amounts to the surrenderance of individual existence, and this last all important step cannot be taken except through the help of a Perfect Master who is himself God-Realized. Out of millions of souls who are conscious of the mental sphere, only one can withdraw the flashlight of its consciousness from the individual mind. Such withdrawal implies the complete vanishing of last traces of the impressions connected with the mental life of the soul. When the flashlight of consciousness is no longer centered upon any of the three bodies, it serves the purpose of reflecting the true nature of the soul . . ."
The Beloved chose two more paragraphs the same way. Then He reached over and put His fingers on the back of my neck.
One more "dining room episode": Baba was standing on the steps to the old kitchen — it was early morning the sun was in the East. I looked at Baba — and as I looked, His body became completely transparent. I could see the lake, the sun, the trees through Him, and then He became solid again. He was smiling at me, as if to say, "See, I am not the body." Divine Cheshire cat.
Another morning I was walking down by the bridge, and I met Baba on the path. Baba drew Himself up - He seemed so tall, so majestic, I was overcome with awe — it was like meeting God in the Garden of Eden. All I could think of saying was, "Good morning, Baba." It seemed so inadequate, but Baba smiled. Those eyes were God's eyes. I knew as they looked into mine. Another time, I was on the bridge which is very narrow, and I saw Baba starting to cross it from the other end. I felt shy at meeting Baba face to face in the middle, so I turned and skipped back. Baba crossed the bridge, then put His hand under His chin, asking, "How did you sleep?"
Did this mean I still had too many "sleep" sanskaras to meet the Awakener head-on? Maybe I missed an embrace . . .
Another day, Baba called for some of us to meet Him in the Lagoon Cabin at 5 p.m. I was the only one there at 5. Baba looked so incredibly beautiful. The setting sun made a golden aureole around His free-flowing hair. His bare feet, exquisite as usual, were up on the settee. I was all alone with Him. And I felt sad that others thought so little of Him they would keep Him waiting. It seemed so symbolic; we neglect Him, ignore Him, keep Him waiting, we do not recognize Him . . .
My habit for years was writing poetry, and since I first heard of Baba in 1943, a lot of it was directed to Him. I had brought a notebook of poems with me. but forgot all about it in the excitement of being with Him. I never had mentioned it, but one day Baba asked, "Where is your poetry?" So I brought Him the notebook. It stayed on the table in front of His gadi.
Then one day, Baba put His finger in the book, opened it, handed it to Mani, who read the poem Baba chose. The gist of it was, May there always be this face of the Beloved between me and God Infinite. Baba inclined His head towards me; I can always remember His look of love.
Two more poems were chosen by Baba, and read out by Mani, then the book was handed back to me. Baba said, "Francis (Brabazon) is a poet like Hafiz." Was this a subtle hint? At that time I didn't care too much for his style. Now, perhaps, I see it could refer to Francis writing Hafiz-like ghazals at Baba's order. It was strange, but for years after, I wrote scarcely any poetry. The ego-involvement, or the emotional outlet, wasn't needed any more. Baba Himself became my poem: like He became Adele's "thesis."
Because I was so absorbed in this