shaktipat, divine initiation, and it is the greatest gift of an enlightened master. After that
touch, the student might still labor for years toward enlightenment, but the journey has at
least begun. The energy has been freed.
I received shaktipat initiation two years ago, when I met my Guru for the first time, back
in New York. It was during a weekend retreat at her Ashram in the Catskills. To be
honest, I felt nothing special afterward. I was kind of hoping for a dazzling encounter
with God, maybe some blue lightning or a prophetic vision, but I searched my body for
special effects and felt only vaguely hungry, as usual. I remember thinking that I
probably didn't have enough faith to ever experience anything really wild like unleashed
kundalini shakti. I remember thinking that I was too brainy, not intuitive enough, and that
my devotional path was probably going to be more intellectual than esoteric. I would
pray, I would read books, I would think interesting thoughts, but I would probably never
ascend into the kind of divine meditative bliss Saint Teresa describes. But that was OK. I
still loved devotional practice. It's just that kundalini shakti wasn't for me.
The next day, though, something interesting did happen. We were all gathered with the
Guru once more. She led us into meditation, and in the middle of it all, I fell asleep (or
whatever the state was) and had a dream. In this dream, I was on a beach, at the ocean.
The waves were massive and terrifying and they were building fast. Suddenly, a man
appeared beside me. It was my Guru's own master--a great charismatic Yogi I will refer
to here only as "Swamiji" (which is Sanskrit for "beloved monk"). Swamiji had died in
1982. I knew him only from photographs around the Ashram. Even through these
photographs--I must admit--I'd always found the guy to be a little too scary, a little too
powerful, a little too much on fire for my taste. I'd been dodging the idea of him for a
long time, and generally avoiding his gaze as it stared down at me from the walls. He
seemed overwhelming. He wasn't my kind of Guru. I'd always preferred my lovely,
compassionate, feminine living master to this deceased (but still fierce) character.
But now Swamiji was in my dream, standing beside me on the beach in all his power. I
was terrified. He pointed to the approaching waves and said sternly, "I want you to figure
out a way to stop that from happening." Panicked, I whipped out a notebook and tried to
draw inventions that would stop the ocean waves from advancing. I drew massive
seawalls and canals and dams. All my designs were so stupid and pointless, though. I
knew I was way out of my league here (I'm not an engineer!) but I could feel Swamiji
watching me, impatient and judgmental. Finally I gave up. None of my inventions were
clever or strong enough to keep those waves from breaking.
That's when I heard Swamiji laugh. I looked up at this tiny Indian man in his orange
robes, and he was veritably busting a gut in laughter, bent over double in delight, wiping
mirthful tears from his eyes.
"Tell me, dear one," he said, and he pointed out toward the colossal, powerful, endless,
rocking ocean. "Tell me, if you would be so kind--how exactly were you planning on
stopping that?"47474747
Two nights in a row now I've had dreams of a snake entering my room. I've read that this
is spiritually auspicious (and not just in Eastern religions; Saint Ignatius had serpent
visions all throughout his mystical experiences), but it doesn't make the snakes any less
vivid or scary. I've been waking up sweating. Even worse, once I am awake, my mind has
been two-timing me again, betraying me into a state of panic like I haven't felt since the
worst of the divorce years. My thoughts keep flying back to my failed marriage, and to all
the attendant shame and anger of that event. Worse, I'm again dwelling on David. I'm
arguing with him in my mind, I'm mad and lonely and remembering every hurtful thing
he ever said or did to me. Plus I can't stop thinking about all our happiness together, the
thrilling delirium when times were good. It's all I can do not to jump out of this bed and
call him from India in the middle of the night and just--I don't know what--just hang up
on him, probably. Or beg him to love me again. Or read him such a ferocious indictment
on all his character flaws.
Why is all this stuff coming up again now?
I know what they would say, all the old-timers at this Ashram. They would say this is
perfectly normal, that everyone goes through this, that intense meditation brings
everything up, that you're just clearing out all your residual demons . . . but I'm in such an
emotional state I can't stand it and I don't want to hear anyone's hippie theories. I
recognize that everything is coming up, thank you very much. Like vomit it's coming up.
Somehow I manage to fall asleep again, lucky me, and I have another dream. No snakes
this time, but a rangy, evil dog who chases me and says, "I will kill you. I will kill you
and eat you!"
I wake up crying and shaking. I don't want to disturb my roommates, so I go hide in the
bathroom. The bathroom, always the bathroom! Heaven help me, but there I am in a
bathroom again, in the middle of the night again, weeping my heart out on the floor in
loneliness. Oh, cold world--I have grown so weary of you and all your horrible
bathrooms.
When the crying doesn't stop, I go get myself a notebook and a pen (last refuge of a
scoundrel) and I sit once more beside the toilet. I open to a blank page and scrawl my
now-familiar plea of desperation:
"I NEED YOUR HELP."
Then a long exhale of relief comes as, in my own handwriting, my own constant friend
(who is it?) commences loyally to my own rescue:
"I'm right here. It's OK. I love you. I will never leave you . . ."48484848
The next morning's meditation is a disaster. Desperate, I beg my mind to please step aside
and let me find God, but my mind stares at me with steely power and says, "I will never
let you pass me by."
That whole next day, in fact, I'm so hateful and angry that I fear for the life of anyone
who crosses my path. I snap at this poor German woman because she doesn't speak
English well and she can't understand when I tell her where the bookstore is. I'm so
ashamed of my rage that I go hide in (yet another!) bathroom and cry, and then I'm so
mad at myself for crying as I remember my Guru's counsel not to fall apart all the time or
else it becomes a habit . . . but what does she know about it? She's enlightened. She can't
help me. She doesn't understand me.
I don't want anyone to talk to me. I can't tolerate anyone's face right now. I even manage
to dodge Richard from Texas for a while, but he eventually finds me at dinner and sits
down--brave man--in my black smoke of self-loathing.
"What's got you all wadded up?" he drawls, toothpick in mouth, as usual.
"Don't ask," I say, but then I start talking and tell him every bit of it, concluding with,
"And worst of all, I can't stop obsessing over David. I thought I was over him, but it's all
coming up again."
He says, "Give it another six months, you'll feel better."
"I've already given it twelve months, Richard."
"Then give it six more. Just keep throwin' six months at it till it goes away. Stuff like this
takes time."
I exhale hotly through my nose, bull-like.
"Groceries," Richard says, "listen to me. Someday you're gonna look back on this
moment of your life as such a sweet time of grieving. You'll see that you were in
mourning and your heart was broken, but your life was changing and you were in the best
possible place in the world for it--in a beautiful place of worship, surrounded by grace.
Take this time, every minute of it. Let things work themselves out here in India."
"But I really loved him."
"Big deal. So you fell in love with someone. Don't you see what happened? This guy
touched a place in your heart deeper than you thought you were capable of reaching, I
mean you got zapped, kiddo. But that love you felt, that's just the beginning. You just got
a taste of love. That's just limited little rinky-dink mortal love. Wait till you see how
much more deeply you can love than that. Heck, Groceries--you have the capacity to
someday love the whole world. It's your destiny. Don't laugh."
"I'm not laughing." I was actually crying. "And please don't laugh at me now, but I think
the reason it's so hard for me to get over this guy is because I seriously believed David
was my soul mate."
"He probably was. Your problem is you don't understand what that word means. Peoplethink a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that's what everyone wants. But a true soul mate
is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that's holding you back, the person who
brings you to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is
probably the most important person you'll ever meet, because they tear down your walls
and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates,
they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then they
leave. And thank God for it. Your problem is, you just can't let this one go. It's over,
Groceries. David's purpose was to shake you up, drive you out of that marriage that you
needed to leave, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions,
break your heart open so new light could get in, make you so desperate and out of control
that you had to transform your life, then introduce you to your spiritual master and beat it.
That was his job, and he did great, but now it's over. Problem is, you can't accept that this
relationship had a real short shelf life. You're like a dog at the dump, baby--you're just
lickin' at an empty tin can, trying to get more nutrition out of it. And if you're not careful,
that can's gonna get stuck on your snout forever and make your life miserable. So drop
it."
"But I love him."
"So love him."
"But I miss him."
"So miss him. Send him some love and light every time you think about him, and then
drop it. You're just afraid to let go of the last bits of David because then you'll really be
alone, and Liz Gilbert is scared to death of what will happen if she's really alone. But
here's what you gotta understand, Groceries. If you clear out all that space in your mind
that you're using right now to obsess about this guy, you'll have a vacuum there, an open
spot--a door-way. And guess what the universe will do with that doorway? It will rush
in--God will rush in--and fill you with more love than you ever dreamed. So stop using
David to block that door. Let it go."
"But I wish me and David could--"
He cuts me off. "See, now that's your problem. You're wishin' too much, baby. You gotta
stop wearing your wishbone where your backbone oughtta be."
This line gives me the first laugh of the day.
Then I ask Richard, "So how long will it be before all this grieving passes?"
"You want an exact date?"
"Yes."
"Somethin' you can circle on your calendar?"
"Yes."
"Lemme tell you something, Groceries--you got some serious control issues."
My rage at this statement consumes me like fire. Control issues? ME? I actually consider
slapping Richard for this insult. And then, from right down inside the intensity of my
offended outrage comes the truth. The immediate, obvious, laughable truth.
He's totally right.
The fire passes out of me, fast as it came.
"You're totally right," I say.
"I know I'm right, baby. Listen, you're a powerful woman and you're used to getting what
you want out of life, and you didn't get what you wanted in your last few relationships
and it's got you all jammed up. Your husband didn't behave the way you wanted him toand David didn't either. Life didn't go your way for once. And nothing pisses off a control
freak more than life not goin' her way."
"Don't call me a control freak, please."
"You have got control issues, Groceries. Come on. Nobody ever told you this before?"
(Well . . . yeah. But the thing about divorcing someone is that you kind of stop listening
to all the mean stuff they say about you after a while.)
So I buck up and admit it. "OK, I think you're probably right. Maybe I do have a problem
with control. It's just weird that you noticed. Because I don't think it's that obvious on the
surface. I mean--I bet most people can't see my control issues when they first look at me."
Richard from Texas laughs so hard he almost loses his toothpick.
"They can't? Honey--Ray Charles could see your control issues!"
"OK, I think I'm done with this conversation now, thank you."
"You gotta learn how to let go, Groceries. Otherwise you're gonna make yourself sick.
Never gonna have a good night's sleep again. You'll just toss and turn forever, beatin' on
yourself for being such a fiasco in life. What's wrong with me? How come I screw up all
my relationships? Why am I such a failure? Lemme guess--that's probably what you were
up at all hours doin' to yourself again last night."
"All right, Richard, that's enough," I say. "I don't want you walking around inside my
head anymore."
"Shut the door, then," says my big Texas Yogi.
49494949
When I was nine years old, going on ten, I experienced a true metaphysical crisis. Maybe
this seems young for such a thing, but I was always a precocious child. It all happened
