About a dozen of us sat cross-legged in a darkened living room in a Massachusetts country home, attentive to the speech of a man whom all present including myself would agree was a highly unlikely candidate for a meditation teacher. His name was Robert Hover, and he was an aerospace engineer from Los Angeles. He had the incongruity of a centaur. The bottom part of him looked right, seated comfortably on a cushion, wrapped in a Burmese style lungi, a cloth cylinder tied at the waist. Above that, though, was a 1950’s style short-sleeved sport shirt and a prominent, clean-shaven face and balding head with a fringe of gray hair cut as close as possible. He didn’t radiate beatitude, only practicality. He reminded me of my junior high school football coach. Something about his sparkling eyes, though, the slight hint of otherworldliness, reassured me.
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