Take Me for a Ride Part 7

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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 a.n.a.lyzed, the problems currently fouling the air between Chinmoy and Atmananda.

One problem was s.e.x. Chinmoy, who taught that higher consciousness lay above the sweaty world of physical pleasure, often instructed us to avoid members of the opposite s.e.x 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 s.e.xually 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 spa.r.s.e homes with Guru's paintings, posters, and photographs.

In contrast, Atmananda's plushly carpeted, colorful cottage, gave me the sense that he rearranged the s.p.a.ce 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-gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 ba.s.s 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 s.e.xual 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 fas.h.i.+on 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 G.o.d." 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 n.o.ble.

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 a.s.sumed 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.