Safransky: There are so many spiritual paths available today, so many old, esoteric secrets that are no longer secrets.

Adyashanti: Yeah, every secret is available for $10.95 at the local bookstore.

Safransky: There’s a tendency for people to take a little from here and a little from there. Do you see that as problematic?

Adyashanti: It can be. With an endless amount of spiritual window-shopping, there’s a danger we may never settle down and really get to the deeper spiritual process. I see that when I teach. There are some people who rush to see every new teacher in town, which can have its drawbacks, because sometimes those people are not getting down to the serious task of personal inquiry.

Other people, however, seem to be able to find what they need here and there and actually use that information for a deep spiritual process. Like everything else, it depends on the person. But too much window-shopping is a danger of a spiritual climate where everything is available, where you don’t have to beg at the temple doors, or sit at the feet of the master for three or four years, or sacrifice anything.

Safransky: Many masters turn out to be abusing their power: conducting inappropriate financial dealings or having sex with their disciples while advocating celibacy. Why do you think that happens?

Adyashanti: I can take a guess. There’s a lot of power inherent in enlightenment — or the perception of it — and spiritual power is no less corrupting than any other power. In fact, it may be even more corrupting.

I remember the first time I became conscious of this: I started teaching at thirty-three; most everybody was older than me, and more educated, and smarter. They had better jobs and all that. As I was driving home from teaching one night, it suddenly hit me: I could go in there and say almost anything and make them believe it. I saw, all at once, the incredible frailty of human beings. And I understood how intelligent, well-educated people can get involved in cults and the most ridiculous ideas: when we are in the grasp of ego, we’re extraordinarily vulnerable. As soon as I realized this, something else arose, which was this extraordinary distaste for it. That sort of power isn’t a pleasant thing to have. Now I look back at my teacher, Arvis Joen Justi, and see that her most important transmission to me was her integrity, because it gave me that distaste for power and influence. I can only guess that some people, even people with the best intentions, start to find that power enticing.

When you’re a spiritual teacher, you’re living in the projections of people around you. They have a tendency to see you as godlike, and that is not a healthy environment for anybody. But a spiritual teacher, by nature, has to exist in it. I’ve found that the more you try to correct this perception, the stronger it becomes. People just think you’re even better, because you’re not like all the teachers who are encouraging their students to see them as demigods. There’s no way around the projection game, and the potential is always there for it to corrode my integrity. I’m not immune to that. In fact, as soon as I conclude that I could never take advantage of people, it’s already started. It’s a subtle thing that can easily grow as time goes on, because there’s usually not someone around to say to the teacher, “Hey, this isn’t right.” Spiritual students are almost encouraged to think that because the teacher is an enlightened being, he or she knows everything. So people check their good sense at the door. What I tell people is that if you’re seeking enlightenment, your good sense is vital. In fact, you’re going to have to learn to trust it more and more. I think people actually know early on when something’s off about a teacher, but they think they must be wrong, because an enlightened person can’t do any wrong. And that’s not true. Enlightened people can do wrong. They can do harmful things. I think sometimes they don’t know it themselves.

My teacher told me, “There are lots of temptations out there. If you ever think you can’t handle those temptations, stop before you do something stupid.” That was a promise I made to her. We shouldn’t make the assumption that lust or greed or corruption could never emerge in us. It clearly can. Humility is always the best protection against being corrupted by power.

Safransky: Didn’t taking the name “Adyashanti” reinforce a certain sense that you are an enlightened holy man?

Adyashanti: Oh, absolutely it did. It’s sort of a ridiculous-sounding Eastern name.

Safransky: The spiritual teacher Ram Dass once told me he wanted to go back to the name Richard Alpert, but his publishers wouldn’t let him, because then he wouldn’t sell any books.

Adyashanti: [Laughs.] I always tell people to call me “Adya,” and leave the “shanti” part off.

Safransky: Do you ever regret having taken the name on?

Adyashanti: No, because it’s a vital and mysterious part of the teaching process that I don’t really understand. I resisted it for a long time, and when I finally decided to take the name, I literally didn’t tell anybody. The next time I taught, a whole new group of people showed up. The average age almost doubled, and their spiritual maturity probably tripled. I knew somehow that it was linked to my taking this name, even though nobody knew about it yet. That’s why I say I wouldn’t go back and change it, although admittedly it’s a bit embarrassing. [Laughs.]

Safransky: You don’t look very embarrassed. 

Adyashanti: Over the years, I’ve learned to play with it. It’s just about as funny as any other name. When people get to know me, they see I have a certain casualness, and they kind of join in that. They know they can play with me and joke with me, and we don’t have to take each other too seriously. I guess it all works out, even with the big, fancy name.

Saunders: Is that use of humor and play an intentional part of your teachings?

Adyashanti: It’s not intentional. I just see some things as profoundly funny.

Saunders: So it emerges more from your personality.

Adyashanti: Yeah, that’s more it, although I think it’s part and parcel of being awake that you don’t take things too seriously. The thing you probably take the least seriously is yourself. I’ve heard enlightenment described as the “restoration of cosmic humor.” I think that’s a wonderful description. If you think you’re awake, but you don’t have a sense of humor, you’re probably not as awake as you imagine yourself to be. Humor comes with the knowledge that all is well.

Safransky: One of your talks on your website is titled “Gift for a Dying Friend.” You make a distinction between expressing our love for someone who’s dying and showing our attachment to them. Is there anything else you would say to someone facing the loss of a loved one?

Adyashanti: Usually, when I meet someone who’s in that situation, they’re trying not to grieve. Maybe they’re trying to transcend grief, or maybe they’re afraid of the enormity of it. So I often encourage them to open to the grief, and I let them know that grief is not unenlightened. It’s a natural way for our systems to cleanse themselves of painful emotions. It’s true we can get stuck in grief. We can become fixated in grief. But more often I find that people don’t open fully to it. When they finally do, what comes up is a tremendous sense of well-being. I don’t mean the grief goes away, but there’s grief and a smile at the same time. It’s just like true love. True love is not all bliss. As my teacher said, true love is bittersweet, like dark chocolate. It almost hurts a little bit. Ultimately all emotions contain their opposite.

When people are in the midst of grief, sometimes, if I think they’re ready for it, I’ll encourage them to think about what’s happened to their loved one: They’re gone. Everything you know about them is gone. Their appearance is gone. Their body is gone. Their mind is gone. Their persona is gone. There is nothing to relate to anymore. It’s all gone. Now, is there anything left? That’s the actual truth of them: what’s still there after a person is gone.

Years ago a woman wrote to me and said her mother was dying of Alzheimer’s, and it was tearing her up. The mother she knew wasn’t there anymore. I wrote her back and said, “Why don’t you sit down next to the bed where your mother is and just reflect on the fact that the person you knew is gone. Her mothering function is gone. The way she used to interact with you is gone. Her personality is gone. It’s all gone. Just sit there for a moment and allow all that to be gone, and see if there’s not anything else. Maybe that wasn’t all there was to your mother.” The woman wrote me back about a week later and said she’d sat next to her mother and let her disappear and thought, Is there anything left? All of a sudden, she knew there was an amazing presence that only took the form of her mother. And she knew that’s what her mother was; that’s what she’d always been. It brought this woman great relief. Then she took it to the next level and thought, If that’s what my mom is, I wonder about me. And she found she wasn’t the person she’d been pretending to be. She was the same presence.

Death is like that: it takes away appearances. It’s OK to grieve the loss of appearances, but it helps to recognize the presence that’s beyond those appearances.

Saunders: What do you think happens to individual consciousness after the death of a body?

Adyashanti: The question presumes that there is such a thing as individual consciousness. Awakening shows you that there isn’t. The mind creates the illusion of individual consciousness to convince us that this awareness is ours, that it belongs to us. I imagine that, after the death of the body, it’s very difficult to maintain the illusion of individual consciousness. But who knows? We’ll see. I’ll give you a phone call if I can. [Laughs.]

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