It was a relief to hear Mother Meera confirm that she is not a guru. Like many skeptical Westerners, I have doubts about the traditional guru-disciple relationship, with its calls for obedience, exclusivity, and unquestioning devotion. Had Mother Meera encouraged such fealty, or required any kind of compliance, I’d have run for the hills and never looked back. Fortunately, she asks nothing from devotees, rejecting all attempts to turn her into a surrogate parent or an object of worship. Unlike a conventional guru, Mother warns against a devotee’s becoming too attached to her physical presence or dependent on her for decision making. “There is no need to be near my physical body. I will help you wherever you are,” she assures us.
Our long-distance relationship suited me fine. Returning to New York after that first trip to India—having met Mother Meera and begun a serious meditation practice—I found myself without a job, a place to live, or much hope of surviving more than a couple of years. My health had been in a steady decline, treatments for the disease were nowhere in sight, and my doctor’s only recommendation was to go out and live while there was still time.
Rather than waiting to die in the city, I embarked on the life of a dharma bum and threw myself into spiritual seeking the way a drowning man clings to the edge of a life raft. If there was no cure for my physical body, at least I could try to heal my soul, to discover what, if anything, this life meant and why I was alive in the first place. I hit the road with no time to lose and a list of urgent spiritual questions. What did we mean by God, anyway? Did anything exist of a man beyond this booby-trapped bag of bones? What about enlightenment? Was such a thing possible in the time I had left? Could raising my consciousness help me to cope with these sickening, smothering feelings of dread? Driven by these riddles, I traveled from teacher to teacher, ashram to monastery, retreat center to mind-body workshop, grabbing for wisdom wherever I found it and major credit cards were accepted.
Seeking became my reason for being. I kept a quote from T. S. Eliot in my wallet: “In a world of fugitives, the person taking the opposite direction will appear to run away.” I was lucky to spend time with extraordinary teachers from a variety of backgrounds: the Dalai Lama, Brother David Steindl-Rast, Matthieu Ricard, Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, Byron Katie, Stephen Levine, Adyashanti. I had personal conversations with Eckhart Tolle, helped Sogyal Rinpoche on The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, and spent a year co-writing a book with Ram Dass. I meditated with John Daido Loori, received Ammachi’s otherworldly hug, and spoke to the Daskalos, Spyros Sathi, about out-of-body travel, or “exomatosis.” From these sages, I picked up invaluable clues about how to live wisely in a mortal body while knowing that you are a spirit as well.
These were traumatic, eye-opening years and the most transformative of my life. I traveled to Germany as often as possible and stayed with Mother Meera for months on end, in a room on the second floor of her house. She always welcomed me graciously and allowed me to remain for as long as I liked. Adilakshmi would inquire into the state of my health and suggest that I ask Mother for help. I never felt moved to do this, however. I was there to be blessed, not saved; I was seeking acceptance, not divine intervention. Even with Mother so close by, I rarely went upstairs to speak to her. It was enough for me to see her during darshan, hear her shuffling overhead, or spy on her as she watered her flowers on the terrace. I’d walk in the woods, cook meals with Daniel or Herbert, and keep to myself. Each time I left, Adilakshmi wished me well at the door and would say that she hoped to see me again. I realized she meant this quite literally.
Oddly enough, though, I didn’t get sicker. The years rolled by, incredibly, and my body stayed more or less the same. By 1992, I was still in commission and realized that it was time to go home. The seeker’s life had become an ongoing escape; I was running away from my life, not toward it. Returning to New York, I rented a studio apartment in the Village with help from friends and family. I did my best to normalize, to settle down and integrate. I embarked on a live-in relationship, joined a meditation group, and volunteered three times a week at a hospice, rubbing the feet of dying patients and listening to their stories. I wrestled with a memoir about mortality and awakening, and collaborated with Andrew on a book about the divine feminine (later published as Dialogues with a Modern Mystic). It had been our intention from the start to dedicate the book to Mother Meera, our inspiration for this project, and Andrew and I worked happily for nine months in my one-room apartment, discussing the end of the patriarchy and the spiritual health of a world out of balance.
The first sign that things weren’t right between Andrew and Mother came with a fax from Adilakshmi, insisting that Mother Meera’s name not appear in our book. This request was shocking to both of us but Andrew was truly beside himself. He’d spent years helping Mother in a variety of ways, and his memoir about their relationship, Hidden Journey, had introduced thousands of readers to her, many of whom later came for darshan. After Mr. Reddy died, Andrew had taken on the role of being Mother’s ambassador to the world, and done so with unflagging devotion. Now it appeared that Mother Meera, or someone around her, wanted to distance herself from our work for reasons that neither of us could imagine. Feeling betrayed and humiliated, Andrew returned home to Paris after we’d finished the manuscript, and our book went to press without Mother’s name in it. I fell out of touch with Andrew after that and I never quite understood what had happened.
Then the situation got worse. Word arrived through mutual friends that Andrew had rejected Mother for reasons I found inexplicable. Apparently, he had accused her in print of being homophobic and a fake. All of a sudden, my old friend had reversed his belief in her avatarhood, reframing Mother as a spiritual adept who later became Mr. Reddy’s “invention” and now behaved with ulterior motives. I soon learned the reason for this change of heart. Following the book-related fax, Andrew had gone to Thalheim, apparently, to ask Mother why she withdrew, and to receive her blessing on his upcoming marriage to his male partner. Rumor had it that Mother refused him this blessing and, more incredibly still, requested that Andrew leave his beau, marry a woman, and write a book about how the Divine Mother’s love had transformed him into a straight family man, since being gay was “unnatural.”
I was flabbergasted. I’d never felt a trace of homophobia from Mother or the people around her. The first morning we spent in her house, Andrew and I were served breakfast in our room. I’d brought many gay people to darshan over the years, and all of them were welcomed wholeheartedly. When a friend of mine sent Mother Meera a message, asking for help in finding a partner, Adilakshmi returned with encouraging news (“Mother says yes!”). He came to meet his life partner at darshan the following year, in fact. When this same friend asked Mother if she had any negative feelings about homosexuality, she answered, “How could I be against anyone for anything? You must go deep into your heart, see who you are, and act accordingly. Then what could there ever be to give up?” In truth, I’d always been deeply impressed by Mother Meera’s openness to alternate lifestyles; she was, after all, a celibate holy woman from a conservative Indian background. Yet here was Andrew claiming the opposite, laying his credibility on the line after years of being her greatest ally.
As word of the controversy spread, people began to contact me, wanting to know if Andrew was right. A journalist called from a magazine, asking me if I believed him. I told her that I had no earthly idea what could have happened. Was it true that Mother Meera had turned against homosexuals? Might Andrew be making this whole thing up? Would this stain Mother Meera’s otherwise unsullied reputation? Torn between my own experience and loyalty to Andrew, I realized that there was nothing to do but find out for myself. I booked a flight to Germany for later that month.
Herbert met me at the airport in Frankfurt. When I asked him what had actually happened, he smiled, shrugged, and suggested that I talk to Adilakshmi. It was all “a big misunderstanding,” he told me. Herbert wouldn’t elaborate.
I was in my room the following day, putting off the inevitable, when Adilakshmi knocked at the door and asked me to come up to Mother’s apartment. The familiar butterflies rose up in my stomach as I followed her up the white marble stairs. Mother Meera was waiting for us on the sofa, outfitted in a housecoat and slippers. Adilakshmi pulled out a chair and I sat, facing the two of them. Mother Meera greeted me warmly, asked about my health, and gazed off into the middle distance. Nobody said a word for a minute. Then Adilakshmi launched into the subject at hand: “We are very glad you have come,” she said. “Have you spoken to Andrew lately?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you about.”
Adilakshmi gave a knowing smile. “Andrew is angry. But the things he is saying are not true.” I looked at Mother, who barely seemed to be paying attention. “The Mother’s love is equal for all. Andrew did not understand.”
“I’d really like to know what happened.”
Adilakshmi gave me the gist of it. For many years, Mother had trusted Andrew to speak on her behalf. As an outspoken advocate for gay rights, Andrew had been outspokenly gay, suggesting in public statements that “the return of the Mother” was especially good news for homosexuals, who could now celebrate their otherness. “People began to write to the Mother, asking if it was true that she prefers gay people,” Adilakshmi said. “Some of them were very upset.”
“These are simple people,” Mother Meera said. “With families. It was confusing to them.”
“When Andrew came,” Adilakshmi continued, “we only asked that if he wishes to speak in the Mother’s name, then it is better not to discuss these things. If he wishes to talk about them on his own, that is no problem.”
“That’s all that happened?” I asked. Adilakshmi nodded her head and a weight was lifted from my heart. Still, the question of the marriage remained. “What about asking for Mother’s blessing? Is it true that he was told to marry a woman?”
“Andrew can love anyone he wants!” Adilakshmi waved away the suggestion. I speculated that perhaps there had been some hesitation on Mother’s part to the particular man he had chosen. When I suggested this, Adilakshmi glanced at Mother, then back at me. “These are personal matters,” she said. “For Andrew’s sadhana. Now I would like to ask you for something, Mark.”
“Anything,” I told Adilakshmi.
“Will you write an article that tells the truth? We love Andrew. He is an old friend. Will you help?” I wanted to say yes but hesitated. Instead, I assured Adilakshmi that I believed her. The room fell silent after that; eventually, after a minute or so, Mother Meera stood up and walked me to the door. I expressed gratitude for her hospitality. “You are always welcome,” she told me.
“Will you write the article?” Adilakshmi asked.
I promised her to do my best.
In fact, I wrote nothing—not a word—to contradict what Andrew was saying. I was too confused by these conflicting stories—and too repelled by Andrew’s vitriol—to reckon fairly with what had happened. I was also too much of a reporter not to remember that I was nowhere near the scene when all of this had transpired. I could never know the precise truth about what was said, the tone and innuendo, what had been distorted, misheard, badly translated, or simply unintended. Could Adilakshmi have misspoken? Perhaps. Was it possible that Andrew pushed too far or overstepped some boundary? Yes. Could Mother’s resistance to Andrew’s choice of husband have had something to do with the guy’s character? Certainly. Did I believe that Mother Meera was homophobic? Absolutely not. It seemed clear to me that this collision between them had been a long time coming. Was it my job now to pick up the pieces? Not at all. My only responsibility was to protect the sacred relationship I had with Mother Meera. There was no need for me to dive into a pile of dirty laundry that reeked of half-truths and hidden agendas.
Still, my connection to Mother was not immune to the Andrew debacle. Our inner bond remained unbroken, but I instinctively stepped away from the conflict. Mother’s photograph remained on my desk, my sense of her power remained undiminished, but I kept my distance from Germany. My personal life had radically changed as well, which shifted my attention and focus. First, I’d gotten my future back when drugs appeared to treat my condition. Next, I had followed Meher Baba’s injunction to “dig in one place” (and meet God wherever you are), creating a home with my new partner and working on my writing career. I’d taken Mother Meera’s advice to heart as well, and never attached to her physical presence or treated her like a guru—a detachment that served me well in those years. Our bond seemed to grow even stronger during this physical absence, in fact.
Friends in Thalheim kept me abreast of the changes in Mother’s life during this period. By the early 2000s, she was traveling the world, emerging from her decades-long seclusion, because, in her words, “not everyone can come to Germany.” I read about Mother in magazines, watched video footage of darshan online, and waited for the right time to see her again.
This finally happened in April 2006. Mother was giving darshan at a hotel in Connecticut, and I couldn’t wait to be in her presence. When the time came, I sat in the crowded ballroom, feeling excited and nervous, the way you are before meeting a long-absent friend, hoping that they haven’t changed too much. When the door finally opened and she made her entrance, I was relieved to find Mother just the same, aside from a few more gray hairs at the temples. She still lowered her eyes as she walked, avoiding the audience’s gaze, then settled quickly onto her chair, folded her hands in her lap, and waited for the first head to be offered. Darshan was also more organized now, due to the size of the crowd; each of our rows was called one at a time, with a seated queue down the center aisle. One by one, we were asked to slide forward as the space in front of her cleared. When my turn came, her fingertips locked on the top of my head, I smelled India in the folds of her sari, and when I sat back on my heels to meet her eyes, they offered no sign of recognition. Mother stared at me for an especially long time, it seemed. Then it was over, I was back in my seat, my eyes were closed, and that eerie calm came over me, an intimation of something eternal, the long-delayed return to stillness. My mind went quiet. I could hear myself breathing. I knew there was nothing to be forgiven.