Faith in Something Bigger

I began to ponder the meaning of life when I was fifteen, in 1975. "What am I doing here? Why am I here? Why are we all here? Why is there suffering? Is there life after death?" I definitely felt out of step with all the other kids at school, who only seemed concerned with the opposite sex, football games, school work, being popular, getting good grades. All my friends ended up going to different schools or moved away that year, and I was overwhelmed by this college prep high school, where first class began at 7:30am and ended at 5pm, get home on the bus about 6:30, I'd finish the mounds of homework at about 1am or later, be up at 6am....on this went for many months.

At first, I started having strange sensations. I'd be walking to school and I would feel I was thousands of years old, not like being tired, but as if inside I was ancient and weary. Then feeling like I was going out of my body, as if I were dying. Looking down at my feet walking, I could no longer feel them or have any control of them. Then I would feel as if they were leaving the ground. As I started to panic, the sensation would stop, I'd look around to see if anyone else was about on the street, but every time it happened, there would be no one around.

I decided I was suffering from overwork and sleep deprivation. I started becoming depressed. I thought I was going mad. Feelings of futility, isolation (mostly self-inflicted, I assumed no one would understand-I vant to be alooone).

One day in the school library, I happened upon a book about various recent cults, gurus, spiritual teachers, practices. I looked to see if Pete's Meher Baba was included, of whom I knew really nothing about. There was a paragraph long description, and I was intrigued by his silence and curious to know more about him.

My dad was always interested in mysticism and Eastern religion and philosopy. "Religion is man made-- God didn't make the churches or write the Bible. " He was brought up Catholic, in Hawaii, a land where the native people, their language, traditions and beliefs were suppressed, banned or replaced by the haoles (white man). My mom was brought up Protestant, in the South, who silently questioned the racism around her. She told me her grandmother, as a child, used to sneak out and sit in the grass on a hill overlooking a Baptist church, "just to hear the beautiful singing of the black folks as their voices carried up the hill". As a child, I was fascinated by the stories, the art, the candles, the romanticsm of the church. I thought I'd want to be a nun, or a saint like Bernadette, like in the movie. I used to see angels flying about my crib at night as a small child, much to the amazement of my parents as I would announce this at the breakfast table. I had paranormal experiences throughout my teens, which frightened but fascinated me. So in my desperation and fantasies of "What would happen if I packed it all in?" I began to quietly ask for help deep inside, to God, whether He was Jesus, or Buddha, or Baba.

Meanwhile, Monty Python's Flying Circus just started airing on the local PBS station, and I was glued to the screen from the first, struggling to do my homework, and laughing hysterically at the same time. I was listening to "Who By Numbers", released around this time, and what a cheery collection of ditties that was. "Is Pete as depressed as I am?" I wondered. But the songs were appropriate for my mood. Between Python and the Who, and my parents constant love, I was getting through the winter days. But by January '76, the depression and questions and school pressures and fantasies of suicide were taking over my consciousness again.

Then it was announced that the Who were coming to San Francisco for two nights. They were playing Winterland, a venue smaller than most, and a lottery was going to be held for tickets. My younger sister, 13 at the time, and I asked Mum to help us with the cost of the tickets (some ridiculously low amount, by today's standards, I'm sure). We had enough to send in asking for each night. My best friend, who I hardly saw much of at the time, also sent in her bid. My sister's favourite Who member was Roger, my friend loved Keith, and I loved Pete. I had pictures of him plastered of every size all over my side of the bedroom wall, Roger on my sister's side. And various Who posters everywhere else in the room we shared.

When our request for tickets was mailed off, I made my plea: Please God let me get to go because I don't know how I'm going to make it through alive. If you're there and you hear me please grant me this.

About two weeks later of tearing the mailbox open every day, there sat one pair of tickets for us. My friend didn't get chosen, as well as our bid for the second night. But I was going and I couldn't wait. It would be my first time seeing them perform live. I felt certain it must have been Divine intervention, and I was thankful.

Before the show started, they were showing several Python episodes, Keith's doing I'm sure. My sister and I were down front, close to John. Needless to say, they were bloody amazing. I was making mental notes to tell my friend everything I could see of Keith. I wanted to get closer to Pete's side, but the crush on that end was intense, and I had to mind my little sister. But I could see Pete just fine, jumping about, seeing his Baba pendant swinging around his neck. Looking pissed off and beautiful. (Pete, that is, Baba looked serene and beautiful--!)

(this pic is from the following night, because Roger wore a shirt that read "George Davis Is Innocent" the night we went.)

During "Won't Get Fooled Again", towards the end, I had the oddest sensation of going out of my body, feeling whole, and happy with more than a hint of blissfulness. "This is what it must be all about", I thought, 'this' being the feeling of pure ecstasy, 'it' being the meaning of life; and achieving that feeling, that state of mind. I was drug free, during this time, I should mention. Years later I would read about other people having a similar experience during Who concerts, of being "transported". Although it didn't last more than a couple of minutes, everything seemed to change inside me and I knew I was going to be alright.

A couple of weeks later, there was a public bus strike that went on for a month. My family didn't have a car. My school was clear across town. It was a month long vacation from school. I spent it listening to music, walking to the public library and taking out the Baba books they had: God Speaks, Avatar by Jean Adriel, Listen Humanity. The more I read, the more I was drawn in, and what Baba said was more satisfying and made more sense to me than what I knew of the Church, on an intellectual level, yet my gut was telling me I'd found what I was looking for, on a spiritual level. I considered myself a Baba lover, and the "honeymoon phase" (as some followers call it) began.