The ceiling was cut from the bowels of the mountain in a high-arching vault evocative of a private cathedral. The children sat cross-legged facing a handful of monks who were seated at the front of the room. A cymbal was rung and a deep-throated growl began to emanate from the mouth of a monk bent over with age. The chant filled the room with the dimension of sound, while an inaudible vibration began to infuse each heart with the energy of awareness. Sheridan found himself relaxing into the ’s undulating tide. His mind became immersed in a pool of stillness, his anxieties soaked in the profound faith of uncorrupted voices. He closed his eyes, abandoning himself to a place so deep; he could feel alone and at one with nature, all at once. It had been so long since music had carried Sheridan to such a place he had almost forgotten it was possible. The music washed over him in waves of peace that drew out the poisonous tension that clung to every cell of his body. In the midst of the wafting chant Sheridan heard a familiar voice call to him:

“Sheridan.” 

 
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