"Guru couldn't make it this week," he said. "Why don't you go
in and meditate, and pick up on Guru's vibes?"
My brother and I went inside. High above us on the massive chapel
dome were paintings of angels. Perhaps it was the distant angels,
the two hundred or more silent disciples, and the rising scent
of sandalwood incense, that made me feel foreign and small.
We meditated for about five minutes and left.
Outside, Atmananda was speaking with a man in white, when it struck
me that he was wearing red. "A non-conformist within a group
of non-conformists!" I thought.
He nodded to us but continued talking.
I walked by and noticed his name tag. Directly beneath "ATMANANDA"
glimmered a sticker from AAA and this warning: "Fasten Your Seat Belt."
That night, in the Castaneda books, I read how ordinary events
were often portentous omens. I wondered if there was a significant
message hidden in the Guru's absence. I wondered, too, if I
was supposed to meditate with this Guru before hitchhiking west.
The following week, I ventured with my brother to another of
Atmananda's lectures. We also returned to meditate with Chinmoy.
When we arrived at Columbia, disciples were arranging flowers,
lighting incense, and otherwise darting about in preparation
for their master's presence.
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