Can you be enlightened too young?

My father introduced me to Aikido classes with Shuji Maruyama, the first teacher to bring Aikido from Japan. Aikido, like judo and karate, is a form of martial art, but it focuses on using the mind to direct "Ki" energy. This was my first exposure to both Ki and meditation.

This experience sparked my spiritual curiosity, and I began devouring any book I could find on Buddhism, especially Zen. I remember reading D.T. Suzuki at the age of 13. Although much of it went over my head at the time, I became deeply intrigued by the idea of enlightenment.

Without a formal teacher, I created my own version of Zen practice, diving into it with great intensity. Drawing from what I could understand in the books I read, I spent hours each day trying to keep my mind in the present moment, always bringing it back whenever it wandered—a practice not unlike the mindfulness techniques we see today.

Being an intense seeker at an early age has disadvantages, especially when no one knows you're into such things. Not that I was a loner—I had plenty of friends—but being an only child, I was comfortable with my alone time.

By age fifteen, I had enough spiritual practice to open my mind to new ideas. Yet, my heart was still innocent, inexperienced in the ways of personal love, and ill-equipped to handle an emotional meltdown.

Enlightenment at fifteen is radical. Looking back now, I sometimes think I would have given the experience back—if I could.

It was triggered by the breakup with my first love, a girl who, for reasons I still don’t quite understand, took a liking to a shy, introverted kid like me. But it wasn’t meant to be. The news that she had found someone else was devastating.

I was despondent, hurt, confused, and far too young to process such deep emotions.

In frustration, I jumped on my bike and pedaled furiously, aimlessly, around the neighborhood with a Zen-like focus on the pain. The intensity of my loss consumed me.

Somewhere in the midst of this intensity, a single insignificant thought surfaced through my mental storm: "You don't get something from nothing."

I kept pedaling, barely noticing it the first time. But then, a few minutes later, the thought came again: "You don't get something from nothing." It began to push its way into my awareness with more force. I felt as though I was being turned inside out, diving into myself while something was emerging from the depths of my pain.

I reached the top of a small hill and stopped at a crosswalk. The thought resounded again: "You don't get something from nothing."

And then, something profound happened.

Instantly, my thoughts evaporated. The very mechanism of my mind fell away completely. I entered a state of total nothingness—and yet, I knew everything. Yes, everything.

I was an empty vessel, holding all knowledge within.

If I hadn’t known how to handle my heartbreak, I certainly didn’t know how to deal with this unexpected, radical shift in consciousness.

This state lasted about a week—sleeping, waking, no thoughts, only pure awareness.

I tried to explain it to a friend, but he didn’t understand. I couldn’t very well tell my parents, "Oh, by the way, Mom, I know everything!"

It dawned on me that what I had been reading about in spiritual books was this—enlightenment. It was astonishing.

But after about a week, the state faded. I returned to everyday thinking, but I was changed. I had glimpsed something wondrous—an insight into our real nature.

I became a terrible student.

School no longer held any interest for me. After experiencing such profound truth—that we are everything—learning piece by piece seemed painfully prehistoric. My grades plummeted from A's, B's, and C's to straight F's.

Worse, I started drinking and partying, lost in a world of people who couldn’t understand me.

Still, I remained an intense seeker—studying, pondering, meditating, and drinking—but everything felt shallow and pointless.

By the time I turned 18, I decided I had to stop drinking. I had been on a path of self-destruction for too long.

Then, I became very ill. For three days, I lay on the living room floor in immense pain, hallucinating. A friend finally took me to the hospital, where I learned I had just gone through alcohol withdrawal—one of the worst experiences a person can endure.

I became so angry with God. I remember yelling, "I'm sick of this! I want to know the way—right now!" Of course, I was angry with myself for my lack of discipline and self-control. I was no Zen master.

This angry tirade lasted for days until another quiet, unexpected event occurred.

I saw a flyer for a yoga class at my boss’s house. Desperate to stay sober, a few friends and I decided to give it a try. This was 1974, when yoga was still relatively unknown in the U.S.

After the first class, the teacher said, "If anyone is interested in meditation, I know a woman who studied under an enlightened master from India. I can put you in touch with her."

I was the only one who asked.

A few days later, I met Grace, a kind older woman who introduced me to Babuji, a little-known spiritual master from India.

Under his inner guidance, my life was never the same again.