of a creative spirit.

Quiet evening hours often brought one of my guru's discourses,
treasures against time. His every utterance was measured and chiseled
by wisdom. A sublime self-assurance marked his mode of expression:
it was unique. He spoke as none other in my experience ever spoke.
His thoughts were weighed in a delicate balance of discrimination
before he permitted them an outward garb. The essence of truth,
all-pervasive with even a physiological aspect, came from him like
a fragrant exudation of the soul. I was conscious always that I
was in the presence of a living manifestation of God. The weight
of his divinity automatically bowed my head before him.

If late guests detected that Sri Yukteswar was becoming engrossed
with the Infinite, he quickly engaged them in conversation. He was
incapable of striking a pose, or of flaunting his inner withdrawal.
Always one with the Lord, he needed no separate time for communion.
A self-realized master has already left behind the stepping stone
of meditation. "The flower falls when the fruit appears." But saints
often cling to spiritual forms for the encouragement of disciples.

As midnight approached, my guru might fall into a doze with the
naturalness of a child. There was no fuss about bedding. He often
lay down, without even a pillow, on a narrow davenport which was
the background for his customary tiger-skin seat.

A night-long philosophical discussion was not rare; any disciple
could summon it by intensity of interest. I felt no tiredness then,
no desire for sleep; Master's living words were sufficient. "Oh,
it is dawn! Let us walk by the Ganges." So ended many of my periods