All of which led my mother, one fine Spring day, to forbid me -- for all time -- from ever speaking about Maharaji in her home.

"No problem, ma," I replied, affecting my best suburban yogi's attempt at being non-attached. "Mum's the word."

Five years passed.

Life was good. I was practicing Knowledge. I was happy. And my adolescent need to convince my parents of anything had vanished.

Then I got word that Maharaji was coming to Miami for a weekend event, one I absolutely wanted to attend. This, I figured, my parents didn't really need to know, so I simply told them I was flying in to visit them that Sunday. I didn't want to push their buttons.

As usual, when the golden boy, Jewish prodigal son returns home, his parents invite their friends to celebrate the return. All the regulars were there: Blanche, Shirley, Ellie, Irv, Bert, Seymour, Solly, and some new friends of my parents I hadn't yet met.

Just having seen Maharaji, I was feeling especially alive and in the moment.

Taking a deep breath, I knocked on the door and let myself in, surveying the room and enjoying that sweet moment of arrival before the slightly deflating reality of visiting one's parents truly sinks in.

An elderly Jewish woman in the back of the room stood up and smiled at me -- someone I'd never met before.

"Oy gevalt, Mitchell," she said. "Wasn't Maharaji beautiful? I could have plotzed!" (I later found out this woman, Selma, had received Knowledge three years earlier).

I looked at my mother. My mother looked at me.

"Hey, Mom," I said, shrugging. "She's your friend. I didn't say a thing."

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