Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Terry Wolverton
Nothing and Everything
There was neither non-existence nor existence then;
there was neither the realm of space nor the sky which
is beyond. What stirred? Where?
—The Rig Veda
One thousand yogis dressed in white sit on a mountaintop
under the vast New Mexico sky. We are here to celebrate
the Summer Solstice, to revel in this apogee of light.
Heads draped, we chant the sacred syllables in unison,
“Sat Nam, Wahe Guru”: Truth is my name; I am in ecstasy.
Our reverberations fill the morning. The longer we chant,
hour upon hour, the emptier we become, shedding layers of
history until we are no longer separate from one another.
We become pure instrument, one clear channel for the
mantra that pours from our collective throat. Yet this wall
of sound is so easily pierced by the song of a lone pine siskin
perched in the rafters, who raises its voice in counterpoint.
Hearing this, we smile, and are emptier still.
At the point of zero, shuniya, we contain the
potential for everything.
On this particular morning I am sitting with the teenagers,
who are gracious enough about my interloping. They
too are clad in white and turbaned, but their reverence is
tempered by restlessness, by curiosity, by hormones. The
boys struggle with their attention spans. With keeping their
man-sized limbs contained, still, in a seated posture. One
girl periodically thwacks an orange pillow at the boy sitting
across from her. On breaks, they scarf corn chips and Luna
bars. They curl into each other’s laps, unselfconscious as
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