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A principle in life to remember is to travel light.
You are traveling all the time.
Travel light, live light, spread the light, be the light.
– Yogi Bhajan
MY FIRST ENCOUNTER WITH YOGI JI
Memoirs by Kirpal Singh Khalsa
The Jemez Mountains of northern New Mexico is really a single huge caldera. It is sacred to Pueblo Indians and has been to their ancestors for millennia. 3HO Summer Solstice celebration in 1970 took place in these sacred lands.
Mt. Chicoma, graced by late season patches of snow, dominated the peaceful valley where we gathered along Santa Clara Creek. Tall spruce and fir grew in stands, surrounding meadows of green grass and wildflowers. Tents and tepees dotted the edges of the meadows and longhaired flower children gathered in groups singing, sharing food and meditating. In those days of our 3HO family there were no turbans, although colorful headscarves were common.
Yogi Ji was with us everywhere. In addition to teaching, he danced with us in large circles, directed Kabaddi competitions, refereed wrestling matches where 3 woman would destroy some hapless man, served mung beans and rice and yogi tea and wandered around engaging people in conversation. The whole camp had a relaxed atmosphere of celebration. One afternoon a sudden rainstorm sent everybody scurrying for shelter. As soon as the rain stopped I emerged from my tent to take in fresh scented mountain air. The entire valley was deserted as I started down the wide meadow. Several hundred yards in front of me Yogi Ji started up the valley. I heard the distant voices at the edges of the meadow, but for the next couple of minutes, it was just Yogi Ji and I in the middle of this gorgeous valley, walking towards each other.
He was the master yogi and I the aspiring student. As our paths drew us closer I pictured different scenarios of our meeting.
In those days I used to identify myself with the great Tibetan yogi Milarepa, who had lived many years in the mountains meditating.
Like Milarepa, I used to escape to the mountains every chance I had.
I fantasized myself renouncing the world, living in a cave, meditating all day long and living in the bliss.
The fateful day when Milarepa met his guru changed his life. Upon recognizing his guru, Milarepa fell at his feet and prayed for his blessing. The guru touched him and the great illusionary curtain of Maya lifted and he glimpsed the clear light of reality. I wondered if my impending meeting with Yogi Ji might have a similar effect. As we drew closer I contemplated throwing myself at this feet. Then I reconsidered. Maybe I should just touch his feet. Maybe I should just bow. By the time he was close, my mind was completely frazzled. I had no idea what to do. As it was, I just stood there with my palms together and my eyes wide.
Yogi Ji walked forward like a majestic king. His huge white turban was his crown. The shawl draped over his shoulders was his royal robe. He seemed entranced by the splendor of the mountain valley and could care less about the crazy kid going through mind trips in his path.
He walked right past me without even the slightest nod, his eyes focused on some distant mountaintop. I was devastated. Truthfully, I was looking for his recognition of my spiritual advancement. I had it all backwards. I wanted him, the master, to acknowledge me, not the other way around. I was stuck in my ego. But just as he was passing, he turned towards me, bugged out his eyes and stuck out his tongue. That was it, nothing more. Then he was gone.
There I was standing in the middle of this glorious meadow, futilely trying to make sense of what had happened. My mind was in a whirl. What did mean? How was I to interpret this? Milarepa’s guru never stuck his tongue out at him, at least not in his autobiography. Did this action have some deep significance? Maybe he actually did enlighten me and I just didn’t know it. I walked on in a daze.
Years later, as I recount this incident, it always elicits laughs. Really, I was asking for it. A spiritual teacher is a mirror. His job is to reflect back to us who we are and where we are going. A clown’s face pretty well sums up where I was on that day in 1970.
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