptiness of a body whose life force has left it.
Why had the week-old chick given up the ghost? Maybe you couldn’t mix mundane chickens with exotic birds. I didn’t see why not. It was happening all over the planet. But something really was the matter and I couldn’t imagine what it was. Then I noticed how the remaining two chicks were huddling together, moving as if with one body. Peeping! Peeping! They were squawking like newborn babies shut away from warmth. That their little bodies could emit such piercing squeals was amazing. Finally, it dawned on me. The chicks were suffering because they missed their mother. The tiniest had died of a broken heart.
Oh, yes, I’d been taught that a bird’s heart knows no feeling, cannot, like ours, sink with longing into the pit of despair. Well, that’s a lot of conditioning that simply isn’t true. These baby Silkies were going fast because they were longing for their mother! And there I was, mother of three grown wonders of my own, still standing, still staring, still doing nothing. I was immobilized by my own insecurity. Yet I knew I couldn’t just watch the little birds die.
Suddenly I rushed into the house and began to rifle through my bird books. Sure one of them would have all the information I needed on how to care for week-old motherless chicks. A book, mind you! All I had to do was listen to my own instinct—mother’s instinct. But I was so busy being scared that I couldn’t even hear it.
Why, I wonder, do we doubt our own inner guiding voice? Surely someone primitive, new in a land without experts or books, picked up chicks beside a dead mother, for instance, and knew exactly what to do.
Meantime, I’m still standing around doing nothing, just reading frantically. The book is technical, describing brooding lights, excrement pans. By now the peeping is getting more desperate. I hurl the book down and race back into the aviary. The two tiny balls of white buff look weaker, more abandoned. Finally, I do what any normal mother would do. I bend down and gather the babies in my arms. Both of them actually fit in my right palm. I squeeze my fingers gently around their wings. Then I move the tiny, peeping heads close to my heart. I can hear it thumping with anxiety. I begin whispering soothing words of encouragement.
The morning air is sweet with the inimitable fragrance of the first days of spring. The sky is stirring with low-slung clouds moving as lazily as gigantic cows across the blue-gray wonder of space. And here in the magnitude, in the mystery, the chicks up against my pounding heart, a miracle takes place—a miracle similar to the one I experienced holding my first-born in my arms. Imagine it. These babies are reviving me! Somehow, I’ve forgotten all about my loneliness.
It wasn’t long before the peeping stopped. Then the struggling stopped. Soon, the lackluster eyes took on fire. The beaks opened up and let out sighs. Sighs of relief? In the peace of the moment, I studied these twin engines smaller than field mice. Each talon was perfect. Each feather complete.
Dear God, what beauty You create! And what surprises. My heart was no longer pounding. I felt strong and whole. I was not only a functioning on-duty mother again, but I was also a witness to the healing power of love on all sentient beings.
One with my baby Silkies, I moved to the garage, found a cardboard box, filled it with straw and down from an old pillow. There. I’d made a surrogate to help me out. Next I plugged in a light, hung it over the box, then covered all with wire and towels to the neighbor’s cat wouldn’t be tempted. Food and water in an ice-cube tray, I waited. My chicks, in tandem, rolled on the straw. Then with their wings and beaks they fluffed the down up around them, arranging a nest.
Now, as if aware of my concern, they looked up from the box at me. I swear, the smiled, tumbling over graceless as toddlers to the makeshift feeder. Slowly, they tested my offerings.
I was thrilled with the morning’s accomplishment. My library books on the subject were useless, I decided. Instead, instinct—mother’s instinct—held al the knowledge I’d ever needed for “Good Poultry Management.”
So, as I listen to the wind ruffling the trees with their singing, I can hear my parakeets jabbering still. The canaries are trying to outdo one another. And I hear, too, a rhythmic cooing from the womb of the cardboard box. My chicks, sensing love—Mother Love—dream on.
-30-
Terry Kennedy is a poet and journalist, the author of three books of poetry. Her writings on Tibetan culture appear in a variety of publications. She presently lives in India where she is a volunteer teacher of English to Tibetan Buddhist monks living in exile there.
THE MEDICINE OF MOTHER LOVE
By Terry Reis Kennedy
There is a terrible sadness that floods the heart of a mother when her children are no longer children and she’s no longer an on-duty mother. When my three children were little I couldn’t wait for them to grow up so that I could have some time to myself. Then, when they left the nest, I suddenly had all the time in the world. And I didn’t like it. I had never lived alone in a house before and I was more than a little lonesome. Before long, I decided to buy myself some birds to keep me company.
One morning I went out to the aviary and I found my new parakeets quite happy, jabbering away. The canaries were singing as if all life depended on them. But on the floor, my brand new Silky chicks weren’t doing so well. I’d purchased them the day before. But the farmer had sold them to me too early. In my ignorance, I’d carted the trio home in a paper bag. The farmer didn’t say a word; he just counted the money.
On closer examination, I noticed that one of the Silkies had died. I picked it up, checked it over, wondering if the jealous parakeets had dubbed it intruder and pecked it out of existence. But no, there were no beak marks. Nothing broken or bent. Merely the stark emptiness of a body whose life force has left it.
Why had the week-old chick given up the ghost? Maybe you couldn’t mix mundane chickens with exotic birds. I didn’t see why not. It was happening all over the planet. But something really was the matter and I couldn’t imagine what it was. Then I noticed how the remaining two chicks were huddling together, moving as if with one body. Peeping! Peeping! They were squawking like newborn babies shut away from warmth. That their little bodies could emit such piercing squeals was amazing. Finally, it dawned on me. The chicks were suffering because they missed their mother. The tiniest had died of a broken heart.
Oh, yes, I’d been taught that a bird’s heart knows no feeling, cannot, like ours, sink with longing into the pit of despair. Well, that’s a lot of conditioning that simply isn’t true. These baby Silkies were going fast because they were longing for their mother! And there I was, mother of three grown wonders of my own, still standing, still staring, still doing nothing. I was immobilized by my own insecurity. Yet I knew I couldn’t just watch the little birds die.
Suddenly I rushed into the house and began to rifle through my bird books. Sure one of them would have all the information I needed on how to care for week-old motherless chicks. A book, mind you! All I had to do was listen to my own instinct—mother’s instinct. But I was so busy being scared that I couldn’t even hear it.
Why, I wonder, do we doubt our own inner guiding voice? Surely someone primitive, new in a land without experts or books, picked up chicks beside a dead mother, for instance, and knew exactly what to do.
Meantime, I’m still standing around doing nothing, just reading frantically. The book is technical, describing brooding lights, excrement pans. By now the peeping is getting more desperate. I hurl the book down and race back into the aviary. The two tiny balls of white buff look weaker, more abandoned. Finally, I do what any normal mother would do. I bend down and gather the babies in my arms. Both of them actually fit in my right palm. I squeeze my fingers gently around their wings. Then I move the tiny, peeping heads close to my heart. I can hear it thumping with anxiety. I begin whispering soothing words of encouragement.
The morning air is sweet with the inimitable fragrance of the first days of spring. The sky is stirring with low-slung clouds moving as lazily as gigantic cows across the blue-gray wonder of space. And here in the magnitude, in the mystery, the chicks up against my pounding heart, a miracle takes place—a miracle similar to the one I experienced holding my first-born in my arms. Imagine it. These babies are reviving me! Somehow, I’ve forgotten all about my loneliness.
It wasn’t long before the peeping stopped. Then the struggling stopped. Soon, the lackluster eyes took on fire. The beaks opened up and let out sighs. Sighs of relief? In the peace of the moment, I studied these twin engines smaller than field mice. Each talon was perfect. Each feather complete.
Dear God, what beauty You create! And what surprises. My heart was no longer pounding. I felt strong and whole. I was not only a functioning on-duty mother again, but I was also a witness to the healing power of love on all sentient beings.
One with my baby Silkies, I moved to the garage, found a cardboard box, filled it with straw and down from an old pillow. There. I’d made a surrogate to help me out. Next I plugged in a light, hung it over the box, then covered all with wire and towels to the neighbor’s cat wouldn’t be tempted. Food and water in an ice-cube tray, I waited. My chicks, in tandem, rolled on the straw. Then with their wings and beaks they fluffed the down up around them, arranging a nest.
Now, as if aware of my concern, they looked up from the box at me. I swear, the smiled, tumbling over graceless as toddlers to the makeshift feeder. Slowly, they tested my offerings.
I was thrilled with the morning’s accomplishment. My library books on the subject were useless, I decided. Instead, instinct—mother’s instinct—held al the knowledge I’d ever needed for “Good Poultry Management.”
So, as I listen to the wind ruffling the trees with their singing, I can hear my parakeets jabbering still. The canaries are trying to outdo one another. And I hear, too, a rhythmic cooing from the womb of the cardboard box. My chicks, sensing love—Mother Love—dream on.
-30-
Terry Kennedy is a poet and journalist, the author of three books of poetry. Her writings on Tibetan culture appear in a variety of publications. She presently lives in India where she is a volunteer teacher of English to Tibetan Buddhist monks living in exile there.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
The Ultimate Experience
THE ULTIMATE EXPERIENCE
By Terry Reis Kennedy
At last I’ve seen a koala bear—face to face! But, better yet, I’ve held one. Let me tell you, it may be the ultimate experience.
It was 1989 when I wrote these words, shortly after I had been I living and working in Australia for a year, on assignment as a poet and journalist for a literary magazine in the United States. More than 20 years later, I still consider my kola bear experience in the Top Ten of my life. In fact, it was the beginning of my stepping out a worn-out western mindset and embracing theVedantic oneness of all beings, whatever the race, religion, class or education.
I wrote: Cuddling a koala produces a most ecstatic state—akin, I’d venture, to the feeling that the great gurus of the globe have said mystics experience when they attain mergence with God. I realize that my activities along these lines are in the nursery school stage. So please don’t think I’m being sacrilegious when I tell you that when I got inside the koala bear park and one of the rangers placed a 6-month-old in my arms something very spiritual happened. It did.
This adorable baby looked up at me out of the shiniest black eyes that I’ve ever seen. They were so intensely deep, a wellspring of every color, really. Paradoxically, they seemed the containers of all light—sparks of red, gold, green, blue, silver, violet—especially violet.
As night portends the birth of day, the eyes of the baby koala heralded the dawn of a brand new way of life for me.
And up out of the soft, thick fur that felt like the underbelly of a kitten, floated the most pleasing scent. Clean. Spicy. A sharp, mint-like sting to it—eucalyptus. But, of course, why wouldn’t my cuddly koala smell like eucalyptus leaves washed by the rains, crushed in the palms? That is precisely what he nibbles on from sunrise to sunset—pure and palest green, fresh off the tenderest branches of the trees.
O! How the dark eyes held to mine. As I studied him, he studied me. What did he think, I wonder, about my sudden devotion? Or was he already used to people going limp with love when they held him this close, nuzzling his face against their own? Had he learned to squeeze the visitor’s arm in imitation of the gentle hugs he got? Or was his affection genuine? Animal instinct—as authentic as a happy puppy’s wagging tail?
I don’t know. I only know that in that moment when I held him I felt released from all my earthly troubles. Call it corny. But I was, if you’ll excuse my rapture, in heaven. Astonishingly, the microscopic ember of my faith roared up into a blazing fire when that koala licked my cheek, planting his wet and scratchy kiss there. Ah, yes, whose idea but God Almighty’s could such a fuzzy wonder be?
All the while I pondered this and other revelations, the alert little eyes watched. What can you do under such a spell but feel your heart melt, anger melt, and ill-will dissolve?
If I could, I’d put koalas everywhere. In the great city council chambers. In the small town meeting rooms. At toll booths, voting booths, safety deposit boxes, confession boxes, and in all places where chiefs meet, wherever tribes gather. You’d see koalas where those who think thy rule the world sit on their thrones in their expensive clothes, their clay feet encased in the best shoes assembly lines can manufacture—modern shoes that still must go to old-fashioned funerals.
If it were up to me, I’d have koala bears at every summit meeting. One 6-month-old for each world leader; and one apiece for the retinue of those in charge of the affairs of the leaders of the world. How could you lie or cheat or even think about blowing up your neighbor with a baby koala looking into the windows of your soul?
And, yes, there is the possibility that all the cuddly koalas gathered there might begin to feel like fragile newborn humans in the arms of those who held them. Consequently, the parental instinct might be kindled; might flare up like a shining star; might awaken something close to responsibility for all those still so vulnerable, so obviously dependent.
And, yes! Yes, again. What if it happened that the world leaders and the retinue of those in charge of the affairs of the leaders of the world began to change, to be transfigured, as it were, because of the koalas? What if all that was ignoble sank forever out of sight? What if, as a result, each leader of the world became exactly that—a world leader?
With my koala still clinging tightly to me, his dark eyes burning bright, I can easily perceive such a future. I can see that time when great human leaders are able to inspire great human beings; a time when great human beings are able to make extraordinary personal sacrifices for ordinary impersonal causes such as providing food, clothing and shelter for every man, woman and child who lives. I can see humanity beholding its divinity.
I say let the religious of the cosmos have their winged spirits. Cherubim. Seraphim. Muses by the feather-flapping hordes. The four corners of the globe encircled by every variety of sacred floating entity: Buddhist, Christian, Moslem, Jew… As for me, I have found the penultimate archangel—one readily adored by saint as well as sinner, comrade as well as citizen; condoned by pope and Dali Lama too—my koala bear.
And when I cuddle him, I am full of hope. I think perhaps the gathering of the tribes of the nations of the planet has already begun. I think that soon, soon we shall hear such a jubilation as human ears have never heard before—a sweet, singing celebration—the bomb-like thunder of The Whole Earth’s voices exploding with the news, shouting as if with one heart: Praise God, for we have saved our world, our precious blue pearl hanging in space.
Go ahead, say I’m irrational. I am. Can you blame me? I have seen a koala bear face to face.
I wrote this article in New Zealand on the Coromandel Peninsula in a tiny, unheated room inhabited by ghosts! While in New Zealand dead Maori Elders appeared to me in a vision warning me of the collapse of the materialistic world and many other mystical events took place. For instance, an 8-year-old Maori Spirit Guide who been a human sacrifice had attached herself to me when I entered a sink hole area near an outside stone altar on the Coromandel Peninsula. I became increasingly intuitive after she became my guide and only a few months after my return to the US in 1989, I was selling off my possessions and packing up for India. A spiritualist from Great Britain told me about my Spirit Guide, who I eventually named, Barbara, and he said he “saw” her in my aura when I finally made my way to Sai Baba’s Ashram, Prasanthi Nilayam, in Puttaparthi—a small, fairly isolated village in the state of Andhra Pradesh in South India. It was here that I met God face to face in the form of Bhagawan Sri Sathya Sai Baba—the number one experience in my life. And it is here, 23 years later, at Prasanthi Nilayam that I am witnessing the dawning of the Golden Age that I had envisioned so clearly on the day I held the tiny koala in my arms.
Terry Reis Kennedy is a poet and journalist. She travels extensively and writes for a variety of publications. She is the author of several books and supports the Tibetan repatriation cause.
By Terry Reis Kennedy
At last I’ve seen a koala bear—face to face! But, better yet, I’ve held one. Let me tell you, it may be the ultimate experience.
It was 1989 when I wrote these words, shortly after I had been I living and working in Australia for a year, on assignment as a poet and journalist for a literary magazine in the United States. More than 20 years later, I still consider my kola bear experience in the Top Ten of my life. In fact, it was the beginning of my stepping out a worn-out western mindset and embracing theVedantic oneness of all beings, whatever the race, religion, class or education.
I wrote: Cuddling a koala produces a most ecstatic state—akin, I’d venture, to the feeling that the great gurus of the globe have said mystics experience when they attain mergence with God. I realize that my activities along these lines are in the nursery school stage. So please don’t think I’m being sacrilegious when I tell you that when I got inside the koala bear park and one of the rangers placed a 6-month-old in my arms something very spiritual happened. It did.
This adorable baby looked up at me out of the shiniest black eyes that I’ve ever seen. They were so intensely deep, a wellspring of every color, really. Paradoxically, they seemed the containers of all light—sparks of red, gold, green, blue, silver, violet—especially violet.
As night portends the birth of day, the eyes of the baby koala heralded the dawn of a brand new way of life for me.
And up out of the soft, thick fur that felt like the underbelly of a kitten, floated the most pleasing scent. Clean. Spicy. A sharp, mint-like sting to it—eucalyptus. But, of course, why wouldn’t my cuddly koala smell like eucalyptus leaves washed by the rains, crushed in the palms? That is precisely what he nibbles on from sunrise to sunset—pure and palest green, fresh off the tenderest branches of the trees.
O! How the dark eyes held to mine. As I studied him, he studied me. What did he think, I wonder, about my sudden devotion? Or was he already used to people going limp with love when they held him this close, nuzzling his face against their own? Had he learned to squeeze the visitor’s arm in imitation of the gentle hugs he got? Or was his affection genuine? Animal instinct—as authentic as a happy puppy’s wagging tail?
I don’t know. I only know that in that moment when I held him I felt released from all my earthly troubles. Call it corny. But I was, if you’ll excuse my rapture, in heaven. Astonishingly, the microscopic ember of my faith roared up into a blazing fire when that koala licked my cheek, planting his wet and scratchy kiss there. Ah, yes, whose idea but God Almighty’s could such a fuzzy wonder be?
All the while I pondered this and other revelations, the alert little eyes watched. What can you do under such a spell but feel your heart melt, anger melt, and ill-will dissolve?
If I could, I’d put koalas everywhere. In the great city council chambers. In the small town meeting rooms. At toll booths, voting booths, safety deposit boxes, confession boxes, and in all places where chiefs meet, wherever tribes gather. You’d see koalas where those who think thy rule the world sit on their thrones in their expensive clothes, their clay feet encased in the best shoes assembly lines can manufacture—modern shoes that still must go to old-fashioned funerals.
If it were up to me, I’d have koala bears at every summit meeting. One 6-month-old for each world leader; and one apiece for the retinue of those in charge of the affairs of the leaders of the world. How could you lie or cheat or even think about blowing up your neighbor with a baby koala looking into the windows of your soul?
And, yes, there is the possibility that all the cuddly koalas gathered there might begin to feel like fragile newborn humans in the arms of those who held them. Consequently, the parental instinct might be kindled; might flare up like a shining star; might awaken something close to responsibility for all those still so vulnerable, so obviously dependent.
And, yes! Yes, again. What if it happened that the world leaders and the retinue of those in charge of the affairs of the leaders of the world began to change, to be transfigured, as it were, because of the koalas? What if all that was ignoble sank forever out of sight? What if, as a result, each leader of the world became exactly that—a world leader?
With my koala still clinging tightly to me, his dark eyes burning bright, I can easily perceive such a future. I can see that time when great human leaders are able to inspire great human beings; a time when great human beings are able to make extraordinary personal sacrifices for ordinary impersonal causes such as providing food, clothing and shelter for every man, woman and child who lives. I can see humanity beholding its divinity.
I say let the religious of the cosmos have their winged spirits. Cherubim. Seraphim. Muses by the feather-flapping hordes. The four corners of the globe encircled by every variety of sacred floating entity: Buddhist, Christian, Moslem, Jew… As for me, I have found the penultimate archangel—one readily adored by saint as well as sinner, comrade as well as citizen; condoned by pope and Dali Lama too—my koala bear.
And when I cuddle him, I am full of hope. I think perhaps the gathering of the tribes of the nations of the planet has already begun. I think that soon, soon we shall hear such a jubilation as human ears have never heard before—a sweet, singing celebration—the bomb-like thunder of The Whole Earth’s voices exploding with the news, shouting as if with one heart: Praise God, for we have saved our world, our precious blue pearl hanging in space.
Go ahead, say I’m irrational. I am. Can you blame me? I have seen a koala bear face to face.
I wrote this article in New Zealand on the Coromandel Peninsula in a tiny, unheated room inhabited by ghosts! While in New Zealand dead Maori Elders appeared to me in a vision warning me of the collapse of the materialistic world and many other mystical events took place. For instance, an 8-year-old Maori Spirit Guide who been a human sacrifice had attached herself to me when I entered a sink hole area near an outside stone altar on the Coromandel Peninsula. I became increasingly intuitive after she became my guide and only a few months after my return to the US in 1989, I was selling off my possessions and packing up for India. A spiritualist from Great Britain told me about my Spirit Guide, who I eventually named, Barbara, and he said he “saw” her in my aura when I finally made my way to Sai Baba’s Ashram, Prasanthi Nilayam, in Puttaparthi—a small, fairly isolated village in the state of Andhra Pradesh in South India. It was here that I met God face to face in the form of Bhagawan Sri Sathya Sai Baba—the number one experience in my life. And it is here, 23 years later, at Prasanthi Nilayam that I am witnessing the dawning of the Golden Age that I had envisioned so clearly on the day I held the tiny koala in my arms.
Terry Reis Kennedy is a poet and journalist. She travels extensively and writes for a variety of publications. She is the author of several books and supports the Tibetan repatriation cause.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Sai Baba, a Devotee Recalls
My editor at The Deccan Herald, Bangalore, India office, requested this article from me on April 24, 2011 the day Sai Baba died. It appeared early the next morning.
A devotee recalls...
You are also a God, Baba told his disciples
By Terry Reis Kennedy
It was about 10:30 am, an overcast but hot day when I heard the news that my beloved guru Sri Sathya Sai Baba had died. For me, it marked the beginning of the Golden Age. He had always said that he would usher in the golden age. So, for me, he had done just that.
I was standing in his Andhra Pradesh ashram, Prasanthi Nilayam, when it was announced that Swami had left his body and entered maha samadhi. Like millions of his devotees, I accepted the will of the God I believe him to be. I watched as some people shed quiet tears and many expressed disbelief. My heart swelled with gratitude that I had been graced to live in his physical presence for 21 years. He had not only saved my life; he had given me a life. He is locked deep in my heart, alive and well.
The fact that it was Easter Sunday made me smile. Swami always had a sense of the comic, no matter how serious the occasion. And now, as the world was celebrating the Resurrection of Jesus Christ, Swami was making his exit.
Sai Baba’s teachings are simple and esoteric all at once. He taught that we are all one, in fact, that we are all God. He insisted that there was only one caste, the caste of humanity, and that there was only one religion, the religion of Love. He began every discourse with the words, “embodiments of the divine.”
His mission, in his own words, was: To restore righteousness to the world and to bring mankind into the golden age. He came, he said, in response to the prayers and yearnings of saints and sages from all faiths.
According to reports, he performed many miracles—from the unimaginable to the seemingly trivial — such as healing the sick and manifesting trinkets to make his devotees happy, he said. He predicted that “No one will fully understand my powers.” However, not only his devotees but skeptics and scientists have tried.
Many people have attempted to convince others that he is, in fact, evil. All this talk about him, negative and positive, did not seem to interest him. He simply carried on his mission.
Even his detractors often recognized his humanitarian contributions. He built free general as well as super specialty hospitals, free schools, colleges, and universities. He created free drinking water projects. In fact, many said he did what the government of India could not or would not do—bring water and human values to the poor and bereft.
Thousands of books have been written about his many miracles by people from every religion and walk of life. Of his miracles he said, “I give you what you want, so that you will want what I have to give—mainly liberation itself.”
According to some of his devotees, the best way to experience Sai Baba is to privately ask him, from your heart, to reveal to you who he is. Then you can come to your own conclusions.
But it is declared by his followers that Sai Baba walked among us to teach us that we too can become a Jesus, a Buddha, or a Mohammed. We are, he consistently pointed out, God too—only we have not yet become aware of this fact.
So what will happen now that our beloved Baba is no longer with us in human form? I believe his mission will continue; his devotees will carry on as he instructed. For instance, the worldwide Sri Sathya Sai Seva Organization will undertake service activities that will benefit their communities. Individual devotees will carry on their own service projects.
I, for one, will continue the work Baba wanted me to do: Communicating his love to those who are unloved, bringing hope to those who are hopeless, and leading the afflicted out of their pain.
A devotee recalls...
You are also a God, Baba told his disciples
By Terry Reis Kennedy
It was about 10:30 am, an overcast but hot day when I heard the news that my beloved guru Sri Sathya Sai Baba had died. For me, it marked the beginning of the Golden Age. He had always said that he would usher in the golden age. So, for me, he had done just that.
I was standing in his Andhra Pradesh ashram, Prasanthi Nilayam, when it was announced that Swami had left his body and entered maha samadhi. Like millions of his devotees, I accepted the will of the God I believe him to be. I watched as some people shed quiet tears and many expressed disbelief. My heart swelled with gratitude that I had been graced to live in his physical presence for 21 years. He had not only saved my life; he had given me a life. He is locked deep in my heart, alive and well.
The fact that it was Easter Sunday made me smile. Swami always had a sense of the comic, no matter how serious the occasion. And now, as the world was celebrating the Resurrection of Jesus Christ, Swami was making his exit.
Sai Baba’s teachings are simple and esoteric all at once. He taught that we are all one, in fact, that we are all God. He insisted that there was only one caste, the caste of humanity, and that there was only one religion, the religion of Love. He began every discourse with the words, “embodiments of the divine.”
His mission, in his own words, was: To restore righteousness to the world and to bring mankind into the golden age. He came, he said, in response to the prayers and yearnings of saints and sages from all faiths.
According to reports, he performed many miracles—from the unimaginable to the seemingly trivial — such as healing the sick and manifesting trinkets to make his devotees happy, he said. He predicted that “No one will fully understand my powers.” However, not only his devotees but skeptics and scientists have tried.
Many people have attempted to convince others that he is, in fact, evil. All this talk about him, negative and positive, did not seem to interest him. He simply carried on his mission.
Even his detractors often recognized his humanitarian contributions. He built free general as well as super specialty hospitals, free schools, colleges, and universities. He created free drinking water projects. In fact, many said he did what the government of India could not or would not do—bring water and human values to the poor and bereft.
Thousands of books have been written about his many miracles by people from every religion and walk of life. Of his miracles he said, “I give you what you want, so that you will want what I have to give—mainly liberation itself.”
According to some of his devotees, the best way to experience Sai Baba is to privately ask him, from your heart, to reveal to you who he is. Then you can come to your own conclusions.
But it is declared by his followers that Sai Baba walked among us to teach us that we too can become a Jesus, a Buddha, or a Mohammed. We are, he consistently pointed out, God too—only we have not yet become aware of this fact.
So what will happen now that our beloved Baba is no longer with us in human form? I believe his mission will continue; his devotees will carry on as he instructed. For instance, the worldwide Sri Sathya Sai Seva Organization will undertake service activities that will benefit their communities. Individual devotees will carry on their own service projects.
I, for one, will continue the work Baba wanted me to do: Communicating his love to those who are unloved, bringing hope to those who are hopeless, and leading the afflicted out of their pain.
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