Be Awake. Be Aware. Be in Love.

“O my Lord, if I worship you from fear of hell, burn me in hell.”

— Rabi’a al-Adawiyya

“Be awake. Be aware. Be in love.” — Eddie

---

We are a football family. More specifically, we are a Baltimore Ravens family, which means that what happens on a Sunday afternoon can affect the mood in our house well into Monday. The Ravens opened the season by beating the Indianapolis Colts 41–23. This past Sunday they led the New Orleans Saints, and then, in the final minutes, they lost 24–17. I sat there stunned. It is almost ridiculous how attached we can become to a team. I had already begun to enjoy a win that had not happened yet.

The autumn equinox arrived two days later. The days are growing shorter, and all around my house the animals are busy with preparations of their own. Last weekend, a friend and I went to a neighboring farm, where I found gourds and pumpkins in every color and size, hay bales large and small, scarecrows, a metal scarecrow, and a bundle of colorful dried corn. We got it all into my sports car, although I am still not entirely sure how. Back home I made one fall setting at my front steps and another up by the street around my mailbox. I set out the corn, tucked the metal scarecrow into the hay, and stood a large cornstalk behind the mailbox. It still had ears of corn on it.

My house sits among acres of tall trees. I basically live in a forest, so the idea that I could place edible corn neatly outside and have it remain untouched was a bit far-fetched. A few days later, I went out to walk with friends and found stripped cobs and the large stalk knocked to the ground. I have no idea which of my neighbors came to dinner. I only know that they recognized food when they saw it. I had been admiring my decorations; they were preparing for winter.

I was amused by the corn, considerably less amused by the Ravens, and aware that I had done something similar with both. I saw an arrangement that would stay put and a lead that would hold. The forest and the Saints were paying no attention to my plans. Then Eddie, whom I trust deeply, said to me this week, “Be awake. Be aware. Be in love.” I have been carrying those words around ever since, trying to understand what they ask of me when life stops going the way I pictured it.

I find myself thinking back to our days on the Chesapeake. When I was little, my family spent nearly every weekend on the Chesapeake from late spring through fall. My grandfather had a sailboat named Babs. I still do not know why he called her that. Most weekends, we drove to the marina, changed in the boathouse, loaded coolers of food and drinks, and went out for the day. My brother Ned was my Irish twin, only eleven months and three weeks younger than me. We played below, where there was seating, a huge bed, and even a toilet. Once the motor was off and the sails were up, I was sometimes allowed to take the tiller. Other times I took off my boat shoes and sat at the front or along the side in my bathing suit and bright orange life preserver, dangling my bare feet in the water as we flew across the Bay. I enjoyed those days without understanding how much depended on my grandfather’s watchfulness. Looking back, I see love in his attention, and a way to understand Eddie’s words now.

On the sunny days my grandfather would call, “Coming about!” from the tiller. The boat was turning, and we knew to duck if we were standing because the boom would sweep across. Ned and I were usually far forward, inside the rail, with our bare feet in the water. I can still hear my grandfather’s voice cutting through the wind. He was paying attention to the sails, to the Bay, and to us. That was part of why I could sit there in my orange life preserver and feel so free.

Another day, while we were anchored and swimming in the Bay, my grandfather suddenly yelled for us to get out of the water. I was hurried aboard, lifted quickly out of the water by my grandfather's strong arms, but my mother was still floating with life preservers beneath her legs. My grandfather told her very calmly not to move, to stay perfectly still. I can see the terror on her face even now. From my place on the boat, she looked so small in the water, and I was frightened by how vulnerable she seemed. It may have been only a few moments before they pulled her aboard, but to me it felt like minutes. They told me afterward that stingrays had passed beneath her. I have never been certain what it was; I do remember how relieved I was when she was safely back in the boat.

There was a storm while we were out on Babs that I remember even more clearly. I came up the stairs from below, although I had been told to stay below deck. A wave rose so high that I wanted to run to the front of the boat to see it. I was not especially afraid. Then I turned and saw my stepfather vomiting over the side of the boat. My grandfather was at the tiller, the motor running, trying to get us safely back to shore. He saw me getting ready to step onto the deck from the stairs, and I saw the worry on his face. “Kelly, go and stay below!” he yelled. I went back down below just as the boat rolled so far that the water rose to the porthole. I did not understand the danger until I was much older.

Years later, I saw Ned for the last time. He was painfully thin from AIDS. I grabbed his arm and said, “If you don’t come back and tell me you are okay, I will never, never know peace.” I meant every word. He died just three days later, six weeks after turning thirty-one, and we scattered his ashes in the Chesapeake, where we had spent so much of our childhood. The Bay carried his ashes toward the ocean. I believe the ocean of God’s Love carried him Home.

And Ned did answer me. One day while I was running errands, I came out of the grocery store and found my van’s headlights on. It happened again at CVS. They were not automatic, and I always turned them off. At the library, I switched them off, sat on my hands, and said aloud, “My lights are off.” I got out, locked the van, and checked again before going inside to return my children’s books. When I turned toward the entrance, the headlights were shining brightly. I knew Ned was telling me he was okay.

I still wish I could sit beside him on Babs. The lights did not bring him back, but they answered the question I had put to him. When I picture the Bay carrying his ashes toward the ocean, I remember that afternoon at the library, too. I believe he was held in a Love larger than anything I could see from the shore.

Kathy once described each of us as a twig on one living tree. Every twig has its own shape, yet it draws its life from the whole. She spoke of a twig dying and of a person losing the body and merging with the whole. “The flow of life is in it,” She said. I think of Her words when I walk among the tall trees at home and when I remember Ned entering the Bay. The forest and the water have become different ways for me to picture the same Love.

I cannot be awake to this life only when my team is winning or the water is smooth. My grandfather’s care gives me a way to understand that. He paid attention to us through the whole day, including the parts he could not control. I want to bring that kind of care to the people in my own life, even when I am disappointed or tired.

Kathy had a way of turning familiar words around. “I’ve risen in love,” She once said, wondering why we speak of falling. Eddie’s words help me bring that into everyday life through bhakti, love and devotion, beginning with how I give my attention to the person in front of me. In an ordinary conversation, I can practice this quietly within myself. Be awake: be here with this person. Be aware: if I feel irritated or drained, notice what is happening within me and return to listening. Sometimes I need a little space before I can give willingly. When I need to stay, I can ask God for help inwardly and return to the Names. If I leave and speak unkindly about the person I wanted to help, I may add hurt where I hoped to offer love. That is another moment to become aware and return to what Eddie said. Be in love: keep learning to give freely, to understand this person’s experience, and to love the moment we are sharing. Even in difficulty, I can say inwardly, “Thank You. Help me learn to love here.” Kathy said, “Everything you do is with God, in God, is for God.” She also reminded us that we were babies on this path, including Herself. I am still learning, and Eddie’s words remind me where to return.

I do not have to wait until all my feelings are settled to begin. Kathy also said the atmosphere we create has to hold “both sides of the coin.” I can be glad that I had all those summers on the Bay and still wish Ned were here. I can enjoy the color of my fall decorations and laugh when the animals carry away the corn. And I can care deeply about a football game without letting the loss decide what kind of person I will be for the rest of the day. Acceptance, as I understand Her, does not ask me to flatten any of those feelings. It asks me to stay awake inside them and keep turning toward Love.

What I practice with the person in front of me comes with me when I sit down to meditate. If I spend the day nursing irritation, I bring that into the chair too. Kathy taught us to create an atmosphere for meditation, and I am beginning to understand how much that includes the way I live with others. In a Satsang about living that atmosphere, She said, “It’s an existence. It’s a breathing. It’s our life.” Kathy taught us to remember the Master during the day, so that when we sit down, we have already begun to turn toward Her. I am beginning to understand why Kathy told me I would do more good in the chair: the love I want to bring to others is what I am learning to open myself to there.

One day Kathy said, “God wants you!” and then, “Let’s act like we want God!” I hear Her when I see how easily my attention goes to a game, a worry, or the story I have already made up about tomorrow. I can stop and remember Her while I am still standing in my kitchen. I can choose what I keep feeding my mind. Those small returns during the day help me come to the chair ready to give Her my attention.

In Die to Live, Maharaj Charan Singh says that we build the atmosphere for our next meditation throughout the day. Satsang, seva, spiritual reading, and remembering the Master help me do that. Seva, selfless service, gives me another way to practice offering my attention with love. His teaching that meditation prepares us for death touches something tender in me when I remember Ned. I am learning to loosen my hold on the way I think life should go; I am still learning how deeply to love.

Great Master Sawan Singh wrote in Philosophy of the Masters about sitting steadily and gathering the attention at the eye center. In the morning, I settle into my chair, close my eyes, bring my attention between and slightly above my eyebrows, repeat the Holy Names Kathy gave me, and listen within. Some mornings my mind offers me everything from unfinished work to the last minutes of a football game. I bring it back. The two and a half hours in the chair and the hours after it belong to the same life.

I may leave the remaining corn for the forest animals. I will certainly watch the Ravens again. And when I think of the Chesapeake, I will still see Ned beside me on Babs, our feet trailing through the water. The equinox has passed, and the season is turning. I want to meet it with my eyes open, my attention returning to the Master, and my heart willing to love what is here. Be awake. Be aware. Be in love.