When I was 35 and nearing spiritual manhood I made the obligatory pilgrimage to Mecca . The original journey had been made by Abraham, 3,000 years ago, upon his return from Egypt after being initiated into the mysteries of life. Unlike the brightly lit spectacle that passes for Mecca today, the original place Abraham visited was a barren desert in Saudi Arabia, containing nothing but sand, stones and stars.

Abraham was no king or rich man; he had no funds to build a physical temple; he could only invest in one solitary stone: "This stone I set here in memory of my initiation into the mysteries -- the revelation that declares everything is but One God manifesting . This stone will remain forever as a temple for that purpose."

And so, the original stone was set by Abraham, the patriarch, as a place of worship for prophets and seers the world over. Recall that Abraham was father to both Ishmael (the Islamic lineage) and Isaac, who gave birth to Jacob ( Israel ) and his lineage (which included the tribe of Judah, the so-called "Jews"). So it was that this holy shrine was meant to be available to both sons, to acknowledge that it is One God who unites brothers in worship wherever they exist, down to this very day and all others to follow.

However in 630 A.D., Mohammed, the central prophet of Islam muddied the waters (sand) and declared it off limits to non-Muslims. In effect, he imprisoned the Word, as so many religions do, and commandeered it to serve his own needs above the needs of his brothers.

And yet, this precious voice - the Word made flesh - that was put into this stone by the singing soul of Abraham continues to be heard through the ages, to those who have ears to hear. Literally, Abraham's actual voice was engraved upon the stone, through laser-like vibrations, so that it became a living and faithful record, reproducing what he spoke in the beginning, that we may grasp it today, whether consciously or unconsciously. (Think of the modern CD or digital recording, and we can understand that Abraham's magical recording was the forerunner.)

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Ah, but fortunately I didn't have to travel to the desert temple of Abraham and his descendents to make my peace with God! No, I didn't have to travel through the desert on a horse with no name to hear the plain Word of God. Instead, I passed through Camden New Jersey, to visit the home of the good gray poet Walt Whitman, chronicler of the American Civil War.

Like Abraham's legacy, Whitman's too is filled with God's blessings. The benefits to be found in holy places lie in the principle that they are no longer just the places of men and women, but have themselves become living beings! To those who enter the awareness of God, there follows the realization that all is happening now, in this place, in this time.

After arriving in Philadelphia, I crossed the Delaware River and found the Camden ghetto, right where they said it would be. According to history, Whitman's Camden had been a lively middle class seaport, although by the time I had arrived, 1976, it had degenerated into a full fledged ghetto, its substandard streets empty of almost any life except for visitors to the newly erected county jail across the street from Walt's place, or up a ways to the cluster of liquor stores that served the predominately black neighborhood.

Down at the end of Mickle Street, two blocks from the river's edge, sat the two story wood frame wherein Whitman had entertained the likes of Oscar Wilde, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Charles Dickens. But in 1976 the six-room house looked out of place and so all alone, sitting there in the middle of the modern projects with their light-less prison style brick buildings that cast dark shadows over the disappearing landscape Walt so loved.

Yet it was evident to me that this house was a portal to an alternate universe of which I was already familiar and destined to finally enter, like Abraham before.

The place was locked when I arrived. Not to be dismayed, I sat down on the stoop, observing the flux and influx of the neighborhood as it passed me by. In short time another white man arrived - obviously looking for Walt Whitman - and eyed me beseechingly. "Yes, you're in the right place," I assured him. We smiled simultaneously. He said he had made a two-thousand mile trek down from Canada, having just discovered Walt Whitman among the pages of Maurice Bucke's Cosmic Consciousness. Ah, another kindred soul, eager to pay homage to the American master -- the obligatory travel to Mecca.

Like Abraham before, Walt Whitman too was a singing voice; essential bard of the working class and original poet of democracy, declaring equality through giving voice to common men and women. "I like the folks, the plain, ignorant, unpretentious folks; and the youngsters that come and slide on my cellar-door."

Indeed, Whitman gave birth to the modern poet. His work became the essential blueprint and roadmap the Beatniks followed, those bohemian outcasts that took to the open road in pursuit of ideas of independence, spawned and conceived in Whitman's seminal work, Leaves of Grass.

Along side the photographer Matthew Brady, Walt Whitman witnessed and recorded the Civil War. Going beyond the tearful letters of dead relatives, the pair gave a kind of credibility to the bloody ordeal. In Whitman's words, the wounded "opened a new world for me, bursting the petty bonds of art."

It was recorded that whenever Whitman or Brady came onto the battlefield, hostilities ceased, and din;t resume until they left again. Although the Union and Confederacy were fighting a fierce war - "brother against brother" - it was also fought on political lines between states that were becoming fiercely un-united. As if to clear up any future historical misunderstandings, the poor and dying warriors allowed the photographer and the bard to wander through their battle stations unharmed, to record the truth where they could.

It wasn't long before one of the blacks edging up Mickle street turned toward us, speaking softly as she made her way to the front door with key in hand. "You're here to see Walt, right? He usually gets in about this time of day," we believe we heard her say! Whitman had died in 1892, but you would have thought that he was still alive, the way she bid us into his house that day.

Neither of us knew what to say, but the little lady was not at a loss: "Come on in, you two, you look exhausted. I'm gonna get supper ready. Baked potato. Walt's favorite!" Again we were shocked, the way she referred to Walt as if he would suddenly appear.

But all of our uncertainties were replaced with amazement when she swung open the door and the three of us stepped into the prototypical interior of Whitman's democratic vista. As she made her way to back room, speaking in sing-song along the way, we adjusted with renewed joy to the prophetic revelations the great bard had left for us to discover.

"Make yourself at home! Walt usually greets visitors upstairs. Of course he's not here right now, but go on up," she called from the back room, an obviously recent edition to the 19th century dwelling. From our perspective, we could just make out beyond the doorway a modern kitchen, a TV, and what appeared to be the makings of her own personal living quarters. As we soon discovered, this quaint little lady was in fact living smack dab in the middle of the house, like some romantic Bride of Whitman, existing as a radiantly illustrated page from his writings. And she was certainly no stranger to the writer's wisdom, at times using words that seemed to be channeled through her by Whitman himself, "my tongue loosed in your throat." Oh yes, she definitely possessed the key to Whitman's world.

Already feeling at home, we made our way up the stairs, passing a series of glass cases which contained several of Walt's hand written manuscripts. On top of the cases rested assorted hats and memorabilia, personal remembrances of the real life bard that once walked these rooms in another age. This too was shocking, the way these great historical treasures - as valuable as anything one would find in a museum - were sitting out in the open, accessible to anyone. Yet it did not seem unusual to us; after all, this is the way "art" ought to be experienced, though seldom is.

Upstairs my new acquaintance and I sat by the open window, feeling light enter the room as it must have a hundred years previously, as illumination. True to this unspoken timelessness, our vision drank in the assorted paintings, arm chairs and artifacts that flowed from the mind of Walt Whitman, not as static furniture, but as ideas evolving.

The Canadian was sitting on the window sill and I was sprawled on the bed when our lady in waiting joined us again: "I'm glad you're still here!" - so unguarded was this magical house - "Yes, I'm glad you're enjoying yourself. Walt would be happy. He's usually visited by only his closest friends at this time of evening. I'm sure he will find time for the two of you." Clearly enjoying herself, she was gone again, back downstairs to the adjoining apartment. Absolutely in agreement with this latter day Beatrice, the two of us listened for the poet's footsteps on the stairs.

It was uncanny the way she trusted us. Possibly due to some absurd bureaucratic oversight, this wonderful woman was solely responsible for the contents of the place, and it was conceivable that under her watch anyone could've walked out with any of it!

Yet we were there the entire day and not one other soul walked through the door. It was as if the Whitman House must surely be Open by appointment only, and only to those who were prepared to commune with the master in private. No, it was not an oversight that placed her there that day; she was clearly a demonstration of the miraculous, as if she appeared at 328 Mickle Street only at such ordained times, to open the door to the luminous intelligence that emanated from within.

Perhaps Whitman had foreseen all of this. For ten years leading up to his death, he prevailed upon the services of a live-in maid, referring to her as a friend and confidant. It is easy to imagine, like the bearer of an Olympic flame, he had transferred esoterically that wisdom to her, so that she might in turn give it to the present tenant for our further enlightenment.

Some years later, in 1990, I attempted to return to the Whitman House, only to find it had been "temporarily" closed for lack of funds. During that dark period, some zealous corporate type proposed that the house be reopened, with a plaza, café, and bookstore added. With the kind of bureaucratic meddling that was planned, the few and far between visitors of Whitman would thereafter need an expensive ticket to get in the door! Thank God the city council rejected this garish idea. Of course the rest of us didn't want it refurbished in that way -- realizing that we would no longer be able to lie on Whitman's bed and gain access to his luminous world by osmosis.

Eventually the Whitman House did undergo an $850,000 restoration, preserving much of its 19th-century working-class essence. Completed in 1999, the poet's sanctuary was reopened to the public.

Although I have yet to return to Camden, I often step back into that one afternoon in 1976, where I again feel Whitman's presence coalescing around me. Recalling that earlier time, as it manifested through his personal things and through that wonderful lady's sensitivity, I feel absolutely reborn, freshly conceived as a living page, a leaf from Walt Whitman's world. I can hear his soul still singing boldly.

I bequeath myself to the dirt, to grow from the grass I love

If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean

But I shall be good health to you nevertheless

And filter and fiber your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged

Missing me one place, search another

I stop somewhere waiting for you.