What the Yogi Taught Me

I never met the Yogi. But I met one of his acolytes when I returned from my long trip. I met him on Hilton Head Island where I didn’t live, had never lived, where from South Beach one can look out across the Atlantic Ocean and see distant tops of buildings in downtown Savannah rising from the waters like New Atlantis.

I was staying at the psychic lady’s house. I think her name was Dorothy. (Names have a half-life and it’s been much too long.) Dorothy’s paranormal ability was psychometry, the supposed ability to read a person by touching an object that has been in contact with that person, such as a house key or car key.

I met Dorothy through a friend. My friend and I had just completed a two month, ten thousand mile trek with my dog and my friend’s two dogs and the occasional hitchhiker and the occasional group of hitchhikers including the hitchhikers’ dogs. Sometimes it got loud. We were happy to stop at Dorothy’s home and unwind for a couple of weeks. And Dorothy was an angel for taking in what appeared to be a couple of hippie drifters and their three unmannered dogs.

One time – and this is just background – my friend pulled a train ticket out of his pocket and handed it to Dorothy. Dorothy knew nothing about the ticket. My friend had acquired it during a trip along the coast of Australia with ocean on one side of the train and mountains on the other side. Dorothy held the ticket in her hand and proceeded to describe to my friend the things he had seen on that trip, including the ocean on one side of the train and mountains on the opposite side. Later, when I had a chance to be read by Dorothy, I handed her my wristwatch. How did she do? She was good. She could have gone pro, in my opinion.

It was at Dorothy’s house that I met the acolyte, the follower, the teacher, a traveling salesman for the Yogi’s brand of meditation. It sounded interesting. I decided I was in. My friend was in. Dorothy was in.

We had to prepare. Each of us had to bring the teacher a small spiritual offering. I remember I brought an apple and one or two other small items. Maybe a handkerchief and a candle. That sounds about right. Oh yes, there was also a fee: cash or check, please. The acolyte of a Yogi can’t travel and eat for free. As the Yogi might have said to his followers, “You may be enlightened but you still need to fill out your income and expense reports.” Things were simpler two thousand years ago. Then you could shake the dust off your sandals and move on. Now we live in modern times and there’s a lot more paperwork.

There was a ceremony for each of us. I can’t tell you exactly what happened in the ceremony because I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to, even though I don’t recall signing a non-disclosure agreement. I can tell you this much: we received individual instruction in meditation technique and a personal mantra to be used in meditation. And the coolest part of the deal was if you paid for your instruction all at once instead of monthly you would get a deed to a square foot of land in Alaska!

No, you wouldn’t. I just made that up.

Yes, really, I did receive a tiny plot of land in Alaska that was blessed by the Yogi.

Kidding! There was no deed to any land in Alaska. Really.

Actually, there was. There really was. Now you’re confused, aren’t you? Meditation does that to you.

No, it doesn’t. Meditation makes you calmer and more clear headed.

And if you believe that, I’ve got a square foot of land in Alaska to sell you!

Okay, here’s the unvarnished, nitty-gritty truth. If you think no one got a deed to a tiny plot of land in Alaska, you’re absolutely right. The land was in Wyoming.

You’ll believe anything, won’t you?