Just Another Swami Afternoon: You Go, Guru!

Editor's note: We made Mitchell swear that, in the words of Dave Barry, he was not making this up. He swore. In the future we'll know better than to ask Mr. Fox how he spent his weekend.

My transcendental meditation teacher phoned recently. Not wanting to seem ruled by the rational world, I didn't ask how he'd found my number after 27 years.

We last spoke when I was a kid in Denver, taking TM lessons with my mom. I remember George (his Earth name) once having to separate Mom and me for giggling, sending Mom to meditate in the hallway. George and I later found her, head down, very still. "She's in a deep place," George whispered before she slumped over, snoring.

George asked if I was still meditating. Unfazed by my snort, he said he was coming to Seattle with his new master, Swami Kaleshwar, a young Indian healer. I was tactful - I didn't ask about George's breakup with the Maharishi Yogi. Swami Kaleshwar studies with the mystic Sai Baba, which is impressive because Baba's been dead most of the century and doesn't take on many students.

I haven't meditated once in the past 27 years because I've been so busy getting from there to here. I'm just not the contemplative type. I rarely consider "the space I'm in" unless I've locked myself in the coat closet again. My idea of a vision quest is searching the night stand for my glasses. I don't even think I've got the music in me. I'm perfectly content with my life, as long as I get in my 30-minute run every day. I suppose I've chosen jogging over meditating, lower blood pressure over higher consciousness, a healthy heart over an open heart.

But when George said the swami could perform miracles, like cure cancer and materialize gems, I said I'd like to meet him, thinking it might save me a trip to the Mayo Clinic or the Shane Company. So I joined 30 serene and sincere people in a West Seattle home. Many folks were upper managers from companies like Boeing and Microsoft interested in applying New Age solutions to age-old problems - like colleagues who hate each other's guts. We sat in folding chairs facing an overstuffed armchair draped with either ceremonial scarves or stolen restaurant napkins. A devotee explained how he'd used the swami's meditation techniques to heal a 30-year dysfunctional relationship between the Tropicana Orange Juice company and CMX Railroad. And I remember when meditation was just for making hippies float.

Soon the swami appeared, though disappointingly from the other room. He was thin, handsome and barefoot; he carried a single rose and exuded calm, no doubt a professional requirement. Swami wore a robe over some smashing pajama bottoms.

He said "Let us meditate," and in an instant everyone was truly, madly, deeply meditating. Everyone but the swami, who sat watching us, and me: I tried for a few minutes but I wasn't going anywhere. Squinting and moving my head imperceptibly, I watched the others. One woman to my right had a beatific smile and rolled her head dreamily - she was feeling the swami's love, all right. Worrying the swami could read my thoughts and see into my soul, I started chanting the only mantra I knew: aloo gobi, my favorite Indian dish. Eventually I got to the place that passes for sleep on an airplane. If only I'd brought my Bucky pillow.

After 30 minutes, the swami offered some insights. Meditating provides the energy and clarity needed for a satisfying, productive life. Mom used to say that about a good breakfast. The swami said one drop of yogurt can turn a gallon of milk into yogurt. And he mentioned he helped write "How To Get What You Want And Want What You Have," a best seller by John Gray, author of "Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus." The things you learn from a swami these days.

When he finished, the swami ate some apple pie. George introduced us and I said, "Glad to meet you," which is probably the dumbest thing you can say to a swami. I wouldn't blame him for turning me into a salt shaker, which actually happened in "Beauty and the Beast."

George said, "Mitchell and his mother are old friends."

"How is your mother?" the swami asked, instantly picking up on Mom's goiter. "OK. She lives in a distant city," I said, hoping to sound mystical. Suddenly the swami's arm started twirling 'round and 'round, like an insane baseball windup. He put his fist in front of me and opened his hand, revealing what George said was healing ash. "Wow!" I said, looking around for an ashtray.

"Do you want to be touched by Swami?" the swami asked carefully. Maybe the swami has had his share of sexual-harassment lawsuits.

The swami rubbed ash on my forehead. I smiled and hoped my leg didn't start jerking like my dog's when I scratch him there. I feared the swami might ruin the mood by pulling a nickel out of my ear.

Then the swami poured ash in my hand. George told me to rub my hands together and make a wish - exciting stuff considering my birthday is six months away. The swami rubbed the remaining ash into my hair. I assumed this was a ritual and not because he didn't have a napkin.

"You will have a good life," the swami said.

I left feeling pretty ecstatic. A swami had manifested ash, blessed me and read my future. I realized that a little bit of magic - real or imagined - can be a powerful centering force in our lives. Just look at the popularity of church services and Sigfried and Roy specials. I liked being mystified.

Driving home, I stopped at Barnes & Noble to double-check something. I found the John Gray book and read, "I thank my dear friend Kaleshwar, who directly assisted me in writing various sections of this book."

One chapter said, "Meditation helps us recognize that much of what we want and need is flowing into our lives already." Sounds familiar: I'm in that space. I'd been putting in my 30 minutes a day and didn't know it.

If George ever calls back and asks if I'm still meditating, I'll tell him I have been all along: on the run.

The author can be reached in the temporal realm at MitchellFox@aol.com.