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

kittens. Two white boys attempt to devise a rap about their
spiritual practice.
The power of zero, the cosmic egg. Empty, one
prepares to fill.
This meditation is done in pairs and, like many, I have come
here alone and must find someone with whom to share
the day. My partner, whom I only met this morning, is a
lineman from Northern California. He climbs telephone
poles and cell towers in the shadow of the redwoods. His
face is creased with days in the sun; his eyes are clear. Had
we not been brought together under this tent to share this
practice, we would never have met. We sit knee to knee in
this sea of meditators, our eyes locked during the sixty-two
minutes of chanting. His are blue. Our gaze holds steady; we
occasionally smile encouragement and help one another to
hold focus. At the end of this session, his face lights up in a
smile; he says, “Hooray! I found a good partner,” and I too
am grateful for his steadiness and concentration. We don’t
expect to see one another again after this day.
“It was not absolute nothingness. It was a kind
of formlessness without any definition…”
— St. Augustine, Confessions
At lunchtime I leave the sheltering tent, seek the unforgiving
New Mexico summer sun. Although we have been warned
of its intensity, I open myself to its rays, invite them to burn
clear through to some buried core of me. We are all here to
slough unnecessary layers—identities, samsāras—to reach
the infinite within.
Zero holds the power to shatter the framework
of logic.
216 ◆ Crab Orchard Review
Terry Wolverton