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close my eyes and slow my breathing. And then I’m in the head of the monk.

Chapter 5

    O mm.
    Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Omm.
    Our mind is incredibly blank. We are completely in the moment, one with our breath, one with nature, one with the universe. Omm.
    Our lungs are not pulling air; the universe is breathing life, breathing air into our lungs. Omm.
    A mundane thought in the form of a recollection surfaces. It’s trivial, really. A memory of that verbal disagreement the two acolytes had earlier today, a disagreement we had to mediate. We experienced a rare moment of anger and frustration. Now, we treat this intrusion on our meditation as we always do when intruding thoughts arise. We don’t feel guilty or upset about them. We let it go. Thoughts will always come. We need to put our attention firmly and gently back on our breath. Thoughts are like soap bubbles or clouds in our mind. They float in, they float out. They cause no disturbance. Omm.
    We delight in our breath, focusing on the exact moment the ‘in’ breath is over and the ‘out’ breath begins. We note how our body subtly moves with our heartbeat and breath. We do not feel our body at all—not the strain on the back, which is straight without any support, and not the ankles that are crossed in the lotus pose. We are overcome with a sense of calm that is building, slowly reaching new heights. Omm.
    I, Darren, reluctantly disassociate. I have never experienced the kind of inner peace and quiet that is the Abbot’s mind. Nothing has ever come close. The feeling of not thinking, not worrying, not analyzing was incredible. I never realized how my mind is like a beehive with all the thoughts and ideas buzzing around in it. I never imagined how awesome it would be to have those distractions dissipate, the way they do for the Abbot.
    And what’s really frustrating is how I thought I’d meditated before through the simple breathing exercise Mom had taught me, the one that helps me reach Coherence when I need to Read. I recall how this technique was something she said her partner, Mark—my dad—introduced her to. He could’ve learned it here, in this very temple. Of course, comparing the breathing stuff I do to what I just witnessed is like comparing the effects of Tylenol to that of morphine.
    I’m distracted from my reflections by a sense of vertigo. I recognize it as the same feeling I had when Caleb and I Joined, which now feels like ages ago. I don’t fight the feeling but welcome it. At first, it feels like floating in water, but soon, it’s more like the complete and utter loss of the concept of being embodied. It’s like both my consciousness and my disembodied brain are floating in space.
    And then another wave of strangeness comes, and another. This feeling intensifies for each of the Enlightened participating in the Joining. It hits me again and again. I can’t imagine the potency of this incorporeal feeling increasing, yet each time it does—exponentially so.
    I lose count of how many people I’ve Joined with, but it must be all of them. The feeling of being nonphysical gets mingled with a sense of wonderment of such intensity that what I experienced with Caleb pales in comparison. It’s a bliss unlike anything I’ve ever felt. Even that time when I got an overdose of morphine at the Coney Island Hospital can’t come close, and I suspect that if I took all the orgasms I’ve ever had, combined them, and then experienced them all at once in a single millisecond, it would still fall short. The pleasure is so intense that I wonder if it will turn to pain—but it doesn’t. Instead, it intensifies some more.
    Now I experience a sense of oneness with the universe, a feeling of meaning and belonging. Strange thoughts enter my mind. I wonder whether the universe can think for itself. What if every star in every galaxy, every subatomic particle and the atoms they make up, every black hole, supernova, and even dark matter