48
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.”