I was a very conservative kid in a suburb of New York. My family was not religious, but I became religiously oriented during my teens. I went to church on my own, joining the choir (mostly middle-aged folks) and even teaching Sunday school. But as I approached my last year of high school, my interest faded; religion seemed too narrow.

During that year I felt the sting of conscience, as someone from a privileged family (it was the ’60s, after all!), so I decided to do some volunteering. There was a special class at school for retarded children, and I nervously presented myself to do some afternoon social service. That led to the offer of a summer job as a camp counselor in the Catskill Mountains with a dozen or so of these children. My self-made immigrant parents were horrified, but I insisted. They drove me up in their gleaming grey 1959 Cadillac (battleship style), little knowing that I would be learning yoga, becoming a vegetarian and reading about reincarnation in those few weeks. Little did I know myself! I also acquired a boyfriend there, the son of the camp directors.

In September I went off to college – alas, a depressing experience. Here I was, accepted into one of the top universities in the country, and I pretty much hated it. Something was badly lacking. At one point I heard from my boyfriend, who was studying in Michigan, that his family had met a Guru. Finally, in May of 1968, I took a train from college in Boston back to New York one weekend to meet the Guru. My boyfriend told me to keep my eyes open, no matter what. That made me afraid and intrigued in equal measure! I was blessed to have a private interview with Guru, with my boyfriend.

We drove into Manhattan in a little black Renault covered with flower-stickers (those were the times, but I favoured miniskirts over the hippie style). It was a Saturday morning and a light rain was falling. I remember walking up several flights of stairs to Guru’s apartment on East 84th Street. There was a simple room with empty folding chairs lined up, as I recall. White curtains were billowing in the breeze, and Guru, dressed in saffron robes, was walking back and forth in front of the windows. My impression was that everything was very plain, very serene and very high.

Guru, then 36 years old, spoke to both of us, seated in front of him. He was very kind and compassionate, asking about me and my family. He meditated, moving his eyes in his extraordinary way, and I did keep my eyes open. I felt that Guru knew me completely. He gave me two Transcendental photographs. I did not think about „becoming a disciple.“ The next day there was a group meditation in Guru’s apartment, and I went. It was natural – of course I would go.

“I Am So Fortunate“ and “All Your Grace,“ Guru’s immortal songs from the summer of 2007, perfectly describe my being found by Guru at age 18.

Sahatvam with the World Harmony Run team in Turkey, July 2007

I think we all have – in a more or less conscious way – the goal to be happy. Admittedly, happiness might mean something different to each of us if we have to define it. That is alright, since we are individuals. On the road to our own personal happiness, we walk along completely different paths that can be rather adventurous, surprising and wondrous, and add excitement and diversity to our lives. Often, these paths have several tracks that we can walk on simultaneously.

In my school years, fom 11th grade on, I started developing an interest in spirituality. Since I was raised as a Catholic, I was looking for contacts in the Christian world. With the nice chaplain of our parish, we formed a small group that organized services, lectures, spiritual group travels and more. The mystic aspect and the message put into practice always inspired me most. During my studies I kept loose contact with this group, but slowly my studies became more and more important in my life.

At an international meeting in Germany, I met my future wife. She was studying architecture in Ankara, Turkey, at the time. Two years later, she finished her studies, moved to Germany and we got married. A “fresh breeze“ from a very different culture came into my life. Both of us needed a lot of tolerance and great openness. This was important for me and helped me later to accept things that would have been inconceivable then. I was still deeply rooted in my Christian world, whereas my wife was more progressive. She showed vivid interest in other religions, in healthy nutrition and many esoteric topics, and slowly I started to also be interested. We went to lectures by different groups and read extensively about reincarnation, spiritual Masters and other topics. My main interest was somewhere else though.

In the early 1980s, my life was mainly focussed on the question of how to find a job after passing my exam for the teaching profession. It turned out to be extremely difficult, since there were not enough vacancies either in public or in private schools. Only part-time jobs were available, but I couldn’t imagine myself doing that for a long time. I started to despair. All the doors seemed shut, and nothing was moving on my ’main track’.

One day, I saw a poster in the city advertising a lecture series on meditation. I said to my wife: “Wouldn’t that be something for you?“ We ended up going together to this lecture, given by a young woman (Vasanti) from the Heidelberg Sri Chinmoy Centre. She had simplicity and clarity, and was not imposing anything at all. We went on two evenings, but the third class fell on the same date as a lecture given by someone we had known for a long time. Thus we lost contact with the Sri Chinmoy Centre.

And now the marvellous part of the story starts. In October 1983, we visited the Frankfurt Book Fair to try to find the booth of the lecturer for whose talk we had dropped the Sri Chinmoy Centre classes. The fair was big, but we had plenty of time. Well, we did not find the booth we were looking for, but we discovered another one – the Sri Chinmoy Centre booth. We were surprised of course. What a coincidence! Coincidence? A conversation ensued – with the same young woman whose meditation classes we had attended. We felt a bit embarrassed because we had stopped going, but since we had planned to buy some spiritual books anyway, we bought a brochure about Sri Chinmoy’s path along with a recording of his flute music. “Thank you,“ “All the best,“ “Good-bye.“

Several months passed. During the day I applied at schools; at night I worked as a porter in a hotel. In addition, we went to different spiritual groups. We liked Sri Chinmoy’s flute music a lot. The brochure was very interesting and contained excerpts from Sri Chinmoy’s writings. Many things I read made a deep impression on me. I felt depth and unconditional surrender that I had never found elsewhere. The spiritual longing of my early years was directed towards the richness and authenticity of living spirituality, manifested in the form of a living spiritual Master.

From the brochure, we cut out and framed a photo of Sri Chinmoy in a very high consciousness. Thus he slowly became a member of our family. From time to time we listened to his flute music. Nevertheless, we were still looking for the one and only, the right path – the path to happiness. What did happiness mean to me back then? I needed a job. Not just any job but the one I had passed two federal exams for – quite an investment! And I was looking for some-one whom I could entrust with my life, my dreams and my goals. Someone who might know better what is good for me. High expectations!

I read about creative imagination and more about different Masters. I was looking for a breakthrough. I wanted my life to be in the hands of someone who would be able to show me the right path and to guide me. Very slowly I became more and more convinced that Sri Chinmoy could be that person. Again and again I read from his writings. The simplicity and depth of his words impressed me. I felt that he radiated the sincerity of living spirituality.

During these months we had no contact with the Heidelberg Sri Chinmoy Centre – only with other groups. Nevertheless, something had grown in silence within me – something that was stronger than everything else. In January 1984 I called the contact number in the brochure and asked how I could become Sri Chinmoy’s disciple. Back then it was the custom to write a personal letter to Sri Chinmoy, which I did on my birthday. I still have a copy of that letter. The letter described my personal situation, my inner and outer needs and why I wanted to join this path.

I anxiously waited for several weeks, since Sri Chinmoy was away on travel and did not receive my letter right away. Finally, on February 21st, a disciple of Sri Chinmoy called me to confirm that my wife and I had been accepted. Great joy and high expectations. Many unasked questions about what to do next. Life went on – often different from what I had expected – but always for my best, for my happiness. And that was exactly what I had hoped for.

I did not obtain a post as a teacher back then, but today, 24 years later, I accepted this challenge. But this is a totally different story, and many other things happened in between. February 21st is a day that I celebrate every year just as I celebrate my birthday, because on this day I started a completely new life on a new track.

For children, the ideal of a perfect world, a world based on goodness and kindness, is perfectly natural, as natural as breathing.  It takes us quite a few years to realise that the outer world doesn’t live up to those standards of this inner Utopia. I remember being in the midst of a perennial adolescent shouting match with my younger brother, turning around to find my three-year old cousin standing at the end of the hallway, tears rolling down her face. She didn’t understand: why did people who were so nice to her have to be so mean to each other? I remember my own childhood experience, setting a room full of relatives to laughter by wondering aloud why everyone in the Middle East couldn’t all just be friends. But it all seemed so simple. Why couldn’t they be?

We get older, our mind develops. Our world is filled with people, with experiences helpful and hurtful, and we craft a complicated toolkit of social skills – how to react, how to build emotional shells around ourselves, how to keep people at just the right distance, close when you need them, pushable away if you don’t. And in this swirling, complicated world, the simple ideal of a harmonious world fades away. Goodness is seen increasingly as a liability, a thing to be displayed to a limited amount of people in a quid pro quo fashion – you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.

Yes, my view of goodness had certainly been coloured this way over the years. But when I became Sri Chinmoy’s student, and had the chance to spend time with him, something unexpected happened. All of these notions of goodness were turned completely on thir head.

Firstly: Goodness – unconditional goodness: It did exist. A happy world: Absolutely possible. When I began meditating, I reconnected to the same inner certainties I once had as a child. And I realised, why, as a child, they had felt so real. This inner Utopia: it wasnt just mine – it was inside the heart of every human being. It was a connection to a universal source of love. It was the realisation that the entire world was evolving into that very same perfection. We didn’t just have to lamely acept our imperfections; we could rise above them and grow into the person that God always meant us to be. Goodness was not a moral code imposed from outside; it was a signpost to happiness that emanated from the deepest reaches of our being. One of Sri Chinmoy’s aphorisms says it simply: “Goodness means the heart in action.”

However, uncovering this goodness required you to do one thing: to go beyond the confines of the limited mind, and to take your guidance from the heart, the place where you can feel the essence of your being. I learned that if you remained in the mind, then every positive movement had a cynical response, every idea of beauty wilted under its undercutting gaze. The French philosopher Rene Descartes, en route to his famous statement Cogito, ergo sum (I think, therefore I am), first postulated that he knew nothing. That the only thing he knew was that he doubted everything. And in doing so, he unwittingly cast a light on the true workings of the mind: it may be a thinking machine, but before that, it is a doubting machine. The seed of goodness cannot survive in this barren climate. You had to go to a higher and deeper place inside yourself, one that was not based on analysis, but on awareness. Experience. Being. In the heart, you could gain self-knowledge, be happy and do the right thing all at the same time.

Secondly: not only did goodness exist – it had power. World-changing power. Not the kind of power we see on our TV screens, where a speech, a protest, an advertising campaign, tries to change everything in one fell swoop. This kind of power began inside the hearts of each person who kept that flame of goodness alive there, and spread like ripples in a pond, one gesture of kindness after another. It drew out the goodness in others, and in turn they felt empowered to share that goodness with the people they met.  More and more, I saw how one good action could set off a whole chain of unanticipated events, and have consequences far beyond your imagination. That you could truly make the world a better place, one small act of goodness at a time.

Thirdly, that goodness was a torch you carried in a world that very often preferred to remain dark. That very often there was a stark choice between following your inner quest for happiness and purpose, and surrendering to the mediocrity of the status quo. To make that choice required bravery, integrity, and sureness of purpose – a far cry from the milk-sop stereotype often associated with words like ‘goodness’. You had to inwardly have the attitude of a warrior, unafraid both to face your own imperfections and the reactions of a world that was sometimes welcoming, sometimes uncomprehending – and other times downright hostile.

It seems to me that any genuine movement towards a better world will always meet with resistance from people who thrive on the current unhappy state of things. Some of these people once themselves were on that inner quest for happiness, for a more perfect world, but have given up and become re-mired in the mind’s confusion; they recreate the role of the fox in Aesop’s Fables and proclaim that the grapes never tasted good anyway. It is an argument that hopes to tap into that primal doubting nature of the human mind – that human nature cannot really be perfected, that true unadulterated goodness cannot really exist in this world and that those people trying to bring it about must really be up to something else.

What can I say? Through meditating with Sri Chinmoy and connecting with my inner sense of purpose, I have come to realise a profound and simple truth: that goodness and happiness are two sides of the same coin. If I were to encapsulate what I’ve learned in one sentence as Sri Chinmoy’s student, it would probably be something like this: the only time I am truly happy and fulfilled is when I am living my life to serve other human beings. Not only that, but through his own sleepless service in whatever field he thought he could make a difference, Sri Chinmoy allowed me to have a first-hand eyewitness account of a life lived solely for the service of humanity. If I had one wish for the world, it would be that every person might come across someone like Sri Chinmoy in their lifetime, just to see what is possible from a 100% self-giving life.

I remember one time a few years ago when my teacher was being called all kinds of horrible things by people who certainly knew better. His reaction struck me, a new disciple at the time, as the true hallmark of a genuine spiritual teacher. His first and only thought, was for the spiritual welfare of his students. Inside this distressing state of affairs, he saw an opportunity – by encouraging his students to write about their experiences, it would serve as a kind of spiritual sadhana for us, where we could serve and inspire others, and make rapid spiritual progress at the same time.  And we did, and we got so much joy, not only from writing, but also from reading each other’s stories and experiences. Instead of battling negativity by descending into the sewer of argument and controversy, we illumined it by building a sunlit window onto the joys of spiritual life. And that was Sri Chinmoy’s philosophy all over. Everything was positive, positive, positive. If you had to overcome a bad quality, you didn’t increase its power by thinking about it, you focused instead on cultivating its opposite good counterpart.  If you suffered one of life’s setbacks, you didn’t spend your time on pointless post-mortems, you instead increased your gratitude for the one important thing you still had and would have forever – your special place in God’s universe as God’s child.  In Sri Chinmoy’s world, goodness and positivity abounded everywhere.

I have to admit, this is the first time I have written anything on the spiritual life in almost a year. But as I write, I am reminded of that feeling I had when Sri Chinmoy asked us to write all those years ago – that in a way we were defending not just one person or one philosophy, but goodness itself. That we were keeping that torch shining in the darkness, for people we might never meet, searching for truth and meaning, who might stumble across something written by one of us, and read-first hand accounts of lives where goodness and happiness are inextricably intertwined.