I always had a certain mystical sense, going back to early childhood. Whether it was looking at the sky and gazing at the clouds or seeing distant snow covered mountains, I knew in my heart that there was a higher consciousness behind the world. I felt a sacred and wonderful mystery from which we had come and to which we would return after our short sojourn on this strange planet. The human world seemed like a confined sphere, a prison filled with conflict and suffering, marked by the clash of human emotions, shifting desires and instinctual needs. But beyond was a wide and beneficent universe with open arms ready to embrace us if we would but set aside our human compulsions. 

The question was how to reach that other realm or if it were even possible while we are alive and active in this vale of sorrow. Though one could glimpse that higher realm in quiet moments there was always the travail of the human world in which one had to live, which seemed inescapable. I had trouble reconciling this mystical sense with the idea of religion that I contacted through my Catholic background. Both my parents grew up on dairy farms in the Midwest of the United States (Wisconsin) and came from strong Catholic backgrounds. My mother’s family in particular was quite pious and a pillar of the church where they lived, following all the church observances and donating liberally to its causes. 

One of her brothers was a priest, a missionary in South America, and he was regarded very highly, pursuing a very noble and holy occupation. Generally one son in the family would become a priest. My mother thought that I would become the priest in our family. I did have a religious disposition and for most of my childhood tried to be pious, but somehow I couldn’t really connect with the church or its beliefs, which were as frightening as they were appealing. 

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