TEN
Make Your Work an Offering
–1–
There were things I hadn’t told many people, not even my friends. One was that my mother was a heroin addict. She died when I was young, from a drug-related illness.
In writing my first book, The Book of Dharma: Making Enlightened Choices, I decided to share a few personal details about my life. I felt exposed and vulnerable. How would readers react to such revelations?
I had other concerns too. Would the book be well received? Would there be sufficient sales? I had been working on the manuscript for more than three years. What if someone I had showed the manuscript to published a similar book before I did? These worries and concerns all related to the fruits of the endeavour, and as such, were a cause of suffering.
On a grey, rainy day in December 2011, a close friend named Ananta came to visit, and looked over the manuscript. He read a short passage from the manuscript aloud:
“I mustn’t lose this. Without this, I’m nobody.”
“This person is helping me get what I want. He is my friend.”
“That person is my competitor. I must overcome him. What if he gets there before I do? I mustn’t allow that to happen.”
These are the words of the ego, the imaginary self, caught in fear, lamentation and confusion. We began to laugh. Somehow, I was trapped in this paradigm even while writing about it. There was a disparity between my words and my behaviour. How shrewd the ego can be. I knew I would need to write from a more potent and sacred place within myself.
That night, I walked out into the darkness. I needed time on my own. I wandered through Wyggeston & Queen Elizabeth I College, where I had studied many years ago, and down the hill into the cold, starry night. I felt an overwhelming helplessness. Allowing that emotion to remain, tears came to my eyes. Had I wasted three and a half years? The thought was terrible.
What was I to do? I reached into the deepest centre of my being. Krishna, the Universal Teacher, lives in the heart of all living beings and guides their passage. I took shelter there.
What I needed to do began to unfold. I would start again. But first, I would sever my attachment to any fruits from the project. How can I truly share wisdom if I’m seeking to profit from it? I would simply be another personal development punter selling his wares.
I made a firm decision I would use any profits earned from this writing to publish the wisdom texts of my own teacher and to contribute to other good causes, such as supporting schools for India’s poorest children, especially girls.
The moment I made this resolution in my heart, I felt an unusual inner strength and lightness of being. I felt so alive! I had invoked the last principle of Karma-yoga, the yoga of sacred action.
All mental cloudiness vanished. I was now fully present to what I was doing. Returning to my desk, the words began to flow effortlessly, like a river from the soul. Whole chapters emerged in a single session of writing. I stopped being the author. I became a servant, the instrument of something much larger.
I was now more deeply committed to this book than ever, but I wasn’t attached to the outcome. I no longer sought a validation of my identity or my sense of worth through the project. It became an offering of the heart, a humble attempt to serve my teacher and my readers.
I was no longer anxious about my finances either. I had initially been working on the book with the promise of some future reward, but in my case, this had become a driving motive. Having let go of the results, I felt free and unafraid about my financial future. I knew, instinctively, I would be looked after.
Like Arjuna, I had to relinquish many things. I had to abandon the idea that the book would bring financial reward. I had to let go of the desire to be recognized, even to be accepted and liked. I had to relinquish my need for the book to be well received. It was a deeply purifying and transformative process.
I accomplished more in the following six months than in the previous three and a half years, and all without worry or being attached to the results. This new approach to work was truly transformative.
–2–
The morning sun shone on to the towering sandstone temple, gleaming against the crystal in the stone. Bright green parrots flew about in pairs. The branches of a nearby tree shook, as little monkeys jumped playfully. From this vantage point in the town of Vrindavan, you can see everything for miles.
This temple dedicated to Krishna was home to many tulsi plants in clay pots, which were carefully watered each morning. This was a sacred sanctuary. Such places have a way of decluttering the soul and helping us remember what’s truly important in our life.
I sat down near a tulsi plant to meditate. Within minutes, I was deeply absorbed. In a sacred sanctuary of the soul, meditation can be effortless.
In my contemplation, I could hear a beautiful song. The melody and words were enchanting, overwhelming me with joy. I opened my eyes and saw an old man sweeping the temple courtyard with a broom made of long, thin branches.
As he swept the dust and leaves, he sang to his beloved lord, Krishna, and tears of happiness rose to his eyes. Without a care in the world, without concern for who might be watching or listening, he poured his soul into song. His face radiated happiness and life, and I could see he was engaged in sacred action.
This menial task of sweeping, commonplace and humble, was filled with remarkable beauty and charm. There is a Sanskrit word for sacred action, action impelled by devotion: seva. Captivated, I stopped to watch for a few minutes.
I had never before witnessed how an act so menial and simple could carry so much beauty. Watching this man, I realized that it doesn’t matter whether what we’re doing is little or large, humble or grand. If it’s an act of devotion, it fully satisfies the soul. Transcending the ordinary, it becomes a pure expression of the soul.
When the old man put aside his broom and sat down, I struck up a conversation, hoping to learn more about sacred action. What was it that transformed a simple, ordinary activity into something so potent? Was it possible to make all our actions such an expression of beauty? If so, how?
“I’ve seen you sweeping this temple courtyard each morning,” I said in Hindi. “You seem so happy doing it. What makes this work so special for you?”
“Seva is the only valuable thing in my life,” the old man said. “It doesn’t matter what you do, if you do it with devotion, it purifies the heart. It frees you from all suffering and awakens Bhakti, sacred love, in your heart.”
He looked at me intently. His eyes glistened like liquid emeralds. “Life is meant for seva. So many are busy accumulating money; but in the end money can’t help you. This is because you’re a spiritual being. Only sacred love can fulfil you.”
In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna tells Arjuna to make everything he does an offering of love. Krishna recommends sacred action. This is when we make our daily work a practice and a form of worship.
To make everything we do part of our yoga practice, Krishna has added the third and final teaching of Karma-yoga, the yoga of skilful action: “Turn it over to me. Whatever you do, make it an offering of devotion to the divine present within you and within all beings. In this way, what you do becomes an act of worship, a form of yoga.”28
–3–
“Life is like a droplet balancing on a lotus leaf,” my teacher explained. “At any moment, it can fall. We can’t say how much time we have left. Therefore, do everything with care and attention, as if it’s your last moment, your last chance.”
A yoga warrior keeps the thought of death at her left shoulder. This might seem a bit extreme, but awareness of our own mortality can kindle a desire to act impeccably. It can bring our full presence to the action at hand.
The best place to meditate, my teacher explained, is known as jivan-sandhi, the juncture between life and death. This is where our prayers will be heard. This is where all the great masters in our line have attained perfection in their practice.
The juncture between life and death. How does one reach that place?
I was a young practitioner who struggled with japa, mantra meditation. There were monks who could meditate for hours on end, lost in rapture as they entered the inner landscape of the heart, the mystical realm of devotion. But this practice was new and difficult for me. My mind was easily distracted.
My teacher saw this. One morning he called me over: “Right now, your japa is not very effective. You should spend time in the early morning sitting in stillness for your meditation; but during the rest of the day burn in the ‘fire’ of seva. Dedicate your life to seva, and the doorway to Bhakti will open for you. Then your practice will become easy; you’ll be completely absorbed.”
From then on, I began seeing myself as a servant. I began asking, “Suppose this were the last thing I did in my life, the last opportunity to be of service. How would I perform this task?” I wanted to walk the sacred pathway between life and death.
–4–
The young Assami boy, who had been sitting quietly in the temple, suddenly began coughing up blood. At first just a few specks, but blood was soon pouring from his mouth, bubbly and bright red. Tuberculosis. Everyone stepped back in dread.
It was 1946 when this sixteen-year-old monk named Ananga Mohan fell severely ill. He was a kind-natured boy who sang very sweetly. To this day, tuberculosis (or “consumption”, as it was formerly known) remains the most deadly infectious disease in the world, killing about 1.5 million people a year. Highly contagious, the bacteria is transmitted through the air.
Everyone was afraid to approach Ananga Mohan, but my teacher personally cared for him with great attentiveness and love, cleaning and feeding him, and carefully seeing to all his needs for many months, until Ananga Mohan passed away.
One of the most difficult things someone can do is tend to a dying patient, especially if they have a highly contagious disease. My teacher had, quite literally, offered his own life for this seva. He described this time to me as a turning point in his practice. This dedicated seva melted the heart of his teacher, Shrila Bhakti Prajnana Keshava Goswami, who taught him the most confidential secrets of the Bhakti tradition.
Born in 1921 in Bihar, India, my teacher Shrila B. V. Narayan Goswami joined his teacher’s temple monastery in the 1940s. Since childhood he had studied India’s sacred texts, and he embodied these teachings by dedicating his life to seva.
Whatever my teacher did, he did with utmost attention and presence. I’ve watched him fully immersed in his morning and evening meditation, engaging with visitors and pilgrims, and explaining the teachings of the ancient yoga texts. Both momentous and seemingly insignificant tasks commanded his full attention. He did everything as a personal offering of devotion, and that imbued whatever he did with beauty and deep significance.
I apprenticed with my teacher for sixteen years, living and travelling with him continuously for several years during that time. I saw no difference between the way he did things when he was being observed and when no one was watching. There was no discord between what he said and how he lived.
In the temple monastery, monks are taught to act with full attention and devotion. We can’t make what we do an offering of devotion if we’re not present to what we’re doing. But if what we do is an act of love, we’ll necessarily be deeply present.
For example, if we’re cooking a meal for a loved one, we’ll plan the menu with great care. Selecting only the choicest ingredients, we’ll cook with all our heart. And when we serve out the meal, we’ll be fully attentive to the needs of the person we love.
In the temple monastery, I often felt like a complete beginner. The monks do everything with such a distinguished level of consciousness and quality of intent. Most of them didn’t have a formal education at university. They didn’t have experience in law firms or commercial enterprises. And yet, they seemed more skilled in whatever they did than trained professionals.
The same monk could sweep the stone steps of the monastery, take charge of cooking a magnificent meal for ten thousand pilgrims, rebuild a wall at the back of the temple, arrange the reprinting of several book titles, and expertly care for an ill or dying patient. There was nothing they couldn’t do. Nothing was too difficult, too menial, or too bothersome. I learned from them that there is nothing that I too can’t do, if I set my heart to it.
To exercise the yoga of skilful action is to do whatever we do impeccably, with full attention, for its own sake. We’re accustomed to bringing our best self to our yoga mat. But in our daily life, whether we’re working at the office or preparing a meal at the end of the day, we may be distracted, inattentive, lazy or vexed.
The monks taught me that only love and affection has the power to fulfil the soul or to attract the Soul of the Universe, the Soul of all souls. And this requires attention and presence. In its ultimate expression, the yoga of action is to live through deeds of love. If we could express love in everything we say or do, how our life would be utterly transformed.
–5–
When I told Peter about making whatever we do an act of devotion, his eyes lit up. “This is what I try to do,” he confided. “When I teach, I devote myself to it, as a service to my students and an offering to…” Peter paused.
If you remember, Peter was a very successful solicitor at a top-tier London law firm. At the height of his career, Peter realized that practising law was not his passion; he had been chasing an empty dream. He became a teacher.
I wondered whether Peter was trying to indicate the Soul of the Universe, that ineffable source of all existence and non-existence described in the sacred yoga texts and perceived by the rishis in their deepest meditation. In the Bhagavad Gita, that supreme resting place is Krishna, the Lord of Yoga, present in the heart of all beings as the Universal Teacher.
“I believe we’re more than just skin and bones,” Peter continued. “There’s a spark of the divine that illuminates us all. When I teach, I try to serve the divine within all beings.”
“How do you make what you do an offering?” I asked.
“Well, firstly, I give my full presence and attention to what I do. I don’t turn up feeling as though my teaching or anything else I do is a chore. I see it as a privilege, and I love what I do. I like to think I’m not just teaching my students a subject, but also helping them create a meaningful, flourishing life.
“It’s rewarding when I get a brilliant student, but it’s also rewarding when I have a troubled student who finds a way to turn things around. It doesn’t always work out that way, of course. I can do my best, but ultimately, I know I can’t control the outcome. What’s important is the attitude I bring to what I do.”
“That mood of service, I imagine, helps when the work gets difficult.”
“Yes, sometimes I have students who simply don’t care. They talk back. They don’t want to be there. Other teachers don’t want them either, but I try to understand what they’re going through. I used to be a difficult person too, when I was working in London. It was mostly because I was suffering. No one could see that; but I was in pain. I know what it’s like to show up every day when you don’t want to be there.”
There was a picture of Peter on the mantelpiece, in an elegant dark frame. I asked him if this was his father.
“No, that’s me,” he laughed. “I used to be overweight. I didn’t look after myself. I guess when you’ve abandoned yourself, you also neglect yourself physically and emotionally.
“Now things have changed, and I feel more alive than ever before. I’ve started looking after myself. I know that if I don’t, I can’t be of service and do what I truly love.”
It reminded me of the monks in India. They take care to sleep well—not too much and not too little. They eat with presence and care. This is an integral part of their yoga practice.
Our physical body is the vehicle by which we can try to make our life an offering of love. It’s our “chariot” on the field of life.
For someone living in a consumer society, learning how to do work as deep service can be life changing. Rather than thinking “What am I not getting?” we can ask “What can I give?” If there is something wrong with a situation, rather than dwell on its faults, we can ask ourselves, “How can I help make it better?”
There are many ways to begin developing a mood of service. We can serve the values of kindness, compassion and human dignity. We can serve the earth, or the evolution of consciousness. In the esoteric Bhakti tradition, we develop selfless love by directing our service to Krishna, the Supreme Origin, in whom all things rest. As a result, that unconditional love and affection automatically encompasses the earth, all beings including ourselves, and the evolution of consciousness.29 It’s a love that looks beyond all the temporary stories we may be living out. In the Bhakti tradition, such sacred love is regarded as the highest stage of spiritual enlightenment.
“It helps for me to begin the morning with a prayer,” Peter confided, “to offer my day to the Divine, and to set the intention that my actions be beneficial to all beings. Moving through the day with this mood makes living itself a form of worship.”
It reminded me of Krishna’s words to Arjuna: “As people without knowledge act with attachment, O descendant of Bharata, so the wise should act without attachment, seeking the well-being of the world.”30 By such a practice, we can become rishis, or wise seers, who “take delight in the welfare of all beings”.31
In listening to Peter, I could hear the Universal Teacher speaking through him. The dark night of the soul can be a powerful teacher.
–6–
The sage reached into his cloth bag and pulled out a handful of gemstones. He spread these on a white cloth for me to see: moonstones, sapphires, amethysts, tiger’s eyes, quartz crystals, lapis lazulis and opals.
I was in Varanasi, India. The old sage was a renowned astrologer. He looked at me intently.
“The universe bestows upon us many precious gifts: intelligence, wisdom, health, knowledge, beauty, strength, skill…” the sage said. “What do we do with those gifts? There are two ways of relating with life. The first is symbolized by a closed fist.”
The old man reached down and grabbed as many gems as he could fit into a tightly closed fist. He extended this fist in my direction.
“This closed fist is a mudra, a hand gesture that symbolizes a specific state of consciousness, a specific way of relating with the world,” he explained.32 “It’s a mudra that represents fear, greed and attachment.
“If the mudra could speak, it would say: ‘I’m taking as much as I can, and whatever I take, I’ll keep for myself. I must hold on to it very tightly, or else someone will take it from me or I may lose it.’ It’s a mudra of competition and ego, focused on ‘I’ and ‘mine’. In the first verse of the Bhagavad Gita, the blind emperor Dhritarashtra expresses this mindset.33
“Most of us approach life in this way. That’s why the Gita begins with Dhritarashtra’s fear-based, attached mindset. As soon as I open my fist, whatever I’m holding will fall from my grasp. This is our fear: ‘I’ll lose what I have.’
“The universe has so much to offer us; it’s endlessly abundant in precious gifts. If we clench our hands into fists and the universe wants to give us more, we’re not in a position to accept it. Our hands are tightly closed.
“Thankfully, there’s a different way of relating with the universe—one that is the exact opposite of a fist.” The sage now turned his closed fist by 180 degrees and opened his fingers. He extended his open palm towards me, revealing moonstones, sapphires and sky-blue opals.
“This is the mudra, or gesture, of giving. It’s also the mudra of receiving. In this approach to life, there’s no fear of loss. There’s no attempt to seize and hold on to things. Importantly, if the universe wants to give us more precious gifts, we’re now in a position to receive them. Our hands are open.
“This powerful way of relating produces results that are 180 degrees different to those of a closed-fisted mindset. Have you not experienced this? When we live with an open heart, we discover that the more we give, the more we receive. Always.
“Take a look at the figures of saints and teachers across India: they never have closed fists. Their palms are always open. This is because the palm represents the heart.
“Remember, there are just two ways of relating with the world: with an open heart and with a closed heart. The last verse of the Bhagavad Gita describes the open-hearted way of being, which the seer Sanjaya says leads to ‘fortune, unusual triumph, strength, and abiding wise conduct’. The Gita is about making this 180-degree shift in consciousness from a closed heart to an open heart.”
This was a striking revelation for me. I thought of the times I had dedicated myself fully with a mood of loving service and giving, without concern for getting anything in return. These were the best times of my life. They were by far the most exhilarating and rewarding. They never brought misfortune.
I also thought of the many times I had adopted a small-minded, closed-fisted approach to life. Those were times of struggle, ego, anxiety and frustration. Every time.
Mudras are like prayers translated into physical form. If we live with a closed-fisted mindset, we make that our prayer in life. But by living with an open heart, we adopt a very different quality of prayer.
“Our heart is a treasure chest filled with beautiful gifts the universe has bestowed upon us,” the astrologer continued. “Our greatest treasure is our unique nature, gifted to us so we can be of service in the world. When we’re consumed by fear and the desire for more, we don’t appreciate what we already have. That’s because we’re focused on everything we don’t have.
“We can’t live in accord with the way we’re constructed without first becoming aware of our own gifts. The desire to look carefully at these gemstones we hold in our heart, to honour the gifts the universe has bestowed upon us, is the first step of Karma-yoga: be true to your nature.
“The second step of Karma-yoga is to let go of the fruits. When we adopt an attached, closed-fisted mindset, we’re afraid we’ll lose what we have if we open our hand. We’re afraid it will fall from our grasp. Inverting our fist by 180 degrees represents the shift from fear to trust. This is the second step of Karma-yoga. By trusting that the universe will look after us, we’re able to let go of the fruits of our actions.
“And the final step of Karma-yoga is to open our fingers, making what we do an offering. This completes the inversion from grasping to giving, from competition to loving service. We’ve now brought three divine qualities into everything we do: truth, trust and love. Only with this last step of opening our fingers do we truly see, reveal and share the treasures of our heart. It’s the only way we truly express ourselves fully.
“And then what happens? The universe immediately fills our open palms with further treasures. The universe never allows such open palms to remain empty.”