healing with Ram Dass

Ram Dass came into my life last August on a solo road trip in New Mexico in a series of small steps as I followed a thread of curiosity. A friend posted the trailer for an upcoming movie about him and I realized I had never checked out this popular spiritual teacher. I pulled up a two hour lecture on YouTube titled ‘We are here now’ that has since been removed and listened to it over and over and over for the rest of my trip. In the beginning he says not to get caught up on the words, that after the fisherman catches the fish, he doesn’t keep the hook. What I felt listening was that my mind was lulled into a peaceful state that allowed a deep presence to emerge. His presence invited my presence. I was captivated. I wanted more.

In fall of 2020 Ram Dass lifted me up and fueled my growth. I was passionate about his story, his philosophy and it sped me along my mission to share what I knew about dog training and personal development. In the winter of 2021 Ram Dass spoke to me in a deep place of grief at a depth so few could reach. He talks about sitting with the dying, writing to bereaved parents, honoring the unbearable pain of their loss and how it can bring us closer to god. (See his letter to Rachel’s parents). He could sit in the deepest of emotional spaces because of his non attachment, because of his openness to all feelings and experiences. He could feel with someone then return to his natural state of peace and presence. This meant that they, that I, didn’t have to ‘feel' alone.

In March after I lost my grandfather, grief morphed into depression. Grief was poignantly sad in moments, but it was also many other things. Grief was heavy, but life kept moving forward. In depression I was a ball that ceased to bounce, rolled to a stop, sunk into the gymnasium floor, through the basement, past the core of the earth then floated adrift in outer space. Well meaning friends attempted helpful phrases like “you are too smart to be depressed” (please don’t say this to anyone) and assured me I could snap out of it. Day after day passed no snap. The existentialism that accompanies my deep depressions took over my thinking. There was no point to life. I didn’t ask to be born, yet here I was. I wasn’t going to take any drastic action, but I didn’t want to do it anymore and I was stuck. Sensing I was in the worst of ways, an old love invited me to drive to California. I walked on the beach listening to Ram Dass speak of consciousness, of identifying as a soul, of the miracles his guru Maharaji performed. I needed to believe that there was more to this world than there seemed.

Back in Austin and desperate, I decided to take a step in the only direction that seemed to bring me any relief, towards Ram Dass. In April I called a friend who had navigated these spaces and asked what helped. She told me about Bhakti Yoga Shala whose founder is another devotee of Maharaji, and mentioned learning the Hanuman Chalisa, a 40 verse hymn in Hindi devotees of Maharaji sing. I found the local Ram Dass Fellowship chapter on Facebook and went for a walk with the organizer who mentioned he sings it every morning. By this point I had been on the sidelines of life for five months with little to do, few friends still reaching out, trying to pass the days and hoping at some point I would feel better. I decided I would learn the Hanuman Chalisa. The clear and slow version I picked by Girish sat at an intimidating nine minutes and thirty three seconds.

At this point my motivation was non existent and my worthlessness overwhelmingly abundant. How could I learn a song in Hindi? On a rainy day at the end of April I took a walk with the lyrics pulled up on my phone and tried to wrap my mouth around the words. The task seemed overwhelming, almost impossible. My friend told me learning it felt different than learning on an intellectual level and more like a remembering. Day after day, I listened over and over and surprised myself when, phrase by phrase, line by line, verse by verse I started to sing along without looking at the words. The more I sang, the more my depression lifted. I was doing something, something hard. I had a goal and chipped away at it. I overcame an obstacle. I was also praising god and saying his name all throughout the day. My concept of god has gotten fuzzier as it’s gotten clearer. That is it’s own essay, but if the word triggers you, I apologize. I don’t refer to a god of any denomination, but my own personal concept of benevolence, order and wonder in the world. The important thing was that the beautiful words in the song replaced my self defeating and often spiraling narrative. I did this and maybe I could do other things.

I started to slowly chip away at the mundane tasks of life that had been building since I lost my mom in December, becoming increasingly intimidating as they grew. I sold the last of my horse equipment. I found piles of mail I didn’t mean not to open. I filed the papers that covered my long unused desk. I cleaned out my garaged and had the walls insulated and finished. With each of these tasks I felt lighter, more accomplished. The past was wrapping up and I started to move forward, to feel like myself. At last I had the desire to socialize again, but most of my friendships were dormant as I had been so long out of rotation or friends had, understandably, retreated from my grief and depression. I started reaching out to people I admired, but wasn’t necessarily close to and making dates. My schedule, empty for months, began to fill.

In May I sought out Shabbat gatherings. In the most ‘me’ activity of the year, I organized a Ram Dass gathering over Memorial Day weekend hosting a small group on my back porch to discuss a short lecture on suffering. Ram Dass shares a story of his guru asking him if he preferred joy or suffering, replying “I love suffering - it brings me so close to god.” The weeks passed and my schedule filled again. I was living a life I wouldn’t have thought possible two months before. Not an exceptional life, but a full one. It wasn’t until I felt better that the stark comparison showed me how bad I had felt. Still not passionate about cooking or in any kind of routine, I was able to shop and feed myself with relative ease. Food wasn’t a pleasure, but no longer needed to be choked down out of necessity for survival. Cookies, which had made up the majority of my caloric intake, fell off my rotation. I simply didn’t desire them anymore. Nicotine also fell away rather seamlessly. In grief I would smoke cigarettes several times a day, sometimes first thing in the morning, which I had never done. I was shocked and a little disgusted, but I gave myself a break because I knew it would be temporary and it was. I started smiling, laughing, being silly. As my pain eased I had space in my consciousness to be interested in others, even to send supportive messages or bring someone something, to buy a gift. At the end of a busy day I proudly proclaimed to my roommate that I had done things all day where as one appointment or task used to take several hours to prepare for and several more to recover from. I stopped watching TV in bed and started working again, writing, thinking about the future of the business and projects I may enjoy.

Was this a gift of the Hanuman Chalisa or one of Maharaji’s lilas? It felt like it. It honestly felt like a miracle to be alive in the world again. I wasn’t quite who I was, but that was okay. I kept taking small steps and saying yes to what my body said yes to and no to anything that felt uncertain. Desperate to fill my empty summer, to escape the Austin heat and the backdrop of this sad chapter, I kept the space on my calendar empty and waited for the right things to come to me. I signed up for a coaching class that brought inspiration to my new program and edited my self talk in June. I flew to Europe in early July to see my brother and assist him in recovering from back surgery. The surgery was delayed so I took a train to Switzerland to spend time with a woman I had never met who is working on a biopic about my grandmother’s second husband, Haim Ginott, whose work in the psychology of communication with children changed the world and my family history.

I write this now overlooking Lake Biel, my first essay since March. Maharaji’s philosophy has been distilled to “Love all, serve all, remember god.” He instructed those at his ashrams to feed people and while he meant this literally, he would also say this to Ram Dass as he traveled the world lecturing. Throughout my life I’ve been told my writing is a gift of mine. I’ve also repeatedly been told I think too much, as if it’s a bad thing, as if I could help it, but I see the way I process life and articulate it as a gift, too. As this new chapter begins I am going to settle in to my identity as a writer, to make time to write more and share it. God didn’t make me a chef, but I have my mind and a love of words. I hope this feeds someone in a way they knew or didn’t know they were hungry.