The spiritual life is so arduous, so challenging, that it can be likened to an ascent up a lofty and noble mountain. We start from the plains – we might even say Death Valley – and slowly, very slowly, work our way up. There are joyous recompenses, of course: knowing that at long last we are moving towards the summit, glancing back and seeing how far we have come, feeling ever stronger and more vibrantly alive. But there are difficulties too, and they do not disappear as we climb higher. Gorges fall away on all sides, massive rocks stand in our pathway and must be surmounted, swirling mists and storms impair our vision. Cold and lonely seems the way at times, and we doubt we will ever reach the top.

At such moments we can draw welcome consolation from the writings of the mystics who have themselves gone up this mountain. Whenever our confidence ebbs – for most of us as frequently as the ebbing of the sea – we can turn to the words of these men and women of God and renew our hearts, draw fresh breath, and bring back into sight our supreme goal. Their trials put our obstacles into perspective, and their triumphs give us courage. We see just what we can be as human beings: our capacity to choose, to change, to endure, to know, to love, to radiate spiritual glory. Personally, I never tire of reading these precious documents. How blessed it is to be in the holy presence of a Saint Teresa or a Sri Ramakrishna!

When I first came to this country I brought on shipboard the unabridged version of The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, over a thousand pages, and I spent many, many hours poring over it. True, I missed out on my chance to eat six or seven meals a day, sharpen up my shuffleboard skills, and doze in a rainbow deck chair. I immersed myself instead in that great book, which provided a timely answer to every spiritual question I asked. It isn’t even necessary to read the Gospel systematically. At almost every page words speak to our condition, strengthen us and console us.

The Nature of Mystical Literature |

Mystical literature differs from other forms of writing in that as our understanding deepens, we draw more from it. Most books are not like that. We exhaust our interest in a murder mystery once we discover that the butler’s uncle did it, and even a fine novel is circumscribed by the awareness of the author. But there is no limit to the profundity of spiritual writings, because they have come from those whose consciousness has merged with the infinite. We take away as much as we can carry.

I do need to sound a few cautions about spiritual reading, though. Many of us are so intellectually oriented that we can easily misunderstand its purpose. Spiritual reading is meant to inspire us to change and show us how to change, but I feel sure the mystics themselves would agree – some having learned it through trial and error – that reading cannot be substituted for experience. No matter how many mystics we read, we cannot move forward on the spiritual path without practicing their teachings in daily life.

A hard admonition for some of us. One contemporary thinker put it very well when he remarked that if we had to choose between uniting ourselves with God and hearing a lecture about it, most of us would hunt for a good seat. I must admit that I myself once believed that all knowledge lay between two endpapers, and I responded to the smell of a newly printed book just as a gourmet responds to the smell of a piquant sauce. I delighted in opening a new acquisition carefully, admiring the printing and binding, and looking forward to the moment when I would be able to settle into my easy chair, open to chapter one, and drink in its wisdom. I have since learned to be more discriminating.

I once visited the home of a well-known writer on spiritual themes who took me into his exceptionally full library. There were books on every conceivable kind of meditation, really an impressive collection. “With all these books on the subject,” I said, “you must be an adept in meditation.”

He looked a little embarrassed, “Frankly,” he said, “I’m so busy reading and studying that I don’t have time to meditate.”

Then he pulled down some of his favorites from the shelves. “You must be familiar with all of these.”

I too looked a little embarrassed. “Only a few.” I did not want to say so, but instead of reading about meditation, I had used my time to practice it.

If you want to know the mystical tradition, don’t rely on books about the mystics; go directly to the great mystics themselves. A scholarly presentation may have its place, but personal testimonies are infinitely more helpful. When I was a student of English literature, we were expected to know a great deal about Shakespeare’s plays: Hamlet’s motivation, the psychology of Lady Macbeth, the kinds of comedy in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. How many books I read by how many scholars, critics, producers, theater historians, actors – all of it about Shakespeare; scores and scores of books from secondary perspectives. I read what I. A. Richards thought about Bradley’s comment on Coleridge’s opinion of Dryden’s evaluation of Shakespeare in his “Essay of Dramatic Poesy.” Endless! Only later did I realize that by poring over the words of Shakespeare himself, I could have penetrated into the characters, the plot twists, the poetry, the very texture of the plays and of Shakespeare’s spirit. But I did not know this at the time; I probably lacked the confidence to put it into practice. Only after I learned to meditate and began to trust my own powers of observation did I see that I had mistaken a packet of maps for the land.

So please read the words of Saint Augustine and don’t do what I did with the Bard and read what A claims B said C thought about Saint Augustine. The opportunities to detour increase all the time; so many books on the spiritual life are available, an overwhelming array. Don’t spend time on faint reflections; go directly to the sources of radiance.

Books chosen from the annals of mysticism should be read slowly and well. We are not after information, but understanding and inspiration. Take in a little every day, reflect on it, and then try to practice what you have learned.

There is a tale of a man who found on the road a large stone bearing the words, “Under me lies a great truth.” The man strained to turn the stone over and finally succeeded. On the bottom was written, “Why do you want a new truth when you do not practice what you already know?”

In spiritual reading, too, it takes time to assimilate the truths we meet. Far better to read a few books and make them your own than to read many books quickly and superficially – just as you will grow more crops by cultivating your own garden, however tiny, than by flying in an airplane over all the farmland in the county.

I have found spiritual reading especially beneficial after evening meditation. When I have finished, I go to bed and repeat the mantram until I fall asleep in it. The reason for this sequence is simple: what we put into consciousness in the evening goes with us into sleep. If we use this valuable time to fill our mind with agitating stuff from books, movies, or television shows, that is what we will see and hear in our dreams. On the other hand, if we follow this nightly sequence of meditation, spiritual reading, and repetition of the mantram, our dreams will gradually reflect an evening wisely spent. We will grow in patience, security, wisdom even while we sleep.

I suggest, then, that you include half an hour’s reading every day, preferably at night. If this is not possible, have fifteen minutes. Probably you will soon want more time for such reading. It will become something you hunger for – rather like your dinner, which I am sure you don’t care to miss.

In this, as with other things, we should observe what the Buddha called the middle path. It helps to have some spiritual reading every day so that our enthusiasm does not flag, but we should use our discrimination too. It would certainly be a mistake to pull away from our work, family, or other obligations to shut ourselves up in a room with books, no matter how inspiring they may be.

Read Widely |

The treasures of mysticism can be found in all religions, and we should not confine ourselves to the tradition most familiar to us. No one age, no one people, no one persuasion has any monopoly on spiritual wisdom; the prize is there, and always has been, for any man or woman who cares and dares to look for it. Of course, whichever mystic we turn to, we will meet the same truths, because the mystical experience is everywhere the same. There is only one supreme reality, and there can be only one union with it. But the language, tradition, mode of expression, and cultural flavor will differ. One writes in French, another in Pali. One writes in poetry, another in prose. One speaks of the Mother, another of His Majesty, still another of the Beloved. In this lies the beauty of spiritual literature: on the one hand it reflects the fascinating diversity of life; on the other, the unchanging principles that stand behind that diversity, irrespective of time and place.

Here, however, it is helpful to draw a practical distinction. On the one hand, there are books we read primarily for inspiration. They can be glorious, we need them, but taken together they encompass diverse ideas, disciplines, and methods of meditation. If we try to follow the exact letter of what we read – say, this week the Hasidic masters, next week Saint Anthony – we will be dancing and singing for seven days and living on bread and water for the next seven. So the other kind of spiritual reading I call instructional – the works which actually bring us the detailed advice of our spiritual teacher. We should draw freely on the classics of all great mystical traditions for inspiration, but this should never take the place of reading and rereading the instructions we are trying to follow in our daily lives.

Some Great Documents |

We can see the universality of the mystical outlook, and the individuality of the mystics too, by surveying a few writings I have found to be especially helpful to spiritual aspirants. Let us begin with the Western tradition. In their enthusiasm for the East, many people in the Western world today overlook the breadth and depth of the mystical writings from their own traditions. There are grand books from the East, and they should be read, but why confuse spiritual insight with the exotic trappings in which it seems to the foreign eye to be dressed? Actually, I have encountered this in both worlds. Some of my friends in India, especially the younger ones, clamor for Western things; it all looks so novel and appealing from a distance, very heady stuff. And in this country, one just has to mention mandalas or Tai Chi or tantra yoga to turn heads. A little of this attitude is harmless enough, but when it causes us to forget the excellence of our own heritage, we suffer a real loss.

The Christian tradition has brought forth many great saints who have left accounts of their growth in consciousness. One who appeals to me deeply is Saint Teresa of Avila, whose three books – The Autobiography, The Way of Perfection, and The Interior Castle – chronicle nearly twenty years of spiritual apprenticeship which transformed this young woman, unrivaled for her beauty and accomplishments, into a humble servant of her Lord. Teresa also left a few short poems, stamped with her own experience, which make inspiring passages for meditation. This one shows her simplicity and her capacity to penetrate straight to the essence:

Let nothing upset you; 
Let nothing frighten you.
Everything is changing; 
God alone is changeless.
Patience attains the goal. 
Who has God lacks nothing: 
God alone fills all our needs.

In the last hundred years another woman with the same name, Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, popularly known as the “Little Flower,” has won the hearts of readers everywhere. Thérèse, canonized in our century, died at twenty-four and left the world only one book from her own hand, The Story of a Soul. Her immense appeal is due largely to what she once called her ­“little way”: the thousand and one small acts of kindness toward family and friends by which we learn to forget ourselves in the joy and welfare of the whole. Thérèse’s endearing combination of naivete and spiritual daring comes through vividly in this passage from The Story of a Soul, in which she describes how she learned to love a nun in her convent whom she found “disagreeable in every way”:

Not wanting to give in to the natural antipathy I was feeling, I told myself that love should consist not in sentiments but in action. Then I applied myself to do for this sister just what I would do for the person I love most. . . . I tried to render her every possible service, and when I was tempted to answer her in a disagreeable way, I contented myself with giving her my friendliest smile and tried to change the subject. . . . As she was absolutely ignorant of how I felt for her, . . . she told me one day with a contented air, almost in these very words: “Would you tell me, Sister Thérèse, what attracts you so much towards me? Each time you see me I see you smiling.” Ah! What attracts me is Jesus, hidden in the depths of her soul – Jesus who makes sweet that which is most bitter. . . .

Another practical manual of spiritual instruction comes to us from a man known as Brother Lawrence. At the age of eighteen he chanced to see a bare tree silhouetted against the gray sky, and the realization that it would burgeon again in full glory in the spring brought a deep and lasting awareness of the power of God. He entered a Carmelite monastery, where of course he was expected to join other monks at their work. Lawrence tells us that he had always had an aversion for anything connected with the preparation of food. Inwardly, I suppose, he must have said to his superiors, “Let me work in the stable or on the grounds. Let me illuminate manuscripts. But, please, not the kitchen.” So they put him in the kitchen – not from callousness, but to help him go beyond his likes and dislikes, knowing that peace of mind cannot depend on external circumstances. Brother Lawrence was installed among the pots and pans, salads and sauces, while the brother who loved to cook and could turn out a perfect souffle was probably sent to the laundry room.

Then a wonderful transformation took place. With a great effort spanning a number of years, Lawrence strove to remember the presence of God at every moment, even in the kitchen. When at last he achieved that remembrance, he came to say that he was as close to the Lord amidst the clatter and confusion of his pots and pans as when he knelt for prayer in the chapel. You can read his simple, practical advice in his book, The Practice of the Presence of God.

Since its first printed edition in 1472, Of the Imitation of Christ by Thomas à Kempis has been, excepting the Bible, the most widely read religious book in the Christian world. It is not a narrative but a book of spiritual counsel, an “introduction to the devout life.” Listen to what it has to say about love:

. . . by itself it makes light everything that is heavy, and bears evenly all that is uneven. For it carries a burden that is no burden, and everything that is bitter it makes sweet and tasteful. . . . Love feels no burden, thinks nothing of trouble, attempts what is above its strength, pleads no excuse of impossibility. . . . Though weary, it is not tired; though pressed, it is not straitened; though alarmed, it is not confounded; but like a lively flame and burning torch forces its way upwards and securely passes through all. . . . In whatever instance we seek ourselves, there we fall from love.

This whole chapter – “On the Wonderful Effect of Divine Love” – makes a perfect passage for meditation. There are other inspiring selections also, but in reading the Imitation or selecting passages from it, we need to keep a few things in mind. Thomas was a monk for over seventy years, and he sometimes uses an idiom appropriate for the monastic order but not for householders. As a novice-master, he advised his charges to forget the world they had left behind. Our goal, on the other hand, is to be “in the world but not of it”: to strive to move gracefully among all the activities of daily life without being ensnared by either outer things or inner desires.

Also, in medieval fashion, Thomas tends to compare human beings to God – rather at our expense. We should remember, though, that what is ignoble about human nature is not our true Self – ever pure, never sullied by any thought, word, or deed – but the usurping ego who has taken over the kingdom of consciousness. This rude fellow is not the real “I.” He can and must be pulled down from the throne where he arrogantly issues his self-serving orders and banished forever, allowing the true Self to take its rightful place and rule in splendor once again. John Woolman, a Quaker mystic in colonial America, records his experience of this coronation in his Diary:

In a time of sickness with the pleurisy . . . I was brought so near the gates of death that I forgot my name. Being then desirous to know who I was, I saw a mass of matter of a dull gloomy color between the South and the East, and was informed that this mass was human beings in as great misery as they could be, and live, and that I was mixed with them, and that henceforth I might not consider myself as a distinct or separate being. In this state I remained several hours. I then heard a soft melodious voice, more pure and harmonious than any voice I had heard with my ears before; and I believed it was the voice of an angel who spoke to other angels. The words were, John Woolman is dead. I soon remembered that I was once John Woolman and being assured that I was alive in the body, I greatly wondered what that heavenly voice could mean. . . . At length I felt divine power prepare my mouth that I could speak, and then said, “I am crucified with Christ, nevertheless, I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me. And the life I now live in the flesh is by faith in the Son of God who loved me and gave himself for me.” Then the mystery was opened, and I perceived that there was joy in heaven over a sinner who had repented, and that language, John Woolman is dead, meant no more than the death of my own will.

The Way of a Pilgrim is the tale of an anonymous Russian peasant, a humble and simple soul. With a couple of holy books and a little bread in his knapsack, this homeless man with a crippled arm roams the towns and wilds of nineteenth-century Russia repeating the Jesus Prayer. Dark times befall him: he is robbed, nearly freezes to death, is falsely accused of crime. But there are times of spiritual brightness too, when he sits by his teacher, when he is befriended by loving and devout Christians, when he does a good turn for the very men who robbed him. The whole story makes vivid the power to be found in the repetition of the Holy Name.

In Judaism, parts of the holy scriptures contain the most sublime poetry. King David, the Psalmist, writes:

As the hart pants after the water brooks, so pants my soul after thee, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God: when shall I come and appear before God?

Imagine dry hills on a scorching day and a thirsty deer in search of water, head and tongue drooping. It will travel any distance, undergo any hardship to find water; it can think of nothing else. That, says the poet, is exactly how we should long for God.

For centuries too the mystics of Islam – Ansari of Herat, Jalaluddin Rumi, Fariduddin Attar – have been praising the Lord in magnificent language. Here Rumi expresses beautifully the essence of the soul’s union with the divine Beloved:

With Thy sweet soul this soul of mine
Hath mixed as water doth with wine.
Who can the wine and water part,
Or me and Thee when we combine?

Thou art become my greater self;
Small bounds no more can me confine.
Thou hast my being taken on,
And shall not I now take on Thine?

Me Thou for ever hast affirmed,
That I may ever know Thee mine. 
Thy love has pierced me through and through,
Its thrill with bone and nerve entwine.

I rest, a flute laid on Thy lips;
A lute, I on Thy breast recline.
Breathe deep in me that I may sigh;
Yet strike my strings and tears shall shine.

Buddhism has a venerable tradition of mystical writings; above all, I would recommend the Dhammapada. Its twenty-six chapters distill the essence of the Buddha’s teachings and bear the stamp of his personal experience. The Buddha was a spiritual scientist with a penetrating intellect, relentlessly logical in his pursuit of truth. Using homely images that the villagers of ancient India could easily grasp – no less vivid for us today – he presents the human condition as incisively as an experienced physician. The diagnosis: raging desire, possibly terminal. The antidote: nirvana, the extinction of all selfishness. The prognosis: hopeful, excellent. And last, as we would expect from a good doctor, a strong but invigorating medicine to ensure recovery: the Noble Eightfold Path, based on the practice of meditation.

In Footprints of Gautama the Buddha, Marie Byles presents the life of the Buddha as it might have been seen by an early disciple. Drawn from ancient documents, this lively narrative is peopled with some fascinating characters. It makes a good book for reading aloud to youngsters – but be prepared for some gulps and big eyes at the point where the Buddha comes face to face with the terror of the countryside, the fierce bandit Angulimala.

Hinduism embraces a vast and diverse collection of scriptures and mystical writings, some of them going back many thousand years. The Upanishads, the oldest of these, are among the most profound of all spiritual documents. The German philosopher Schopenhauer said, “It is the most rewarding and the most elevated reading there can possibly be in the world. It has been the solace of my life and will be of my death.” Over one hundred Upanishads have come down to us, and of these, ten or so are generally regarded as the principal ones. I have translated these and a few others in The Upanishads, part of my Classics of Indian Spirituality series; they make ideal passages for use in meditation.

To me, the Katha stands as one of the most significant of all the Upanishads. In it a teenager named Nachiketa goes to the abode of Yama, the King of Death. There, as a gesture of hospitality, Death offers him three boons. Would he like long life? Gold and jewels? Kingdoms and power? Nachiketa, the perfect spiritual aspirant, responds that all this will someday fall into the hands of Death. “Give me something permanent,” he says, “something beyond your grasp.” Yama, pleased, gives the boy instruction into the mysteries of death and immortality.

Those interested in the theory and practice of meditation might turn to the classic text, Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras. Patanjali was a brilliant teacher of meditation in ancient India who brought together what earlier sages had learned about the mind and its mastery – rather a lot! – and arranged it all in a priceless handbook noted for the scientific rigor of its presentation. Patanjali’s work is as condensed as a professor’s lecture notes, for it was intended to be filled out, interpreted, and commented on by an experienced teacher. There are many editions, but the one I recommend is How to Know God: The Yoga Aphorisms of Patanjali, by Swami Prabhavananda, whose commentary, aimed at a sincere Western audience, combines practicality with the insight of deep spiritual experience.

Earlier I mentioned The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, the one volume I brought with me when I came to this country. It was written by a retired schoolmaster totally devoted to Sri Rama-krishna, the tremendous mystic of nineteenth-century Bengal. This schoolmaster, who modestly signed himself “M,” loved his teacher so deeply that he would sit in his little room after the sun set and write down from memory everything that had been said by the Master and his disciples and guests, sometimes from morning till evening. The result is an extraordinary achievement which Aldous Huxley called the greatest piece of hagiographic literature in the world, full of lively parables, lucid explanations of difficult spiritual matters, and dazzling accounts of mystical union. If you take this book up, I don’t think you will want to part from it. If the background seems strange at first, Aldous Huxley’s Sri Ramakrishna and His Disciples makes a perfect introduction.

Of all the books from any spiritual tradition, none has meant more to me than the Bhagavad Gita. If I may borrow ­Gandhi’s words, “It became my dictionary of daily reference. Just as I turned to the English dictionary for the meanings of English words that I did not understand, I turned to this dictionary of conduct for a ready solution of all my troubles and trials.” To make the Gita more accessible to modern readers, I have offered my own translation and practical commentary in The Bhagavad Gita for Daily Living, drawing on personal experience to show how the precepts of the Gita can be put to work in our own lives.

The eighteen chapters of the Gita pursue a dialogue between the young prince Arjuna, who stands for you and me, and the Lord himself, in the form of Sri Krishna. Arjuna has many questions, many reservations, many doubts; his divine teacher patiently sets them to rest. One passage at the end contains the quintessence of spiritual wisdom. Arjuna wants to know the nature of those who have scaled the peaks of human consciousness. For those of us making this daring ascent, the Lord’s answer, like the sure words of a perfect guide, reminds us of what we shall be once we reach the summit.

Unerring in discrimination,
Sovereign of the senses and passions,
Free from the clamor of likes and dislikes,
They lead a simple, self-reliant life
Based on meditation, using speech,
Body, and mind to serve the Lord of Love.

Free from self-will, aggression, arrogance,
From the lust to possess people or things,
They are at peace with themselves and others
And enter into the unitive state.

United with the Lord, ever joyful,
Beyond the reach of self-will and sorrow,
They see me in every living creature
And attain supreme devotion to me.

By loving me they share in my glory
And enter into my boundless being.
All their acts are performed in my service,
And through my grace they win eternal life.

May each of you, through ceaseless striving and the infinite grace and love of him who is the source of all, realize this blessed state!

Epilogue: Invitation to a Journey