Kundalini and the Art of Being ... 21The huge, mansion-like house had previously been a fraternity, but
it had been taken over by hippies sometime during the ‘0s, and was
now a liberal household resembling a commune. There was colorful
art and poetry painted all over the walls, and plenty of philosophical
commentary on the stalls of the coed bathrooms. The kitchen was
the gem of the building, with beautiful artwork and graffiti cover-
ing the walls and ceiling, a number of comfy couches on which to
relax, swiveling chairs, a counter to sit at during breakfast or with a
cup of tea, and a grainy-sounding record player with a good selec-
tion of old records. The house was carefree but not too crazy, owing
probably to the fact that all of the thirty or so residents—other than
myself—were students. I’d been allowed to live there during the fall
on the condition that I planned to go back to school during the spring
semester.
I settled into my new home over the next few weeks as I got ac-
quainted with the other residents and learned their unique coopera-
tive system for cooking meals, handling assorted chores, and making
the necessary household decisions. It was a diverse group of friendly
and eccentric personalities. But, as I should have guessed—since it
was primarily young students—most of the folks there were more
intellectually focused than I was at the time. I got along well enough
with everyone but, over time, I found that I didn’t connect in a deep-
er, more spiritual way with anyone, as I had hoped I would when I
moved in.
I had forgotten about Jeffrey. He didn’t actually live there. In fact,
it turned out that he was now homeless. But he had lived there at
the communal house a few years earlier when he was going to col-
lege and so still hung out there occasionally. I had no idea that, the
few times he’d been around, he had apparently been observing me,
although I was soon to find that out.