Being Ram Dass by Ram Dass

Author:Ram Dass
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sounds True
Published: 2020-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

In early spring, I drove with Dad, Phyllis, and Phyllis’s mother, Angela, to our family farm in Franklin, New Hampshire. With the nearby lake, its meadows and trees, Willenrica felt restorative and familiar. Here I could be a yogi again.

I moved into the maid’s room above the kitchen, which had wood paneling that reminded me of Kainchi. Since I was now a servant of God, it felt right I should occupy the servant’s quarters. It was also the warmest room in the house. I hung Indian bedspreads on the walls and slept on a mattress on the floor. There was space to do yoga and set up my puja table altar. I had a new ashram.

I spent my time in solitude, renewing my meditation practice. I also spent time with the family. Phyllis commented on my loving demeanor. Dad, Phyllis, Angela, and I went out to dinner a couple of times a week. In the warm weather, Dad and I went fishing on the lake. We didn’t care if we caught anything. Sitting around the fireplace, playing cards with the folks, washing dishes, going for walks in the woods, taking boat rides around the lake on Dad’s floating cocktail lounge: it was all a seamless fabric of being. As at Kainchi, I was living in the present moment and witnessing it all from my soul.

It was Phyllis who broke the ice and started calling me Ram Dass. The others slowly got used to it. I began to use both names in public. Soon after we got to Franklin, I went to the grocery store for supplies. When I came out, three teenagers were lounging by the car. They’d seen my Buick, black with a big spare tire on the side, and were expecting to find their old drug connection from Boston. They hoped to score some acid. “I’m not that kind of connection,” I said. Instead, I told them I knew what could take them higher than any drugs. I invited them to come by the farm later.

They did, and after a long discussion about consciousness and love, they asked if they could bring their mothers, as well as the minister from the local church, to hear me. Some weeks later, Dad invited his pals from the Presidents Club to visit the farm, and I got the opportunity to speak to them too. These guys were all heads of corporations and airlines and such, and as they sat by the fire, nursing their drinks, one of the presidents asked me what kind of work I did. I think Dad wanted me to tell exotic stories of the East to amuse them, but instead I told the story of my journey, talking about Maharaj-ji and spiritual India for a good hour or two. It was dark in the firelit room, and my listeners were quiet and attentive. They were thinking about it all. Dad seemed proud, happy that the evening was going so well. He had no idea what I was talking about, but that was okay.

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