Take Me For A Ride | Page 6

into the room. He sat on the table facing the audience, folded his legs in the pretzel-like posture seen in Buddha statues, and introduced himself as Dr. Frederick Lenz. He explained that he had another name: Atmananda. Then he lit the candles and asked us to drop our preconceived notions because, "meditation is beyond thought."
"Thought is like a car," he said in a smooth, charming voice. "You can drive it to California. But if you want to cross the ocean, you will need an alternate means of transportation. If you want to cross the sea of consciousness, you will need meditation."
Though his metaphors were new to me, they seemed to point the way beyond the surface world of reason. He used words like guru, avatar, warrior, power, power spots, personal power, moments of power, spiritual power, psychic power, ecstasy, enlightenment, cosmic love, transcendental, supreme, Nirvana, and the Infinite. When he said it was time to meditate, I was surprised that he had been speaking for over forty minutes. It had seemed like five.
"Now extend your index fingers and close your eyes," Atmananda instructed.
I squinted to see if anyone else was peeking. From what I could tell, the twenty or so people obeyed him.
"Now say 'me' out loud and touch your chest."
My "me" was muffled by the group's "me".
"You are not only pointing to your chest," Atmananda explained, "but to your heart chakra, one of seven psychic energy centers associated with the subtle body. Concentrating on a chakra is an easy way to begin crossing the sea of consciousness."
So we sat there, drifting, and though I tried to stop my thoughts and feel the throbbing pulse of my heart chakra, I found myself checking out the women in saris.
"Very good," he said after about five minutes. Then he suggested that we sit back, relax, and ask questions.
There was something hauntingly familiar about this confident, well-spoken, young professor. Perhaps it was the way his chin jutted forward, the rich timbre of his voice, or his seeming interest in helping people that reminded me of the cartoon character Dudley-Do-Right. I felt drawn to him. I found myself staring into his full moon, gripping eyes. I found myself seeking his attention.
"Can a person be healed by meditating?" I asked, only partly concerned that I had a cold.
He locked my attention with those eyes...I felt slightly dizzy...it was not unpleasant...it felt as though I were floating...my vision blurred...things went fuzzy and white...it appeared as though it were snowing...
"Am I having a vision?" I wondered and immediately the "snow" vanished. Just then Atmananda seemed unreal, like a superhero from a cosmic comic-strip that had been cut, enlarged, and inserted into the room. When he smiled at me, I had the uncanny sense that he knew what I had felt and seen. Then he left, flanked by the women in saris.

3. The Joining
In the days following Atmananda's talk, I longed to know if my vision of the "snow" had been a mystical experience, an optical illusion, or a figment of my imagination. Graduation was only weeks away. I assumed that Atmananda would help me solve the mystery, and I counted the days until his next public lecture.
I did not tell my friends much about Atmananda. They seemed content, even after reading the Castaneda books, to view the world through a rational framework. In contrast, I grew excited about the possibility of transcending the world of reason altogether. They were proud of their letters of acceptance from the Harvards and the Princetons. I was proud of my letter of acceptance from The School Of Mysticism. My letter arrived in the form of brilliant white specks which swirled about me like snow.
Nor did I tell my parents, who represented discord, anxiety, and manipulation--the opposite of what Atmananda seemed to stand for.
Instead, I spoke with my brother. He and I were close. I wanted to be just like him. He used words such as disciples, selfless-service, humanity, humility, purity, soul, soul-mate, past-lives, karma, fast track, and cosmic evolution. He got excited when he talked about Atmananda. He told me that he too had experienced perceptual distortion during Atmananda's talks. We returned to "Yoga Life Perfection."
About thirty minutes after the talk was scheduled to begin, Atmananda strode through the door. He wore a light brown suit.
"Anne," he said, "did you bring the Transcendental?"
The sari-clad woman who had sold incense at the last lecture placed a frame on the table beside Atmananda. The Transcendental was a photograph of Atmananda's Indian guru, Chinmoy. But it was so underexposed that it seemed not a picture of a guru, but rather a mug-shot of a ghost with high cheekbones. It reminded me of one of the experimental images which had emerged from my father's darkroom.
"The Transcendental portrays Guru in his highest transcendental consciousness," my brother