He smiled on me graciously, as though we
were old friends. I was so young that I did not know how to give
expression to my feelings, but in my heart I was hoping that he
would offer to be my teacher. He read my thought.
"'No, my son, I am not your guru.' Vivekananda gazed with his
beautiful, piercing eyes deep into my own. 'Your teacher will come
later. He will give you a silver cup.' After a little pause, he
added, smiling, 'He will pour out to you more blessings than you
are now able to hold.'
"I left Chicago in a few days," Mr. Dickinson went on, "and never
saw the great Vivekananda again. But every word he had uttered
was indelibly written on my inmost consciousness. Years passed; no
teacher appeared. One night in 1925 I prayed deeply that the Lord
would send me my guru. A few hours later, I was awakened from sleep
by soft strains of melody. A band of celestial beings, carrying
flutes and other instruments, came before my view. After filling
the air with glorious music, the angels slowly vanished.
"The next evening I attended, for the first time, one of your lectures
here in Los Angeles, and knew then that my prayer had been granted."
We smiled at each other in silence.
"For eleven years now I have been your KRIYA YOGA disciple," Mr.
Dickinson continued. "Sometimes I wondered about the silver cup;
I had almost persuaded myself that Vivekananda's words were only
metaphorical. But on Christmas night, as you handed me the square
box by the tree, I saw, for the third time in my life, the same
dazzling flash of light.
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