Never to Return: A Modern Quest For Eternal Truth, Chapter 15: "The Happy Pauper"

NEVER TO RETURN:

A MODERN QUEST FOR ETERNAL TRUTH

A Multimedia Spiritual Adventure Memoir
by Sharon Janis

What is contentment?
To renounce all craving
for what is not obtained unsought
and to be satisfied with what comes unsought,
without being elated or depressed ever by them –
this is contentment.

Chapter Fifteen

THE HAPPY PAUPER

BEING CAREFUL AND RESPECTFUL of all things was part of the discipline practiced in this monastic place. Every corner was kept spotless and each penny was accounted for. But inevitably, there were a few fanatics. Freddie, the office- supply guy, was one.

Freddie carried the practice of budgeting to new and absurd heights. He once proclaimed that Post-It notes and Sharpie pens were going to bankrupt the entire ashram. He used to get upset when our teacher used only one side of a sheet of paper.

One day, my friend Ganga went to Freddie to get a new tape dispenser. She was in charge of the ashram’s mailing department, and the plastic wheel that fit inside the tape roll had broken. She assumed it was simply time for a new dispenser, or at least a new plastic wheel, but Freddie asked her to go back to her office and bring the broken dispenser to him. When she handed it to him, he said, "Look, you don't need a new dispenser or a new wheel. You can put a paperclip inside of the tape reel, and use this small piece of pencil to balance it in the dispenser." He put the flimsy configuration together for her. Ganga was not thrilled, but had an extremely amicable nature. She quietly thanked him and turned to leave.

"Hey wait!" called Freddie. "Don't you have your own paperclips down in the mailroom?" And with that, he removed the paperclip and handed the rest back to her. Ganga just smiled and walked away, without even getting angry with him. I think she must have been well on her way to becoming a saint.

In spite of the occasional extremist, this idea of respect was prevalent throughout the ashram. In my upbringing there had been little respect, not just toward me, but for the world, for life itself. This idea of honoring each manifestation of the universe as a form of divinity came from my Guru’s favorite ancient Indian philosophical system called Kashmir Shaivism, and the idea, especially in practice, was very new to me. I had to learn many new rules quickly.

During my youth, for example, if we didn't want to finish some food, we would simply throw it away. Here, there was a focus on respecting the meals we were given. We would try to only take what we could eat. Before putting the first bite in our mouths, we would close our eyes and offer thanks in our own way for this benevolent sustenance.

In fact, the scriptures of India are chock full of rituals and rules, yet I came to realize that it wasn't so much that each specific rule must be followed dogmatically. For example, when entering a holy place, it is considered auspicious to place your right foot down first over the threshold and into the room. I don't believe some bad thing would have happened if I stepped over the temple threshold with my left foot. Rather, these rules were there, in part, to inspire us to live more consciously. Becoming more conscious is, after all, an important element in spiritual evolution.

At times I might be preoccupied and walk into the meditation hall or temple quickly, rushing to get my seat. However, when I did remember to follow that rule about putting the right foot first, that remembrance would make me immediately aware of where I was and what kind of holy place I was entering. I would slow down and focus on the present moment. I would move more gracefully while positioning my steps so the proper foot would enter with a smooth stride. Although this "right foot first" decree seems like an eccentric rule to the logical mind, in truth it was a tool, a spiritual practice in and of itself. The ashram was filled with these kinds of tools.

During my first six months of monastic life, I lived without spending a single cent. After paying all the necessary fees and costs of leaving school, I had arrived with only a few dollars in my pocket. There was enough toothpaste and soap to last for a while, and my room and board were covered. I experienced another surprising shift during that first year. I learned to appreciate the gift of poverty.

My stay in the ashram began during their early years of residential living, so the kinds of “ashram benefits” that became standard in later years were not yet in place. Nevertheless, I do believe that we arrive in places at the right times for our own karmic and growth needs, and as time went on, I grew to love not having anything beyond my basic needs. After all, three times a day I was served a delicious, home-cooked vegetarian meal. I had marvelous videos and an endless array of spiritual teachings to imbibe, and a wonderful service to provide as well, in sending out videos of these beautiful and powerful teachings to meditation centers all around the world.

I've since learned about an amazing woman named Peace Pilgrim. She was deliberately penniless for twenty-eight years, as she walked back and forth across the country many times in the name of peace. Even if someone offered her money, she would not accept it. Peace would never ask for food or shelter. If someone offered food, she would eat. If nobody offered shelter, she would sleep under a tree or on a bench, covering herself with newspapers during the cold months. Yet she never caught so much as a cold, or encountered any significant trouble. Peace used to joke that it would be crazy for anyone to mug her when she didn't have a penny to her name. Through poverty, she actually achieved the great treasure of inner freedom.

Watch a 60 minute documentary about Peace Pilgrim that was scripted and edited
by Sharon Janis and Night Lotus Productions

In this wondrous environment, I had the opportunity to taste a drop of the freedom Peace Pilgrim had attained. It's as though our souls become swathed in all these layers that have been created by our society, our families, and the media. One of these layers is that of material desire. This entire layer was simply and painlessly removed from me. There was no sense wanting to buy anything, because there was no money. Yet I was more content than I had ever been. I would happily hand-wash my clothes in the bathtub. I never even thought about buying the pastries and cookies available in the snack bar. I ate what was given to me, and lived with whatever I had. I learned that happiness is definitely not dependent on money.

I did go through some external hardships due to my poverty, but didn't experience them as hardships. I felt I was being challenged to rise above my previous limitations.

At one point during that first winter, my glasses broke. I could have gone to the manager and asked for help, but chose not to. I had worn glasses since age five, and wondered what it would be like to just let them go.

Here I was doing these visual jobs of video duplication and bookkeeping, and I could hardly see a thing. I had to put my face right up to the monitor to check the tapes, and stick my nose down into the ledgers and invoice books. I couldn't help but chuckle when someone would phone to complain that their tape quality wasn't quite right. I felt like saying, "What do you expect? The person making the copies can’t see!"

I would see only fuzzy shapes of people passing me in the hallway. Sometimes I could tell who they were and sometimes I couldn't. It's likely that some of my fellow residents may have felt snubbed when I didn't return their smiles, but I couldn't see them! This went on for nearly two months. It was very powerful for me. I felt two things: my aloneness, and the faceless quality of humanity. This situation really gave me a chance to focus my attention inside. The visual distractions of the outside world were reduced to a minimum, and my other senses, thoughts and feelings were given a higher priority in the experiential realm.

The most striking part of the experience came when our manager realized my plight and sent me out to get a pair of glasses. All of a sudden, I could see people's faces. It was almost painful to look into people's eyes, because they carried so much power. I could literally see and feel the dazzling consciousness that poured out through each person's eyes.

Another challenge was to remain comfortable in spite of the cold weather. Here we were in the Catskill Mountains of upstate New York in the dead of winter, and I didn't even bring a sweater or winter coat with me. And within a few months of taking off my shoes to enter the meditation hall, my socks were full of holes. Eventually, I stopped wearing them. I would run to the outside temple in my bare feet, skipping over the icy ground in my version of a fire- walk. Nonetheless, instead of feeling scarcity or need, each of these experiences carried me to a new sense of freedom. I didn't even experience the discomfort of being cold. I had moved out of the arena of constant discomfort. My pampered nature had been replaced by the serenity of contentment.