Take Me for a Ride Part 4

My mother knew that my involvement with the group was intensifying.

She had been trying to get me to talk to the rabbi.

"Why should I talk to the rabbi?" I responded.

"Will you at least listen to what he has to say?"

But I had been listening to the rabbi since my bar mitzvah four years ago and, frankly, I was not impressed. A kind and sometimes humorous man with a keen intellect, the rabbi represented a religion which seemed less mystical than social.

He struck me as being extremely reasonable, if not a little dull.

In all the years I studied, sang, and prayed in his congregation, not once, as I recall, did he capture my imagination.

"I don't want to talk to the rabbi," I had replied.

Now I told my mother that I wanted to become a disciple.

She grew quiet and pale.

I told her that I had had mystical experiences while meditating with Chinmoy. I did not tell her, nor did I acknowledge, that the mystical experiences mostly occurred after I crossed or squinted my eyes, or after I gazed at Chinmoy for two minutes or more.

I told her that Chinmoy was an enlightened guru, and that I respected him greatly. I did not tell her, nor did I acknowledge, that my respect--my reverence--was shaped largely by Atmananda and the other disciples.

I was convinced by these reasons. So was my brother. My parents were not.

"Mark, would you please talk to the rabbi?"

I finally agreed to go.

When my brother, my mother, and I entered the book-filled office, the rabbi's expression, accentuated by a bulbous nose and gla.s.ses, was anything but humorous.

"h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Laxer," he said. "h.e.l.lo, boys."

"h.e.l.lo, 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 pa.s.sed 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 b.u.mps which now covered most of my body. Yet later that day in writing cla.s.s 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 b.u.mp 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 Ent.i.ties 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-Kan.o.bi, 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.

4. The Community

"h.e.l.lo...Atmananda?" said my brother into the phone. Then he winced and hung up.

"Well?" I asked.

"I have to call him back," he replied sheepishly.

"How come?"

"He said I didn't have the right spirit."

He dialed again. "Halllooooooo, Atmanaaaaaaanda!" he bellowed.

This time, Atmananda gave him directions to the party.