After the Godavari trip—let’s say, with the bubble of that illusion burst—I decide to give up challenges and find a nice quiet place to stay. The Swamini had suggested I try Shanti Ashram, which she personally had visited and found very peaceful. Further, she recommended it because it was nearer the sea; therefore, the temperature would not soar as high as other areas of Andhra Pradesh.

I am relieved when I arrive at the bus junction nearest the ashram just after 4:00 in the afternoon, so I will have plenty of time to catch a local bus to arrive at Shanti Ashram before dark. When I inquire, I am informed the bus will be coming soon. No one seems to know how soon, an ominous indicator at best. I sit and wait, then I circle the cement platform, then I sit and wait, then I circle. . . again. . . and again. While I memorize every crack in the cement, hours creep by. Suddenly, I realize it is getting dark, so I will have to find a new game. Anyway, by now, the platform is so packed with waiting passengers that I have no space to maneuver.

Every thirty minutes, I question the ticket agent, who is sitting out on a folding chair under the only light, a naked bulb dangling from a thin wire. But all he has to offer is “it will come soon.” “Soon” will be surely added to my words of caution in dealing with the Indian world.

Just after dark, an Indian Christian preacher who speaks English approaches me. Of course, he is interested in saving my soul. “Look, sir. I do not need to be saved from my sins. I need to be saved from spending the night on this bus platform. Can you help me?”

Then I explain that I have been here for over four hours being told “it will come soon.” Obviously, I am having some big doubts. I have not even been able to eat for fear the moment I leave the premises that the bus I have been awaiting will appear.

The preacher immediately switches gears and throws himself body, mind and soul into helping me. First, he explains that the bus that goes to the ashram is actually owned by that ashram. He expresses this fact with disdain, insinuating that they are at fault for having poor bus service. Further, he opines that a spiritual organization should not be doing such a business anyway. I could care less who owns the bus; I just want a bus. So sidestepping that issue, I question him to find out whether there is a hotel in this small town. I am calculating that I can spend the night and deal with a bus in the morning.

“No, madam, no lodges here,” comes the foreboding answer.

After several inquiries with other waiting passengers, he predicts the ashram-owned bus will come by 9:00 p.m. He is right. Exactly on the hour, the bus pulls up and every single soul on the crowded platform heads for it. Try to imagine the mob that has accumulated after five hours of waiting. Of course, they never complained like I did—they knew the bus would come “soon.”

Practically before I have time to move a muscle, the bus is inundated filled saturated overloaded. Tenaciously, the Christian preacher runs out and tries to get a seat for me Indian-style: bribe the driver. But to no avail, he says there simply is no room. He is correct; I see people sitting on the windowsills. As the bus pulls away, someone jumps onto the rear bumper: “hanging room only.”

When that plan crashed, the gentleman remembers that there is a government guest house just down the road. We traipse through the dark streets only to find out that there is no room available. The caretaker is already bedded down on his pallet, but he yells through the dark hollow of a window that several officers are expected early in the morning. I bet some officers arrive every morning, I speculate. So back we go to the station to wait for the 11:00 bus. My Samaritan is sure there will be a bus then. Only after I persuade him I will be okay, does he take off when his bus arrives.

Upon boarding the 11:00 bus, I make it clear that I want Shanti Ashram. The bus is only half full, so I can even sit down. As the bus pulls off into the black of night, from the dark aisle issues the sound of a friendly voice. One of the passengers heard me ask for Shanti Ashram. Since he is also visiting there, he kindly volunteers to take over as my guide. Rama, Rama, your blessing has finally arrived—better late than never, I heave a sigh of relief.

After an hour’s journey, we enter the entrance arches to Shanti Ashram—Abode of Peace. My aide knows just which door to knock on to find the clerk who can assign me a room. The young man smiles a big welcome as if this late arrival is a normal occurrence. (With the bus service, maybe it is.)


He greets me with a friendly note, “Coming to ashram any trouble?”

“Oh, no, no trouble at all.” If I am ever going to learn that it’s best to leave some stones unturned, some stories untold, to keep my mouth shut, surely it will be here in India. Anyway, who has the time, I’m ready to crash.

Thankfully, I follow him down a dark path to a building where he shows me to a room for the night. After making sure that I have everything I need, he tells me that he will see me at the prayer service, which begins at nine o’clock in the morning. Nine o'clock service instead of the usual 5:00 a.m.—now this is a place I may be able to survive in, I muse hopefully

Since the sun brightens my room early, I have time to stroll about the premises before prayers. As I meander around, I am beholding another miracle in the desert: fifty acres of mango and cashew groves. Swami Omkar planned and established the ashram in the 1930’s. At that time, he had visited the U.S. and was able to get some financial donors for the project. Unfortunately, during that trip, he slipped on some icy steps in Chicago and broke a hip, thus sustaining an injury that he suffered from for the remainder of his life. Returning to India to stay, he dedicated his life to establishing this haven of peace as a retreat for spiritual seekers.

Everyone calls this area a jungle, but it does not fit my idea of one. When I think “jungle,” I conjure big-leafed trees, vines and exotic flowers. Here the countryside is covered with masses of huge thorny shrubs—at least 12' high and 12' wide—with only tiny sparse foliage, typical of desert plants. Yet, I am to discover that it is filled with its own variety of creatures.

As I stroll through tall trees and flower gardens, I cannot help wondering how the tall thorn bushes were cleared out one by one with the few primitive hand-tools available here. The Swami was determined, and was even inclined, to do some physical labor himself, specially the pruning of the orchards. This project was essential, for the crops would sustain the ashram financially. Alas, he died ten years ago and now this place is practically empty, except for a few retired people.

After my tour through the orchards and gardens, I see that this place looks quite promising. My body needs a substantial rest. I am really feeling a bit beside myself that I have not had any time to even think about serious reflection, study or meditation since I left Swamini's Chinmayaranyam. How mischievous time can be—that was only a couple of weeks ago, but it seems like years.

As I enter the prayer hall, I am surprised to see a European woman plopped on a large cushy pillow right up front. Shusheela (her adopted Indian name) is dressed in navy and white pants of broad stripes and a chartreuse blouse in an extra large size, as she is of ample proportions. Evidently, she takes care to maintain the mounds of baby fat, as she has a packet of cookies at her side. To begin the service, she leads a prayer and reads several selections from one of Swami Omkar’s books.

I soon find out the reason for Shusheela’s status. She feels—and several Indians have confirmed it—that she is the reincarnation of Shusheela Devi. The first Shusheela was one of several American women who were a financial force behind the Swami’s ashram project. In addition, she spent twelve years in the 1930’s and 40’s in this ashram. To have an American disciple at that time, particularly in the outback of Andhra Pradesh, was quite rare. Everyone loved Shusheela Devi. Several residents here still recall what an angel she was. Judging by the stories of her service as a nurse to the near-by villagers, plus doctoring of the animals in the ashram, it is easy to believe that she deserved their adoration. She died unexpectedly in a car accident in the U.S. some thirty years ago. It is into those footsteps that the new Shusheela, thirty years of age, has effortlessly stepped as a new incarnation.

After the service , I meet the head of the ashram. A sweet gentle woman, Mataji Jnaneswari, was not designated to be the director. She is a quiet, contemplative type, while her sister was the extrovert/director type. So they made a good team after the Swami died. Unfortunately, her sister died a few years later, so Mataji inherited the leadership role. She knows the operation well, as she and her sister came to live here to serve the Swami when they were still teenagers. Although it may not have been her preference, I find it pleasant to have someone so calm and composed in charge.

After breakfast together, Mataji arranges a room for me in a nice two-room cottage, surrounded by huge majestic trees. A long covered porch stretches across the front, screened with heavy wire in a one-inch grid. In the rear, a kitchen with the same heavy wire screening spans the back. Throughout the areas of hot climate, the area for cooking is commonly located in an open-air setting. However, I will not have to use the kitchen, for food from the communal kitchen is delivered to me in stainless steel canisters at mealtimes. Therefore, I am set for a retreat.


Somehow, from some plant I touched while wandering about in Maredumalli, I contacted a poison-oak-type rash. When I was traveling yesterday, patches of itching were coming on fast. Today the inside of my left arm has started to ooze. I have not had poison oak in years—but when I get it, I get it badly. Lacking the correct homeopathic remedy, I decide the only thing to do is to fast for several days. The Mataji agrees it’s a good idea. Best of all, she tells me coconut water is available here. The word for this tropical ambrosia is the first word I learn in every language.

Daily the gardener brings two fresh green coconuts, cut from the ashram trees, right to my door. This kobari nilu is all I need for nutrition. Even hepatitis patients can imbibe this water, which would eventually transform into coconut meat. It is not the water found inside of a ripe coconut—the Indians throw that out. Neither is it coconut milk, which is made from grated coconut steeped in water to extract its flavor and vitamins.

I spend the next four days very quietly. Fasting is a major tenet of a health system favored here called Nature Cure. The theory is the body knows how to cure itself given the opportunity. Instead of expending energy in activities, including in eating and digesting, the body and organs rest; thus enabling them to heal and rehabilitate.

On the first day of the fast, I seem to have endless daydreams, definitely unusual for me. Normally, I can just override any unwanted wool-gathering with positive thoughts, but today I see I must just let the thoughts dissipate themselves. This phenomenon is not unusual when fasting, but I find it irritating. Relax, they are simply mental impurities coming out, like the physical ones, I reassure myself. Once the spiritual teacher, Swami Chinmayananda, told me I should not be so particular about what birds fly across my clear blue mind-sky. “What difference does it make?” he challenged me. But why do I get buzzards? I have to lament.

After a few days, the mental effects of the fasting seem to be less. However, the itching and stinging, particularly of one arm have not improved a lot. During the night, I lie awake for hours on end, hoping for sleep. Time floats between hours that drag by and long scenarios played out in dreams of five-minute naps. The hands on the clock that normally announce the scenes in my life—breakfast time, study time, dinner time, bed time—have no meaning as I wander in and out of my mental world. I learn to cuddle into my mental world to avoid clock time. The sleepless nights pile up on my consciousness and loosen my grasp on who I am and what I am doing here.

One afternoon, I am lying awake in a sort of stupor from lack of sleep, when, again, I hear a strange noise. I noticed it yesterday, but ignored it. This time I get up, open the door, and creep into the adjoining room. There I detect that the noise—rasping and gnawing—is coming from a built-in cabinet. When I tiptoe over to it, through the glass-paneled door, I see the source: a big rat. Fortunately, it does not see me, as it continues to make a meal of the wooden shelf. I quickly retreat to my room and bolt the door between the two rooms. Oh, my God, I am living with a rat.
I figure it must go outside at night since there is nothing but wood for food in that second room. So a couple of hours after dark, I stealthily enter the room and turn on the light. I do not see or hear any sign of the rat. Then I close and bolt all the wooden shutters, so that it cannot reenter the room. I assume it was a successful venture, as I do not hear the gnawing the next day.

Every night, I have to get up a dozen times to pour cool water over my itchy rash to try to get some relief. Then, quite by accident, in a fit of exasperation, I discover hot water, as hot as I can bare it, stops the itching for long periods of time. It’s contrary to normal theory; perhaps the heat carries off the poisons that are on my skin. What a wonderful relief. I sink into hours of a deep silent slumber.

With my physical irritation improved, so is the quality of my mind. Each morning, I sit out on the verandah for hours listening to dozens of birds, all happily singing and chirping and calling. I love to connect with the birds through their sounds, especially when I first wake up in the morning. In a relaxed state, it seems as if I can hear their tones through my body before the sound actually reaches my ears. Even though the temp is definitely warm, a lovely breeze wanders across the shady verandah now and again. After this quiet observation of the birds, I find it easy to let my mind drift off into a peaceful meditative state. The peace is so genuine and encompassing, I wonder why I do not do this daily everywhere.

Time floats over me. Sometimes I am hardly aware of the difference in now and yesterday, for scenes cover my mind like the waves rolling on top of each other over a sandy beach. Though I am thankful for this quiet respite to meditate and reflect, I decide to take the opportunity of the solitude to evaluate: What am I doing here? “Here” meaning in the literal sense. What am I doing in India?


I go back to the beginning: How did I happen to come to India in the first place? Okay, I originally came to India for the innocent reason to help out with a charitable project. Almost immediately I had the socks knocked off my mind. That mystical experience has definitely impelled my continued interest in India and what could be called a “spiritual quest,” although mine is so individual it certainly does not fall into the classical definition. Surprisingly, considering the impact of that experience, the quest has remained in the background of my life. I found that omission justifiable in U.S. since I was working and surviving. Isn’t the same thing happening here? I question myself.

I begin to recall that only a month after I arrived in India to meet with Swami Chinmayananda the first time, we went to Bangalore where he was to lecture and inaugurate a new temple. It was March and springtime in Bangalore is delectable. Mammoth trees line the streets, draping bouquets of pink, purple, and white, while others emit the most delicate fragrances. This was my first encounter with the lush nature of the tropics. I was enchanted. I was delighted. I floated. This bountiful natural setting enhanced my spirits, while the philosophical and spiritual discourses by the Swami expanded my intellect. Even the setting of the discourses was mind-boggling and exciting—sitting under the stars in a huge cricket field large enough to accommodate the thousands who came to hear him.

The temple inauguration was to be on the seventh day of the ten-day program. An inauguration is an elaborate ceremony to actually enliven the idol by connecting it into the thought-form energy established through centuries of worship and ritual of that particular deity. Swamiji was to bring in the power, whereas the priests were responsible for clearing the space of any foreign energy and inviting the specific deity to participate. The priests had been preparing the ritual fire pit and chanting mantras for days in preparation for the event. Along with the chanting voices, smoke from the offerings of incense, clarified butter, rice and saffron were wafting through the air. From a pit beside a large flower-strewn stage, another group of priests was beating drums. Needless to say, it was a very dynamic atmosphere.

I was dressed in a two-piece sari from Kerala. Since it was the first time I had worn the native dress, I was relieved that my initial experiment was in this easy-to-wrap version. Just as I arrived at the temple, the Swami was coming down the steps. He exhibited visible delight at seeing me in a sari, but expressed concern for my comfort. I assured him that I was okay because I had secured the whole swaddling mess with a giant safety pin.

Boooong. . . . boooong. . . . boooong. . . . As I sat down I was aware that the drums were making so much noise that talking—not even thinking—was possible. I closed my eyes, then I closed my senses as the ladies from the nearby village crowded in on top of me and my friend, Usha, who was sitting beside me. Then I closed my mind to everything and just let myself drift into my gratefulness for being in such an awesome place.

After a half-hour or so, the Swami climbed up on the stage and announced that before the inauguration, we would have a group meditation. As a matter of fact, he explained, this evening was a most auspicious time for meditation because, by chance, an eclipse of the full moon was about to occur. Since the moon is the deity of the mind, when nature throws a shadow over the moon, it is helpful in veiling the chattering mind. We were to take advantage of this moment to attempt to experience the divine substratum on which the mind plays, just as a movie film plays on a blank unblemished silver screen.

The Swami insisted that we all have a mala (counting beads) in our hands for the meditation. Frankly, I had never used a mala because I thought it was too elementary. However, this evening I followed the rules and held a mala in my right hand. To begin the meditation, he instructed that we were going to chant a mantra (sacred verse) together. As he began to vocalize the short incantation, I was concentrating to be able to pick up the Sanskrit words. Immediately, I noticed that my hand became huge, so big that the bead of the mala between my fingers seemed like a tiny grain of sand. This will never do, I thought, and just dropped the mala.

At that moment, Idropped myself—I disappeared. I cannot say where “I” was or for how long. The first instant I experienced consciousness, I was aware that the Swami was speaking, but far away. So I knew the meditation must be finished. I think it was only at that moment that I realized that I was spread throughout space with no form at all. One cannot describe the experience. Even now I cannot figure out where my thinking came from. Neither were there any colors or forms, for there were no eyes or mind to perceive with. However, I was aware of individual thoughts. I can only say there was awareness and thought—nothing else. They did not come from my brain because I had not found it yet. Then I became conscious that there was a tiny little hard body sitting down on earth, something like a big toe. Surprisingly, I was not alarmed. On the contrary, I apparently knew exactly what to do. Somehow I was able to find the ring finger on the left hand of that physical body. After gently willing that finger to move, with a lot of effort, it began slowing tapping on the knee beneath it. Thump. . . thump. . . thump. . . I began to slowly. . . slowly. . . slowly. . . to descend, to pulsate downward until I fit back into the physical body.

At that point, I assumed that I was just me again. But when I opened my eyes and looked around me the whole world was so different. Everything had the same appearance, but they were so intrinsically beautiful. Every person present, including the Swami, still seated on the stage, was a cell in my body, alive and dynamic. In awe and adoration, I took a deep breath and looked up at the moon, which still showed a reddish hue from the eclipse. I perceived that the moon was a red bindi (the red dot that Indian women wear) on my forehead. I could have reached up and just peeled it off like a paper moon. I had one thought, I’m not sure I wanted to know this.

By that time, everyone had gotten up and was stirring about. With a lot of physical difficulty, I collected myself and stood up. Although pretending to be a physical being was awkward and painful, my mental/emotional self continued to experience incredible bliss.

It may sound like an egotistical experience, but I can tell you it was most humbling experience one can imagine. To see the panorama of life from that perspective makes our daily concerns seem so transparent and petty. When one is immersed in love peace bliss, temptation and its companion sin do not exist. What could one possibly desire when one is so perfectly complete?
I remained in that blissful state for three days. I could not eat and could not sleep, and really did not want to talk. Actually, anything I tried to eat gave me immediate diarrhea. Then I got on a train for Bombay. By some miracle, I had a whole compartment to myself, so I was not disturbed. I slept the entire 24-hour journey. When I woke up, I was my normal ole’ self again. I do not even know if the physical body and brain have the energy to sustain such a state indefinitely.

Naturally, I thought, this is great stuff. No wonder people are coming to India. Ominously enough, when I mentioned the experience to a couple of friends in Bombay, they told me, “No, Nancy, nothing like that has ever happened to us and we have been in India for two years.” So with passing time, I gradually put the experience aside and got on with my life. Essentially, I led a normal life, but with a kind of existential depression. I had to question myself: Where is that wonderful divine me? What am I doing struggling like an ant? Can’t I at least be a grasshopper?


When I returned to India this trip, I admit that I would have liked to have had a repeat performance. However, it was difficult to find anyone who knew enough to even discuss the experience with me. Obviously, I was extremely selective whom I asked. Tublu, a Bengali Brahman, told me that it was a “real” spiritual experience. So did Siva RamaKrishna, the Brahman in Kumbakonam, but he also warned me that these experiences come once in a lifetime. So if I am not going to have a life reeking with bliss, what is next best? I guess that is the dilemma that I still have not worked out.

When I conjured up the experience, it was almost as if I relived it. As I deal with people in the ashram, the past memory undulates over me like winging shimmering hovering skimming clouds, which I can never catch. I try to weave the different realities of me together, but they always seem like loose strands waving in the breeze, unknown to each other. I am this, or I am That. Where is the bridge? I lament.

Since the summer heat is descending upon us, Mataji is leaving for her usual migration to the mountains during the hot season. And the “hot season” is in full-burn mode. It is already seriously sweltering at ten o’clock when Mataji and Shusheela climb into the ashram van for the trip to the train station. The old swami who I have seen at the prayer meetings when I was able to attend joins the group who bid the Mataji farewell. After the van has disappeared in a cloud of red dust, I go over to greet him with a “namaste.”

Swami Ramananda Tirtha replies in a spirited voice, “You have not seen where I live. Come and see the cave where Omkarji used to meditate.”

“I would love to,” I reply.

Although it is high-noon heat, I follow the nimble, thin being down a long, partially shaded path to the northwest corner of the ashram. Finally, we come upon several simple huts, but too few trees. I enter a one-room cottage behind the Swami.

“I’ll make you some tea,” the Swami pulls up a chair for me.

“Oh, Swamiji, please don’t. It is much too hot to drink tea.”

“No, no, it’s okay. Tea makes you sweat, so you will be cooler.”

I have heard this theory again and again, but it does not work for me. It just makes me hotter and stickier.

“Just take a little. It’s prasad [blessed food],” he urges.

“Thank you, Swamiji,” out of respect, I capitulate to my sweaty fate.

The Swami insists that I return each day to have a cup of tea prasad with him. I do so regularly, but somehow do not find time to make it a daily exercise.

One morning when I am at the Swami’s cottage, a troop of thirty to forty pilgrims—men, women and children—come tramping through. They all bow and touch my feet first, then the Swami’s.
The first time this touching-feet thing happened to me was years ago. When I was visiting a friend in Bombay, her servant got down on her knees to touch my feet. I was very disconcerted (to put it mildly), and told her “no, no” while tucking my feet behind the chair legs. I looked over to my friend for some help. If I read the look on her face correctly, it was my behavior that surprised her, not the servant’s.

So this time, I force myself to sit quietly. I close my eyes and imagine that they are bowing to the marvelous, boundless, loving, Divinity within me, not to me. With that state of mind, I open my eyes and smile at each one after they touch my feet. However, less than half dare to look me in the face, mostly the women, and a few children, but not one man. It is respectful to keep one’s eyes lowered. After they finish the foot salutations, they file down to the meditation cave below and then quickly disappear out the door. Strangely, I keep feeling the all-pervasive feeling of love and peace that I consciously called upon. I can hardly get out of my chair and veritably float down the path under the scorching rays of sunshine.


As soon as I was back to normal after fasting, I found a great library with lots of interesting old books. One day when walking over there, I am elated to see a couple of familiar faces. Shruti and Sheela, two brahmacharinis (feminine form of brahmachari) from Chinmayaranyam, have come for a four-day visit. They had been giving some spiritual lectures in a nearby town and have come here to rest between engagements. Their presence is timely, for they are able to take over the daily programs in the chapel. All the retired residents show up to hear them—the only time they have done so. I enjoy being part of the audience and seeing these beautiful young women. Judging from their attentive audience, they must be quite polished in their presentations.

And they have good news for the nature lover; they know of a spring-fed waterfall nearby. I can hardly believe it—in this dry territory. Early one morning we set out to find the oasis. As we are leaving, Shruti asks me, “Have you had your bath?”

I know it is one of those cultural things, but I never have gotten past feeling disconcerted when I am asked if I have bathed—as if anyone could survive without several baths a day in this blazing heat. “Which one?” I respond with a chuckle.

On the way, they point out some trees with hard nuts that are boiled to make soap. I remember reading some comments by a Peace Corp worker reporting that the Indians did not have soap, insinuating, of course, that they did not bathe before the Peace Corp arrived. Nothing could be farther from the truth. They have a myriad of plants, nuts and berries that they used for soap; certain ones were to be used on the hair, certain ones for laundry, and others for bathing. In many areas, they use besam (garbanzo bean flour) for bathing because they consider soap bad for the skin.

The trip to the waterfall turns out to be quite a hike. I could have never found the site by myself. About mid-way, we pass through a village composed of little cottages of mud, with a neat and cared-for appearance. I cannot help but wondering how far it lies from the nearest road.
After we pass through village, we walk along a dike running through some fields. We notice several men bending over weeding and chopping with those short-handled shovels. When they spot the brahmacharinis in their saffron coth, they burst out singing.

The young women interpret for me: “Please pass on. We are poor people who have no food to give a sadhu. So please don’t spend the night here.” The villagers have songs for everything they do, planting, harvesting, thrashing, grinding, but this is the first time I have heard a song like this one. It reminds me of the sadhus I saw when I was on the Godavari launch. The tune was meant, and taken, in good humor. We laugh, wave, and move on.

A waterfall really does exist in this desert! We actually encounter an eight-foot-wide expanse of cool, clean water, gushing out of some stone caves in the side of a hillock. After wading and splashing around, we walk to the top of the falls. En route, we pass a large granite bull (Nandi) that tells us that at one time this spot had status as a holy place. Water flowing out of rocks in the desert! I guess it is sacred.

No water is visible on the hillock at the top of the falls, but we are totally surrounded with tall trees, which must be sustained by underground springs. Over to the side, we spot a towering anthill that is at least fifteen feet high, so ancient that much of it is covered with dry moss.

“This ant hill is very auspicious,” comments Sheela.

“In India, everything is auspicious,” I retort with a grin.

They have a good laugh at my remark, then turn to start back down the trail. I pause a moment, rather captivated by the spot, taking in the tall trees, the dappled sunlight on the granite rocks, the whisper of a breeze, the water singing over the granite slopes. Oh, yes, it is all so auspicious: the gray stone, the red soil, the swaying twigs, the sun, the shade, the ant hill, the green moss—and me. Everything, everywhere, is truly auspicious.


With my strength back and the rash under control, daily I am spending more time exploring the premises. The peace that Swami Omkar emanated still pervades the entire ashram. He spent most of his time in meditation, even a year at a time in total silence. The very trees and plants and flowers and foliage seem to have absorbed the peace. Every flower appears to have a smile on its face. When one slows down and listens, one becomes aware that the peace is a reflection of something inside of oneself. He called himself the “apostle of peace” with one essential message: Only peace in each and every individual will bring peace in the world.

On Easter Sunday, while I am meandering through the formal garden area, I cannot resist plucking one stem that holds two lovely lilies. I usually leave the flowers for everyone to enjoy, but today I indulge myself with loving thanks. Back in my room, as I sit and admire them, I wonder at the creator who could have conceived of this amazing beauty. The cool green of the center fades so delicately into a lovely soft coral with such precision, not even the greatest artist could hope to imitate it.

The natural world is surely a connection to a spontaneous and lovely aspect of me. The peace I feel is not dead and dull, but bright and alive. I begin thinking this peace I feel is from connecting to this beautiful bountiful nature.