Had Atmananda's techniques ended there, I might have seen him
as a control freak--and left. But each time he had broken me down,
he built me up again with kindness and with words of inspiration.
He spoke of saints, of beauty, and of the wisdom of the desert.
He spoke of selflessness, quixotic quests, literature, and wonder.
And he spoke of an unconditional love and of a multi-lifetime camaraderie.
Had Atmananda's techniques ended there, I might have seen him
as a confused combination of Big Nurse and McMurphy--and left.
But he managed, by flipping between abusive and supportive personas,
to keep me off balance on an emotionally gut-wrenching roller
coaster ride. Genuine spiritual benefactors were supposed to keep
students off balance, he maintained, because it was only then
that they could "let go and make real leaps in spiritual progress."
It was primarily in his uncanny ability to read an individual or group,
and to gauge the precise instance in which to flip, that Atmananda's
brilliance could be found. I had been unaware that he was speaking
to me, controlling me, through the rhythmic "off" and "on" language of
intermittent reinforcement.
It was painful to grapple with memories of Atmananda and to see him
in such a searing light.
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