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How Autobiography of a Yogi Changed My Life
by J. Donald Walters (Swami Kriyananda)
from The Path
 

I had finished scanning the shelves at Doubleday-Doran‚ a book store in New York City‚ then turned back to go over them once again. This time‚ to my surprise‚ the first book I saw‚ standing face outward on the shelf‚ was one I hadn’t even noticed the first time. The author’s photograph on the cover affected me strangely. Never had I met anyone whose face radiated so much goodness‚ humility‚ and love. Eagerly I picked up the book and glanced again at its title:

Autobiography of a Yogi‚ by Paramhansa Yogananda. The author lived in America—in California! Was this someone at last who could help me in my search? As I started to leaf through the book‚ these words caught my attention: “Dedicated to the memory of Luther Burbank‚ an American saint.”

An American saint? But‚ how preposterous! How could anyone become a saint in this land of the “almighty dollar”? this materialistic desert? this ... I closed the book in dismay‚ returning it to its place on the shelf.

That day I bought my first book of Indian philosophy—not Autobiography of a Yogi‚ but Sir Edwin Arnold’s beautiful translation of the Bhagavad Gita. Eagerly I took this treasure home with me. For the next couple of days I fairly devoured it‚ feeling as though I were soaring in vast skies of pure wisdom.

“By this sign is [the sage] known

Being of equal grace to comrades‚ friends‚

Chance-comers‚ strangers‚ lovers‚ enemies‚

Aliens and kinsmen; loving all alike‚

Evil or good.”
 

What wonderful words! Thrilled‚ I read on:

“Yea‚ knowing Me the source of all‚ by Me

            all creatures wrought‚

The wise in spirit cleave to Me‚ into My

            being brought ...

And unto these—thus serving well‚ thus

            loving ceaselessly —

I give a mind of perfect mood‚ whereby they

            draw to Me;

And‚ all for love of them‚ within their darkened

            souls I dwell‚

And‚ with bright rays of wisdom’s lamp‚ their

            ignorance dispel.”

 My own doubts‚ too‚ were being dispelled by these marvelous teachings. I knew now with complete certainty that this was the path right for me.

The day after I finished my first reading of the Bhagavad Gita‚  I was walking down toward the subway‚ when I recalled the book I’d rejected so summarily on my last visit downtown: Autobiography of a Yogi. As I remembered that beautiful face on the cover‚ a strong urge from within prompted me to go buy it. I thrust the thought firmly out of my mind.

“That isn’t what I’m looking for‚” I told myself. Chuckling‚ I added‚ “An American saint‚ indeed!” Resolutely I continued walking toward the subway.

“How can you know what the book’s really like‚ if you won’t even read it?” came the urge again‚ not with words‚ but with unmistakable meaning.

“No!” I repeated. I then offered reasons: “I’ve got to stop reading books; I’m too intellectual as it is. Besides‚ I’m going to have to save money‚ not continually spend it!”

At that moment I reached the corner. I was proceeding toward the curb ahead of me when I felt as though an actual force were turning me left around the corner‚ and propelling me toward Fifth Avenue. I’d never experienced anything like it before. Amazed‚ I asked myself‚ “Is there something in this book that I’m meant to read?” Resisting no longer‚ I hastened eagerly in the direction of Doubleday-Doran’s.

Entering the store‚ I made straight for the book and bought it. I waited until I reached my apartment  before opening the book. And then began the most thrilling literary adventure of my life.

Autobiography of a Yogi is the story of a young Indian’s intense search for God. It describes a number of living saints that he met on his journey‚ including his great guru‚ Swami Sri Yukteswar. It also describes‚ more clearly than any other mystical work I have ever read‚ the author’s own experiences with God‚ including the highest one possible‚ samadhi‚ or mystical union. In chapter after chapter I found moving testimony to God’s living reality‚ not only in the abstraction of infinity‚ but in the hearts and lives of actual human beings. I read of how Yogananda’s prayers even for little things had been answered‚ and of how‚ by placing himself

unreservedly in God’s hands‚ his unanticipated needs had always been met. I read of intense love for God such as I myself yearned to possess; of a relationship with the Lord more intimate‚ more dear than I had dared to imagine possible.

Until now I had supposed that a life of devotion might give one‚ at best‚ a little peace of mind. But here‚ suddenly‚ I discovered that the fruit of spiritual living is a joy beyond human imagination!

Until recently I had doubted the value of prayer‚ except perhaps as a means of uplifting oneself. But now I learned‚ and could not for a moment doubt‚ that God related individually‚ lovingly‚ to every seeker.

Miracles abound in this book. Many of these‚ I confess‚ were quite beyond my powers of acceptance at the time. But instead of dismissing them‚ as I would certainly have done if I’d read of them in most other books‚ I suspended my incredulity. For the spirit of this story was so deeply honest‚ so transparently innocent of pride or impure motive that it was impossible for me to doubt that its author believed implicitly every word he had written. Never before had I encountered a spirit so clearly truthful‚ so filled with goodness and joy. Every page seemed radiant with light. Reading Autobiography of a Yogi‚ I alternated between tears and laughter: tears of pure joy; laughter of even greater joy! For three days I scarcely ate or slept. When I walked it was almost on tiptoe‚ as though in an ecstatic dream.

What this book described‚ finally‚ was the highest of sciences‚ Kriya Yoga‚ a technique that enables the seeker to advance rapidly on the path of meditation. I‚ who wanted so desperately to learn how to meditate‚ felt all the excitement of one who has found a treasure map‚ the treasure in this case being a divine one buried deep within my own self!

Autobiography of a Yogi is the greatest book I have ever read. One perusal of it was enough to change my entire life. From that time on my break with the past was complete. I resolved in the smallest detail of my life to follow Paramhansa Yogananda’s teaching.

Finding that he recommended a vegetarian diet‚ I immediately renounced meat‚ fish‚ and fowl. He could have recommended a diet of bread and water and I’d have obeyed him without a qualm.

For‚ more than anything else‚ what this book gave me was the conviction that in Yogananda I had found my guru‚ my spiritual teacher for all time to come. A few days earlier I hadn’t even known this strange word‚ guru. I hadn’t known anything about yoga‚ or reincarnation‚ or karma‚ or almost any of the basic precepts of Indian philosophy. Now incredibly‚ I felt such deep‚ utter trust in another human being that‚ ignorant though I was of his philosophy‚ I was willing to follow him to the end of life. And while I had yet to meet him‚ I felt that he was the truest friend I had ever known.

As soon as I finished reading Autobiography of a Yogi‚ my impulse was to jump onto the next bus bound for California. Not wanting to act impulsively‚ however‚ I waited a whole day! I even debated for several hours whether it might not be wiser for me to go to sea first‚ and become a merchant seaman as I’d planned‚ and there to meditate a few months before making this important decision. But of course I knew already that it was the right decision. The following day I packed my bag and I took the next westward-bound bus available. Thereafter‚ for four days and four nights‚ my home was a succession of buses.

I arrived in Los Angeles on the morning of Saturday‚ September 11‚ 1948‚ exhausted from my long journey. There I took advantage of the first opportunity I’d had in four days to shave‚ bathe‚ and sleep in a hotel. The next day‚ I checked my bag at the bus depot‚ and proceeded to 4860 Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood‚ where the Self-Realization Fellowship Church of All Religions was located. It was about three o’clock in the afternoon. The morning service had long since ended‚ and‚ apart from a small scattering of people‚ the building was empty. A lady greeted me from behind a long table at the back of the room.

“May I help you?”

I explained my mission.

 “Oh‚ I’m afraid you couldn’t possibly see him today. His time is completely filled.”

I was growing more desperate by the minute. “When can I see him?”

She consulted a small book before her on the table. “His appointments are fully booked for the next two and a half months.”

“But I’ve come all the way from New York just for this!”

“Have you?” She smiled sympathetically. “How did you hear about him?”

“I read his autobiography a few days ago.”

“So recently! And you came—just—like that?” She cooled a little. “Usually people write first. Didn’t you write?” Bleakly I confessed I hadn’t even thought of doing so.

“Well‚ I’m sorry‚ but you can’t see him for another two and a half months. In the meantime‚” she continued‚ brightening a little‚ “you can study his lessons‚ and attend the services here.”

Morosely I wandered about the church‚ studying the furnishings‚ the architecture‚ the stained-glass windows. It was an attractive chapel‚ large enough to seat over one hundred people‚ and invitingly peaceful. An excellent place‚ I thought‚ for quiet meditation. But my own mind was hardly quiet or meditative. It was in turmoil.

“You must take me!” I prayed. “You must! This means my whole life to me!”

Two or three of the people sitting in the church were monks whose residence was the headquarters of Self-Realization Fellowship on Mt. Washington‚ in the Highland Park section of Los Angeles. I spoke to one of them. Norman Paulsen his name was; tall and well-built‚ his eyes were yet gentle and kind. He talked a little about their way of life at Mt. Washington‚ and their relation‚ as disciples‚ to Paramhansa Yogananda. “We call him‚ ‘Master‚’” he told me. From Autobiography of a Yogi I knew already that this appellation‚ which Yogananda used also in reference to his own guru‚ denoted reverence‚ not menial subservience.

How Norman’s description of Mt. Washington attracted me! I simply had to become a part of this wonderful way of life. It was where I belonged. It was my home.

Norman pointed out two young men sitting quietly farther back in the church.

“They want to join‚ too‚” he remarked.

“How long have they been waiting?”

“Oh‚ not long. A few months.”

Disconsolately I wandered about awhile longer. Finally it occurred to me—novel thought!—that perhaps I simply wasn’t ready‚ and that for this reason the doors weren’t opening for me. If this were true‚ I decided‚ I’d just go live in the hills near Hollywood‚ come to the services regularly‚ study the lessons‚ and—I sighed—wait. When I was ready‚ the Master would know it‚ and would summon me.

With this resolution in mind‚ and with no small disappointment in my heart‚ I made for the door.

No doubt I’d needed this lesson in humility. Perhaps things had always gone too easily for me. Perhaps I was too confident. At any rate‚ the moment I accepted the

thought that I actually might not be spiritually ready‚ the situation changed dramatically. I had reached the door when Yogananda’s secretary came up from behind me.

“Since you’ve come such a long way‚” she said‚ “I’ll ask Master if he’d be willing to see you today.”

She returned a few minutes later.

“Master will see you next.”

Shortly thereafter I was ushered into a small sitting room. The Master was standing there‚ speaking to a disciple in a white robe. As the young man was about to leave‚ he knelt to touch the Master’s feet. This was‚ I knew from Yogananda’s book‚ a traditional gesture of reverence among Indians; it is bestowed on parents and other elders as well as on one’s guru. A moment later‚ the Master and I were alone.

What large‚ lustrous eyes now greeted me! What a compassionate smile! Never before had I seen such divine beauty in a human face. The Master seated himself on a chair‚ and motioned me to a sofa beside him.

“What may I do for you?”

How fraught with meaning these gentle words! “I want to be your disciple!” The reply welled up irresistibly from my heart. Never had I expected to utter such words to another human being.

The Master smiled gently. There ensued a long discussion‚ interspersed by long silences‚ during which he held his eyes half open‚ half closed—”reading” me‚ as I well knew.

Over and over again in my heart I prayed desperately‚ “You must take me! I know that you know my thoughts. I can’t say it outwardly; I’d only weep. But you must accept me. You must!”

Early in the conversation he told me‚ “I agreed to see you only because Divine Mother told me to. I want you to know that. It isn’t because you’ve come from so far. Two weeks ago a lady flew here all the way from Sweden after reading my book‚ but I wouldn’t see her. I do only what God tells me to do.” He reiterated‚ “Divine Mother told me to see you.”

“Divine Mother‚” as I already knew from reading his book‚ was the way he often referred to God‚ Who‚ he said‚ embraces both the male and female principles.

There followed some discussion of my past. He appeared pleased with my replies‚ and with my truthfulness. “I knew that already‚” he once remarked‚ indicating that he was only testing me to see if I would answer him truthfully. Again a long silence‚ while I prayed ardently to be accepted.

“I am taking fewer people now‚” he said.

I gulped. Was this remark intended to prepare me for a letdown?

I told him I simply could see nothing for myself in marriage‚ or in a worldly life. “I’m sure it’s fine for many people‚” I said‚ “but I don’t want it for myself.”

He shook his head. “It isn’t as fine for anybody as people like to make out. God‚ for everyone‚ is the only answer!” He went on to tell me a few stories of the disillusionments he had witnessed. Then again‚ silence.

At one point in our discussion he asked me how I had liked his book.

“Oh‚ it was wonderful!”

“That’s because it has my vibrations in it‚” he replied simply.

Vibrations? I’d never thought of books as possessing “vibrations” before. But‚ clearly‚ I had found his book almost alive in its power to convey‚ not merely ideas‚ but new states of awareness.

Incongruously‚ even absurdly‚ it now occurred to me that he might be more willing to take me if he felt I could be of some practical use to his work. And what did I know? Only writing. But that‚ surely‚ was better than nothing. Perhaps he had a need for people with writing skills. To demonstrate my ability‚ I said:

“Sir‚ I found several split infinitives in your book.” A twenty-two-year-old‚ literarily untried‚ but already a budding editor! I’ve never lived down this faux pas! But Master took it with a surprised‚ then a humorous‚ smile. The motive for my remark was transparent to him.

More silence.

More prayers.

“All right‚” he said at last. “You have good karma. You may join us.”

“Oh‚ but I can wait!” I blurted out‚ hoping he wasn’t taking me only because I hadn’t yet found any other place to stay.

“No‚” he smiled. “You have good karma‚ otherwise I wouldn’t accept you.”

Gazing at me with deep love‚ he then said‚ “I give you my unconditional love.”

Immortal promise! I couldn’t begin to fathom the depth of meaning in those marvelous words.

“Will you give me your unconditional love?”

“Yes!”

“And will you also give me your unconditional obedience?”

Desperate though my desire was to be accepted by him‚ I wanted to be utterly honest. “Suppose‚” I asked‚ “sometime‚ I think you’re wrong?”

“I will never ask anything of you‚” he replied solemnly‚ “that God does not tell me to ask.” He continued:

“When I met my master‚ Sri Yukteswar‚ he said to me‚ ‘Allow me to discipline you.’ ‘Why‚ Sir?’ I inquired. ‘Because‚’ he answered‚ ‘in the beginning of the spiritual path one’s will is guided by whims and fancies. Mine was‚ too‚ until I met my guru‚ Lahiri Mahasaya. It was only when I attuned my will to his wisdom-guided will that I found true freedom.’ In the same way‚ if you will tune your will to mine‚ you‚ too‚ will find freedom.

To act only on the inspiration of whims and fancies is not freedom‚ but bondage. Only by doing God’s will can you become truly free.”

“I see‚” I replied thoughtfully. Then from my heart I said‚ “I give you my unconditional obedience!”

My Guru continued: “When I met my master‚ he gave me his unconditional love as I have given you mine. He then asked me to love him in the same way‚ unconditionally. But I replied‚ ‘Sir‚ what if I should ever find you less than a Christ like master? Could I still love you in the same way?’ My master looked at me sternly. ‘I don’t want your love‚’ he said. ‘It stinks!’”

“I understand‚ Sir‚” I assured him. He had struck at the heart of my greatest weakness: intellectual doubt. With deep feeling I said to him‚ “I give you my unconditional love!”

He went on to give me various instructions.

“Now‚ then‚ come kneel before me.”

I did so. He made me repeat‚ in the name of God‚ Jesus Christ‚ and our line of gurus‚ the vows of discipleship and of renunciation.

Next he placed the forefinger of his right hand on my chest‚ over the heart. For at least two minutes his arm vibrated‚ almost violently. Incredibly‚ from that moment onward‚ my consciousness‚ in some all-penetrating manner‚ was transformed.

I left his interview room in a daze. Norman‚ on hearing the news of my acceptance‚ embraced me lovingly. It was unusual‚ to say the least‚ for a disciple to be accepted so soon. A few moments later‚ Master came out from behind the open curtain on the lecture platform. Smiling at us quietly‚ he said:

“We have a new brother.”

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