There were choices to be made back then. Live a reckless and dangerous life and die early in abject despair, or follow in the wake of a divine traveler of the spiritual seas and perhaps ascend in spiritual awareness to know what he knew, not only surviving mortality but taking it on as a divine order of being. I, John, looking up from the mud and mire and finding a place among the stars and continuing the search for absoluteness with sword ablaze and cape blowing in the cosmic wind.
Looking in his eyes that day on the poster tacked to the telephone pole, I asked him if he knew. If he knew that existence itself was an experiential fact and that no matter where you looked or felt or sent your inquiry about God, there was always only this. The image above this writing was the face I gazed into. A few days later, I followed his beckoning and discovered that meditation suited me well. It was a practice that kept me focused, kept me from forgetting that the outer life was just froth on a wave on the ocean of being, and even forty years later long after the practice has returned to its divine source like a fully ripened piece of fruit falling from a tree, he is, nevertheless, still there, and the thing we started those many years ago has been ongoing and vital within the depths of my being that had been stirred awake when I had first followed his beckoning and made that first dive into the infinite.
Now the story is different. Things have changed. His face is no longer as important as it once was. Nor is the story he told about what is real and what isn’t. Of how it all happens and what there is to find. Of what to do and where to go. Those questions have faded. They used to be guides but now they are hindrances. The stories and ceremonies have also passed, and the books have been retired.
Now there is just him, and it isn’t really him. He is just a wisp of a wave of the tenderest state of being, still beckoning as before, but now the consequences of following are ultimate. Do I trust him in this arena, where absolutes splash in your face like spring rains? His is the beckoning that won’t go away, and who am I to die falling with him into the infinite ocean of being?