Not a grin or gesture broke his stern countenance. Seconds later
he was done meditating on me, and I returned to the audience.
Then he called me back.
"You are rejecting me inwardly," he accused and tried again.
After the third time, he frowned.
"Next," he said.
Now I struggled with the memory and with the realization that Atmananda
considered me less his friend than a subject. I had believed in him.
I had loved him. I was devastated. But as I concentrated again
on his other side, the sadness disappeared. Atmananda, I realized,
had been using me. I grew angry and scared.
My thoughts drifted, and I found myself thinking about a bicycle
trip I had taken to Palomar Mountain months before. At the top
of the mountain one of my brakes had malfunctioned, so I hitched
a ride to a bike shop in Escondido. A plumber had picked me up.
During the ride, the plumber, who lived with his wife and kids on
the mountain, had pointed out a red-tailed hawk. Now, in my room
in Atmananda's Centre, I pictured the way that the hawk had soared
through the clear, blue, mountain sky on a course of its own...
"What the hell am I doing here?" I suddenly thought, lifting myself
out of bed. I stepped into the hall.
"What if Atmananda sees me?" I thought nervously.
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