Eat, Pray, Love

can feel him working on me. Even in his death, there’s something so earthy and present
about him. He’s the master I need when I’m really struggling, because I can curse him and
show him all my failures and flaws and all he does is laugh. Laugh, and love me. His laughter
makes me angrier and the anger motivates me to act. And I never feel him closer to me than
when I’m struggling through the Gurugita, with its unfathomable Sanskrit verses. I’m arguing
with Swamiji the whole time in my head, making all kinds of blowhard proclamations, like,
“You better be doing something for me because I’m doing this for you! I better see some res-
ults here! This better be purifying!” Yesterday, I got so incensed when I looked down at my
chanting book and realized we were only on Verse Twenty-five and I was already burning in
discomfort, already sweating (and not like a person sweats, either, but rather like a cheese
sweats), that I actually expelled a loud: “You gotta be kidding me!” and a few women turned
and looked at me in alarm, expecting, no doubt, to see my head start spinning demonically on
my neck.
Every once in a while I recall that I used to live in Rome and spend my leisurely mornings
eating pastries and drinking cappuccino and reading the newspaper.
That sure was nice.
Though it seems very far away now.
Eat, Pray, Love