The following is an unedited letter from a program coordinator.
What comes to mind for you when you hear the word "prison"?
Up until the day we went to Folsom Prison to offer a Siddha Yoga chanting program, to me prison was just a place you were sent if you did something very wrong, a place "over there" somewhere that I didn't really want to think about. It was a place where no one would ever see you again unless you were lucky enough to be let out one day. I hadn't ever given prisons much thought, and I certainly had never considered that within the prison walls there was a lot of life happening in its own unique way.
As the date of our program drew closer, I began to wonder, "Why am I going to Folsom? This is crazy. I have plenty of other things to do. I'll have to cancel. I can't do this." But somehow a very sweet feeling in my heart kept pulling me to go, no matter how much my thoughts tried to convince me otherwise. Ultimately, for me, the entire experience was permeated by the sweetest and most protective grace I have ever known.
Our journey began at the guard house at the entry to the prison. The two men there were very friendly to us and seemed genuinely appreciative of our coming to do a program at Folsom---all the while looking inside the harmonium and shaking the drum to check for contraband. After going through the arrival processing, we headed for the main gate to the prison. The happiness I felt inside continued to be a total surprise to me. I was thrilled to be doing this seva. I felt totally protected and happy to be going to prison! I didn't understand it, but that was OK.
When we arrived at the chapel, where the program was to be held, we were greeted by a number of men who were eager to come to the program. Some had been to previous programs, some were new. When the door was unlocked we flowed inside together and the prisoners quickly began to help with the setup: chairs in a semi-circle, mikes in place (Gregory did the mikes so carefully. He told me later that he had met Baba in Santa Monica in the 70's). Dennis sat down with me at the electronic keyboard. We worked out some chords for the chant like two old friends. When he touched the keys, the Yamaha came alive with jazz sounds the likes of which I had never heard before, sounds that were in his blood since his childhood in St. Louis. Others climbed up into the loft area to bring us blankets to use for sitting on the stage. I was beginning to completely forget where I was, the kindness and friendliness of these men dissolving any thoughts of "prisoners."
Colt introduced the evening and the chants we would be doing: Om Namo Bhagavate Muktanandaya and Kali Durge. Just a short time after we began to chant I looked around the room and the dozen or so men there had begun to soften. Several had their eyes closed and looked as if they had found deep rest for the very first time. Others were tapping or clapping to the rhythm. After a while, one man was lifted to his feet by the chant and began to dance slowly, so in love with what he was experiencing. He pulled another man to his feet to join him—Ron, who had met Baba in Oakland in '74. Each time I looked around the room, I felt that all I wanted to do was offer these men my fullest love. These prisoners were like my dearest brothers. The chant was the vehicle for that love.
We began Kali Durge. Before too long, Dennis (on the keyboard) was ignited by the chant and his voice catapulted to an ecstatic, high tenor range that pierced us all with his love and joy. We just followed him until the chant came to an end, and we all meditated together.
What comes to mind when you hear the word "prison”? For me, now, it's fond memories of a group of men who are choosing to seek God, choosing to seek peace and love inside themselves in the most unlikely of surroundings. And God is so obviously seeking them as well, undeterred by the guards, the high wall, the gates, or whatever brought these men to Folsom. He has not forgotten them.
The sweetness of this seva and the love we shared for one another in that place will stay with me for a very, very long time.
Jaya Gurumayi.
