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Articles

Silence on Silence Day
  – Jenny Keating

Burned by Beauty
  – Buck Busfield

CCCs
  – Billy Goodrum

Amartithi
  – Bruce Felknor

"You'll find Me in the garden"
  – Jenny Keating

'Heart Tires of Its Gaudy Dress' – Francis Brabazon
  – Buck Busfield

HOLLYWOOD
  – Billy Goodrum

Trust and Intimacy
  – Jenny Keating

Living with Baba
  – Bruce Felknor

When Words Fail . . . Just Use More Words
  – Buck Busfield

Suffering and Service
  – Juniper Lesnik

SPOILER ALERT
  – Billy Goodrum

The charm of His ways. . .
  – Jenny Keating

The Importance of Being Furnished
  – Bruce Felknor

It's Been Fun
  – Steve Klein

Let’s Talk about Love
  – Juniper Lesnik

Cannes
  – Billy Goodrum

In the world but not of it . . .
  – Jenny Keating

Give Me Your Imperfections
  – Wendy Connor

Children of the One God
  – Bruce Felknor

As the Poet Says
  – Steve Klein

Happy Endings
  – Jenny Keating

Thoughts on Furniture
  – Billy Goodrum

Going Home
  – Juniper Lesnik

A Tale of Two Connections
  – Bruce Felknor

The Flowering Seed
  – Wendy Connor

Baby Steps
  – Steve Klein

Patience
  – Jenny Keating

Hold On!
  – Juniper Lesnik

Waiting for the New Humanity
  – Billy Goodrum

Remembering
  – Bruce Felknor

The Beloved's Beloved
  – Wendy Connor

Compare and Contrast
  – Steve Klein

It's in the struggle . . .
  – Jenny Keating

Time
  – Juniper Lesnik

The Tipping Point
  – Billy Goodrum

Learning Poise
  – Bruce Felknor

When "Good Enough" Isn't
  – Steve Klein

Conflict and Joy
  – Jenny Keating

Sleepless in San Jose
  – Juniper Lesnik

Vacation Incarnation
  – Steve Klein

Nerve Endings of the Soul
  – Jenny Keating

"Let the World Wait"
  – Wendy Connor

Religion vs Spirituality
  – Steve Klein

The Bigger Challenge
  – Wendy Connor

Que Sera Sera
  – Steve Klein

To Be Honest
  – Juniper Lesnik

Praise and Blame
  – Steve Klein

Being Right
  – Steve Klein

To Love God is To Love Our Fellow Beings
  – Juniper Lesnik

God is Alive in the World
  – Wendy Connor

Determined to Be His
  – Steve Klein

The Stuff We're Made Of
  – Juniper Lesnik

"I Will Always Be With You": Memories of the East West Gathering
  – Wendy Connor

Half Full or Half Empty?
  – Steve Klein

Love The One You're With
  – Steve Klein

Ordinary Life
  – Juniper Lesnik

Baba Loved Us Too
  – Wendy Connor

Feeling His Love
  – Steve Klein

He is both Father and Mother
  – Juniper Lesnik

A Leap of Faith
  – Wendy Connor

Becoming His
  – Steve Klein

Don't Worry, Be Happy
  – Juniper Lesnik

A Life Worth Living
  – Wendy Connor

Love The One You're With
  – Steve Klein

What a Mighty Beloved our Beloved is
  – Wendy Connor

To thine own self be true?
  – Steve Klein

The Sweets of His Love
  – Wendy Connor

Sickness and Health
  – Juniper Lesnik

Giving Advice
  – Steve Klein

"Garlic-Faced"
  – Wendy Connor

To Love and Be Loved
  – Juniper Lesnik

Talking About The Truth
  – Steve Klein

The Script was Written Long Ago
  – Wendy Connor

Excuse Me, Which Way to God?
  – Steve Klein

Letting Go
  – Juniper Lesnik

The Mosquitoes are Bad Today
  – Wendy Connor

What If A Teaching Moment Never Comes?
  – Steve Klein

Beads On One String
  – Juniper Lesnik

Youth Sahavas '07
  – Wendy Connor

Stop, You're Both Right!
  – Steve Klein

God, Please Give me a Job
  – Juniper Lesnik

"It Just Passes More Quickly"
  – Wendy Connor

Multiple Meher Babas
  – Steve Klein

Winking Back
  – Juniper Lesnik

The Treasure Within
  – Wendy Connor

Holding On, But Losing One's Grip
  – Steve Klein

1969
  – Ann Conlon

Obedience
  – Ann Conlon

Meher Center – The Way It Was
  – Ann Conlon

Armageddon, Anyone?
  – Ann Conlon

What Does Baba Want Me to Do?
  – Ann Conlon

Baba's 'Things'
  – Ann Conlon

The Way It Was – Meherabad
  – Ann Conlon

What Does THAT Mean?
  – Ann Conlon

Doing "Baba Work"
  – Ann Conlon

Broken Heads
  – Ann Conlon

Enid
  – Ann Conlon

On Being Ill
  – Ann Conlon

To Each His Own
  – Ann Conlon

Meherjee
  – Ann Conlon

Youth Sahavas
  – Ann Conlon

Kitty
  – Ann Conlon

The Lonely Path
  – Ann Conlon

Isn't He Enough?
  – Ann Conlon

He Said What?
  – Ann Conlon

Goher
  – Ann Conlon

Taking a Dare
  – Ann Conlon

Seeking Suffering
  – Ann Conlon

Dreams
  – Ann Conlon

Amartithi
  – Ann Conlon

Margaret
  – Ann Conlon

"The Disciple"
  – Ann Conlon

I Wonder ...
  – Ann Conlon

Backbiting, etc.
  – Ann Conlon

Hearing His Name
  – Ann Conlon

Rites, Rituals and Ceremonies
  – Ann Conlon

"Baba's Group"
  – Ann Conlon

His Promise
  – Ann Conlon

Then and Now
  – Ann Conlon

Middlemen Revisited
  – Ann Conlon

Padri
  – Ann Conlon

Gateway Days
  – Ann Conlon

The New Life
  – Ann Conlon

Books, Books and More Books
  – Ann Conlon

Elizabeth Patterson
  – Ann Conlon

His "Last Warning"
  – Ann Conlon

Detachment
  – Ann Conlon

Is That A Religion Coming?
  – Ann Conlon

Manifestation: Did He Or Didn't He?
  – Ann Conlon

A Country of Our Own?
  – Ann Conlon

Remembering Mohammed
  – Ann Conlon

Advice (Sort-Of) for Newcomers
  – Ann Conlon

You're a Baba Lover If...
  – Ann Conlon

Real Happiness
  – Ann Conlon

Baba Lover, Baba Follower or Both?
  – Ann Conlon

Meherazad – The Way It Was
  – Ann Conlon

The Strongest Memories
  – Ann Conlon

All (Baba) Things Considered

Burned by Beauty


Coming to Baba in the early Seventies was a wild, heady experience. The Mandali were many, and the folks who met Baba abounded. It was Baba. All Baba. Everywhere. All the time. Baba, Baba, Baba.

And the Center, in Myrtle Beach, was the hub of it all. Beautiful and serene. It was where everything stopped and started. The place. The only place. A place of the deepest rest and restless yearning. It was, the Center. The best-kept and most precious secret on earth.

And the people? A whirling cavalcade of the most interesting, eccentric and simply beautiful people I had met in my 20 short years. ‘See her?’ She lived with Baba’. ‘And that one drove Baba’s car in Oklahoma.’ ‘She danced with Nijinsky’. ‘He can feel the things Baba touched’, ‘She reads your thoughts’, ‘A blind painter??! An actress. A stained glass artist. An oil exec. A balalaika player serenading 100 chiropractors.

There was so much that was new, fascinating and drenched in Baba that each day brought an extra helping of exhilaration. Every day.

And most importantly. It was mine. All mine.

And being mine, I did what I do. Stand a bit on the outside and watch and marvel. And standing on the outside was particularly easy with the Mandali because, well, I just didn’t know who they were. What they were. Were they saints? Were they people? Were they both? Regardless, whatever they were, I was not. I was not fully comfortable. I was not confident. I was not myself. I was happy, yes, and felt Baba’s love in them, yes, but I felt separate.

I was so busy projecting stuff onto these lovely souls, I could never really just be with them.

And this separation was most keenly felt in the presence of Baba’s dearest one Mehera. She was His. His alone. The one who loves Him as He should be loved. His beloved. The purest soul of the universe. And the feelings of separateness were stoked and pitched high even before meeting her by 100 divine injunctions. Don’t talk about this. Don’t ask about that. Don’t be sad, she’s still in mourning. And for God’s sake, don’t touch her!

Okay. I won’t.

I met Mehera in December of 1973 on her porch. And she was, projections or not, exquisite, delicate, funny, and possessed of an active, visible longing for Baba.

Here I was. At Baba’s house. With Baba’s Mehera. Stillness. A garden. It was perfect. Then an American fellow next to me started singing. An achingly beautiful rendition of Hafiz rich with roses, wine and nightingales. And . . . well . . . felt something, very deep within, and it hurt. A lot. And the hurt was Baba. His beauty. His breathtaking beauty. It hurt me in a way and to a degree I had never known. With the injunction ‘don’t be sad in front of Mehera’ repeating, I put my face in my hands and just tried to hold it together till the song ended. But the only technique I knew for holding it together was to think of Baba which, as you can guess, just magnified the terrible longing and beautiful hurt. More and more and still yet more.

So burned by Baba’s Beauty was I, that finally I just lost it. And cried. Sobbed, really. Uncontrollably. For a long time. Deep, wrenching cries that seemed piled up from lifetimes. In front of Mehera, before whom we weren’t to be sad. Much less create a scene.

Instantly, four hands lifted me and guided me to Baba’s room, placed me in a chair and wiped away my years. The hands were soft and sweet. They were Naja’s and Goher’s. And, as they brushed away each tear they made little kissing sounds with their mouths which, after a while, calmed the sudden storm. Slowly. Slowly. Slowly. Without words. None. Clearly, they had done this before. Many times.

A few moments later I rose and, with the ladies by my side, returned to the porch. Embarrassed. Humiliated. Ashamed. The festivities were in full swing, and when I, with great trepidation, caught Mehera’s eye, she quite simply nodded, ‘are you okay?’ To which I nodded, ‘yes’.

For many years, when reminded of that day, I would groan in regret and embarrassment. I cried in front of Mehera. Created a scene. Made her sad. Or did I? I really don’t know. All I know is that whatever I felt then and feel now, she had probably forgotten a few moments later, and increasingly all I remember is four, soft, sweet hands wiping away tears.

Published June, 2017.