The Price of Commitment

One day I received a telegram from a friend in Allahabad saying that my mother had been paralyzed. I called Treva and told her I needed to get to India immediately. 

On such short notice, I knew the price of an airline ticket would be very expensive. I called my brother-in-law in Denver and asked if he could find me a reasonably-priced ticket. 

A few hours later, he called to say he had found me a seat on a Gulf Airlines flight and that it had the requirement that I stay in India for 21 days. Then I called a cousin in New Delhi to help get me a train ticket from New Delhi to Allahabad—which he did. Early the next morning, I was on my way to India.

Once I reached New Delhi, I went directly from the airport to the train station. It was June, and temperatures were around 115 degrees Fahrenheit, so I was grateful that my cousin had been able to get me a berth in an air-conditioned coach on such short notice. 

Upon reaching Allahabad, I found that my mother was not actually paralyzed. She had an accident in which she tripped over the telephone cord. X-rays revealed that her fall had caused a hair-line spinal fracture. Since no cast could be applied, she had to lie very still for weeks.

My friend, who had sent the telegram, was a pharmacist who spoke no English. So, in his concern and rush to get this important information to me, the telegram had read simply: “Mother paralyzed. Come immediately.”    

Of course, I was grateful that my mother was not paralyzed, but because of the extreme heat, it was the worst time of year to be bedridden. Her house was not air-conditioned, and she had to lie in one position under the ceiling fan. I stayed with my mother for almost two weeks, with my bed also under the fan, within inches of hers. She moaned and groaned continuously, and through those cries I could feel her pain, but there was nothing I could do. 

Sleeping directly under the fan gave me a runny nose and flu-like symptoms. Lying there helplessly with nothing to do, my mind began to ruminate. Treva and I had spent all our savings during the last several years to kick-start Trees for Life; however, very few donations were coming, and we were receiving no salary. I worried that, if this continued, either I would have to abandon the vision of Trees for Life or Treva would have to leave me to fend for herself and our children. Both options were abhorrent to me.

While I realized how fortunate my mother was to have a staff of several people to take care of her and to have children who could come home back to help, I, on the other hand, was experiencing fears about what the future held for my family. 

An internal voice chided me, Now that you have started Trees for Life, you have spent your family’s savings. When you grow old, you will not have a home. Your wife and children will abandon you. You will end up with no money, no family, no friends. You are like a drunk who has spent all of the family’s money on booze.

Like a broken record, the voice tormented me relentlessly. There was no hiding place. I felt as if a demon was speaking. I was experiencing how this same voice must have spoken to Jesus when he was being taken to the cross. I was like a vanquished warrior whose giant opponent stood over me with a naked sword against my neck. My fear was intense; my depression severe. I felt as if I might be losing my mind.

I had Trees for Life work to do in New Delhi so, after the time with my mother, I went to my aunt’s home in New Delhi. Within the first hour of my arrival, my aunt received a call from a friend, Dr. Dewan, who inquired when next I would be coming to India. He was surprised to learn I had just arrived and invited me to go with him to the Himalayas for five days. Instantly, I accepted the offer. 

My aunt was furious. She had picked up on the lack of energy in my gait and said, “You need rest before you go back home.” Then she ordered, “You call Dr. Dewan at once and cancel your trip.”

“OK,” I reluctantly agreed. “I will call him in a few minutes.” Several times I sat next to the telephone with the full intention of calling Dr. Dewan, but each time I decided to wait to call him when I had more energy. I never did get enough “oomph” to call him back. Two days later, I was on my way to the Himalayas with Dr. Dewan. 

Unbeknownst to me, Dr. Dewan had invited three others on the trip so there were six of us, including the driver, plus all our luggage in a small car. There was not an inch of space to spare, which made the drive very uncomfortable. 

It was a long journey. We started early each morning and traveled most of the day, going from one small town to the next. At night, Dr. Dewan had arranged lodging at various stops along our route. It was a grueling trip, and I was totally exhausted. 

Over the course of the journey, I became deeply troubled seeing the mass cutting of trees on the mountains and the dynamite blasting of the Himalayas for highway construction. It was reported that silt rushing through the mountains from heavy flooding was forming an island in the Gulf of Bangladesh. 

With my state of depression, concern for my mother, travel discomfort, and flu-like symptoms, I felt as if someone had driven a dagger into my heart and was now twisting the blade. 

On the fourth night, we stopped at a guest house, where we were provided with buckets of hot and cold water for bathing. 

When everyone went to bed, I retired to my large bedroom. The guest house had been built in the colonial days and had high ceilings to keep the rooms cool in the summer. In keeping with my daily practice, I sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor to meditate. I must have been in meditation for an hour when I sensed a presence in the room. There was no click of the doorknob, nor any sound; just a sense that I was no longer alone. 

I did not want to alarm whatever was in the room, but my curiosity was aroused. Slowly, I began to open my eyes. The first thing I saw was a black ball rising from the floor. As it rose toward the high ceiling, I realized the black ball was the hair on the head of a golden figure whose shoulders and then upper torso were emerging.  Light emanated from this Presence and filled the entire room.

By this time, my eyes were wide open. I sat transfixed in a  state of total awe.

At the same time, I had a sense of recognition. I realized this was the Spirit of the Himalayas. Then, the golden figure looked at me and said, “This is all my will.” 

I immediately understood that the Spirit meant that the cutting of the trees and dynamiting of the mountains was not human folly, but the mountain’s will. It was part of a bigger design of Nature, and humans were merely her tools. Nature has its own mind that humans can’t grasp, because our egos blind us. We want to say we are greater than Nature, but we are doing the will of something much larger than us. The same ego that blinds us allows Nature to use us. 

I realized these words were not being spoken, but were being conveyed directly to my mind. It was as if the mountain had the key to my mind and had unlocked it. 

Then the figure conveyed another message: “Courage is knowing the price of your acts and willingly paying it.” 

The Spirit not only knew my concerns about the destruction of the mountains, it also knew my financial and family concerns. In one stroke, it told me that was the price I would have to pay. The question I was asked: “Was I willing to pay the price for what I felt I had to do with my life?”

I felt the Spirit’s message land in my heart. My immediate response was, “Yes, yes, yes!” I felt as if I had made that decision a long time ago and now was being asked to reaffirm my commitment to myself. 

What would or could happen to me in the future was no longer of concern. When one accepts the price of commitment, it moves you forward, despite all fears.

Throughout this experience, the Spirit remained still, showing no emotion about my decision. 

As I reconfirmed my commitment to myself, the image melted into thin air. 

This whole experience was like a soothing balm. I felt very light, like I was floating. I got up and went to bed. 

The next thing I knew, there was a knock on the door and the attendant was bringing me some morning tea. I was thoroughly refreshed.