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The Temple Keeps Growing

Morning meditations took on a whole new meaning as the software company got larger and larger. Not only were meditation and yoga essential for continuing my inward journey, but they were essential for keeping the mind sane. So much is demanded of you when you’re running an organization on which so many people rely for their livelihood. The mind needs time to quiet down and keep everything in perspective.

Leaving Temple services on a winter morning after sunrise, we often find the field covered in a mist of dew. Giant oaks, pines, and hickory trees embrace the field on three sides, and the north side opens up to that beautiful rolling pasture that slopes down to the tree-lined stream. Just standing out there with a quiet mind is heaven on Earth.

It wasn’t that way one misty morning in early December 1988. When we walked out of the quietude of the Temple onto the interior field, we heard the roar of large machinery coming from the north. To our utter surprise, we saw giant bulldozers and other land-clearing equipment on our neighbor’s rolling field. We didn’t know what to make of it, so we walked up the hill to my original house that bordered the pasture. We located some of the workers and asked what was going on. They told us that they had purchased lumber rights to all the trees on our neighbor’s property. Our neighbor to the north was a thousand-plus-acre farm owned by a couple named Wilbur and Juliet. They were wonderful people whose house was on the farthest side of their property from the Temple. The land had been in their family for a long time, and they had great respect for the property. We didn’t understand what was going on, so we gave them a call.

When I was finally able to reach Wilbur, he explained that they were clearing what was left of their native forest and planting slash pines. That would provide a cash crop some fifteen to twenty years in the future. I told him I would like to talk to him about it, and I asked if he would be willing to hold off clearing the land bordering our property until we met. He was hesitant but told me to tell the foreman to give him a call. In truth, I had no idea what I would say to Wilbur when we met, but I felt a deep obligation to do what I could to protect the beautiful woods on that land.

As I drove over to Wilbur’s, I focused on remaining open and receptive to the experience at hand so that I could see where life was taking it. As I look back now, I am so grateful that surrender had taught me to willingly participate in life’s dance with a quiet mind and an open heart.

When I arrived at Wilbur’s, there wasn’t any openness to selling us the thirty-five acres that lay between our property and the stream. I explained to him that the trees on that property were beautiful, and they should be spared. He agreed with the beautiful part, but he was running a farm, and slash pines were what they had decided to plant on the entire property. Our efforts seemed futile until I offered to lease the property at whatever price would assure that he earned more than the pines would yield him. Wilbur was an astute businessman, and that caught his attention. There was risk in any crop, but no risk in a secured, long-term lease. Wilbur named a price that was significantly higher than any farmer would pay to lease unimproved property. Nonetheless, it was still worth it from our perspective of protecting the trees and pasture of that beautiful piece of land. In the end, we signed a long-term lease with Wilbur that allowed us to preserve, protect, and have use of the property to our north—the property that I had once called the Elysian Fields.

This experience only served to reinforce what I was learning from my experiment with surrender. Something that started out looking totally disastrous had ended up with a positive result. Time and again I was seeing that if I could handle the winds of the current storm, they would end up blowing in some great gift. I was beginning to view these storms as a harbinger to transformation. Perhaps change only takes place when there is sufficient reason to overcome the inertia of everyday life. Challenging situations create the force needed to bring about change. The problem is that we generally use all the stirred-up energy intended to bring about change, to resist change. I was learning to sit quietly in the midst of the howling winds and wait to see what constructive action was being asked of me.

If that were the end of the story regarding that property, I would still label it a gift from the universe. But it was far from the end. Just one week after signing that lease, another piece of land came up for sale that bordered the core of our community. Remarkably, once we made that purchase, the land we had just leased ended up running along the entire northern border of all our property, thus tying everything together.

It left me breathless to see all this unfold the way it did. I was playing a game with life, and every time life made its move, a part of my noisy mind fell away. Why was I needed? Everything was unfolding on its own much better than anything I could ever imagine—let alone do. I had said I would purchase adjoining property if it were presented to me and if we had the necessary cash. The Temple was now up to eighty-five acres, including the leased land. As we will see shortly, this leased land was destined to play a much larger role in what life had in store for us.

It was not just with the Temple property or the meteoric success of the business that miraculous events were taking place. Little things were happening on a regular basis that were so unlikely, they chipped away at the rational mind. One of these amazing events took place during a business trip to Boston in the late ’80s. With so many Blue Cross Blue Shields private-labeling The Medical Manager, I had received a request from Blue Cross Blue Shield of Massachusetts to come up for a meeting. I arrived in Boston late afternoon, and I was starved. I had rushed around all morning and not eaten a thing all day. Instead of eating junk food while traveling, I figured I would get checked into the hotel and find a nice vegetarian restaurant. I didn’t know Boston at all, but I had a rental car, and how hard could it be?

I got very lost trying to find the restaurant that the concierge had suggested. After close to an hour’s drive, I ended up in Harvard Square. I drove around looking for a vegetarian restaurant in that area, but I couldn’t find one. In a big city like Boston, I had been hoping for a high-end vegetarian meal. Now I would be perfectly happy with just brown rice and veggies. I decided to quit driving around and just order room service from the hotel—if I could find my way back. Somehow I managed to get lost again and ended up back in Harvard Square. It dawned on me that perhaps the universe was trying to tell me something, so I parked my car and got out.

This time I looked more carefully to see if there was even a small place that might have something a vegetarian could eat. I noticed there were some narrow alleys that ran between the buildings. They were not for cars, but shops lined both sides of the walkway. I headed for one of the alleys and, lo and behold, fifty feet down the alley was a small blackboard stating, “Today’s Special: Brown Rice and Fresh Vegetables.” I hung my head in both relief and gratitude, but I would soon find out that I hadn’t seen anything yet.

The sign led to a narrow staircase that wound down to a small restaurant. It was just perfect for the mood I was in. I ordered, and a deep peace came over me as I enjoyed the great meal that life had provided me. There was one thing, however, that was disturbing my peaceful respite. From the time I entered the restaurant, the man behind the checkout counter kept staring at me. It was enough to make me a little uncomfortable. When I was done eating, instead of the waiter bringing me the bill, the man from behind the counter brought it to me. As I reached for my wallet, he asked me a question: “By any chance, are you Mickey Singer?” I was completely stunned as the unlikely sequence of events that brought me to this restaurant flashed through my mind.

What in the world was this? I didn’t know this person. I responded affirmatively, and the energy between us became intensely spiritual. He said that I wouldn’t remember him, but he remembered me. Back in 1972, more than sixteen years ago, he was hitchhiking through Gainesville, and I had picked him up in my VW van. He had been going through a very difficult period in his life, and he asked me about the picture of Yogananda on my dashboard. I explained to him that I was heavily into yoga and was studying the teachings of this great yoga master. When he reached Atlanta, he was walking by a bookstore and saw Yogananda’s picture in the storefront window. He went in and purchased a copy of Autobiography of a Yogi as I had encouraged him to do. Apparently, it changed his life. He ended up meeting Baba during the world tour and was now living in a yoga center in Boston. He said he had often wondered if I had ever met Baba; then he saw a picture of us together at Disney World. It brought him great joy, and he prayed that someday he would have the opportunity to thank me in person for the important role I had played in his awakening. With that prayer now miraculously answered, he stood quietly before me with tears in his eyes and uttered, “Thank you.” That said, he turned and walked away.

As I headed down the alley toward my car, I looked back at the blackboard that had lured me into this unbelievable event. I remembered that before I walked into that restaurant I thought I knew what was going on: a very interesting flow of events had brought me to my brown rice and vegetables. I was wrong. It was much bigger than that. It’s always much bigger than that—for everyone. I was so glad I had decided to devote my life to learning to surrender. I didn’t know what was going on, and I had reached the point of not even wanting to know. I just wanted to cease to interfere with the perfection of life. Apparently, even a business trip to Boston is fair game for a miracle.