s large, bright forehead and serene
countenance made him appear intellectually and spiritually advanced,
and I had an uncanny feeling that something of the Mahatma himself
peered out at me through those eighty-three-year-old eyes.

"What can I do for you?" he asked me.

"I wanted to tell you that I'm enjoying your book," I said, suddenly
aware that he might not want to discuss the extremities of human nature
with a total stranger. I told him about the bike trip, his book on
Gandhi, and the reporter. But he was busy preparing for a lecture tour
of Russia and had no time to talk. I thanked him, got back on my
bicycle, and left.

I pictured Shirer as a young man, contemplating the life and lessons of
Mahatma Gandhi. I also pictured him observing uniformed men with
swastikas, bent on genocide. I imagined him accepting both good and
bad in people, for only by cultivating acceptance did I imagine him
harvesting peace. But I realized, as I pedaled north, that I would
have to learn to distinguish between the nurturing and noxious roots
Atmananda had sown in my mind without Shirer's help. This was
something I would have to do for myself.

I continued to ride towards Pittsfield, Massachusetts, with Frank, a
childhood friend. Tall, with messy red hair, he was an expert car
mechanic though he never made much money. This was in part because he
was a slow worker, because he had little self-confidence, and because
people took advantage of him.

"How's work going?" I asked him.

"Okay, I suppose."

I knew that he was making less than six dollars an hour. "Have you
thought about looking for a higher paying job?" I asked.

He shrugged.

"You know you're being ripped off."

He shrugged again. We had been through this conversation before. I
wanted to teach Frank that he was like a sitting duck, that he could
protect himself, that he could change--suddenly I froze. I remembered
that Atmananda had taught us that we were like sitting ducks, that we
could protect ourselves, that we could change...

6. The Garden

Southern Californians have been exposed to more New Age teachers than
perhaps any population in the United States. Yet the forty or so
people seemed unprepared for Atmananda, who strode into the lecture
hall twenty minutes late, with a can of diet soda in one hand and a
pack of green gum in the other.

I assumed that many of the Birkenstock-clad seekers drank natural fruit
juice and did not ch