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The type of meditation I teach is Vedic meditation. It comes from a tradition that stretches back into the mists of pre-history. I did not choose it for the long-livedness of its existence; rather, after trying many other forms of meditation and/or mind-soothing, mind-control or concentrative techniques, this was something that actually worked. From the first time I meditated, receiving my mantra and using it in the way prescribed, I had an experience that was absolutely other than any I had theretofore had.
Once, years previously, I had attended a six-week course in meditation taught by a Thai Buddhist monk. The information he imparted was wonderful to me, and I did experience some bit of rest just being in his presence. About week four, he went around the room, speaking to each person individually. (There were some 15-20 of us or even more.) To each person he would say something specific and unique, or ask them a question, and in every case, in answering him, or even simply in hearing his question, the student would either burst into tears, sobbing in that soul-clearing way that can indicate the beginnings of true transformation, or they would explode in peals of laughter, infecting all those around them, again indicating a shift in attitude that would affect true change. It seemed too good to be true, but the evidence was overwhelming, and I awaited my own experience with a mix of trepidation and anticipation. Finally, it was my turn. The little monk stopped in front of me, took my hands in his own, looked me in the eye and, cocking his head to one side, said, "Why are you here?"
This was not a question he had asked anyone else. It wasn't even like the questions he had asked the others. I tried to answer, stumbling over the words. "Um... to learn to meditate?"
He smiled, like 'come on,' shook his head, and repeated, "Why are you here?"
Oh, God. This didn't feel good. The whole room was silent. I felt the beginnings of anxiety creeping up my neck. "Because, uh, I want to learn to meditate."
The monk stared right at me. He let go of my hands. He was stern now. "Why are you here?"
I felt like I was being tested and failing utterly. I had no idea what he wanted from me, but clearly he wanted something. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I shook my head. "I don't..." That was it. That was all I could say. The monk, seeming disappointed, dropped his gaze and moved on to the next person. I disappeared into myself, a social tortoise, and made myself sit through the rest of the evening. Though he stared at me a few times in the final sessions, the monk never spoke to me again and I never found what it was he was asking.
To the enlightened mind, there is no space, there is no time. There is only the Here and Now. There is only Brahman. Totality. I like to think the monk was asking me the big question: Why are we here? To be enlightened, of course, would be the answer. To find God. To know Totality. These are reasons to be alive. I like to think that, in the experience of the monk, his question is still ringing in the air between us, and that my answer from down here at the farther end of the telescope is meeting that answer and he is smiling and nodding at me, with the approval and love I so wanted at that point in my life, and that from here, I can smile and nod back at him and say thank you. Good class.
Today I will know that my reason for being here will become apparent, eventually, and in time to be fulfilled.
Route 6, Nevada
All material copyright Jeff Kober
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