Wednesday, September 28, 2005
It began several years ago, years that I fear to count for chance of disturbing the distance lying between then and now. I stood at a street corner waiting for the light to change, turned my eyes upward to glance at a face in a window high above, when everything around me began to waver and collapse, as if the entire reality were painted on cellophane rippling violently in a forceful gale. It was terrifying , and I closed my eyes tightly, but I wondered also how it had been done. When I dared to look again, reality was as it had always been. I took the episode as an imploring omen to leave behind my job and home and move into a monastery, which I did. But that did not settle matters. Reality wavered there, too. The monks of the order told me this was a problem of transition to be solved by fervent meditation. As a novice to the ways of spirituality I had not yet conquered the reflex of looking back.