My dear friend, Annabella Saccone from Preganziol, Italy, sent me the following account of her Christmas holiday spent with Master Sirio and His family at the ashram (His home) in Ribolla. As unique as it is, I think it portrays a special message about the relationship between Master and disciple.
I especially enjoyed Anna ji’s account of her singing a poem to the Master and His wife, Irena, ‘ “the soldier in love”, which tells the story of a soldier who goes to confront the fierce war—the first world war—and who is not afraid because he is sure of the love of his beloved.’
Also, especially dear to me, as a songwriter/guitar player, was her impression of His youthfulness when absorbed in creating and singing the bhajans.
I hope that some of you may find something for yourselves in this sweet account and, perhaps, recognize that it is possible to have the most personal relationship with a man of God. Yes, the work of spirituality is hard; it is often supremely demanding; but ultimately, we are children, and, as such we may someday find ourselves in the company of our loving Father.
Namaste, jesse s. hanson
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The author with Master Sirio in His garden~photo taken in April 2011
Tuesday, 27 December. I just returned home. Tonight I left the office early—at 17.30. I said to myself, “I have an important commitment; I have to write and capture what happened to me this Christmas.” It was this morning that I first was struck with this desire. It was like when the musician has the musical notes all the day in the head, or the image that the painter has before his eyes. So, I have now the voice of my heart that wants to pour onto this blank white paper all the contents of the Grace that God wanted to give me through Satguru Sirio ji. Luck, Grace, Miracle, what should I call it? I just know that I happened to live three long days in the company of the Holy Master. A precious gift? This is a fact! It certainly doesn’t happen every day. For this, I am also a bit embarrassed. But then I say, if this happens to me, it’s only for being one of the witnesses to the Life of the Holy Son of Kirpal and Ajaib Singh. And that’s why I’m here: to write now what I cannot really express with words. But, still I write and I describe, in the most authentic way that I am able, what my eyes have seen.
Arrival.
It’s Christmas Eve. Enthusiastic as ever, I arrive at 9 a.m. at Sant Bani Ashram and the House of Sirio, Irena and Nirmala. I had travelled from four in the morning in darkness and cold of the night with Deepa (my sweet cat). We travelled without stopping, because the desire to spend more time with Him, the Master—in the midst of nature, singing, meditating—and being in the awareness that He exists and is waiting for me, was too strong. When will it again happen, an opportunity like that? Life is really a moment, a few minutes. Five minutes, said Cristina, Grandmother. “Remember, things happen in five minutes, those of the whole life!” Wise Grandma! Three days on Christmas Eve: in an e-mail I informed the Master that I was free from the mundane work from 24 to 26 December and that those days would go in one of two ways: in His company, at Sant Bani, or alone in my small home, meditating and fasting with fruit. He replied that He would wait for me if I liked. He knew that I would go to the retreat from December 31 to January 6. So He wrote that He would wait and welcome me at that time. The rational mind, always deceitful, said that it might have been appropriate to remain at home to prepare for the scheduled retreat and spare us another trip, so, for a few days, there I went, in my mind. To my great fortune, for me, my heart always wins. It is He who commands and no other. So the heart directed me and answered the Witch of my mind: “the company of Master is rare and never gets postponed! What evil is there if we travel one or two or three times up and down Italy? “For the Master, every sacrifice that we do, it is nothing!” Then I arrive, joyfully in morning, and stand under the stepladder in the stone house, while the Master, from above—where the Orange tent is extended to embellish my room—smiles and gives his first Darshan to me. Then He drops down, joining hands to chest, saying: “Namaste!” He cares to make me a fire and does not go away until the pump of the fireplace keeps going and functions properly. Silently, I start to put my things away and afterwards I dedicate myself to cleaning all the Windows of the House. I feel on my self the Celestial and the Light of the Master’s Eye and, with this feeling, I understand that I have arrived.
Lunch.
In these three wonderful days I felt completely welcomed and was made to feel at home by the Masters and Sirio, and also by Irena and Nirmala. Everything happened in a precise and yet spontaneous way. Sirio Ji, with the love of a Master, Friend, and Father, prepared simple meals, rich in joy, fantasy and colour, with extreme care and His special treatment. As He says: “The special ingredient that I use is the no-mind,” for this way everything is exquisite and incomparable with what you find in the world. Every meal began with His salad Garden, with an original wild rocket that gave off a spicy sweet to all the senses. Then basmati rice, accompanied with various vegetables from the garden, cooked in a pan together with bits of tofu, spices, in olive oil, but I must say, what jumped into my eyes when I looked in the dish was the devotion. The dedication in making every single dish. Every time Sirio called me for lunch or dinner, it was a party. Many colours and perfumes mingled in dance. My heart wanted to weep with joy, but I could only say: “Master, now I sing!!” And He was nodding and stated: “Sing!”
In the evening, on the day of Nirmala’s birthday and Christmas Eve, Sirio Ji has created in His and Irena’s house, an atmosphere of peace, love, kindness, friendship, seriousness, contentment, and extreme goodness of mind, which captured and conquered all my inner being, and also that of Nirmala and her boyfriend Antonio. Having cooked with His hands fresh ravioli stuffed with ricotta cheese and broccoli, cream of almonds and walnuts, salad of various colours, miso soup and a big cake, made with aromatic spices, dried fruits, cacao, oil, flour, milk, and plenty of love, He prepared the table with a unique beauty. On a steel plate, 30 round small candles in honour of his only daughter. Finally, He is sitting at the table waiting. I had gone down with my car to the beginning of the unmade road, as the car of Antonio couldn’t get all the way home. The Master is sitting. When, at last in we arrive at the house, we see Him sitting on His shoulder-high armchair Chair. His property. Peaceful. Cheery. Emanates His joy at our being home with him. He doesn’t turn, while hearing our voices and steps. He remains sitting cross-legged with clasped hands. In His elegant and simple Indian dress, pearl grey with green vest top.
To me, it is an extraordinary impression. I seem to see in His figure the synthesis of His Masters: Kirpal—strong, joyful, cheerful… and Ajaib—determined, still, quiet and balanced like a mountain. He is sitting. Without saying anything. Without moving one iota. All three of us remain speechless. As puppets, which move with the air of His breath. Then, as we expect Him to start talking, “Please sit; tonight I serve You.” Gently He tells us. We laugh and we remain silent in front of the beauty of such a Time that we really will never forget.
Bhajan.
How much meditation do we need to sit and be aware in front of a Master? I wonder every time I get the privilege and gift to sit in front of Him in the kitchen. On the evening of Christmas Eve before Nirmala’s birthday dinner, I’m going to knock on the door of Sirio and Irena and, with extreme shyness to Sirio I tell Him that I have the feeling in my heart of singing a Bhajan. It is in fact a Neapolitan poem from 1915, “the soldier in love”, which tells the story of a soldier who goes to confront the fierce war—the first world war—and who is not afraid because he is sure of the love of his beloved. That is why he sings: “you are loved, you are my life, you are the first love, and first and last you remain!” I read the poem, translated into Italian, and then I sing the Neapolitan song. Then I whisper with shyness that for me this can be performed by the disciple soldier who declares his love to his Lord.
After this, I wonder if I can continue to sing. He moves His head forward slightly to say Yes. I sing Tagore’s poem from memory—which He sang in the last retreat in Budapest—“I do not know from which Distance” with eyes closed and I dive into the sweetness of His light, energy, and vibration. At the end of the Bhajan, He makes the sign of a clap, as an expression of His pleasure. Irena requires, after a few minutes that I repeat the Neapolitan song. And so I am excited and I sing it again with more intense Love.
This Christmas I sang to the Masters, Irena and Sirio, the Bhajans from my heart. Some of them, I sung from memory and I must say that it led to profound experiences. During the singing, I felt as if, at some point, I left the words standing and followed only the sound; I entered that space very slowly, as if echoing someone else’s cares and I focused on the words and the melody. I had the feeling of being somewhere in my house in Preganziol, and also in the kitchen of Master Sirio. I felt that I was in the sound, the light, in the air.
In the morning, during the day, and in the evening, before sleep, I sang all those Bhajans that I know from memory—about a dozen of them. I have sung to the Masters, Irena, and Sirio, and also to myself, to my soul that, intoxicated, is living in the constant reminder of the true love of the Master. “It is like a drug!” says Sirio ji about divine ecstasy that you feel when you have deep internal emotions. “The more we receive, the more we would receive. Don’t ever give up.” The Bhajans that evening conclude with the Master, who takes the guitar and plays. He plays! In front of me plays a young boy of twenty years, intoxicated and glad that finally his quest is over. The Master has captured him and He is ready to serve until the end. As a brave young soldier in love, He plays and sings in an admirable way. His sound silences and sends me into ecstasy. I am transported to the early days, when, Irena and I, were in the bedroom conversing one morning. He arrived from Poggibonsi (Siena), and with such a light and delicate manner, He picked the guitar and sang two bhajans, one behind the other. I still remember: I love the Ground, and after, Darshan Dekh Jivan. At the end of the Bhajan He said: “Madams, the Festival is over!” Without saying a Word, enchanted, I went on, leaving Bobi and Bibi ji, alone.
The Bhajan. How many bhajans the Master sang in these three days? It’s the truth. More singing, I want more, ever and ever again. It’s a healthy addiction!
On Christmas morning, leading into meditation, Master Ji sings another Bhajan of Tagore, who says:
O Lord of my life, day after day
I will stay before You, face to face.
O Lord of all worlds, with hands clasped
I will stay before You face to face.
In this tumultuous world, laborious
You’re in trouble, and in the struggle
Between people hasty
I will stay before You face to face.
When my work in this world will be concluded
Only and mute, then silent
I will stay before You face to face.
The poem is heartbreaking for the quality of his words but above all for the way in which Sirio ji sings, playing the tambura. Singing, the Master manages to dissolve His whole being and whoever perceives it, gets intoxicated with love, light, peace, and divine ecstasy, enough to feel crazy. The healthy madness. During the Satsang, Master, at one point, rises up and chides me for not having kept the roaring fire. And tells me: “If you don’t know how to hold a fire lit, then what does it mean, anything else?” I remain speechless and, joyful in the intoxication of my being, I welcome His words as His way of teaching. The Master, using practical things, makes me see the spiritual way. What is outside must also be inside and opposite. We must treat the interior as the exterior. The two things must walk, travel together. It takes focus, perseverance, persistence. Nothing else. I contemplate: these are the ingredients revealed to me by Master Ji in Satsang at Christmas. At the end of the Satsang, I sang a Bhajan of Kirpal Singh—Zindagi ab ho gayi (My soul and my life are useless without You). After that morning, and for two days long, I have maintained a constant flame, adjusted both high and fair. The fireplace is in my heart, mind and consciousness; I pray to be able to keep it for as long as possible.
Departure
How many meetings with the Master Sirio I received for His grace in this splendid Christmas. How many things we shared and exchanged, often with eyes of love, with smiles, and speechless. Most, like the private interview, I was speaking—to explain to Him—the way I see things in the world around me that I create, day by day. He so lovingly, fatherly, listened to me, and eventually He always said, in a word, where I should aim for. Never get confused by others and look always to the goal.
At the end, as if in some inner design of my own—to end this magical encounter between Master and daughter disciple—I asked Him to come to greet me in the House, the place where I dwell, while staying here, if he could. After lunch when there was no hoping that more would come, He said to me: “Annji at four prepares a tea, step from you!.” Now I run to make the room, which is my Home now, cosy and warm. My home is already quite in order but I am still busy making it more ordered, since the Master comes to visit me. Prepare the table with a handkerchief of satin pink in the centre of a plate with two glasses, one high and great for Him, one short and low for me. It’s a soft armchair with small cushions and a colourful rug, hand-embroidered with blue and yellow flowers. I sit quietly on a low stool. The look. He looks out the door and He bewitches, by the beauty of the landscape. “It’s a poster!” He says. I admire Him, and while I admire, I see: He is tired, with the old look of an old man of eighty years. A little curved. Slowly pronounced, His words telling me that the House where I lived these three days was built, thanks to Sant Ajaib Singh’s blessings. It is His divine intervention that has touched the heart of good souls.
The Master stops briefly. Suddenly, after a short preparation, He tells me not to be late to leave. I agree and I hasten. Meanwhile, He returns home to His Irena. Before leaving—it is my good rule to go to Him for a last Darshan—when I am at the door, I hear him transformed back into a 20-year-old who plays guitar and sings a Bhajan never heard before: How’s it going my friend? I’m sitting on the doorstep of His house, inside the porch, and I feel that I am the most happy and fortunate woman on this earth. This song is for me! Directed entirely to me in all ways: in words, in the sound in the melody, in its meaning. This stuns me to the blood and to all the cells of the body. From head to feet. The arms, legs, face; and sighing I say again in my heart: “It’s really the Rapture! A drug, par excellence! And it is only the Master Who can know and be able to inject the souls desires.”
With grace, I greet my beloved Irena with sweet words of immense gratitude. She also fills my heart with words that I keep in my heart. Then I step over to Him so that He can return to me, a book: a biography of Master Kirpal, on which He has written a message and drawn His splendid drawing: the S of Sirio was designed as a cheerful and joyous Swan.
As I am leaving, He faces the window to give me, again and again, His Darshan, His smile, and His immense love, the love of a true Man-God. Drunk from His Bhajan, I walk backwards in Garden. He smiles. And He smiles until He sees me to the gate.
I wish heartily to everyone—satsangi or not—to every man and woman in this universe, to spend at least once in their life, a Christmas, a birth, or a rebirth, in the company of a Master such as the Holy Satguru, Sirio Dev Ji.
Sat Naam-Annji.
I’ve had computer problems lately that have strained the hay rope (: of my already fragile patience to a thread. I’d tell you about it but you don’t really want to hear it and I don’t really want to talk about it. Suffice it to say, it’s pretty much, every man–or woman–for him–or her–self out there in the lawless land of cyberspace. God help us!!
Continuing with this blogging series about the authors at All Things That Matter Press: this week’s featured author is Elizaveta Ristrova. Elizabeth has lead and contuinues to lead a very unique and interesting life. I hope you’ll enjoy reading about her and that these author blogs may inspire some of you to consider purshasing books by small press authors as the holiday season arrives. As we’ve seen, ATTMP offers a noteable variety of reading choices. The writers come from very diverse backgrounds and there is really no way to pigeon-hole them into any particular genre or category.
Continuing with the series, featuring my fellow authors at All Things That Matter Press, I’m happy to feature Abe March, whose writing is imbued with realism that comes from Abe’s real world of experience on an international scale. That being said, I detect a sense of genuine humility and maturity in this author, which is appealing in a writer. After you read his little self-portrait here, I hope you’ll be inspired to take a real look at some of his work.
