The power of a moment

When I was still in college I found myself, out of some sense of duty or other, returning to the University of Vermont from Wyoming. It was Fall of 1978, my junior year. After working at a small restaurant waitering for tips and performing odd jobs for my Dad, I had spent the balance of the summer with my friends in the mountains of Wyoming, rock climbing, hiking and just enjoying life. As I could not reconcile myself to working in construction or the other careers open to me in the mountain town there where I was staying, I returned East to college despite a majority of my closest friends having made other choices. Some went into making baked goods, some to other universities. I left them to it and returned. In my heart was a feeling of rejoining a safe, known experience, except many close friends from the prior years were going to be gone. I became aware that there was a new, unwelcome flatness infiltrating my young life, which seemed doubly painful because of my prior year having been so much fun.

During this semester I started to meditate for longer and longer periods each day. I had been a practitioner of Zen at a young age, which morphed into a practice all my own. This time, I started with fifteen minutes's duration, then went to a half hour, then one hour, then an hour and a half, and finally two hours. I cannot remember what that extended duration of sitting in meditation was actually like, but the practice had a hold on me. It seemed to help alleviate the mediocrity and sadness that permeated all I was experiencing. The full schedule of classes I didn’t care much about, the same dorm, the same daily routine as from the prior Spring. I felt as though I had outgrown this whole experience, and left out. I kicked around a few ideas about what to do next. I talked to my mom and Dad about my motivational black hole and my Dad provided some good, although slightly disappointing advice: "don't forget why you are there". It was helpful advice - because truth be told, Dad's question had started me thinking. In fact, I actually didn't know what I was doing there.

One grey, cloudy Fall Vermont morning I stepped out for my early Algebra class, I arrived at the small interfaith chapel, into its nicely appointed, seldom used meditation room I had begun to make use of. However, during my ensuing session I was restless, and I stood up before my customary two hours had concluded, as the clouds broke, and from a window the morning sun slanted across the little room. As I left, I noticed there was a pamphlet laid out on a counter in the main lobby. The words "Study Abroad" adorned its cover, and I read the address, and found it to be an office only a hundred feet from my dorm room. I never noticed the office was there. I decided to give it a look.

When I arrived, the mid-morning lull was fully on, and there was nobody around. The door said "Center for Overseas Study". I opened the door and greeted the person at the front desk, whom I have no recollection of. Within was a single room lined by book cases along the walls, In them there were hundreds of periodicals and catalogs of various overseas learning institutions.

I reconnoitered briefly, not sitting down, then remembered something I had to do, so turned to leave, promising myself I would return. But I turned my head as I reached the door, and In a flash, I saw the sunlight clearly striking the cover of a catalog standing upright at the end of one shelf. It said "The Experiment in International Living". For some reason I walked over and flipped it open. There was described a "College Semester in Nepal, School for International Training". The sunlight was on the page, I remember this quite vividly. In a flash I knew I must go to Nepal and live there and study there. I was already on my way. It is as though my whole life had lead up to those moments.