Except for occasional doubts, I had been enjoying the process. I enjoyed hanging out with the Stony Brook disciples. They were not only fellow seekers, but they seemed to have a good time. Atmananda, in particular, was fun to be around. He sometimes made me feel important and powerful. I enjoyed his lectures, during which he quoted The Bhagavad-Gita, The Bible, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, Star Wars, Shakespeare, T.S. Eliot, Thoreau, Roethke, and Carlos Castaneda. One time he even recited my favorite passage from the Castaneda books, the one about traveling on paths that have heart. Now convinced that I had found a home in Atmananda's world, I decided to seek initiation from Chinmoy. My mother knew that my involvement with the group was intensifying. She had been trying to get me to talk to the rabbi. "Why should I talk to the rabbi?" I responded. "Will you at least listen to what he has to say?" But I had been listening to the rabbi since my bar mitzvah four years ago and, frankly, I was not impressed. A kind and sometimes humorous man with a keen intellect, the rabbi represented a religion which seemed less mystical than social. He struck me as being extremely reasonable, if not a little dull. In all the years I studied, sang, and prayed in his congregation, not once, as I recall, did he capture my imagination. "I don't want to talk to the rabbi," I had replied. Now I told my mother that I wanted to become a disciple. She grew quiet and pale. I told her that I had had mystical experiences while meditating with Chinmoy. I did not tell her, nor did I acknowledge, that the mystical experiences mostly occurred after I crossed or squinted my eyes, or after I gazed at Chinmoy for two minutes or more. I told her that Chinmoy was an enlightened guru, and that I respected him greatly. I did not tell her, nor did I acknowledge, that my respect--my reverence--was shaped largely by Atmananda and the other disciples. I was convinced by these reasons. So was my brother. My parents were not. "Mark, would you please talk to the rabbi?" I finally agreed to go. When my brother, my mother, and I entered the book-filled office, the rabbi's expression, accentuated by a bulbous nose and glasses, was anything but humorous. "Hello, Mrs. Laxer," he said. "Hello, boys." "Hello, rabbi." He asked us if we were getting involved in another religion. "No, rabbi," explained my brother. "We are studying spiritual mysticism." "We're just learning to meditate," I added.