The more I understood,
the more I wanted to write. If I wrote, I might publish.
If I published, I would betray Rama. If I didn't publish,
I would betray those whom I might have warned. I thought,
"Damned if I do, damned if I don't." I became emotionally exhausted.
I decided to end the bike trip, return to school, and take a break
from the past.
But I still wanted to believe that Rama was a powerful incarnation
and that I was an advanced soul of sorts. I did not yet understand
that only when I checked my desire to soar, like Icarus, too close
to the sun would the impasse disappear, and I would accept who Rama
was and who he was not.
That night on a bed of wildflowers, I petted the husky and gazed
at the canopy of stars. A warm breeze carried the scent of pine.
I felt at peace. I was proud and relieved that I had used my rational
side to alter the course of my bike trip when my world was in need
of balance. I looked forward to hitchhiking west with the dog.
I looked forward to school. I took slow, deep breaths and
listened to the silence of the valley. My thoughts ebbed into
a sea of calm. Flecks of starlight grew brilliant and close.
I felt complete. I lost awareness of the passing of time.
Suddenly, I realized I had been meditating.
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