A Nation of Mystics Read online

  “But … you’re so impulsive. This isn’t the first time you’ve made huge life changes overnight.”

  “But don’t you see?” The barest hint of a plea was in her voice. “I’m learning to let go of desire … unhealthy attachments. You must be able to see how these things take you from the Path.”

  “Lisa, what happened to your political commitment? You were working with the Vietnam Day Committee when you left Berkeley. Organizing sit-ins and draft-card burnings.”

  “I am still working for peace, but in a different way.”

  “For the last couple of weeks, we’ve been blocking the train tracks in Emeryville—stopping the troop trains. More people are getting involved. There’s even a number of professors who have organized the Faculty Peace Committee. They’re planning a massive teach-in on campus next month.”

  “Really? The faculty?” Her eyes took on more interest.

  “So tell me how you can just sit in the rose garden while the war rages on? Don’t you know about the riots that have started in Watts?”

  A flash of irritation suddenly pricked the green in her eyes, and she unconsciously narrowed them, lifting her chin and reminding Christian of the Lisa he had known, the sure Lisa, the teasing, playful, seductive woman he’d been stupid enough to let go.

  “I don’t just sit in the rose garden,” she told him pointedly. “I work hard for this ashram. I wait tables at our vegetarian restaurant four nights a week, perform seva here in the house, attend satsang and study the teachings. Let me tell you, Christian, prayer is as powerful an action as a picket line.”

  But he shook his head. “Do you actually think can you find God within traditional religion?”

  “Are you serious?” she asked, leaning back, clearly astonished he could even ask.

  Without hesitating, ignoring her look of disbelief, he told her with certainty, “It’s men who invent religions and gods, men who insist on what another must believe. How many evils do we justify because God is always on someone’s side?”

  “But all you’re seeing are the imperfections of men.” She held up her arms in a gesture of supplication. “God is perfect.” Then, her voice softening, she asked, “Will you share with me what happened in India? What you wouldn’t tell me before?”

  For the first time since he’d arrived, his gaze wavered, and he looked away. “It’s … nothing that can be discussed.”

  “Christian,” she continued gently, “you’ve taken acid. You know God. Know that God’s energy motivates—pervades—all things. You’ve seen it. Felt it.”

  “Exactly,” he nodded, turning back to her. “What I learn on my acid trips is direct from God to me. No priest or holy man to tell me what to think or how to practice.”

  His voice turned seductive, and he raised a hand, drawing a finger down her cheek, saw her initial surprise, her body’s instant reaction to his touch. “Life is not an I/Thou experience, something we live separately. There is no distinction between the self and God. God is where things are joined. Want to leave this ashram and find God with me? Join with me in mind and body? Come back to Berkeley and be my lady.”

  Almost instinctively, she leaned forward, responding to his caress. “Is … is that why you’ve come?”

  He watched thoughts play across her eyes until, finally, Christian saw decision … and regret. She leaned back, away from him.

  “It’s true that God is in the union of two people if they choose to be householders. But my Path is different at this point.” She shook her head slightly. “I’ve taken a brahmacharya vow.”

  Completely surprised, he asked with some disbelief, “You’re choosing to be celibate?”

  She nodded and placed her hand gently over his. “For the moment, I’m sure. I’m moving past the first chakra.”

  In the silence that followed, they stared at each other, Christian sensing the beginnings of a growing gulf between them. Stoned, needing a deep breath, he fully realized all he’d lost in releasing her months ago.

  “Tell me,” she asked, turning the conversation, “how’s Matt?”

  “Honestly, I don’t see much of him.”

  Surprised and more than a little curious, she asked, “Are you still friends?”

  “I don’t know. Things hadn’t been right with us for a long time …”

  Her arched eyebrow suggested that she understood exactly why.

  “… But a few weeks ago, the end of summer drought began. You know what it’s like. No more pot until October. Everyone’s smoking seeds and stems and waiting for the Mexican harvest. I’d just picked up Jacob’s last five keys when Matt insisted on doubling the price to people we knew.”

  Lisa shook her head. “Definitely not cool. I keep telling you, Christian, it’s not about money. It’s about the journey. Awareness.”

  “No, not cool. I told him we’d need those same customers when the drought was over—people who wouldn’t go elsewhere because they’d been squeezed for bucks. When I woke up the next morning, he was gone. Split in the middle of the night with our entire stash. I thought at the time that he’d been waiting for just the right moment to screw me.”

  “Oh, Christian …” she said shaking her head, “I’m sorry this happened. I probably know more than anyone how much you valued your friendship.”

  “Yes … well … you know. Without him, I don’t know how I would have managed when I first came to California.”

  Unspoken memories floated between them, all the reasons the once close friendship had eroded. Tactfully, Lisa cleared her throat. “I’d heard from Bob that you were dealing kilos and small lots of acid. Perhaps Matt did you a favor. How long can you continue to deal?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Without getting busted. Your name must be on the airwaves.”

  “Acid’s not illegal.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Lisa, eight months ago, you sold more lids and kilos than either Matt or myself. You know why we take the risk. You wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for acid. Isn’t that what you just told me? I need you. Come back to Berkeley with me.”

  “I … can’t. I will miss you,” and there was true sorrow in her voice, “but the Master’s teachings are very clear. Enlightenment can only be achieved without drugs. Sure, we have to change things, but it means changing our entire way of life. Not just taking a chemical and using all the old elements of a decaying society—capitalism, ego, intrigue.” Then suddenly, as if a thought had just occurred to her, the light was in her eyes again. “But if you were to join the ashram, everything would be different. I could put aside my vow if I were to become a householder. Please, Christian, look into the Master’s teachings.”

  The gulf that Christian had begun to sense widened. “And sit in the rose garden while millions of bombs are being dropped on Vietnam? You think people will suddenly want to make changes without truly understanding the basis of peace? You said it. Grass teaches you to think, and LSD teaches you the true nature of God.”

  Then, with resignation, he asked, “Will you tell me how to get ahold of Bob?”

  When she finally spoke, her voice was unsteady, tinged with anger and the petulance of some hurt. “Christian! This isn’t really about you and me, is it? You’re really here asking for a business favor.”

  “In part. Matt taking everything put me down hard. Will you do this for me?”

  Now it was Lisa’s turn to look out over the garden. Laughter floated across the lawns, pure, clear, like water over stones in a brook. She closed her eyes, until finally, she turned to him.

  “Alright, Christian. To make this pilgrimage to L.A., you must be really hard up. And, in all honesty, you’ve never been anything but truthful with me. You’ve always tried to do the right thing.”

  Taking a deep breath, a sign that she didn’t think this was the best of ideas, she continued, “Bob’s a regular Tuesday and Thursday night customer at the ashram’s restaurant in Santa Monica, the Sunrise. He meets people there he doesn’t want
to bring home. Be there around eight o’clock tonight. Tell him I told you where to find him, or he’ll be paranoid.”

  “Thanks,” he said, the word a sigh of soft relief.

  “And Christian, be careful. I’m doing you this one favor, but I don’t want to be responsible if you have a legal problem.”

  “No need to worry. I’m very careful.”

  Standing, Christian removed his wallet from his back pocket and took out a hundred dollar bill. He held it out to her.

  “I can’t take that.”

  “Yes, you can. This is an investment. It’s half of what I have left. And there’s more coming if the connection works. So you see, in a way, we’re partners again. The money’s yours.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “Then I’ll keep it for you. Whenever you need it, it’ll be waiting.” Placing his hands together over his heart, he bowed toward her.

  Lisa set aside the book in her lap, stood, and moved into a sunbeam. Christian could see the outline of shoulders, waist, and hips through her sheer dress.

  “Should I come back to visit?” he asked.

  He stood very close, so close she could smell the marijuana on his clothing. The scent mixed with the perfume of the garden, and she breathed deeply. For just a moment she allowed herself the memory of his kiss. Perhaps just a small touch to his lips … but then … that was the doorway to temptation.

  She stepped back from him. “I’ve renounced many things.”

  “Well, then,” and in spite of her posture, he moved forward to take her face in his hands, “a kiss between old friends.”

  The kiss to her mouth was soft, but the energy that came with it, hard and more erotic than if he had kissed her deeply.

  “Thank you, beautiful lady. Peace.”

  With some effort, she stepped back again, but not before Christian saw desire in her eyes.

  “Peace be with you,” she answered softly, truly. “Come. I’ll walk you to the front.”

  CHRISTIAN

  THE BROTHERHOOD, LAGUNA BEACH, CALIFORNIA

  AUGUST 1966

  The Sunrise Restaurant in Santa Monica was something of an enigma in a neighborhood of restaurants with high rents and high prices. When the remodeling had first begun, heads had turned at the number of workers with long hair, a new phenomenon even in a city as diverse as Los Angeles. Then the large wooden sign had gone up with the name of the restaurant in Sanskrit lettering, superimposed on a carved rising sun. When the staff appeared in Indian clothing, and it dawned on the public that this was a vegetarian restaurant, many had laughed at the thought of the money that had gone into the building’s makeover. No one expected the restaurant to last more than six months. Who was going to pay good money to eat vegetables?

  To the community’s surprise, the restaurant was full night after night. Some of the more curious made reservations and ordered dinner, to find a cuisine that wasn’t quite Californian, nor Indian, but a fusion of the two, nuts and seeds and spices blended with local farm produce, creating new flavors from old food sources. Most of the produce, waitresses explained, came from an organic farm the restaurant owned, and nine times out of ten, had to explain what they meant by “organic.” And to season the food—music—a different blend each night.

  At eight o’clock on the evening of his visit to Ananda Shiva, Christian stood in the entranceway, waiting for the hostess. He was high and slightly sunburned from an afternoon on the sand at Venice Beach. Avoiding the lush potted plants in the entryway, he planted his feet farther apart to steady himself, and looked forward to a table and a glass of water.

  When Bob appeared, Christian recognized him immediately. In fact, Bob was a hard man to forget. About five eleven and tanned, he had a surfer’s body, well muscled and toned. His dark hair was longer than Christian remembered, and he still wore the walrus mustache. But what truly set him apart was an extraordinary presence. Eyes in the restaurant turned toward him as he descended the stairs, his stride easy, a woman at his side. Christian stood from the table where he’d been seated and waved.

  Bob walked toward him, curious, trying to place him. He squinted, and then, remembering, broke into a grin. “Christian? Is that you? Man, what are you doin’ here?” He nodded toward the woman standing next to him. “This is Julie, my ol’ lady.”

  Julie was so much like Lisa, that at first, Christian was taken aback. Not so much in looks. Julie’s eyes were blue, her hair white-blonde and falling only to her shoulders. But the same intense passion was there as she quietly took in everything about him.

  “So what’s happenin’ in the Bay?” Bob asked, taking the seat Christian offered. He watched, surprised, as Christian held out Julie’s chair.

  “Not too much.” Then sitting down and raising an eyebrow, said, “That’s why I’m here.”

  Bob lowered his voice. “Any more Acapulco Gold?”

  Christian pulled his chair closer so that he could talk quietly and shook his head. “Wishful thinking at this time of year. Did you know my partnership with Matt ended?”

  Bob looked surprised, his face a question.

  “I woke up one day to find both Matt and our stash gone.” Then, grinning, he added, “I saw him on the Ave a few days ago—with a crew cut. He’s bouncing between the Bay and San Diego. I hear he’s running keys from Tijuana.”

  “Isn’t Matt from San Diego? Man, I was down there two weeks ago. I swear it looks like an armed camp. Cops everywhere. I was smokin’ with the straightest lookin’ dudes you ever saw, I mean, really short hair and shirts with button-down collars. Runners crossing the border with smoke. And sailors from the navy base.” He picked up the menu, then turned a stoned eye back to Christian. “What are you gonna do about Matt takin’ your stuff?”

  “Start again,” Christian said easily, leaning back in his chair.

  “Ever think about gettin’ it back?”

  “That’s not why we’re in this business,” he said, shaking his head. “We’re taking risks to change things. The sacraments teach that things can be done differently …” He stopped, because Julie was smiling. Somewhat sheepishly, he glanced from Julie to Bob. “I went to Ananda Shiva today to see Lisa. She told me I’d find you here.”

  “Lisa … yeah … well … you know Lisa. She used to live in your apartment.” Bob looked toward Julie and some understanding passed between them. “She needed her own space.”

  He began telling stories of Laguna Beach, the communes, a scheme to purchase land in the desert, a new store that was in the works called Mystic Arts, funny stories about the Heat—the police—one after another, just like he’d told Lisa stories of his travels in Asia on that night a year ago when they’d met. All the while, he tapped the table, and Christian grinned, amused to see that he needed to move while he thought. One of those people who found it hard to sit still. Finally, just as the food arrived, Bob leaned closer, whispering, “How much money do you have? I mean, money to cop with?”

  “I’m stone broke. I need to middleman any deals.”

  Bob looked at Julie, who discreetly nodded.

  “Why don’t you come home with me tonight. There’s some brothers I want you to meet.”

  The musician on the stage began to play a sitar, notes falling into the room, gently, like the first large drops of a rainstorm. The classical raga lifted Christian’s mind, intruding, transcending space, moving him to a different world. Suddenly, he wanted to smoke, to meditate with the music. The notes came faster, harder. Like the waves he’d witnessed on the Pacific shore in the afternoon, they broke over him, receded, only to come once more to touch, push, draw back again, building higher, until, at last, a crescendo, held there moment after moment in ecstasy, finally descending and tapering off into calm, quiet water.

  Like making love, he thought.

  On the night in Berkeley when Bob had described his house to Lisa, he had not exaggerated. The living room smelled of sandalwood and was filled with carpets, pillows, and low tables. When stoned
, everyone drifted to the floor, the better to feel the connection with the earth. Candles were lit on every surface. In one corner, a girl was putting a record onto a stereo turntable. The notes of another raga suddenly filled the room, the space expanding, spiritual, filled with promise.

  Bob gestured to the carpet, where a man was sitting in lotus with a straight back. “This is Dharma. He makes the best surfboards in Laguna.”

  Taking a seat beside him, Christian straightened his own back. Dharma slowly opened his eyes, blinked, and seemed to return to his body.

  “This is Christian,” Bob introduced them.

  Dharma grinned. “I also dabble a bit in motorcycle repair.”

  He was thin, like Bob, wiry and tanned; his hair was shorter than Bob’s, curly, a mixture of brown and bleached sun streaks. The shirt he wore was Indian white muslin, embroidered around the cuffs and yoke. Several strands of colorful beads hung around his neck. He picked up a small hash pipe, lit it, and passed the smoking pipe to Christian, blue eyes blazing, the glint showing in candlelight. “Brother,” he said.

  The three men sat together on the rug, smoking, slowly talking about the flow of people coming into Laguna to score and how the Heat had picked up on it, about the new menu at the Sunrise, the progress on Mystic Arts World and what they could contribute to the inventory, the size of the waves and the position of the moon, the expectations of the Mexican harvest of marijuana. When Dharma finally placed the pipe on the floor, Bob took out a pound slab of dark hash from a woven Indian bag. “Take a look,” he told Christian. “We have about thirty pounds of this.”

  Christian held it, somewhat awed, turning it over in his hands. Obviously, great care had been taken in its transportation, because although the hash had to be months old, it was pliable and still had an aroma. “Amazing. This would sell fast in Berkeley,”

  “How about if we front you five pounds?” Bob asked. “Can you do five? It’s $700 a pound. I’ll go with you till it’s sold.”