Seeing Satan: or, the Second-Hand Mantra, Part 2

In Part 1, I was trying Transcendental Meditation as a form of relaxation. "Lisa," the wife of a good friend, was taking TM instruction and offered to show me the technique of relaxation and the internal repetition of simple syllables. "Lisa" let me use the ones she was given by her instructor -- "Har-ring"--my second-hand mantra. "Lisa" was talking me through the procedure when all of a sudden, I had an odd sensation.........

I dropped.

Suddenly. Forcefully. It was like a trap-door was released underneath me.

Now, bear in mind, I was still sitting in a chair in my dining room. But, in my mind, my sense of my surroundings changed. I was sitting, still, or rather, I was still sitting. But the sensation was like I was floating in space. With my eyes shut and no sense of my real-world surroundings--I floated in a black void, still sitting, balanced precariously upright, but with the feeling that, at will I could change that position. The picture above explains it better. It shows an astronaut-in-training suspended in a device that can spin in any of the three axes: roll, pitch or yaw. They'd sit, suspended, and the device would flip them, spinning, and it was up to them to get themselves vertical, or upright, again. It tests your ability to work while disoriented and also to counteract the forces that are working against you. I've also seen contraptions like this at County Fairs. This is what my meditation felt like: sitting, floating in a void. I felt my "attitude" begin to tip to the left--the axis of rotation being at my waist. I compensated, and "righted" myself. I let myself rock back so I was "prone." Then I brought myself back upright. It all happened with a slow movement like I was underwater, but with no sense of buoyancy and no pressure. I was perfectly content in this void. This little space all my own, where I floated, happy and relaxed.

All too soon I heard a voice. "Okay, Jim. Come back."

Slowly...ever so slowly, I started to bring myself back up...to become aware of my surroundings and sensations...but gently, fearing the warnings of a "head-ache" if I was too hasty.

"Okay, open your eyes."

I opened them and I was back in the world.

There was a lot of of post-interviewing, with my describing what happened, and some surprise that I was able to do what I'd done the first time out...or in. But what lingered with me was the sense that just on the edge of consciousness was a "Twilight Zone," if you will (or Steven King's "Dead Zone"), somewhere between relaxation and sleep, like another dimension...a vast, empty nether-world where I could go and just "be." Even the thought of it was relaxing...and encouraging...and mystifying. What else is out there? In there? Where did I go? Was it mental? Spiritual? Or was it simply my imagination? Had I willed myself to believe I'd get someplace else? Was it some sort of mental con? What WAS this? Was it real? Others had obviously done the same, and had been doing so for a very long time. It couldn't not be real, could it?

I felt like I had tapped into something wonderful.

And I wanted to go back.

So, I did.

Having this little knowledge, I did it a few more times. When things were quiet and no one was around, I'd sit, get comfortable, relax and tumble the words. The second time, I dropped with less effort and in less time. I floated and let my self slowly tumble in the ether. There was no sense of quick movement...I didn't spin like a dervish...in my mind's eye, I just floated and hung in space, still in a seated position, but with no chair. My image of myself was of a seated person, suspended in the void. I'd feel the ebb and flow of my surroundings nudge me in one direction or another, and rather than attempt to right myself, I'd let it happen, and with no sense of up and down being the correct attitude, I'd maintain a happy "float." I look back on it, and I can give you an approximation. Think of yourself as a soap bubble. That's the feeling...the sensation.

During one of those forays, one of my cats jumped on my lap and snuggled, purring. I was aware of it, in my little world. I heard everything--traffic outside, movement in the house, the occasional fly-over of aircraft--but it was just information...input. It had no effect on me where I was, and no feline image appeared on my lap in that world.

My timing of my excursions got good. In my job, I was very aware of time--I was working with parameters of 30 seconds or a minute, no more and no less. And those nuggets of time had to be achieved with a set boundary of studio-time. Studio engineers are always watching the clock. So, I had a good sense of how long 20 minutes was, but in those first couple of "trips," I would open an eye (carefully), cock my head slightly and glance at my watch. "Another five minutes." Eyes close. Adjust head. No interruptions.

I came home stressed one evening, and sat down and told my wife that I was going to meditate for awhile and I'd be "out" for about 20 minutes.

"Uh...okay..."

I sat...relaxed...looked at my watch and noted the time...I meditated, as per normal, and brought myself out. I looked at my watch. 20 minutes on the dot. I was getting good at this!

I began to feel much more confident with TM...maybe just a little cocky, and I'm sure that's something the swami's or maharishi's warn you against were I to take a course in it at my local community college or YMCA. But I felt good about TM, and TM made me feel good. Location didn't seem to matter.

So, one particularly stressful day at the studio,I had about 30 minutes before a session. "Just enough time to meditate," I thought. So, I made my way to the back-room, which was basically a storage area, and sat down. I made myself comfortable and started the process.

I floated. I relaxed. But something seemed different. There was a nagging background feeling that I hadn't experienced before. Actually, it was a familiar feeling, I'd just never had it while meditating before.

I felt like I was being watched....

Part 3 Tomorrow