I walked to Revelle College.
To the Humanities Library Building. To HL 1402. I often
reserved this room through the Meditation Club for Atmananda's
public and private meetings. I sat down. I did not reflect
on how his talks in this room had changed in the past two years.
Nor did I reflect on how he had changed. Nor on how I had changed.
I just sat there. After a few minutes, I stood up and left.
I walked to John Muir College. I saw a picture of conservationist,
writer, and mountaineer John Muir. I found myself thinking
about the plumber, about Palomar Mountain, about the solitary hawk...
"NO!" I said aloud and turned away.
I walked down the hill to Central Library. I remembered walking here
with two friends from high school who, months before, had unexpectedly
appeared at the Centre door. I had not spoken with them in years.
I told them I was no longer a disciple of an Indian guru.
I also told them my new spiritual teacher was different than the others.
"He's got a Ph.D," I explained. "He's been on Phil Donahue.
He's my friend." Despite my assertions that I was fine and that I could
take care of myself, they still looked at me as if I were in some kind
of cult.
"The past is dust," I now thought, recalling a saying that Atmananda
had borrowed from Chinmoy.
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