فصل 17

17

My First Job Interview

I had been in school most of my life, and except for my stint as a sports car mechanic after classes in high school, I had only worked summer jobs. I had never been on a real job interview before. Alan arranged for me to meet with a program director to discuss my position at the college.

On the day of the interview, I arrived in my normal attire: jeans, a denim shirt, and sandals. The downtown campus of Santa Fe had been pretty liberal, but I had no idea how things were at the new campus with Alan as president. The program director began by asking me what I would like to teach. I figured I was supposed to give an honest answer. I told her I would like to teach what I had been learning about that voice inside your head. I wanted students to understand that they don’t have to listen to that incessant chatter; they have the freedom to come from a much deeper place inside themselves. I also told her that I would like to teach students that they are sitting on a tiny planet spinning through space, and they should be enjoying the journey. To my amazement, her response was to say that the only course available that could allow such a curriculum was an entry-level social science class. The course was required for all freshmen, and a teacher was still needed for one-third of the classes. She explained that teaching those classes would amount to a half-time position at the college. I accepted the position, and she scheduled me to teach my first class in September when the new campus officially opened.

What a flow of events! First life tells me to go to California for the summer; now she’s telling me what to do when I come back. It was all unfolding by itself. I was just along for the ride. I really had no idea what I was going to teach in that class come September. I had never taught what I’d been learning to anyone, let alone a whole class. My personal self began feeling insecure about the whole thing. To straighten him out, I laid down the ground rules: there would not be a single thought about the classes or what would be taught in them until it was time to enter the classroom. I intended to walk into the first class with a completely empty mind. I wanted it to be like the time I wrote that paper completely by inspiration. We’ll just go into the class and see what comes out.

With these intrusions from the outside world starting to steal small chunks of my time, I all the more cherished being alone on my land. Nevertheless, people had a way of finding me, despite my best efforts to protect my solitude. So it was with Sandy Boone, a woman who was into Buddhist meditation and spending time outdoors. I don’t recall where she came from, but one day she showed up and started taking walks on my property. She was careful to respect my privacy; she just wanted to be in nature and meditate outdoors. That was okay until she asked if she could pitch her tent at the far end of the property to do some meditation. I didn’t want to allow that, but who was I to stop someone from meditating? Eventually she got bold enough to ask if she could join me for meditation on Sunday mornings, just for an hour. I clearly remember granting her request solely because the voice in my head was so resistant to it.

In time, Sandy began to bring a few friends with her for the Sunday morning meditations. At first it was three, then six, then ten. I didn’t like that at all, but I had no right to stop it. I often just stayed in meditation upstairs while my guests met downstairs. Thus the notion of Sunday morning services at Mickey’s started in the spring of 1972—a tradition that has continued every Sunday for over forty years.

Meanwhile, summer was approaching, and it was time to begin preparing for my trip to California. I figured I would camp in my van at the spiritual community for three or four weeks and then come back home in time for classes. The drive out there took me about ten days because I continued all my meditation sessions along the way. When I arrived at the community, I found a very rural setting with a large expanse of land and many small, rustic cabins. The people seemed like back-to-the-earth-type folks, and I fit right in. During registration, I noticed special name tags for guests who wanted to practice silence. I had no interest in meeting people or making new friends—that would just be a distraction to my inner work. So I decided to use the trip to step up my practices to an even stricter level: I would remain in total silence during my visit.

There were no available campgrounds near their temple area, so I simply parked my van in the nearest dirt parking lot. That is where I would live for a few weeks. After getting situated, I began doing my afternoon yoga and meditation session in their temple. Though I was accustomed to being alone, I immediately realized that I would be fine here for a while. These people understood what I was into and would leave me to my practices. I continued fasting three times a week, and when I ate my salad, I always sat alone. I was not exactly the social type, but I did attend evening meditation and chanting programs in the temple. In fact, that was where I was first exposed to Eastern chanting. Because I was in silence I didn’t chant, but I could feel the upliftment of the energy in the room.

I would have gone on like that during my entire stay—if it were not for a dream I had. I hardly ever dreamed, and when I did, the dreams didn’t seem to have any deep significance. One night I had a phenomenal, lucid dream that had a profound effect on me. I dreamed that I was doing intensely focused Zen walking. I was very consciously placing one foot in front of the other as I slowly headed toward the mouth of a cave. I entered the cave without incident and proceeded into the darkness that stretched before me. When it became very dark, I picked up a wooden torch mounted on the side of the cave. I lit it and continued as before. I noticed that the air was getting thinner and thinner the deeper I went into the cave. There was an almost frighteningly strong sense of purpose: I was going to explore deep into this unknown cave until I found what I was looking for. Nothing was going to stop me.

I began to see a faint light far off in the distance. Not a single thought passed through my mind, yet I intuitively knew that was where I was going. As I approached, I could see that the light was coming from above and shining down into the cave. The closer I got to the source of the light, the thinner the air became. I could hardly breathe. But I kept on going. The experience was similar to what had been happening in my practices. In my meditations, the deeper I went, the more my breath would slow down—until, eventually, it would naturally stop flowing. I don’t know how long I would stay in that breathless state, but I would come back and gasp for air. At some point, my walk through this cave felt just like that stage of my meditations.

I was almost there. I could see the streaming rays of light pouring onto the cave floor just in front of me. I felt as though I would collapse from the lack of oxygen, but I found the will to take that final step into the light. In an instant, I was completely bathed in a flood of blinding light. I turned upward to climb into the light, but my hands hit a metal grate on the roof of the cave. There was no way out from here.

Not a thought entered my mind. Not a sigh left my lips. With the same steely sense of purpose that had led me into this cave, I turned and began to walk back out. There was simply the knowing—I would have to find another way.