Skip to main content

Eknath Easwaran: The Mundane Mystic

I read last night that Easwaran’s devotion to his own spiritual teacher, his grandmother, led him later in life to a devotion to Sri Krishna, the divine incarnation his grandmother worshiped. He described the process as a kind of inheritance his grandmother passed on to him through her own devotion to Krishna. I find hope in this, since I have not felt much devotion to the great incarnations (Jesus, Buddha, Krishna, etc.) but am beginning to feel a flicker of devotion to Easwaran himself. I think I’ve felt hesitant to devote myself to a teacher so contemporary and down-to-earth as Easwaran, but obviously neither of those qualities precludes deep spiritual awareness. Another reason for my hesitance to allow myself to become a devotee of Easwaran is that he himself encouraged his students to direct their ardor toward one of the classic divine figures. Lastly, and this may be the heart of it, it just feels wrong to express religious devotion to any being other than a “recognized” incarnation.

Nevertheless it is to Easwaran that I turn for instruction, Easwaran who built the spiritual community that nourishes me and my practice, Easwaran who hangs on the wall behind my meditation table and Easwaran who said (like many other teachers) that he (He?) would be with us even after he left his body. What do I have to lose by at least experimenting with devotion to this mundane mystic?

A final thought: I’m just realizing there’s a dose of self-consciousness in the thought of being a devotee of such a relatively unknown teacher. Most people would understand, maybe even admire, my devotion to Jesus, Buddha or Krishna: these are legitimate vessels of the divine. But Eknath Easwaran, a twentieth-century Indian Fulbright scholar who taught English literature before becoming a meditation teacher? Maybe Easwaran’s obscurity is all the more reason to direct my devotion to him; it’s a blow to my ego not to be attached to a famous spiritual figure.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Casual Holiness

About a year ago I was on my way into a church to attend a meeting. As I approached the door I passed a woman sitting on a red, overturned milk crate near the door. She had dark hair, and she was leaning forward, her bottom coming off the crate, her hands reaching just off the edge of the sidewalk and toward the asphalt of the parking lot. She appeared to be slowly falling forward, tumbling off the crate in slow motion. I had stopped to hold the door for a man who was entering the church just behind me, and as I watched, he approached the woman on the crate. "Here's two of them," he said, handing down a carton of Marlboro Light 100s. "Have a good day." I realized then what the man with the Marlboros must have recognized immediately: the woman had no doubt been reaching for a discarded cigarette butt that someone had tossed down on their way into the church. I felt awed by the man's simple act of compassion. Without the slightest trace of judgement or distast...

A Sabbath Day

I am thinking of the mulberries we picked today,           nearly black knobby fruits,           their juice spilling so easily from thin skins. I held a branch down while you picked them double-fisted,           dropping them into the empty bottle where they crashed,           spurting tiny jets of juice. The girls ate them by the handful,           stuffing the dark sweet berries into their small mouths,           purple smears like bruises blooming on their hands, legs, cheeks. We had hoped for ice cream but were foiled,           and returning from that failed trip           we found the trees, dangling their fruit in offering. We ate, and it was good. It was very good.

A Passing Fox

Now that it is fall I have been opening a window in my meditation corner in the morning. With the blinds up and the window cracked, the dark seeps in with the cool air, along with the stirring sounds of the approaching dawn. One morning, a s I sat on my meditation bench, eyes closed, knees on the floor, I heard a smallish creature trot by just below the open window. In spring or summer I would likely not have heard anything, but with a blanket of brown leaves on the ground, the nimble feet made a light crunching sound on their way through the yard. The animal's gait was too rhythmic for a squirrel's distinct intermittent patter, which is often followed by a sharp rattle as it scurries up the chain link fence or scratches its way around the grooved bark of an oak tree. Nor was the passing animal loud or loping enough to be a loose dog, common as those are in the neighborhood. Neither was it a bird, hopping about and kicking up leaves to get at the bugs and worms in the grass....