"I see," he said. He mentioned an obscure mystical sect within the Jewish religion known as Cabalism. But Judaism, he explained, slowly, as though measuring each word, was based upon laws-- not direct mystical experience. As he spoke, I recalled that Jewish law had been passed down through the generations since the time of Abraham and Isaac. Chinmoy's teachings, I realized, also stemmed from a tradition dating back thousands of years. I found myself picturing Chinmoy and Atmananda. "They are such colorful characters," I thought. I glanced at the rabbi. He was saying something about the dangers of mind control. "The rabbi is so...plain," I decided. I felt certain that he had never read the Castaneda books. My mother said little during the meeting. She was hoping that the rabbi would build for my brother and me a framework through which we could view our mystical quest. When the meeting was over, I went home and stared at the underexposed Transcendental photo of Chinmoy. The next day I tried to meditate, but my mind dwelt on familiar thoughts: "As soon as I graduate, I'm going to leave my tired, depressed father. I'm going to leave my manipulative, demanding mother. I'm going to follow a path with heart, and things are going to get better." Meanwhile, my mother had asked if she could attend one of the meetings with the Guru. "Sure," I replied. I felt I had nothing to hide, and I secretly hoped that she would wish me well on my journey. Dressed in Western clothes, she went to St. Paul's Chapel that Wednesday night and sat near the front. She felt uncomfortable being surrounded by a sea of whites and saris. She saw disciples praying to a short, Indian man dressed in robes. Her stomach became tense when the man placed his hand on the forehead of her youngest son. I stood in front of the chapel, before Chinmoy, squinting. In the flickering of the Guru's eyes, I was initiated. I bowed and turned, and in the audience I saw my mother. I quickly looked away. I saw myself less as the son of caring, creative, and slightly mixed-up New York Jews, and more a disciple of the man Atmananda said was perfect. After initiation, I began to spend less time at home, where I often heard things like: "Artie, you talk to your son about what he is getting involved in." "Leave me alone!" my father replied, irritably. "It's a *rotten* family!" my mother declared. I happily spent time instead with my brother, Atmananda, and the other Stony Brook Chinmoy disciples. One time, while camping with my brother in a marsh near Stony Brook, my calves began to itch. I tried not to scratch what seemed to be poison ivy, but must have done so in my sleep because by morning, the rash had spread. When I went home, my mother applied lotion to my skin. The next day, she asked if I was better.