22nd December, 1899.
My Dear Dhira Mata,
I have a letter from Calcutta today, from which I learn your cheques have arrived; a great many thanks and grateful words also came.
Miss Souter of London sends me a printed New Year’s greetings. I think she must have got the accounts you sent her by this time.
Kindly send Saradananda’s letters that have come to your care.
As for me, I had a slight relapse of late, for which the healer has rubbed several inches of my skin off.
Just now I am feeling it, the smart. I had a very hopeful note from Margo. I am grinding on in Pasadena; hope some result will come out of my work here. Some people here are very enthusiastic; the Raja-Yoga book did indeed great services on this coast. I am mentally very well; indeed I never really was so calm as of late. The lectures for one thing do not disturb my sleep, that is some gain. I am doing some writing too. The lectures here were taken down by a stenographer, the people here want to print them.
I learn they are well and doing good work at the Math–from Swami Saradananda’s letter to Joe. Slowly as usual plans are working; but Mother knows, as I say. May She give me release and find other workers for Her plans. By the by, I have made a discovery as to the mental method of really practising what the Gita teaches, of working without an eye to results. I have seen much light on concentration and attention and control of concentration, which if practised will take us out of all anxiety and worry. It is really the science of bottling up our minds whenever we like. Now what about yourself, poor Dhira Mata! This is the result of motherhood and its penalties; we all think of ourselves, and never of the Mother. How are you? How are things going on with you? What about your daughter? about Mrs. Briggs?
I hope Turiyananda is completely recovered now and working. Poor man, suffering is the lot! Never mind; there is a pleasure in suffering even, when it is for others, is there not? Mrs. Leggett is doing well; so is Joe; I–they say–I too am. May be they are right. I work anyway and want to die in harness; if that be what Mother wants, I am quite content.
Ever your son,
To Mrs. Ole Bull
22nd December, 1899.