A Journey to Truth

Foreword

Born in Malta in 1923, and raised mainly in England, Amy Eastmead suffered a shattering personal crisis in her 50th year which launched her on a search for the Truth through contemplation while living the existence, she said, of an ordinary housewife in and around Canberra.

Driven to find answers as to why she suffered, and after more than three decades of meditation, reading and experience, she so evidently entered into great silence, stillness and peace. She taught and inspired countless people. Deeply loved by her family and friends, her meditations also undoubtedly benefited greater humanity.

Over the years Amy kept a record of her experiences, mostly in the form of a personal diary. She wrote (28 August 1999) that she started this diary of quotes and thoughts and intuitions both so that [she] could look back on the subtle transformations that have and do occur day by day, but also so that perhaps it might be a guide and help for others who are passing through the same uncharted waters.

The following manuscript brings together a large proportion of those notes. It charts, in her own words, the many frustrations, delays, uncertainties, advances and exhilarations of her spiritual journey. It is a deeply personal account of a soul moving beyond the merely personal.

I first met Amy in 1999, courtesy of her beloved daughter, and my great friend, Louisa. In the ensuing eight years, she changed my life with her motherly affection, guidance and example in contemplation. Two years ago she most generously asked me to put her notes into order so that they might record her journey for her family and possibly others who may be interested in this pursuit.

Amy passed from her mortal self into the greater Consciousness on the afternoon of Thursday 8 November 2007. She and I had worked closely on the preliminary drafts of this manuscript in the months before her departure, but sadly she did not see the final version, which was substantially completed only days after her passing. I hope that the arrangement of her work has done justice to the grandeur of her realisations and is faithful to her wishes. The future of this manuscript rests now with her family.

She often referred to the open-ended cheque she wrote early in her search for Truth. She was unwavering in pursuit of that goal and, though no longer in mortal form, remains a palpable presence to the blessed people who knew and loved, and were loved by, her. She is an extraordinary inspiration to those taking seldom travelled paths toward unity with the ineffable.

Brian Babington

Canberra

November 2008

1.      Journey

In this chapter Amy gives an overview of her spiritual journey.

Death and rebirth at age 50

The writing of this personal journey into the Unknown, has been partly motivated by the hope that it might be of help to others in their personal quest. In the pages of the many books that I have read in the intervening years there have been many giving advice and methods, and some trying to put into words That which can never be described, but very, very few record the relative aspects that led up to the final revelation that falls into the Silence of no-self.

I was in my 50th year [1973] when I woke one night with the overwhelming realisation that I was going to die. Death was not imminent but it was inescapable. It was an appalling realisation, and the naked terror of it was absolute. For the next six months I was haunted by a psychological blackness.

Although I continued my everyday life as housewife and mother of three children, at the same time I became acutely aware as I shopped or met friends, that the same inevitable end awaited them also. There were times when I wondered whether it might not be better to kill myself here and now and ‘get it over with’. Relief came when one day, in the public library; I came across a book called Autobiography of a Yogi written by Paramahansa Yogananda.

I had read widely all my life but this book opened up totally new horizons for me. This was not fiction but the extraordinary account of Yogananda’s life, when from a young boy he was motivated with a great longing to realise God. During his search he met many Saints and Yogis who demonstrated unusual powers, but what held my attention most, was his meeting and training with his own spiritual teacher. His Master, Sri Yukteswar, said that he saw no insuperable difficulty for anyone who sincerely desired to realise God not to do so.

I understood that this was not a case of belief in some doctrine but, through an inner transformation, one could have a living experience of the Truth here and now. This, I thought, would be my goal for the rest of my life, to know the Truth and perhaps to pierce through the darkness of the last months. Apart from this nothing could have any abiding satisfaction, my realisation of the utter reality of death made all else insignificant in comparison.

Re-reading Autobiography of a Yogi I saw that the key to this new dimension seemed to be the practice of meditation. Nowadays we live in a spiritual supermarket with esoteric teachings and writings so readily available, but twenty six years ago in Canberra; it was difficult to find any meditation courses or even books on meditation. Eventually I saw a poster advertising a meditation course to be held in Melbourne, and somewhat to the surprise of my husband I announced that I would like to travel to Melbourne to learn how to meditate. 

The morning after my arrival at the Melbourne house where the program was taking place, we began with a talk by the Swami[i] who was giving the course, and that was followed by a question and answer session. I particularly remember this because one young man asked the Swami about what happened after death, a question near to my own heart, and the Swami replied first find out what life is. I thought it was a very strange answer, but over the course of the following years I came to understand the total relevance of it.

After lunch we had our first session of meditation and were instructed to focus our awareness on the movement of our breath or to visualise a light and focus on that. During meditation the Swami came round and touched us on the forehead. When he did this I saw a white light with a blue centre between my eyebrows. It was very beautiful and I wished that the Swami had stayed with me longer because when he moved away so did the vision. 

On the way back in the train I felt delighted that I now had a technique to use and had at last started my journey. In fact I was so excited about the whole project that I wanted to share it with all members of my family! They, however, remained resolutely disinterested much to my disappointment. I searched the bookshops for books, and to start with I accumulated a mixed library. Later, I became more critical, and eventually had a small collection that has been my constant friends and sources of inspiration over the many years.

About a year later, my husband bought forty acres of land 30 minutes’ drive from Canberra, and so the family, three children, two guinea pigs and two dogs, moved from the City to the country to live on our land in a 30 foot caravan. It must have been the wettest spring for years. We moved in torrential rain, and it seemed to continue unabated for three months. My husband planned to build the house himself, using sub-contractors as needed, so progress was slow.

How very adaptable human beings are! Everyone settled down in the confined space of the caravan, and the routine of school and work continued with the added morning and evening drive. Friends seemed to think that the drive must be tedious, but with better weather and beautiful countryside, we all enjoyed the time. Even the rain provided the Twins (my youngest children) with the hope that the creek would flood and they would be unable to get to school, which on one ecstatic day actually happened. 

In spite of a very busy life I still managed to fit a meditation period into the day, even if it was done sitting in the car. The house took shape gradually until one day the ‘brickies’ arrived and the walls started to enclose our future living space, and into the living room wall they built a country sized chimney. I shall always remember one glorious night when we invited some close friends to come and have dinner with us. We sat on packing cases in front of a blazing log fire with the stars bright above and had our first meal in our new home. The amount of work involved in building a house is enormous. Everything had to be chosen and costed and then transported by trailer to the site. 

In between I did the family washing in two plastic dustbins, and walked with the dogs across the unfenced paddocks. We had bought one of the prettiest forty acre blocks in the valley and the view from the house site was always a pleasure. We called our property Tantanoola which means a place of refuge. Our first ‘refugees’ entered our lives while we were still living in the caravan. My husband arrived home from work with two unfeathered pigeon chicks. The cleaner at his office had found a nest on the window ledge and seeing the mess that the birds were making, destroyed the nest and put the babies in the dustbin where my husband found them. I had absolutely no idea what to feed such young birds and so the following morning I phoned the RSPCA. They told me to get a packet of split peas and to feed them every three hours. 

Encouraged, I went into Queanbeyan, our nearest shopping centre, and bought the peas.  Back in the caravan I tried, unavailingly, to introduce the peas into the beaks, with no success. Back to the phone I was told that the trick was to push the peas against the side of the beak and then the chick would open its mouth. Well, no wonder I had adopted meditation to enhance my life! Sometimes it seemed to work well, other times it was a labour of both love and endurance, but against all odds the babies grew and started to become feathered. We christened them Pip and Pippa. 

When their wings grew with strong feathers the twins and I began to worry if they would fly without the example of their parents, so we rigged up some boxes and sat the two birds on them and then gently pushed them off. We need never have worried because they became superb flyers and we were told later that they were actually racing pigeons. They accepted us as parents and were the first to welcome us when we arrived back to the property, flying on to our shoulders and cooing gently, and were often the last to say goodbye. They would cling to the roof of the car as we drove down the driveway to the entrance gate, where we had to firmly push them off. It was quite usual to go for a walk with one or both sitting on one’s shoulder, and much later when we installed a swimming pool, they liked to perch on one’s head as one swam.

At last the longed for day arrived. The carpets were laid, the furniture was in place and we could now actually move in to our new home. When my husband drew the plans for the house I had asked him to allow space for a meditation room for me so now, apart from the luxury of having so much living space around us, I had a definite place in which to meditate. 

As I did not have a meditation teacher I took Yogananda as my guide and contemplated his experiences and the different teachings of his Master, Sri Yukteswar. I didn’t find that I had any particular experiences during meditation, but I noticed that my breath seemed to become very still. I had read that this could happen, during meditation, but I found that it also occurred when I was driving the car or sitting reading a book. I would become aware that the breath was hardly moving and I would make a conscious effort to breathe more deeply but the moment I stopped, it returned to a state of stillness.

Living in the country I was not in touch with other people who meditated, but I did have one friend who visited occasionally who had practiced some meditation. One day she came to lunch and said to me, You know the whole point of meditation is to know who you are. After she left I walked over the paddocks in a state of agitation. I had never known who I was and how was I to find out now? Returning to the house I opened Autobiography of a Yogi and the page fell open to where there was an artist’s impression of the great Yogi[ii] called simply Babaji. He was thought to be living in the Himalayas and had been responsible for the spiritual attainment of many of the great Masters of India. From this drawing steel rays of light suddenly flew out hitting me on the forehead. The experience was so real that I instinctively threw up an arm to protect my eyes. When I looked again there was just the picture. I had no rational explanation for such an unusual experience and I had no one to share it with. Even now, thirty years later, I still think of it as very remarkable.

Acreage is a responsibility for grass and it does need cutting, so we decided to buy a pair of donkeys. Our first jenny, a beautiful dark chocolate donkey with the sweetest nature was called Sugar Plum, and to keep her company we bought Angus, a grey Jack. Donkeys were popular at the time and were sold for children to ride, as well as being delightful and often amusing companions. Most young animals are full of charm but donkey foals are truly captivating. Our first foal was of course a great excitement, and we were filled with wonder at this new born creature staggering around on immensely long legs. Mother and baby were kept in a separate paddock opposite the kitchen window, and so I had a good view of the pair of them. By now we had bought several other donkeys that spent a lot of time watching the newcomer who seemed aware of the attention, and showed off outrageously by racing round the paddock doing small bucks and prances.

By this time I was working as a chiropractic receptionist in Canberra, and drove daily into the city, a drive which I enjoyed as a preparation for the day ahead, and each day I sat and talked and listened to the patients as they waited their turn for treatment. It was through this interaction that I became acutely aware of how unhappy most people were, and how much it affected their health. I began to feel an immense anger at the whole structure of human experience which always promised so much but never delivered.

Relationships, whether between partners or children, were (and are) so often a source of conflict and unhappiness, but equally, those who were without relationships were unhappy because they did not have a partner. It seemed easy for people to unburden the traumas that they were experiencing in their lives, their fears and expectations to someone who was basically just a listener without judgements, and I thought that this was just as therapeutic as the spinal adjustments they came for. I usually ended by talking about meditation and the changes that it could effect in people’s lives, bringing better understanding of oneself which in turn affected ones relationship with the external world. 

One day while reading The Canberra Times, I noticed an advertisement for people interested in forming a group to take part in a series of self-awareness exercises. These were set out in a book called Mind Games written by Jean Houston. It turned out to be quite a small group and we met once a week in the evening. The exercises were graded and started out with simple visualisations, holding a rock to feel its energy, or communicating with a plant, but as the weeks passed they went deeper. I had never done anything like this before and wondered doubtfully if I would experience anything, but much to my surprise I found that I had clear and unusual experiences.   

Being told I had landed on an unknown planet and was to follow the path that I could see ahead of me, I found myself walking down a hill to a city seemingly made of crystal. The houses were not fully enclosed by walls but were filled with light from the crystal and were extremely beautiful. I sat in one of the houses on a bench, also made of this light filled substance and several persons came and went. They were dressed in a transparent white material and seemed to be weightless. 

Another time I found myself riding a white horse through the night sky to land in a place with waterfalls of translucent light, beautiful gardens, and a roofed building supported by colonnades. I stood looking in as the inhabitants, dressed in loose robes moved serenely about their tasks. On returning to normal consciousness I found myself in tears with an immense feeling of loss for which I could find no logical reason. It was as though I had left a place in which I had been very happy, and on returning to my present environment it seemed colourless and dense. I was reminded of these experiences when I recently read an account of Swedenborg’s out of body journeys into other dimensions. 

The other spontaneous experience I had that even today remains clear in my mind, was when we had to find out what our totem animal was. I went into a meditative state and suddenly I literally was a turtle swimming in the ocean. It was absolutely amazing, but what was most intriguing to me was that I was capable of evoking these sorts of experiences. It took the group a whole year to do all of the exercises and the friendships that I formed then continues today. 

It was at the end of our first year at Tantanoola that we discovered we had a rat problem so we thought we would get a kitten. Looking in the pet’s column we saw there was a black kitten advertised free to a good home, and that was how Nero joined the family.  My golden labrador who hated cats seemed to accept the newcomer and as the weeks passed we noticed that Nero seemed to be suckling from her. We thought it very touching until one of the children noticed that Nero had milk on his chin and we realised that Honey had actually lactated for him, although she herself had not had pups for several years.

The story does not finish there for, escaping our vigilance, she managed some months later to mate with one of the farm dogs on a neighbouring property (who fortunately was mostly labrador) and produced four puppies. It was an unusual sight to see the four pups and Nero all suckling together but Tantanoola seemed to produce unusual relationships. 

We kept two of the puppies and my husband built them a large outside run fully fenced. The next arrival was a kid (of the goat lineage!) whom we called Abigail. A friend of ours asked whether we could give her a home. She was very young when she arrived and bleated so pathetically when penned on her own that we put her in with the two young dogs. The three of them became close friends and on walks across the paddocks we were often accompanied by the three dogs, Abigail and a pigeon or two. Abigail used to enjoy playing with the dogs, finding a high vantage place and jumping down on them as they passed beneath her. 

By the end of four and a half years we had a large family including two horses, two cows, chickens, a pair of peacocks and thirteen donkeys, but it became evident that enjoyable though country life was, it was expensive and I spent more and more time driving one or other of the children into Canberra at weekends for sport or parties so we decided to move back into suburbia.

Any move is an upheaval but that was the worst of the many we had had over the years. Strangely enough the house that we subsequently bought was owned by the husband of one of my first friends in Canberra. Her husband had moved to America for work reasons, and I actually had helped her pack the house up. Sadly, she was killed shortly after their arrival in America in a gliding accident and now her husband wanted to sell the house. I heard this from the neighbour with whom I had stayed overnight with while I was doing the Mind Games. It was a strange coincidence. 

Back in Canberra, I started to go to introductory talks by various Swamis who visited Canberra but I never felt drawn to any particular discipline. Eventually I came to the conclusion that I would never find a Teacher with whom I could feel complete confidence, but at the same time I was finding my spiritual life becoming more and more of a burden. I seemed to have reached a plateau in meditation. My mind became quite calm and relaxed during meditation, but I felt I needed a mantra[iii] that I could use apart from meditation, something that would keep me anchored in the meditative state during my daily activities. Somewhere I had read that if one didn’t have a living Master to surrender to; one could surrender to the universe and ask for help. So one evening I went into the room I used for meditation, lit a candle and prayed desperately for guidance. 

Baba

It was about three weeks later that a friend of mine phoned me to ask whether I would go with her to an introductory lecture on a form of Yoga[iv] called Siddha Yoga. The presentation was given by a young man called Greg. He gave a short talk about meeting his Guru[v], Swami Muktananda, and shared some of the experiences he had had, and then showed a video of Swami Muktananda in his ashram[vi] in India. We then had a period of meditation for which Greg gave us the mantra used in the practice of Siddha Yoga.

It had been a pleasant evening but I didn’t feel particularly interested until the following morning when I sat for meditation and decided to use the Siddha mantra. Immediately I started to feel an incredible energy moving through my body, waves of love and joy seemed to permeate my being, my body moved spontaneously and the meditation time sped by. I was impressed, and reasoned if that was the result of just going to an introductory evening what might I experience if I went to an Intensive weekend such as had been talked about. So I phoned Greg and found that there was to be an Intensive in Sydney in a fortnight’s time. My family agreed once again to be without their cook for the weekend, and I set off a fortnight later to my first Intensive weekend. 

The Intensive was held in a very large hall in the centre of Sydney and was beautifully decorated with flowers and around the walls were photographs of different Saints of the Siddha lineage. At the front of the hall on a raised dais was a chair and above it a large photograph of Swami Muktananda whom his followers affectionately called Baba[vii]. The Intensive was conducted by a Swami and was made up of talks, videos, meditation periods and chanting. Chanting I found was a wonderful experience and it was a discipline that was to bring me an immense amount of joy and benefit in the years that followed.

It was during the chanting of the mantra that I found tears streaming down my face, not from any sorrow,