Tag Archives: Yogi

Lord Shiva instructs his Sadhu Disciples

In the mist-clad peaks of Mount Kailash, the abode of divinity where silence speaks volumes, there sat Lord Shiva, the ascetic god of destruction and regeneration. His presence was as serene as the moonlit Himalayas, yet as intense as the fire that burns within the core of the earth. Surrounding him were his devoted sadhus, seekers of the ultimate truth, each one an embodiment of renunciation.

These ascetics, with ash smeared across their foreheads and bodies, signifying their continual death to the world of form, had gathered to absorb not the words, but the wisdom that emanated from the very being of Shiva. They were an assorted congregation; some young with fiery eyes fueled by the vigor of spiritual quests, others, old, with eyes deep as the cosmic sky, reflecting eons of contemplation.

Shiva, the great Yogi, sat in tranquil stillness, his eyes half-closed in a state between the manifest world and the unmanifest void. His trishula, the trident, stood beside him, symbolizing control over the physical, mental, and spiritual worlds. The crescent moon adorned his matted locks, and the mighty Ganga flowed from his hair, cascading down into the realms of man, a testament to his power to harness and release the torrents of cosmic energy.

As the sun began its descent, casting a golden cloak over the snow, Shiva opened his eyes, and in them, the universe seemed to dance. He spoke not through words but through the very essence of silence. His teachings were not of the scriptures but of existence. He taught the sadhus about the impermanence of the physical universe and the permanence of the self. He revealed to them the dance of creation and destruction, inherent in the flow of time, where every end was a prelude to a beginning.

He spoke of the beauty of detachment, how like the lotus, one must live in the world yet not be of it. His every gesture was a teaching, every pause a lesson in patience, every glance an initiation into the depths of consciousness.

As dusk turned to night, and the stars began to mirror the sparks of their meditative fires, the sadhus sat in profound meditation, absorbing the vibrations of Shiva’s presence. They realized that the ultimate teaching was not something to be grasped, but something to be lived. It was in the very act of living in harmony with the cosmos, in recognizing the oneness of all existence.

In the great silence of the Himalayas, under the watchful gaze of their eternal teacher, the sadhus found their truths. And Shiva, the Adiyogi, continued to sit in repose, his stillness an eternal testament to the wisdom beyond worlds. The cycle of night and day passed, seasons changed, but the quest of the sadhus remained — a quest quenched only by the profound waters of self-realization, a thirst for which they had forsaken all worldly desires.

And thus, the story of Lord Shiva and his disciples continues, in the hearts of those who seek, in the silence of the sages, and in the very air of Mount Kailash, where every breath whispers tales of liberation.

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Sita Rama – The Ramayana

The Ramayana is an ancient epic poem that tells the story of Rama and Sita, an iconic Hindu deity couple. It is a revered text within Hinduism and esteemed by followers as one of the greatest works of world literature. As part of the larger Hindu tradition, Rama and Sita have come to symbolize many things including ideal righteousness, loyalty, and the divine power of true love.

Sita and Rama have become legendary figures in Hinduism and throughout South Asia due to the prevalence of the Ramayana. They represent the perfect couple and exemplify the characteristics of dharma, devotion, and sacrifice. Devotional texts often portray Sita as the link that binds Rama to his personal dharma in performances of moral and dutiful acts. She is also venerated for her selfless devotion to her husband and her willingness to sacrifice her own safety and well-being in order to bring honor and virtue to their relationship.

Rama is seen as the epitome of morality and devotion. He is a great warrior renowned for his courage on the battlefield and skill in fighting the demoniac forces of evil. As an incarnate of the god Vishnu, Rama is a source of divine strength that inspires his followers to rise to heroic heights and achieve great feats of devotion. In the Ramayana, Rama represents the highest ideals of dharma, and his willingness to practice them even when they cost him great hardship or personal sacrifice is seen as a source of moral inspiration.

The legends of Sita and Rama have been very influential within Hinduism and shaped the way devotional expression to the deity couple has developed over time. Numerous stories and devotional songs have been written about their relationship and have become part of the Ramayana tradition. As a result, the characters of Sita and Rama have been woven into the fabric of many Hindu communities, and their stories are told and re-told throughout Hindu literature and culture.

In conclusion, the legends of Sita and Rama are deeply shared within Hinduism, and their stories represent a powerful example of dharma and loyalty. They have become an integral part of Hindu tradition, and followers often look to their relationship as a source of moral guidance. As two of the most influential deities in Hinduism, Sita and Rama are symbols of true love and devotion.

?️

Sita and Rama, two timeless souls,
Who walked by faith, made life their goal.
Oaths of love and promises they made,
Their love so strong, it could never fade.

Rama strong, brave, and true,
An epic hero, that much is true.
His love for her like none before,
Made many a heart even more sore.

Sita, the beautiful and brave,
She shed light in life’s darkest cave.
A lesson of pure devotion,
An archetype for modern woman.

A love story for all to hear,
Of devotion and strength, so sincere.
Their love through thick and thin,
Their legacy, forever within. ?

Divine Lovers Sita & Rama

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Therese Neumann, The Catholic Stigmatist ~ from the book Autobiography of a Yogi by Yogananda (Chapter 39)

“Return to india. I have waited for you patiently for fifteen years. Soon I shall swim out of the body and on to the Shining Abode. Yogananda, come!”

Sri Yukteswar’s voice sounded startlingly in my inner ear as I sat in meditation at my Mt. Washington headquarters. Traversing ten thousand miles in the twinkling of an eye, his message penetrated my being like a flash of lightning.

Fifteen years! Yes, I realized, now it is 1935; I have spent fifteen years in spreading my guru’s teachings in America. Now he recalls me.

That afternoon I recounted my experience to a visiting disciple. His spiritual development under Kriya Yoga was so remarkable that I often called him “saint,” remembering Babaji’s prophecy that America too would produce men and women of divine realization through the ancient yogic path.

This disciple and a number of others generously insisted on making a donation for my travels. The financial problem thus solved, I made arrangements to sail, via Europe, for India. Busy weeks of preparations at Mount Washington! In March, 1935 I had the Self- Realization Fellowship chartered under the laws of the State of California as a non-profit corporation. To this educational institution go all public donations as well as the revenue from the sale of my books, magazine, written courses, class tuition, and every other source of income.

“I shall be back,” I told my students. “Never shall I forget America.”

At a farewell banquet given to me in Los Angeles by loving friends, I looked long at their faces and thought gratefully, “Lord, he who remembers Thee as the Sole Giver will never lack the sweetness of friendship among mortals.”

I sailed from New York on June 9, 1935 in the Europa. Two students accompanied me: my secretary, Mr. C. Richard Wright, and an elderly lady from Cincinnati, Miss Ettie Bletch. We enjoyed the days of ocean peace, a welcome contrast to the past hurried weeks. Our period of leisure was short-lived; the speed of modern boats has some regrettable features!

THERESE NEUMANNTHERESE NEUMANN

Famous Catholic Stigmatist who inspired my 1935 pilgrimage to Konnersreuth, Bavaria
Like any other group of inquisitive tourists, we walked around the huge and ancient city of London.

The following day I was invited to address a large meeting in Caxton Hall, at which I was introduced to the London audience by Sir Francis Younghusband. Our party spent a pleasant day as guests of Sir Harry Lauder at his estate in Scotland. We soon crossed the English Channel to the continent, for I wanted to make a special pilgrimage to Bavaria.

This would be my only chance, I felt, to visit the great Catholic mystic, Therese Neumann of Konnersreuth.

Years earlier I had read an amazing account of Therese. Information given in the article was as follows:

(1) Therese, born in 1898, had been injured in an accident at the age of twenty; she became blind and paralyzed.

(2) She miraculously regained her sight in 1923 through prayers to St. Teresa, “The Little Flower.” Later Therese Neumann’s limbs were instantaneously healed.

(3) From 1923 onward, Therese has abstained completely from food and drink, except for the daily swallowing of one small consecrated wafer.

(4) The stigmata, or sacred wounds of Christ, appeared in 1926 on Therese’s head, breast, hands, and feet. On Friday of every week thereafter, she has passed through the Passion of Christ, suffering in her own body all his historic agonies.

(5) Knowing ordinarily only the simple German of her village, during her Friday trances Therese utters phrases which scholars have identified as ancient Aramaic. At appropriate times in her vision, she speaks Hebrew or Greek.

(6) By ecclesiastical permission, Therese has several times been under close scientific observation. Dr. Fritz Gerlick, editor of a Protestant German newspaper, went to Konnersreuth to “expose the Catholic fraud,” but ended up by reverently writing her biography.

As always, whether in East or West, I was eager to meet a saint. I rejoiced as our little party entered, on July 16th, the quaint village of Konnersreuth. The Bavarian peasants exhibited lively interest in our Ford automobile (brought with us from America) and its assorted group-an American young man, an elderly lady, and an olive-hued Oriental with long hair tucked under his coat collar.

Therese’s little cottage, clean and neat, with geraniums blooming by a primitive well, was alas! silently closed. The neighbors, and even the village postman who passed by, could give us no information. Rain began to fall; my companions suggested that we leave.

“No,” I said stubbornly, “I will stay here until I find some clue leading to Therese.”

Two hours later we were still sitting in our car amidst the dismal rain. “Lord,” I sighed complainingly, “why didst Thou lead me here if she has disappeared?”

An English-speaking man halted beside us, politely offering his aid.

“I don’t know for certain where Therese is,” he said, “but she often visits at the home of Professor Wurz, a seminary master of Eichstatt, eighty miles from here.”

The following morning our party motored to the quiet village of Eichstatt, narrowly lined with cobblestoned streets. Dr. Wurz greeted us cordially at his home; “Yes, Therese is here.” He sent her word of the visitors. A messenger soon appeared with her reply.

“Though the bishop has asked me to see no one without his permission, I will receive the man of God from India.”

Deeply touched at these words, I followed Dr. Wurz upstairs to the sitting room. Therese entered immediately, radiating an aura of peace and joy.

She wore a black gown and spotless white head dress. Although her age was thirty-seven at this time, she seemed much younger, possessing indeed a childlike freshness and charm. Healthy, well- formed, rosy-cheeked, and cheerful, this is the saint that does not eat!

Therese greeted me with a very gentle handshaking. We both beamed in silent communion, each knowing the other to be a lover of God.

Dr. Wurz kindly offered to serve as interpreter. As we seated ourselves, I noticed that Therese was glancing at me with naive curiosity; evidently Hindus had been rare in Bavaria.

“Don’t you eat anything?” I wanted to hear the answer from her own lips.

“No, except a consecrated rice-flour wafer, once every morning at six o’clock.”

“How large is the wafer?”

“It is paper-thin, the size of a small coin.” She added, “I take it for sacramental reasons; if it is unconsecrated, I am unable to swallow it.”

“Certainly you could not have lived on that, for twelve whole years?”

“I live by God’s light.” How simple her reply, how Einsteinian!

“I see you realize that energy flows to your body from the ether, sun, and air.”

A swift smile broke over her face. “I am so happy to know you understand how I live.”

“Your sacred life is a daily demonstration of the truth uttered by Christ: ‘Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God.'”

Again she showed joy at my explanation. “It is indeed so. One of the reasons I am here on earth today is to prove that man can live by God’s invisible light, and not by food only.”

“Can you teach others how to live without food?”
She appeared a trifle shocked. “I cannot do that; God does not wish it.”

As my gaze fell on her strong, graceful hands, Therese showed me a little, square, freshly healed wound on each of her palms. On the back of each hand, she pointed out a smaller, crescent-shaped wound, freshly healed. Each wound went straight through the hand. The sight brought to my mind distinct recollection of the large square iron nails with crescent-tipped ends, still used in the Orient, but which I do not recall having seen in the West.

The saint told me something of her weekly trances. “As a helpless onlooker, I observe the whole Passion of Christ.” Each week, from Thursday midnight until Friday afternoon at one o’clock, her wounds open and bleed; she loses ten pounds of her ordinary 121-pound weight. Suffering intensely in her sympathetic love, Therese yet looks forward joyously to these weekly visions of her Lord.

I realized at once that her strange life is intended by God to reassure all Christians of the historical authenticity of Jesus’ life and crucifixion as recorded in the New Testament, and to dramatically display the ever-living bond between the Galilean Master and his devotees.

Professor Wurz related some of his experiences with the saint.

“Several of us, including Therese, often travel for days on sight- seeing trips throughout Germany,” he told me. “It is a striking contrast-while we have three meals a day, Therese eats nothing. She remains as fresh as a rose, untouched by the fatigue which the trips cause us. As we grow hungry and hunt for wayside inns, she laughs merrily.”

The professor added some interesting physiological details: “Because Therese takes no food, her stomach has shrunk. She has no excretions, but her perspiration glands function; her skin is always soft and firm.”

At the time of parting, I expressed to Therese my desire to be present at her trance.

“Yes, please come to Konnersreuth next Friday,” she said graciously. “The bishop will give you a permit. I am very happy you sought me out in Eichstatt.”

Therese shook hands gently, many times, and walked with our party to the gate. Mr. Wright turned on the automobile radio; the saint examined it with little enthusiastic chuckles. Such a large crowd of youngsters gathered that Therese retreated into the house. We saw her at a window, where she peered at us, childlike, waving her hand.

From a conversation the next day with two of Therese’s brothers, very kind and amiable, we learned that the saint sleeps only one or two hours at night. In spite of the many wounds in her body, she is active and full of energy. She loves birds, looks after an aquarium of fish, and works often in her garden. Her correspondence is large; Catholic devotees write her for prayers and healing blessings. Many seekers have been cured through her of serious diseases.

Her brother Ferdinand, about twenty-three, explained that Therese has the power, through prayer, of working out on her own body the ailments of others. The saint’s abstinence from food dates from a time when she prayed that the throat disease of a young man of her parish, then preparing to enter holy orders, be transferred to her own throat.

On Thursday afternoon our party drove to the home of the bishop, who looked at my flowing locks with some surprise. He readily wrote out the necessary permit. There was no fee; the rule made by the Church is simply to protect Therese from the onrush of casual tourists, who in previous years had flocked on Fridays by the thousands.

We arrived Friday morning about nine-thirty in Konnersreuth. I noticed that Therese’s little cottage possesses a special glass-roofed section to afford her plenty of light. We were glad to see the doors no longer closed, but wide-open in hospitable cheer. There was a line of about twenty visitors, armed with their permits. Many had come from great distances to view the mystic trance.

Therese had passed my first test at the professor’s house by her intuitive knowledge that I wanted to see her for spiritual reasons, and not just to satisfy a passing curiosity.

My second test was connected with the fact that, just before I went upstairs to her room, I put myself into a yogic trance state in order to be one with her in telepathic and televisic rapport. I entered her chamber, filled with visitors; she was lying in a white robe on the bed. With Mr. Wright following closely behind me, I halted just inside the threshold, awestruck at a strange and most frightful spectacle.

Blood flowed thinly and continuously in an inch-wide stream from Therese’s lower eyelids. Her gaze was focused upward on the spiritual eye within the central forehead. The cloth wrapped around her head was drenched in blood from the stigmata wounds of the crown of thorns. The white garment was redly splotched over her heart from the wound in her side at the spot where Christ’s body, long ages ago, had suffered the final indignity of the soldier’s spear-thrust.

Therese’s hands were extended in a gesture maternal, pleading; her face wore an expression both tortured and divine. She appeared thinner, changed in many subtle as well as outward ways. Murmuring words in a foreign tongue, she spoke with slightly quivering lips to persons visible before her inner sight.

As I was in attunement with her, I began to see the scenes of her vision. She was watching Jesus as he carried the cross amidst the jeering multitude.

Suddenly she lifted her head in consternation: the Lord had fallen under the cruel weight. The vision disappeared. In the exhaustion of fervid pity, Therese sank heavily against her pillow.

At this moment I heard a loud thud behind me. Turning my head for a second, I saw two men carrying out a prostrate body. But because I was coming out of the deep superconscious state, I did not immediately recognize the fallen person. Again I fixed my eyes on Therese’s face, deathly pale under the rivulets of blood, but now calm, radiating purity and holiness. I glanced behind me later and saw Mr. Wright standing with his hand against his cheek, from which blood was trickling.

“Dick,” I inquired anxiously, “were you the one who fell?”

“Yes, I fainted at the terrifying spectacle.”
“Well,” I said consolingly, “you are brave to return and look upon the sight again.”

Remembering the patiently waiting line of pilgrims, Mr. Wright and I silently bade farewell to Therese and left her sacred presence.

The following day our little group motored south, thankful that we were not dependent on trains, but could stop the Ford wherever we chose throughout the countryside. We enjoyed every minute of a tour through Germany, Holland, France, and the Swiss Alps. In Italy we made a special trip to Assisi to honor the apostle of humility, St. Francis. The European tour ended in Greece, where we viewed the Athenian temples, and saw the prison in which the gentle Socrates had drunk his death potion.

One is filled with admiration for the artistry with which the Greeks have everywhere wrought their very fancies in alabaster.

We took ship over the sunny Mediterranean, disembarking at Palestine. Wandering day after day over the Holy Land, I was more than ever convinced of the value of pilgrimage. The spirit of Christ is all- pervasive in Palestine; I walked reverently by his side at Bethlehem, Gethsemane, Calvary, the holy Mount of Olives, and by the River Jordan and the Sea of Galilee.

Our little party visited the Birth Manger, Joseph’s carpenter shop, the tomb of Lazarus, the house of Martha and Mary, the hall of the Last Supper. Antiquity unfolded; scene by scene, I saw the divine drama that Christ once played for the ages.

On to Egypt, with its modern Cairo and ancient pyramids. Then a boat down the narrow Red Sea, over the vasty Arabian Sea; lo, India.

MC Yogi – Breath Control – Official Video

You gotta check out this awesome new video from MC Yogi called “Breath Control”. The man brings that yoga and mystic consciousness inna Hiphop stylee! The video is really cool too! I like the tracer lines when he moves his hands.

I got to see MC Yogi perform this song a few months ago when he came to Indiana for the Serendipity Festival, in which he performed with DJ Drez and the Kirtaniyas. His set was alot of fun! It was cool to see the mashup the 3 artists did by performing together. My reggae band The Tuff Tones also performed at the festival. It was a really great festival!

Watch the new video and support good music! Here’s MC Yogi’s website~

MC Yogi – Breath Control

Blessed Love
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~Sakshi Zion

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