After I moved to Stony Brook, I started going to Atmananda's
parties regularly. At one party my brother and I arrived at
Tom's house, left our sneakers by the door, and went inside.
Atmananda, Sal, Anne, Tom, and a few other disciples stood in the kitchen.
They looked bewildered. The air smelled charred. Black, gooey gobs
darkened the floor. Atmananda was not talking. Something was wrong.
When Anne had lit the stove moments before, an explosion singed her
hair and propelled chocolate and marshmallow covered graham crackers
across the room. Now, as we cleaned the mess, Atmananda began to speak.
"Guru protected us from the Negative Forces," he said in a rich,
lulling voice.
I told myself that the explosion had probably more to do with the gas
being left on than it did with Guru and the Forces.
"The Negative Forces want to hurt Guru's mission,"
Atmananda continued grimly. "But they know not to challenge
an avatar directly. Instead, they go after his disciples--
particularly those wide open to doubt."
For months I had grappled with the concept of Negative Forces.
Perhaps they existed, I told myself, perhaps they did not.
In either case, I did not take them seriously. Now, though, I tried
to imagine what they looked like. I pictured massive, menacing storm
clouds in a dark, foreboding sky. I imagined the "clouds" were
aware of my current thoughts. Suddenly the clouds seemed real.
I felt jolted. I looked around the room. I sensed the disciples had
taken Atmananda's caveat seriously. My stomach felt taut. I thanked
Chinmoy silently.
Atmananda had meanwhile flipped to a less somber mood. "One of
the best ways to combat the Forces," he said, "is to have fun."
So we went out to eat.
At an Italian restaurant during one party, Atmananda suddenly
slapped Sal on the back and, adopting the voice of the Godfather,
cried, "Heyyy Sal! You plenty-fine kinda guy!"
"Sure I'm plenty-fine, but I'm also plenty-hungry!" Sal replied
with an equally zesty accent, but without slapping him back.
Atmananda then denounced Sal for rescuing a maiden who had been
held against her will in "a large vat of ravioli."
"What's wrong with that?" I asked.
"Sal, tell the baby what'sa wrong with that."
Until now I had enjoyed their antics, but the transition from
being the editor-in-chief of my high school paper to "the baby"
felt awkward. Yet at seventeen, I was the youngest in the group,
the average age of which was twenty-one. Atmananda was twenty-seven.
And I had learned from Chinmoy and Atmananda that humility was
the quintessential spiritual quality. Besides, I loved the attention.
Sal replied that rescuing maidens was wrong because he should
have been at home meditating.
I looked again at Sal, a twenty-year-old with a large, creased forehead.
He had studied computer engineering first at CalTech, and now
at Stony Brook. He also studied guitar and drama. He cradled
the eggplant parmigiano hero lovingly in his hands and closed his
eyes before each bite, as if bracing for the next dose of ecstasy.
"Observe the maestro chow hound," Atmananda announced.
We laughed.
Sal had apparently adjusted to his role as chow hound.
He continued to eat as if nothing happened.
"If only Sal could focus on the Infinite rather than on the eggplant,"
Atmananda noted, "he would be the first among us to realize God."
It was fun eating out with Atmananda. After dinner, we often
continued the fun and the fight against the Forces at the movies.
One time, Atmananda took us to Warlords of Atlantis. He bought
five buckets of heavily buttered popcorn, Tabs, Cokes, diet Cokes,
boxes of licorice, Sno-caps, and Raisinetes. Then, from the fourth row--
Atmananda claimed that four was a power number--we watched a film which,
at the time, seemed extraordinary.
Atmananda sat by the aisle of the nearly empty theatre. He whispered
something to Sal, who told Tom, who told my brother, who told me:
"Atlantis was once a real city."
"Atlantis was a real city," I told Anne, who told Dana, who told Suzanne.
Meanwhile, juxtaposed at an intersection of transmigrating junk food,
I further divided my attention between monitoring what needed
to be passed, trying not to notice the women, and watching a man
on the screen discover a lost world of magic and conflict under the sea.
"We all had past lives in Atlantis."
"We had past lives there." Pass the Raisinetes. A hidden city
of magicians, seers, and warriors, where the laws of physics
do not apply.
"We were together then."
"We were together." Pass the napkins. Crystals have a non-physical power.
"Atlantis was destroyed by the greed of its inhabitants."
"Atlantis was destroyed by greedy people."
Afterwards, we drove back to Tom's and caught the last few minutes of The
Twilight Zone. It was late. I was getting sleepy. Atmananda began
to repeat how Guru had saved us from stove-demolishing Entities.
I entered a state of mind where I heard his words, but did not
scrutinize them. Fifteen or twenty minutes later, he suggested
that we meditate on the Transcendental which Tom placed on a table
by the television.
In the months that followed, Atmananda accepted me into his inner circle
of friends. But not every encounter with him, I quickly learned,
was a party.
* * *
One morning Atmananda emerged from his cottage in Stony Brook carrying
a thick stack of posters. Bluejays, doves, sparrows, and chickadees
flocked around a feeder. Sal, Paul, my brother, and I stood nearby.
Atmananda approached, but the little birds remained.
"Ellaow," he said in a Cockney accent.
"Ellaow," we echoed.
"WHAT...is your name!" he demanded, quoting from the movie Monty
Python and the Holy Grail.
"Sir Waff-noid," offered Sal.
"WHAT...is your quest!"
"I seek the higher worlds."
"WHAT...were you thinking about last night at 11:30!"
Sal blushed.
"Alas, my lad," said Atmananda, patting him on the shoulder.
"You won't reach the higher worlds thinking about that."
Atmananda showed us a poster. It read: "ECSTASY AS A WAY OF LIFE."
Also printed were details about a free lecture series,
"With Atmananda-Dr. Frederick Lenz." But before he sent us
to Manhattan, Atmananda inspired us, told us how to protect ourselves,
how to change.
"Guru's mission," he said in a pacifying voice, "is to bring peace,
light, and bliss into a world that is rapidly heading towards darkness."
I realized that it was largely through Atmananda's lectures, and through
his appearances on radio and television--including a recent appearance
on the Phil Donahue Show--that Chinmoy's mission was being spread.
I felt important that I was a part of the operation.
"Your task is to see where to place the posters so that they
will be noticed by advanced seekers. To do this you will need
to maintain a very high state of consciousness."
We nodded solemnly.
"If you run into religious fanatics, be polite but firm.
Do not let them engage you in conversation."
We nodded again.
"By postering, you are helping Guru bring light into this world.
But Negative Forces will sense this and will try to inject you
with doubts. If you are attacked by the Forces, cry inwardly
to Guru."
I was not too worried about non-physical creatures on the prowl.
I had a great deal of self-confidence, I assumed the Guru would
protect me, and I wasn't convinced that Atmananda's ghosts
were real.
"I see that many will be helped as a result of today's efforts--
provided that Sal can muster the willpower to work and not just eat,"
he said, smiling warmly. "And don't forget to have a good time."
We meditated a moment.
"Guru put a special force on the posters," Atmananda said,
breaking the silence and handing the stack to my brother.
Then he strutted around us in a "silly walk" which I recognized
from a Monty Python skit.
"Cheeriao."
"Cheeriao," we echoed, waddling down the driveway, imitating his imitation.
On the way to the train station, his words reverberated in my mind:
the path, spiritual, awareness, see, sea of consciousness,
dream-time, vibrations, energy, chakra, subtle, metaphysical,
pyschic, unseen forces, traps, Entities, light, and darkness.
The language defined for me a world in which I chose at each moment
between good and evil. Put that way, there was not much of a choice.
I believed now that ours was a pure and noble quest, and that I was
a warrior of Truth, not a casualty of rhetoric.
On the train ride into the city, I sat next to Paul, a happy-go-lucky
Swede with blond hair, a broad grin, and a magnet-like attraction
for devices that were electronic. We both were Stony Brook freshmen
who had learned about Chinmoy through Atmananda's lectures.
We both sensed that there was something out there beyond the surface
world of reason. We both intended to do something about it.
"What's the penguin doing on the tehlee?" he quipped, quoting from
Monty Python. Green and grey scenes of Long Island sped by through
the train's window frame.
"The penguin on the tehlee," I squawked, "is about to blow up!"
"Tickets, tickets," announced the conductor. "All tickets please!"
I remembered how, as a kid, I rode the trains without paying.
I had stayed ahead of the ticket collector, gotten off when I
reached the front car, and then caught the next train... But
now I no longer believed in free rides. It did not matter
that the Ultimate Destination could not, according to Atmananda,
be described using words. I still felt that I should pay to get there.
By postering I was not only paying for myself, but was affording
thousands the opportunity to be taken for a ride of their own.
I handed the conductor my ticket.
My brother and Sal sat across from us. Their backs were straight,
their eyes closed. I too tried to meditate, but could not.
Instead, I thought about my parents. I had followed Atmananda's
suggestion and told them that I was studying spiritual mysticism.
Nonetheless, they seemed convinced that their sons were getting
sucked into a cult. I was sensitive to their reaction to me
and intentionally saw them less as the weeks went by.
I also thought about Chinmoy. He had instructed followers to memorize
four of his disciple-published books. I opened one and read,
"When you choose you lose." Chinmoy, it seemed, believed that major
decisions should be left to the Supreme, his favorite word for what
Atmananda called the Infinite, which the Rabbi had referred to as God.
"Help, Guru!" I thought, doubting I could memorize the numerous
aphorisms without divine intervention.
"Penn Station, Penn Station," came the reply. "Last stop!"
We left the train and were funneled onto the escalator by the crowd.
Paul and my brother headed uptown on Third Avenue, while Sal and I
worked Second Avenue. Dodging cars, bicycles, and more crowds,
we entered a supermarket and found the manager.
"Excuse me, sir," Sal said sweetly. "We are sponsoring a workshop
on relaxation and were wondering if we could place this in your window."
"One of the posters is already outdated," I pointed out.
"So we won't have to take up more of your window space."
The manager looked us over, glanced at the poster, and nodded.
"Thanks," we said and quickly placed two, back to back, visible to people
inside and out. After several hours we had placed more than half the stack.
Postering with Sal boosted my confidence in asking favors
from strangers. Soon, though, we decided to work opposite sides
of the street to increase our efficiency. I found that by acting
polite and a bit shy, I could easily persuade store owners to say yes.
The more I spread the word of Guru's mission, to people in stores
and on the street, the more I believed in it. And the more I believed,
the more I wanted to spread the word of Guru's mission...
When Sal and I ran out of posters, we crossed over to Third Avenue,
met Paul and my brother, and caught the subway to Penn Station.
I was tired from the postering. I found the repetitive clatter
and vibrations of the train soothing. I found it easy to meditate.
I could have thought about how Atmananda had been teaching me
how-to-hunt-and-how-not-to-be-hunted. I could have thought about how
those who teach how-to-hunt-and-how-not-to-be-hunted can easily prey
upon those whom they teach. I could have thought about how, by asking
Atmananda to take me beyond the world of reason, I was hunting him.
I could have thought about how he was hunting me. But I just sat there
and let my thoughts run free.
That year, Sal, Paul, Tom, my brother, and I placed thousands
of posters in Manhattan. Working with Anne, Dana, and Suzanne,
we also distributed thousands of handouts on the Stony Brook campus.
Sometimes we worked in sub-freezing temperatures. Once Atmananda had us
glue posters on buildings in Manhattan in the middle of the night.
I did not mind. I tended to enjoy the effort, in part because I
believed we were doing some good, because we had plenty of time
to pursue other interests (in January, 1979, I began studying English
literature at Stony Brook), and because as hard as we worked,
we played.
* * *
"The Muppet Movie?" I asked after another full day of postering.
"Starring Kermit-the-Frog?"
"Trust me," Atmananda replied.
Trust was the bridge to Atmananda's world, a peculiar, improbable place
where it snowed inside buildings in Manhattan in the spring,
where invisible beings threatened a guru's mission by blowing
up stoves, and where people were hunters or hunted or both.
It felt natural to trust a man who treated me with kindness,
who exuded an aura of competency and of vulnerability, and who seemed
wholeheartedly dedicated to the cause of self-improvement.
We met at a theatre where we ate popcorn and candy in the fourth row.
I told Atmananda that the postering had gone well. The lights faded
and the movie began.
A Hollywood agent on a fishing trip strikes up a conversation
with Kermit-the-Frog. The agent is impressed with him and suggests
that he move west, to Hollywood.
Though seemingly content in his East Coast swamp, Kermit is taken
by the agent's prediction that, as a movie star, he could make
millions of people happy. "Make millions of people happy,"
echoes the starry-eyed muppet.
The scene reminded me of my former plan to hitchhike west on
a mystical quest. The plan seemed less glamorous now because I
had already found a teacher and because of Atmananda's prediction.
He often told me that had he not rescued me from that path I would
have been shot by bandits and tossed in a ditch. Perhaps, though,
the former plan would have regained some momentum had I known about,
and had I analyzed, the problems currently fouling the air between
Chinmoy and Atmananda.
One problem was sex. Chinmoy, who taught that higher consciousness
lay above the sweaty world of physical pleasure, often instructed
us to avoid members of the opposite sex whenever possible.
In contrast, Atmananda told me, "I once had several girlfriends
at the same time--each named Susan."
There was the problem of ego. Chinmoy emphasized over and over
the importance of humility.
Atmananda often pointed out, to his inner circle of friends,
that in a past life he was Sir Thomas More.
There was the problem of cinema. Guru prohibited the viewing
of sexually explicit or violent movies.
Atmananda had his own view, which was to see them. As a result,
I got to see such films as Rocky Horror Picture Show, Dawn of the Dead,
and Apocalypse Now.
There was the problem of expression of individuality. In an attempt
to merge with the Beyond, many disciples decorated their often
sparse homes with Guru's paintings, posters, and photographs.
In contrast, Atmananda's plushly carpeted, colorful cottage,
gave me the sense that he rearranged the space until the lines
connecting the physical and non-physical dimensions meshed nicely.
By the front door, two ferns thrived beside an electronic synthesizer.
By a stained-glass window hung a photograph of Atmananda with
a toucan on his shoulder. "The toucan died," he once told me,
"but its soul is advanced and will soon take on a human incarnation."
Multi-colored rug segments covered the stairs to the loft, where a
larger-than-life Transcendental stared down from the slanted ceiling,
directly over his bed.
And there was the problem that Stony Brook disciples learned
the language of spirituality and of dreams less from Chinmoy than Atmananda.
Able to speak at length about anything and nothing, Atmananda often did.
For him, reality seemed to consist of an infinite number of levels
which were interconnected in obvious and in not so obvious ways.
"Words are used to describe these levels but are extremely limited,"
he explained. Nonetheless, I often found myself tripping on his
words from the world of the bizarre to the world of the sensible,
and back again. I became familiar with the diversity of his language
during his lectures and, perhaps more so, during his parties.
"Auuuuummmmmmmmmmmmm," he chanted after a twenty-five minute meditation
at the start of one party. He slowly bowed and touched his forehead
to the floor which is where he sat, along with the rest of us.
Then the Stony Brook disciples stoked the fireplace, set the tablecloth
on the floor, grated cheese, and emptied bags of tortilla chips.
I watched the disciples work. Only months had passed since
the exploding stove episode, and yet I felt close to them.
There was Atmananda. He was orchestrating the festivities.
He had brought us all together. There was my brother. He looked happy.
He did not seem to mind me tagging along. There was Sal.
His intense nature seemed balanced by a fabulous sense of humor.
There was Tom, the tall, easygoing bass guitar player. He would
soon receive a degree in history from Stony Brook. He seemed to be
good friends with Atmananda. And there was Paul. He and I were
becoming friends.
Then there were the women. According to Guru, I was not even supposed
to look them in the eye. I tried to protect them from my wayward
sexual thoughts but sometimes, in my imagination, I did more than
just look. Then I felt bad. I was told that they would now have
to meditate extra hard to cleanse themselves of such "lower energy."
I wished that we could be friends. They seemed so nice.
Rachel, with light brown hair and perceptive eyes, was closer
in age to Atmananda than the rest of us. She had completed
medical school in three years and become a disciple in 1978,
two months after attending Atmananda's lectures at the New School
for Social Research in Manhattan.
Dana, a one-time fashion model, had been an occupational therapy
major at Canada's McGill University. She first met Atmananda while
interviewing him for the campus radio station. After the interview,
which touched on Atmananda's book Lifetimes: True Accounts
of Reincarnation, he invited her to visit him in Stony Brook.
Shortly thereafter she left her boyfriend, family, school, and country.
She moved to Stony Brook, just around the block from the charismatic
young meditation teacher and author.
Connie was a waitress with long dark braids, a Midwesterner's
friendliness, and a cheeky smile.
Suzanne had long brown hair and dreamy eyes. She studied art
at the Parson's School of Design in Manhattan.
And Anne, with long, black hair and that playful, impish grin,
was studying to be a nurse.
I turned back to watch Atmananda. "Don't think that spirituality is
divorced from the physical world," he was saying as he reached for a chip.
"After you meditate a few years, you begin to see that Annam Brahma--
food is God." He then set the chips-and-cheese-laden tray in the oven.
Sal observed intently, as though witnessing a ritual.
Soon Atmananda and Sal were delivering trays of crunchy nachos.
I garnished mine with sour cream to alleviate the delicious,
consciousness -altering burn of the hot sauce. As we ate,
I felt proud that I had managed to stop thinking about the women.
Then I had to tell myself to be careful, lest my ego swell instead.
Finally, I told myself to relax. Which I did. The food,
the crackling fireplace, and the medieval trumpet and recorder
music reminded me of something distant, intangible, and noble.
My spirit soared.
"The kid and I are going to write some songs for you,"
Atmananda announced.
I looked at him, perplexed. After all, I was no longer "the baby"
but "the kid."
He motioned for me to follow him upstairs.
I immediately assumed that my brother would be right beside me when I
climbed those stairs: him first and then me. But he just sat there,
boosting my confidence with a faraway smile.
I nearly told Atmananda to write the song with my brother.
Instead, I chose instead to go with the flow. I climbed.
"If you are going to study English," Atmananda told me, "you might as
well get used to putting together words." He grinned mischievously.
"Let's write songs about Sal."
At first, he was the driving force behind the creative process;
I merely smiled at each of his ideas. Later, though, I came
up with a few lines of my own, which seemed to blend with his,
and after about forty-five minutes we marched triumphantly downstairs
and sang together.
Soul of Sal
(sung to the tune of O Sole Mio)
Ohhhh, soul of Sal,
Aspire tonight.
Don't be a shmuck-o,
Manifest Light.
Tomorrow--may be too late,
Now is never,
My gazpacho, she cannot 'a wait.
Now is the right time,
The food delight time,
So open up 'a you mouth,
And face the south.
Tomorrow--may be too late,
Now is never,
My gazpacho, she cannot 'a wait.
We sang and danced around Sal, who tried to maintain a dignified
countenance but who ended up laughing along with the rest of us.
Then Rachel made cinnamon-spiced, hot apple cider and we sat around
the fire sipping the brew. Later, Atmananda sang a revised version
of I Don Quixote from Man of La Mancha:
Hear me heathens and wizards
and servants of sin,
All your dastardly doings are past,
For a holy endeavor is now to begin,
I am I Atmananda--the humble and pure!
My destiny calls and I go,
And the wild winds of fortune
shall carry me onward,
Oh whither soever they blow.
Whither soever they blow,
Onward to glory I go!
After the performance, Atmananda said that the level of our consciousness
was dropping, so he had us meditate for about twenty minutes.
Then he said, "We are going to play The Game."
"What game?" I asked, feeling bolder after having performed with him.
"Part of The Game," he replied cryptically, "is to figure out
what The Game is."
"The Game is The Intuition Game," said Sal. "You want
us to intuit something."
"Right."