Audio By Carbonatix
part 1 of 2
Have you heard the news?”
Stephanie Mines was startled by the young woman’s question. She recognized her in the aisles of the health food store as another devotee of the Swami Amar Jyoti, whose Sacred Mountain Ashram is west of Boulder, near the small mountain town of Gold Hill. She hadn’t tried to talk with her, though; Stephanie was currently out of favor with the Hindu holy man, and his followers were expected to shun her.
Instead, the young woman walked up smiling and lightly asked her question. “Have you heard the news?”
“No,” Stephanie replied cautiously. “What news?”
As casually as she might recite a shopping list, the woman told her that the swami had been demanding sex from several of his female disciples. Some were married, their husbands unaware of the spiritual leader’s rather earthly lusts. And one of the women, a favorite companion of the guru, had been ordered to have two secret abortions rather than bear his illegitimate children.
It couldn’t be true, Stephanie thought. For fifteen years she had been a devoted follower of the Swami Amar Jyoti. He was so gentle and loving, so spiritually advanced that he would insist that a fly entering the ashram be captured and released unharmed. He would never betray the trust of his devotees for common sex.
Hadn’t the swami always intimated that he led a life of sexual abstinence, that desires of the flesh interfered with the pursuit of spiritual enlightenment? He wore immaculate white clothing to signify his purity and hinted broadly at his own divinity. To many he wasn’t just the voice of God, he was God.
“Desire is really poverty of the soul,” he had said. “The more we desire, the more we degrade. Desires are disturbing, disharmonizing and tension-producing.”
“When you evolve further,” he told his disciples, “you will see that you have less desires automatically. You’ll be lighter, and your problems less.”
Stephanie had hung on the swami’s every word; given up love and friendships at his suggestion; allowed his “guidance” to come between herself and her daughter.
She had donated more money and time than she could afford, just to be near him. And she had agonized–weeping through sleepless nights–after committing some small transgression and being banished from his presence.
Yet whatever pain he caused her, she was convinced he did it for her spiritual growth. And there had always been some way to ingratiate herself back into his capricious favor. In fact, she had been awaiting word from the swami’s assistants that she was forgiven once again when the woman approached with her horrible rumor.
“No,” Stephanie cried, shaking her head. “It’s not true. You’re making it up.”
“Oh, but it is true,” the woman assured her. So far only a few of the swami’s devotees knew the story, she said, but the liaisons had been going on for years. The women he slept with had been ordered to keep it quiet or risk banishment–or worse. Stephanie kept looking at the woman, groping for a response but unable to think clearly. The revelations triggered painful memories of a different man who had betrayed Stephanie’s trust and love and then warned her not to tell. That man was her father, and the horrible things he had done to her left a deep wound that four decades later still had not healed. As a little girl growing up in the Bronx in the Fifties, Stephanie was told by her father to keep to her own kind. Her family was poor and Jewish and lived in an old, gray tenement surrounded by identical buildings filled with poor Italians, poor Puerto Ricans, poor blacks.
Outside the tiny apartment were all sorts of dangers, Sydney Mines warned, especially evil men who might catch an unsuspecting little girl and do terrible, unspeakable things if he wasn’t around to protect her.
Sydney wasn’t around much. He was a real ladies’ man, proud of his dark good looks, bedroom eyes and thick, wavy hair. Without a word, he’d disappear for months, then show up at the door begging forgiveness. But his contrition was always short-lived.
He was as big as he was good-looking–more than six feet tall and well over two hundred pounds of solid muscle. He angered easily and wasn’t the sort of guy to let his size stop him from beating his wife and kids. He was cruel and petty. If the house was not cleaned to his liking, or his food not cooked to perfection, he would erupt violently at his wife. And he didn’t stop with her.
If the garbage wasn’t taken out when he wanted, he’d throw it on Stephanie. Or if there wasn’t enough milk in the refrigerator for his breakfast, he’d make her stand still while he poured the remains on her head. He saved his worst for when his wife left the house. Stephanie was only five the first time her father raped her. Each time he finished, he threatened her to never reveal “our secret.” Stephanie thought that it was somehow her fault; that if she could only be a better little girl, her father would stop punishing her. Every time he went away, she prayed that a “good daddy” would return, and when he did, all the wrongs would be made right.
There were only two places in the world where Stephanie felt safe. One was the synagogue, which she insisted on attending every Friday and Saturday evening. No one dared hurt her there, and she could be alone with her thoughts.
Her other sanctuary was school. She found emotional nourishment on the musty shelves of libraries, fantasy lives in the pages of books like Little Women. She discovered the poetry of Yeats and Shelley and Dickinson, and took solace in their ability to transmute suffering into beauty. Stephanie worked hard to get good grades, hoping her father would recognize what an unusual child he had, how gifted, how worthy of being loved. She wrote poetry, including “Flute Woman” when she was ten:
“In the midst of tragedy
her hidden song holes fill with air sound
Inside her flute body she cries
Of losses she can’t name.”
Her father sneered at her efforts.
When she was old enough to leave the apartment on her own, Stephanie comforted herself by going on long walks. She would creep up to the windows of other people’s homes, watching enviously as fathers played with their giggling children and families sat together to read books. No one had ever read a story to her. The rapes continued for ten years. A shy, awkward teenager, Stephanie devoted herself to her books and kept up her grades, even while working from the age of thirteen on at a dry-cleaning shop to help support her family. On Stephanie’s sixteenth birthday, her father surprised her by throwing a small party in his apartment, where he had moved after a fight with her mother. He even invited her brother and a few of her friends. Sydney Miles had never done anything so generous for his daughter before.
The next day he disappeared without so much as a goodbye. Stephanie would never see him again, but he would be with her always.
Thirteen years later, in 1979, Stephanie walked into the Philosopher’s Stone bookstore in San Francisco. Her first book, Belly Poems (so named because they came from the gut) had just been published under a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts. She wanted to give an autographed copy to the bookstore’s owners, who’d supported her.
“I hoist this downtrodden pain over my shoulders
And send it hurtling into the wailing sea.
I send my motherless, fatherless pain shattering
Over the cliff’s edge into the forsaken valley
Where useless machines rot.
Go! Be gone from me.
I am a healthy woman who is lovers with freedom.”
All in all, Stephanie thought of herself as happy and content. As free. Her relationships with men had been rocky–the history professor she’d married at nineteen to get out of her mother’s house, then the married jazz singer–but her work was going well. After earning a master’s in creative writing at San Francisco State in 1971, she’d found kindred spirits in the Noe Valley arts community. The father of her seven-year-old daughter, Sierra, was another writer and sometime lover. And in 1977 she had won the prestigious Henry Jackson Award from the San Francisco Foundation for her poem “The Nocturnes.”
She thought she didn’t need anything more in her life, except perhaps to resolve this thing with her father. She couldn’t seem to get out from under his shadow. At every important moment of her life–when she bore her child, whenever she tried to read her poetry in front of people–he’d be there in the back of her mind, angry and watching.
Also in the Philosopher’s Stone that day was a young man named Kess Fry, a student of a Hindu guru, the Swami Amar Jyoti. Fry had compiled notes and tapes of the guru’s lectures into a book that he wanted the bookstore to carry. He handed a copy to Stephanie.
Opening the cover, she was immediately taken by a photograph of a small, dark-complected man with luminous eyes and shoulder-length hair. As she skimmed the pages, the holy man was speaking straight to her.
A week later Stephanie drove to an ashram in the hills, where she spent the next five days listening to the swami and crying her eyes out.
From his chair above the adoring devotees, including a beautiful woman, Diana, who sat at his feet and served his tea, the swami told delightful tales from the Hindu tradition of the baby god Krishna and the judicious Lord Rama. Stephanie sat enthralled, every bit the little girl who had peered in the windows of her neighbors’ homes, wishing someone would read her a story.
“Love itself is a purifying factor,” the guru said. “All religions have agreed that purification lifts you to a higher state of life. Self-purification always goes against personal desires except the legitimate ones, which are guided by Dharma [the path of righteousness].”
He told those gathered before him that he knew the path each individual should take. If they would but surrender their personal lives and choices to his guidance, he would show them the way to God and eternal love.
Before she left the retreat, Stephanie decided to follow the path the guru set before her.
According to early literature published by his followers, the Swami Amar Jyoti was a younger son of a large, wealthy family. He’d dropped out of college to become a seeker of knowledge. The details of his subsequent enlightenment were more vague; different devotees heard different versions. In one account, he wandered the Himalayas for ten years and emerged a Hindu holy man. In another, he went to the cities to learn at the knee of the masters and was recognized by them as spiritually advanced. In yet another version, he was self-enlightened and gave himself the name Amar Jyoti, which means Vessel of Light. Most devotees never heard him talk about having had his own teacher, an unusual departure from the lineage-conscious religion. But after the Beatles’ flirtation with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi brought meditation into the mainstream, there had been many departures from the ancient traditions. Eastern holy men had flocked to this country, many with no more qualification than a white robe and a passing acquaintance with Hindu mysticism. But young, mostly white, mostly well-educated, middle-class Americans were desperately convinced they needed the spiritual guidance of gurus–and would pay good money to get it. In 1972, at the age of 44, the Swami Amar Jyoti came to America with the financial backing of a wealthy Michigan couple. His followers quickly grew to about a thousand, their ranks including millionaire businessmen, doctors, engineers, housewives, secretaries, artists and students. With their donations and through sales of books, tapes and calendars based on his teachings, the guru established ashrams in California, Arizona, Michigan, New Zealand, India and Gold Hill, Colorado.
In 1981 the swami sold his ashram in California and moved the headquarters of his nonprofit organization, Truth Consciousness Inc., to the Sacred Mountain Ashram outside of Gold Hill. Many of his devotees followed him there. Diana, the beautiful woman from the California ashram, came. At the swami’s invitation, Marcia Richardson, a woman who’d survived her own years with a demanding father, left the Arizona ashram and moved to Gold Hill. Tim Rea, who had met the swami at a Detroit psychic fair in 1974, left Michigan with his wife for Colorado. Stephanie Mines also moved to stay near the guru, taking a job as a secretary and living with her daughter in Boulder, a 45-minute drive from Sacred Mountain.
The Sacred Mountain Ashram was built on a beautiful, twelve-acre piece of property surrounded by mountains and forests. Its grounds were laced with trails that led to secluded spots for quiet reflection. Two houses, one for each sex, were built for the ashramites–the men and women allowed to live closest to the guru. Two older houses that were already on the property housed other men and women who, like Marcia and Tim and his wife, had been invited to live on the grounds. The swami had his own cottage where he would grant interviews to deserving devotees or to which ashramite women would sometimes be called at night to “rub his feet.”
The ashram itself was a domed structure covered with adobelike material. Its interior rooms were austere but elegant, the walls tastefully adorned with artwork meant to instill spirituality and the floors covered with a thick carpet to promote meditation. On a raised platform in the large communion room sat the guru’s chair and a table perpetually adorned with fresh flowers. There were separate entrances for the guru, the ashramites and those who lived on the grounds or in town, like Stephanie. The devotees would sit on the floor in front of the swami–the most favored were given the closest spots–while he conducted satsang, or communion with truth, twice a week. If the swami was away on one of his many trips, a taped message was played over the sound system.
The guru traveled often–to Europe, Asia, New Zealand and all over the Americas, giving lectures, touring and visiting his other ashrams. Whenever another trip was announced, there would be a plea for extra contributions so that certain disciples could share the wonderful experience and help the swami “carry on his work.” If it seemed that the youngest and most beautiful women were always picked to accompany him, well, that was God’s business, the devotees thought.
When he traveled abroad, the American ashrams would receive postcards sending greetings and his love. Which ashram he would visit first upon returning to this country was always a great mystery; the swami told his disciples he would choose the most devoted ashram by picking up the vibes of those who prayed the hardest, meditated the most and kept their ashrams the cleanest. The devotees competed frantically for the honor.
But then, they always worked hard at the Sacred Mountain ashram. The swami’s followers were assigned times to clean, cook or work on the grounds. Punctuality was a must–everything started on time at Sacred Mountain.
All followers were encouraged to rid themselves of possessions–often by selling them and donating the proceeds to Truth Consciousness. They were expected to embrace a simple vegetarian lifestyle with daily meditation and absolute devotion to the guru. They gave up smoking, drinking and drugs, and had to ask the guru’s permission for just about any move they made, on matters ranging from employment to relationships with the opposite sex.
The sexes were studiously segregated. Men were expected to appear neat and clean. They weren’t supposed to talk to the women or even gaze or smile at them. Women dressed modestly in full skirts and long-sleeved blouses, in winter and summer. They spoke quietly, and avoided eye contact with men by keeping their heads bowed.
There were a great many rules at the ashram, and the guru expected absolute obedience to all of them. Even when he was gone, his spies would report back on the actions of his followers. Although the swami was usually tolerant of minor infractions by newcomers, his mercurial temper would soar at the slightest misstep by a longtime devotee. A common punishment was banishment–a devastating fate for disciples who had given their lives to the guru. Word would come down that “the master does not want to see you,” and the sinner would be forbidden to attend satsang or to work on the property when the master was present. Not even those living on the grounds were immune, as Marcia Richardson frequently discovered. Banished, she would spend sleepless nights and many tears worrying about how to get back in the master’s good graces.
Sometimes the swami chose to simply humiliate the target of his anger. One day Stephanie walked into the ashram and discovered that he found her book offensive–because the stomach pictured on the cover was her own, she later learned.
“Oh, here’s the great author,” he noted with a smirk to the other devotees. “She wrote Belly Poems,” he said, erupting into laughter.
It must be my fault, Stephanie thought. What had possessed her to write such a stupid book? The longer she was with the guru, the less she trusted her instincts. One evening she sat listening to a story he was telling about Krishna, the Hindu deity of love. With the first two fingers of each hand, the swami motioned as if drawing circles around his eyes, and announced, “Like Krishna, I too have almond eyes.” He moved his hands to caress his hair and said, “And like Krishna, I have long, flowing hair.” But ever so humbly, he then added, “I would never tell you that I am Krishna; you must make up your own minds.”
Stephanie’s first thought was that the swami’s ego had gotten the better of him. Then she immediately felt ashamed. Who was she to question the guru?
Underlying her devotion to him was a genuine sense of fear. The swami saw to it that his disciples were often reminded of the Guru-gita, a Hindu scripture that warns that the unfaithful who abandon their guru will be cast into darkness–not just in this lifetime, but for lifetimes to come.
Swami Amar Jyoti ensured that his disciples’ first loyalty was to him. At one long retreat, he suddenly addressed the women in a teasing voice: “Are we missing our children?”
“Oh, no, Swamiji,” Stephanie chimed in along with the other women, suddenly fearful that he had read her mind. Her fears seemed confirmed during the later satsang, when he reminded the devotees that those who truly seek spiritual enlightenment know to put God before husbands, wives and children.
Swami Amar Jyoti rarely made demands. Instead, he framed his opinions as questions that left no doubt as to the response he expected. Often when Stephanie found herself attracted to a man in town, she would tell the guru, who would then ask: “Don’t you think it’s better not to see this man? He may not be good for you.”
Her only choice was to reply, “Yes, Swamiji,” and break off the relationship. The few times she resisted or hesitated, she was banished until she wrote a letter apologizing and explaining that she was no longer seeing the man.
While Stephanie resented some of the guru’s suggestions–he’d told her to give up her writing, and implied that she’d somehow provoked her father into violence and incest–she also knew that she had benefited greatly from his spiritual leadership. For one thing, she was the healthiest she had ever been. She rose daily at 4 a.m. for several hours of meditation and yoga. She ate better and didn’t use drugs or alcohol. She’d even quit smoking.
In 1984 Stephanie quit her secretarial job, too. Ten years earlier she had taken up Jin Shin Jyutsu, a Japanese healing art similar to acupressure; as that practice picked up, she discovered she had a gift for helping people talk through their troubles. She asked the guru for permission to return to college, which he gave with a wave of his hand.
Stephanie pursued a doctorate in psychology at the University of Colorado. Her thesis was the treatment of people with multiple physical and mental disabilities through a combination of movement, Oriental healing arts and traditional psychology. In 1986 she was awarded her Ph.D. It felt wonderful. People she respected on her doctoral review panel told Stephanie that she was smart and her opinions were valid. It was a far cry from the life she knew at the ashram, but she had to give the guru credit: All those sacrifices had taught her how to focus her energy.
Stephanie soon had a lively practice as a psychotherapist. She loved her work, and was making more money than she’d ever dreamed possible. She’d resigned herself to never resolving her issues with her father. She had tried to tell his family about her Ph.D., but they wanted nothing to do with her. Now she kept her telephone number unlisted, for fear that her father would show up one day, a hateful old man with no one else to take care of him.
In 1988 Swami Amar Jyoti suddenly invited her to come live in the ashram community. She couldn’t believe it. During all those years when she had been struggling as a single mom on a secretary’s salary, she had dreamed of such an invitation. But now she wasn’t sure she wanted to go. Besides, there was something she had neglected to tell the guru: She was pregnant with her second child.
When the guru found out about her pregnancy, Stephanie received a call telling her that she was banished once more. There was no question of her moving to the ashram now.
But for the first time since Stephanie had committed herself to the guru’s path, she didn’t really mind her punishment. She was saddened, because she still thought of Swamiji as her spiritual guide, and she was grateful for all he had taught her about meditation and introspection. But there was so much going on in her life that she didn’t have time for tears. When the swami left suddenly for India at the end of 1989, she wrote him a letter, hoping to hear that he was prepared to forgive her. And then she got on with her life.
She had a new baby, Rachel. And she’d recently remet Bob Yuhnke, a lawyer with the Environmental Defense Fund whom she’d fallen in love with many years earlier but had dropped at the guru’s insistence. They were still just friends, but she was hoping for more. She was even writing poetry again: the Sacred Wound Poems, about healing from sexual abuse.
“She searched for him in all the darknesses she could find.
In men grown sad and useless, she sought him;
In the inversion of the outcast,
and in the dance of the rebels,
she sought him
whom she could never know.”
end of part 1
