When my brother, my mother, and I entered the book-filled office,
the rabbi's expression, accentuated by a bulbous nose and glasses,
was anything but humorous.
"Hello, Mrs. Laxer," he said. "Hello, boys."
"Hello, rabbi."
He asked us if we were getting involved in another religion.
"No, rabbi," explained my brother. "We are studying spiritual mysticism."
"We're just learning to meditate," I added.
"I see," he said. He mentioned an obscure mystical sect within
the Jewish religion known as Cabalism. But Judaism, he explained,
slowly, as though measuring each word, was based upon laws--
not direct mystical experience. As he spoke, I recalled that Jewish
law had been passed down through the generations since the time
of Abraham and Isaac. Chinmoy's teachings, I realized, also stemmed
from a tradition dating back thousands of years. I found myself
picturing Chinmoy and Atmananda. "They are such colorful characters,"
I thought.
I glanced at the rabbi. He was saying something about the dangers
of mind control. "The rabbi is so...plain," I decided.
I felt certain that he had never read the Castaneda books.
My mother said little during the meeting. She was hoping that
the rabbi would build for my brother and me a framework through
which we could view our mystical quest. When the meeting was over,
I went home and stared at the underexposed Transcendental photo
of Chinmoy.
The next day I tried to meditate, but my mind dwelt on familiar thoughts:
"As soon as I graduate, I'm going to leave my tired, depressed father.
I'm going to leave my manipulative, demanding mother. I'm going
to follow a path with heart, and things are going to get better."
Meanwhile, my mother had asked if she could attend one of the meetings
with the Guru.
"Sure," I replied. I felt I had nothing to hide, and I secretly
hoped that she would wish me well on my journey.
Dressed in Western clothes, she went to St. Paul's Chapel that
Wednesday night and sat near the front. She felt uncomfortable
being surrounded by a sea of whites and saris. She saw disciples
praying to a short, Indian man dressed in robes. Her stomach became
tense when the man placed his hand on the forehead of her youngest son.
I stood in front of the chapel, before Chinmoy, squinting. In the
flickering of the Guru's eyes, I was initiated. I bowed and turned,
and in the audience I saw my mother. I quickly looked away.
I saw myself less as the son of caring, creative, and slightly
mixed-up New York Jews, and more a disciple of the man Atmananda said
was perfect.
After initiation, I began to spend less time at home, where I often
heard things like: "Artie, you talk to your son about what he
is getting involved in."
"Leave me alone!" my father replied, irritably.
"It's a *rotten* family!" my mother declared.
I happily spent time instead with my brother, Atmananda, and the
other Stony Brook Chinmoy disciples.
One time, while camping with my brother in a marsh near Stony Brook,
my calves began to itch. I tried not to scratch what seemed to be
poison ivy, but must have done so in my sleep because by morning,
the rash had spread.
When I went home, my mother applied lotion to my skin. The next day,
she asked if I was better.
"Yup," I said and left for school. Confident that my skin would
heal on its own, I did not want to make a fuss over the red bumps
which now covered most of my body. Yet later that day in writing
class I had to sto...p reading a poem becau...se I could no...t get
the words out, and my mother arrived and rushed me to the hospital.
After a shot of adrenaline caused the puffy, quarter-sized blotches
to shrink, the doctor pointed out that had I not been treated in time,
I might have been suffocated by the growing bump in my throat.
"How odd to have a near-death experience so soon after my
spiritual initiation," I thought. I asked the doctor what he
thought had nearly killed me. "Perhaps you had an allergic reaction
to something you ate," he said. But after various food groups were
one by one reintroduced into my diet, the cause of the hives remained hidden.
I asked Atmananda what he thought had nearly killed me. "It is
no coincidence," he said mysteriously. "Whenever you make genuine
spiritual progress, the Negative Forces in the universe try and hold
you back. But don't worry. When you are attacked by the Forces,
just think of Guru."
I did think of Guru. I often doubted, though, that nefarious,
non-physical Entities from beyond the world of reason were getting
underneath my skin. I recalled that Don Juan tricked Castaneda
into pursuing the path to knowledge, and wondered if Atmananda's
explanation was a ploy to maneuver me closer to Guru. But because I
sought adventure, challenge, and entrance into the metaphysical worlds
of Don Juan, Obi-Wan-Kanobi, Chinmoy and Atmananda, I willfully
suspended my disbelief. I also suspended my plans to hitchhike west.
After reading a speech at my high school graduation, I said
good-bye to friends and family, and bought a one-way ticket east
to Stony Brook.