"If only she would leave us alone,"
I figured, "she would not get so bent out of shape."
I also felt bad for my brother. Everything he did, it seemed,
aggravated my parents. "They should support him in his spiritual quest,"
I decided.
Now my mother looked upset. I did not know it then, but she was
not upset that her sons were interested in yoga. In her youth she
had satisfied a similar interest in the East by taking a course on
Gandhi's philosophy. She grew concerned, however, when she realized
that we were intensely focusing on one person--on a living guru.
"Where are you boys going?" she asked.
"It's okay, Mom," I replied, assuming my role as mediator.
"We're just going to a talk on relaxation and meditation--you know,
stuff like that." I had already told her about Chinmoy and Atmananda
("Mom, I think I found a teacher right here in New York!"). But she
wanted to know more. She looked hurt.
"You're upset about relaxation and meditation?" I said, trying my
best to reason with her. "This is nothing, Mom. What are you
going to say when I hitchhike to Mexico to study with a *brujo*?"
The silence that ensued bore with it all the weight
of a mother's love, hope, and fear for her sons.
We said good-bye and rode to the city.
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