An Ode to Ram Dass
When I was twenty, I had a ball python named Ram Dass. I was totally “that guy” in college—that guy who had a pet snake.
My snake was named after the man formerly known as Dr. Richard Alpert, the Harvard psychologist, turned grandfather of the 1960’s psychedelic movement, turned spiritual teacher. Ram Dass had a tremendous influence on my younger self, but mostly for the “psychedelic” reasons.
Even though I didn’t live through it, like many of my peers, I was nostalgic for the deeper culture that the hippie movement represented. But true to my youthful form, I brushed over Ram Dass’s spiritual message, and focused more on the tie-died colored t-shirts and albums I thought he embodied—because that’s trippy, man.
But as with many things in my life, my relationship with Ram Dass evolved in a way I never saw coming; twists of painful fate brought me back to his teachings in full, obsessive force. As this happened, Ram Dass’s impact cut so deep within me that it’s difficult for me to articulate, yet that is all I can attempt to do as a meager tribute to his inspiration. And because his long strange trip of a story is so fascinating, I believe it’s worth discussing.
Ram Dass died this past Sunday. Or like many eulogies around the web read, “he moved on from his body,” which is perhaps the only accurate way to describe the death of a man whose spiritual impact was larger than life.
In a world where most people promoting self-help are selling something, Ram Dass was the modern equivalent of a saint. He had nothing for you to buy, no religion for you to sign up for, and nothing for you to even believe in, other than love. He didn’t just talk about “being of service,” he lived it: he founded several non-profits, including the Seva Foundation which has cured a whopping five million people around the world from blindness.
In so many ways, Ram Dass—Dr. Richard Alpert—was the perfect conduit to bring a pure spiritual message to the West. He was a renowned psychologist at the pinnacle of academic prestige, classically trained at Harvard and Stanford. He, along with his rascal Harvard colleague Timothy Leary, blew the lid off psychedelics (metaphorically and literally), running the first experiments at Harvard with students before they both got kicked out (and by the way, many of these experiments are being actively reconsidered as modern science sees potential for psychedelics to transform mental health).
But then, after several years of psychedelic exploration, Dr. Richard Alpert did something totally out of left field: he became Ram Dass. Alpert had found that psychedelic states were tremendously helpful for opening the doors of his consciousness, and yet they gave him only a temporary glimpse into potentiality. He would get high enough to taste enlightenment, but then inevitably would come crashing back down. Frustrated with his hippie trips, Alpert went on pilgrimage to India, seeking spiritual masters who could explain to him what the hell was going on in these peak psychedelic states, and more importantly, how he remain in them permanently.
After having traveled around the country giving LSD to various renowned gurus and mystics in hope of finding an explanation, Alpert was still unsatisfied. But then, just as he had resolved that he was ready to give up his quest, a series of auspicious events led Alpert to one particular Indian sage, a little man wrapped in a blanket named Neem Karoli Baba, known to his followers as Maharaj-ji.
Ram Dass and Maharaj-ji. Other famous people influenced by Maharaj-ji include Steve Jobs, Mark Zuckerburg, and Julia Roberts.
Almost immediately, weird things started to happen at the threshold of belief for the Harvard psychologist. Maharaj-ji knew things about Alpert that he’d never told anyone. Alpert begins to feel complete unconditional love and bliss just being in Maharaj-ji’s presence. And then, unsolicited, Maharaj-ji asked Ram Dass to give him the “medicine” he’d brought for him. Realizing Maharaj-ji meant the LSD, Alpert watched in mild horror as Maharaj-ji downed eight pills, a colossal dose for anyone, let alone an old and frail first-timer.
But then, nothing happened. Maharaj-ji, already existing on the boundary of the formless realm of enlightenment and the material world of form, was entirely unaltered. He told Ram Dass that “this medicine is useful,” but was not the true gateway to God. This was the final straw for Alpert, who then devoted himself to Maharaj-ji and his teachings of Bhakti yoga for the next year, meditating, fasting, and studying in silence. At the end, he emerged transformed into a true yogi, and was renamed by Maharaj-ji to Ram Dass, which means “servant of God.”
After returning to the U.S., Alpert then went on to spread the many lessons from his journey across the country as Ram Dass, becoming a beacon of American spiritual identity for the rest of his life, even after suffering a hemorrhagic stroke that left him with aphasia. Prior to his stroke, there was no one better than the Harvard psychologist turned yogi to explain the spiritual dimensionality of existence to a struggling, post-Vietnam war audience. Ram Dass’s razor sharp wit made his lectures—which were jammed-packed with Eastern wisdom for the modern world—incredibly entertaining.
Most of his lectures—and his complete story—remain available to listen to for free in various formats today. I highly recommend listening to the “Here and Now” podcast (138 episodes and counting), especially the first seven episodes, which are essentially a chronological autobiography of Ram Dass’s adventure from psychologist, to psychonaut, to Maharaj-ji-loving yogi. I’ve listened to all the lectures, many of them several times over, and his practical profundity continues to blow me away.
It might sound hyperbolic, but imagine if Jesus or the Buddha’s lectures were available to listen to on a podcast—it never gets old. But maybe it’s not that big of a stretch, as Ram Dass’s path wasn’t too different from the Buddha’s. The Buddha was a literal prince of India who walked away from his privilege, and Ram Dass was a literal prince of American materialist accomplishment who ran away from the ivory tower. They both took extreme measures to taste enlightenment: the Buddha took a renunciate path of austerity, sleeping on beds of nails and fasting, while Ram Dass took psychedelics. And then, once figuring out for themselves the true path towards liberation, they both dedicated their lives to service, helping others “wake up.”
In death, I suspect Ram Dass’s influence will only grow, and he will become something like an American saint. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist, or Harvard professor for that matter, to see that Americans are currently in the midst of an existential crisis of identity and purpose. Most Americans don’t want any religion shoved down their throat, but they do crave meaning, and secular spirituality.
And while technically the devotee of a Hindu yogi, Ram Dass’s (and Maharaj-ji’s) teachings drew on Buddhism, Christ consciousness, Sufism, and Jewish mysticism, with no prescription other than “love everyone and tell the truth.” Ram Dass’s message has a way of cutting through the noise and directly striking at the heart of the matter: how Westerners can transform their self-destructive thought patterns and behaviors into love; in other words, how Westerns can transform their karma.
Alex Grey’s recent painting of Ram Dass’s journey to sainthood.
Ram Dass’s 1971 book Be Here Now brought basic mindfulness into mainstream culture. The brilliance of the mantra “Be here now,” which essentially boils down 20,000 years of yogic wisdom into an accessible catchphrase for the West, is not to be underestimated. It exemplifies the beauty of Ram Dass’s teaching and his knack for making the mystical and esoteric easily digestible.
There’s a lot more that can and should be said about Ram Dass’s message, and I plan on dedicating future essays to some of his specific teachings. But in the meantime, having read these words I wrote, which I dedicate in gratitude to the life of the last American saint, I’ll leave you with a personal favorite of Ram Dass’s simple lessons:
“Only that in you, which is me, can hear what I’m saying.” — Ram Dass
Hanging out with Ram Dass and a broken hand, Dartmouth College circa 2009 😂