Was I reading the text or meditating on it? Couldn’t I do both? Its number of pages numbered less than one hundred thirty. A memory came to me as the previous sentence unfolded in my mind. This paperback was in my hands for the first time. I was in line to buy it at University Bookstore in Seattle. The memory said this happened sixteen years ago. Those one hundred twenty-nine pages of text had been part of my life for longer than I would’ve imagined. I’d yet to read all of its pages. Many of the ones I’d read had ink marks on them. It wasn’t just any book. It was sort of a religious text, to me, if it was possible that a psychoanalyst could write such a book. The following words came to me as if out of nowhere: God was in its pages. Where did that sentence come from? What did I mean by God? Human beings had experiences of what they called God. This psychoanalyst’s book dealt with, among many other things, mysticism, and what he called Ultimate Reality. I read one page, then another, and I was surrounded by mysteries. God was mysterious, and so was religious experience, which perhaps described this writing experience. Was I meditating? God only knew.