"Get to the root of your projections," repeats Papaji, a
beloved guru from India. He is emphasizing a simple but profound sentence; he
is saying something of consequence. His gaze pierces the audience until the
faint, knowing smile slips from his face. I am listening hard; I realize he is
handing us the key. Something wells up that wills me to understand. In a single,
fluttering moment the key slips from his fingers and lands at my feet. The
devotees encircling him in Satsang are trying, but they cannot connect the dots.
While that one sentence, "Get to the root of your projections," jumps
out and possesses me.
My body starts vibrating as if an electric current is passing through
it. Startled, I look down at my hand and expect to see it trembling. Curiously,
it is still. Another wave of energy crashes through my body, and another, each
surge progressively larger like an unstoppable tsunami. My view of the bedroom
narrows and goes black-pitch black as if my power chord were plucked from the
wall, but I can still hear my heart beating. An unrelenting magnitude is
shaking me free of my moorings, rattling me loose of being human until I am
devoid of knowing where I am or who I am. Reality disappears like a puff of
smoke and escapes me. The volcanic ash of Vesuvius is falling; the lava hits,
vaporizing me, becoming my graveyard. Inky black blankets me as I float in
thick, endless darkness that certainly has delivered my death.
Then, as surely as I am destroyed, my soon-to-be new life springs from the bloodless ruins. Like a caterpillar busting its chrysalis, new breath is pumping into my veins. I hear the distant and comforting sound of Papaji's voice calling me back to consciousness, echoing, "Get to the root of your projections." My intellect, newly awakened, belabors this thought about my projections until the lie unravels like a sweater that comes apart when you pull the loose end. In a blissful flash, I see that the universe has always loved me and that I am the universe. There is no separation or division; the cosmos was made for me, by me. And we, all of us, are one. And there is a God, a mastermind-but He is soundly sleeping, and we are his dream. Like a thawing, the cocoon releases its prey, and I cover my mouth to silence a yelp. I am laughing and crying at the same time. I am so overwhelmed; I do not know what to do.
My sight returns, sputtering, as if my eyes have been rewired. Once I have a picture, the world spins 180 degrees and locks back into place. The crunch in my ears is loud as if my neck has snapped, but it is not a physical sensation. Instead, there is a burning in my heart and an intense, stormy, passionate gurgling in my veins. This is raw life, what causes a newborn to gasp and gulp the air, to scream; this is virgin, undefiled Shakti energy, and I have been born again. When the world comes to rest, everything feels different; everything looks different. Even the colors are different. There is a vibrancy, a vitality; everything is full of this nectar shining gloriously from the inside. The world feels soft and inviting like falling into a bed of down; blissful, tender, subdued, hushed. While on the outside, I hear myself laughing and crying, crying, and laughing.
My beloved rescue dog, Romeo, who is my baby and best friend sits at
my feet, concerned about his Mama who is now hiccupping with joy and sorrow.
His head is turned adorably to the side, trying to decipher if he should sound
the alarm. I pat his head and explain through the ruckus that Mama is all
right. She is just you and has made you, perfectly furry you, for me, which
spins me into wonderment. How did I not see that everything works perfectly for
my evolution? Even Romeo’s anxiety causes me to be a gentler, more patient
person. My “problems” are enigmas of opportunity.
I am surprised when my wife returns from work. I lost track of
time-she could not be home yet! I have been sitting oblivious in silent tears
and quiet giggles because my heart cannot make up its mind-splendiferous joy or
crushing regret? The giggles are relief and wonder escaping. The sorrow is for
not seeing that I am loved, and we are all in this together. Three hours ago, I
watched a video of Papaji. I only closed my eyes and opened my eyes, yet three
hours have evaporated.
Before my wife left for work, we had argued, so I am sure she was
expecting a chilly reception. I rush her like a linebacker and squeeze her as
tightly as I can, a bear hug so unexpected that she lets out a gasp, "Oh
my what's happening?" Unapologetically, I cry all over her and then I
start chuckling. I do not want to laugh for no reason because of the incredulous
look on her face, yet I do not think I can stop. It must come out, like when a
baby is born; nothing will stop it. "Is everything alright?" she asks
in a concerned tone. I love that she asks, but I laugh at the absurdity of the
question.
"Yes...no-I don't know."
My wife is staring at my tear-stained face, but now she is both her
and me-how strange. I make her put down her things and sit with me at the
dining room table. I order myself to stop feeling good and laughing, and I try
putting into coherent sentences what I have experienced: that everything is
one. I am her, and she is me. The world is just a projection; it is a dream-it
is not real. These things come bubbling out of me like water gushing from a
rock, but the words sound jumbled. I can tell by the bewildered look on her
face that I sound ludicrous. The tears flow, gratitude cascading down my cheeks
as I take her hands and express heartfelt appreciation for her unwavering
friendship. I earnestly search her eyes, looking straight into her tired and
hopeless soul. I see tears that want to come but she won’t let them. I ask her
forgiveness for not loving her the way I should have, as I can see how much
time I have wasted fighting her and the world, and for that, I am immensely
sorry. I am not hiding anything-the good or bad in me is laid bare.
The tears and laughter continue in bursts for minutes until, like a
wild snowstorm, it settles into an alabaster blanket, glimmering and serene. My
nose is swollen, and my eyes are puffy, but through the haze, my wife’s face
stands out as dazzling, and a golden halo shines around her. "Why didn't I
see how amazing you were before?" I ask. She smiles lopsidedly and shrugs.
She seems perfectly made for me when earlier her idiosyncrasies irritated me. Now
I can plainly see what a fabulous person she is.
The tears stop, but the giggles will not. I cannot suppress the joy,
and when I try to, it makes it worse, and I burst out in peels of crazy
laughter. Giggles are bubbling up and tickling me from I do not know where like
irrepressible bubbles rising from the bottom of a champagne bottle. The bubbles
are celebrating me and celebrating life-and my poor wife is just staring at me.
By now, she looks lost and irritated. To restore normalcy, I take her to dinner
at our favorite Mexican restaurant and buy her a well-deserved beer because I
am in no shape to cook. She is still looking at me strangely which makes me
want to giggle, so I stare hard at my Mexican platter. I am too full of
happiness to be hungry, and I am never not hungry for Mexican food. I try to be
quiet so she can eat her dinner in peace, and she looks across the table at me
sternly, her brow furrowed, and gives me this ominous warning: “Don’t let this
go to your head. Don’t go getting a big head because you have had some kind of…
spiritual experience.” She spits it out like she is disgusted, and I hold up
three fingers like a girl scout pledging, and it causes me to giggle. I wipe
the smile away and solemnly promise I will remember her advice. It seems to me
that the Universe is sending me a message. It is saying: Be
humble, which I have never been particularly good at, but I will
try.
On the way home, I insist we stop for pints of ice cream on this
frozen, blissful, Wintery night of nights. I am all cuddles, hanging so tightly
onto her arm that I might cut off the blood flow. I cannot get close enough as
we cruise the grocery store with glaring bright lights and I say, we must
celebrate this momentous occasion, but she still has no idea what I am talking
about. On the drive home, I am overcome by a ferocious appetite to wrap my arms
around her and extol her virtues, to erase any damage I may have done, and to
soothe her jagged edges. If I could only transmit a drop of the elixir on which
I am drunk. Instead, I stare at her all the way home like a dog stares at its
master until despite herself, she chuckles at the stars shooting from my
eyes.
I do not sleep much that night because of the adrenaline or whatever this charge is that has infected every cell of my body. I want to make love, anything to get closer to her, but she rolls over indifferently. I sleep only a few hours and rise early. I touch my face as I look in the bathroom mirror. It is still me; the outside belies the same saggy baggy woman. But on the inside, I am different. It is my confidence level that is different. I do not care anymore what others think of me. Yesterday I did. But now I am the master of my destiny-a queen. I think of Mother Theresa who only slept hours each night because there was so much work to do. I crawl back into bed and lay silently, trying not to wake her while contemplating how to help this planet see the truth, and how I might help my lost and resentful wife. We have grown apart; she is on one continent and I on another, yet we share the same bed. My physical eyes are closed, but my spiritual eyes are wide open, and I can see for eternity.
Every day I try to make sense of what has happened, but it defies
reason. It was imprinted, like when a person witnesses a shocking trauma. Did I
have a schizophrenic break? Possibly, except I have no other symptoms. Am I
avoiding reality by deluding myself, drumming up a story that makes life
easier? The unconscious mind is crafty enough, I will give you that. But as I
said, it happened to me. I guess I do not mind being a
figment of God’s imagination.
Then an amusing thing happens. When I sit down for puja, my Hindu home
worship service, I am completely flummoxed. For whom am I lighting candles?
There has always been a God in Heaven. Now that we are all one, God, me, and
the world, who am I directing my devotion to, exactly? There is no "you
and me" or "me and them" left. There is only US. I clear a space
on my altar and honor myself that morning. I light the puja candles and watch
the incense burn, all for me. The artificial division I imagined between
myself, and God is gone, and the fortress I had built against my wife is
destroyed. Yet, I have an uneasy feeling that what I knew as “normal” is gone
forever, too.
As the days pass, I become disheartened. No matter how I try, I cannot put this experience sufficiently into words; I cannot share the most important experience of my life with anybody. I tell my spiritual friend about it because she turned me on to meditation and chant, crystals and gemstones, and triangle power. She calls it a “spiritual awakening.”
“You’ve wanted something like this to happen, and now it has! But you
don’t seem happy about it.” Joan cocks her head to the side, her wise eyes and
crinkled nose showing concern, her cotton-candy fluff hair wrapped in a tie-dye
headband leaning like the Tower of Pisa.
“Ya-well, of course, I am glad, it was…amazing. It…changed me. It
changed everything. But how do you share it with people?”
Joan tilts her head back and laughs as if she is speaking from experience. “You DON’T! People aren’t going to get it. They are not supposed to get it. This was YOUR gift-keep it to yourself. I have learned to keep my trap shut, even with Harry-I don’t tell my husband everything even though we’ve been married since I don’t know when because he is never gonna get it.”
“That’s not the answer I wanted,” I admit.
“Of course not, darlin'. You wanted to share it with the world, to shout it from the rooftops!” she flings her long arm dramatically in the air and her saggy skin shakes. My friend was born in the wrong era; she should have been a Hollywood actress. “And how did your wife take it?” she says in a muffled voice as if she is a detective.
“Like she usually takes things-she didn’t understand it, so we didn’t
talk about it.”
Joan guffaws
as she adjusts the folds of her billowy cotton dress, gold bracelets tinkling. “Honey,
she is just like Harry. Good at fucking, not so good at talking.” We both burst
out laughing.
“At least you get me,” I say, resigned.
“Oh, I get you, all right. I AM you-or you are me. The chicken comes
before the egg,” she says, reminding me that she is the elder.
“It has kind of messed up my life,” I confess. “I mean, do not get me wrong, I am glad it happened. I needed it to happen. But now that I have seen it, I do not know what to do with it.”
“Why do you have to do anything with it?” She sounds like a shrewd New Yorker as she brushes the hair from her eyes, her hands looking older than the last time I noticed them, the collection of gemstone rings she is sporting making her appear like a gypsy fortuneteller. Every time I see Joan, she looks like someone new. “Simply enjoy it. You are not going to save the world, honey-not this nasty old world. Let this experience save you, that is all it is meant to do.” In reply, I squeeze her purple, cold hands in my warm hands, and I do not want to let them go because when I am with my gypsy friend, everything makes sense.
I decided it is best not to talk about my experience, though I have
not for a minute forgotten. I told a few people that I thought might
understand, but it did not go well. They thought I might be having a nervous
breakdown or that I was manic. Yet, I saw what I saw with my own consciousness,
my own intelligence-and when you see something for yourself nobody must tell you
if it was real. I have never doubted, not for a minute. Nothing becomes real
until it is experienced and that is what happened; I saw through God’s eyes.
And what I saw is that God is dreaming. We are nothing but a God damned dream,
though I do not know whether I would call life a dream or a nightmare. If we
can dream, why can’t God? Weren’t we made in God’s image?
There was only one person I wanted to share this with, and that was my
wife, but she never mentions it. Is she scared to talk about it? Doesn’t she
believe me? She does not say, and I do not talk of spiritual things because it
only makes her hostile. When she sees any sign of happiness in me, she goes out
of her way to step on it like she is snuffing out her cigarette. Anything she
does not understand, anything difficult is ignored. She clings to denial like a
life preserver because she never learned how to swim in uncertain seas. But
like a consecrated seed, the awakening keeps growing inside me like a delicate
flower willing its way through the concrete.
“Why do you spend so much time meditating? Can’t we watch a movie?”
she snarls.
“We watched a movie last night,” I respond. “Why don’t you try
meditating with me, just once?”
“When I want to meditate, I’ll do it myself,” she snaps.
She always has a handy excuse for keeping her distance. Doesn’t she want me to be happy? Can’t she see that I have found a deep reservoir to draw from and would like nothing more than to share it with her? But our paths have been diverging for years. All her roads lead away from me, and nothing I say halts our downhill slide. When she lost her job, that’s when things took a dark turn. That was the first stage of failure. To cope, she began drinking and gambling online. All she does is stare into her computer screen, a black money hole that is sucking her in, and when she runs out of funds, she is in a sour temper while I emerge from my meditation room blissed out to the max and grinning stupidly. We are both getting high, albeit in separate ways.
We are encased in impenetrable bubbles that bump into each other once a week for dinner or for sex; rough sex so devoid of tenderness and intimacy that I have stopped expecting it feel like anything but lust. After years of hostile standoffs and raging battles, our marriage has become a toxic wasteland. I have been desperately trying to save us as if it is my mission in life until we are both sick of my schemes. In the end, I admit defeat and filed for divorce. Before I can serve the papers, she packs her Jeep and leaves town, moving in with a new girlfriend that I suspected was waiting in the wings. I had no idea what Pandora’s box I was opening when I began this spiritual journey. It seems to have driven her away, or perhaps it was inevitable. Now that I am on this path, I cannot turn back; I will walk it alone.
As soon as the divorce is final, the Covid lockdown descends. I am
isolated, a shut-in, and the exhaustive solitude is devastating. The house is
too big, so I rove it, walking stupidly from room to room looking for something
that should have been there but never was. The space echoes. I have too much
time on my hands, but my meditation practice anchors me to sanity. When I broke
the news to my mom about the divorce, she told me that when she divorced my
abusive father, she walked the beach for months and it helped her to heal. I
live in the desert, so instead of walking the beach, I walk the sandy,
variegated hills of Arizona, the rust and bone-colored limestone peppered with
Saguaro and Joshua Trees and spikes, lots of spikes. I march towards the
breathtaking sunrise of sherbet orange and pink like I am training for a race; I
go forth with purpose, with intention, never slowing long enough to think about
how dreadfully I miss my ex-wife and her handsome face or how she is in another
woman’s arms, probably a beautiful woman, or how my bones ache for something as
simple as a hug from anyone. I keep walking without looking back because
somehow, I must heal.
On one of my walks, an awful thing happened. A dog shoots around the
corner of a building, a savage-looking beast on a ten-foot chain. He rushes
forward and gulps my chihuahua, slamming his steel trap mouth over his throat.
His teeth are tearing, and blood is flying as he shakes little Romeo by the
neck the way a shark shakes a seal, trying to shake the life out of him.
Without hesitation, I dive down to the punishing cement, my knees hitting hard,
and I hear a crack. I am wrestling a canine whose head is as big as a bore’s
head, and he is foaming at the mouth, teeth brandished. My grip around his rib
cage does nothing to pull him off. My dog is screaming in pain as he ferociously
chomps, chomps, chomps, and I am shrieking at the owner for help. She stands
removed from the scene with an evil sneer on her face as if to say, I
am enjoying this, I’m not going to help, and she does not move a
muscle.
I notice the dog’s beady eyes, shark eyes, and I poke his eyes with my fingers because my dog is dying. I am overrun with smeary tears, and the devilish owner is still eerily smiling. The dog yelps and releases Romeo, and he is gone, steaming towards a busy street. Now he turns his full rage on me and bites my right knee. I am on my back, terrified, the monster hovering and growling. I protect my face with my arms, so he doesn’t rip my face off. His owner pulls back the 10-foot chain and can barely control him as he bucks like a wild stallion. I scramble to my feet, and she hollers, “You fucking bitch!” in a horse, raspy smoker’s voice. I am so shocked that she is calling me names that I freeze in confusion, and she says, “You meant to do that! You provoked my dog!” My whole body is trembling with anger and horror, and although I would like to rip her throat out, without answering, I limp away like a zombie dragging legs that barely work, my knee oozing blood from the puncture wound and my ankle twisted. I call out for Romeo who may already be lying dead in the bushes, but I don’t know where to look. We are on a busy road; maybe he was hit by a car. I scream his name loudly and repeatedly like a foghorn, but there is only silence, and I whimper because I fear he is dead. I limp home to call Animal Control and when I look back to where we were attacked, the woman and the dog have vanished.
I approach my front door and see Romeo sitting on the mat waiting to
be let in like an obedient boy. He is violently shaking and when I let him in,
I notice all the puncture wounds. He is covered with them, too many to count,
all oozing blood, his coat matted. I am surprised he is still breathing. He
runs into the house and hides under my desk where I do my writing. I keep a
magnet of a local animal hospital on my refrigerator, and I call them.
My trembling hand can barely hold the phone, and in a wobbly,
threadbare voice I say, “We have been attacked. I can hardly walk, and my dog
is gonna die.”
The calm lady at the vet says they will call Animal Control for me but do not go anywhere, they will need to take a report. After that, they will transport Romeo to the vet’s surgery. I start to yell because I do not care about any report, I need the vet to see my dog NOW. She asks me to stay on the phone and we go through what happened as she dispatches the help.
It is six months later, and though the terror of that day has faded, I
walk with a cane now. Romeo survived the surgery, a blood transfusion, and
twenty-six puncture wounds. We are survivors. He and I take little walks to get
some air, but my knee and ankle will not cooperate anymore. My distance walking
days are over. When we see a big dog on the sidewalk, we both freeze. We tried
going to a dog park, but Romeo flipped out, and I had a panic attack. And the
owner? She slipped out of town in the middle of the night, giving no notice at
the broken-down apartment she lived in, taking her attack dog with her. I hired
a Private Investigator, but he could not track her down; she disappeared as if
the whole thing never happened. There was no settlement; hell, there was no
money to cover our medical bills. But I remind myself that this is all a dream,
sometimes an unbelievably bad dream.
I ask myself why God would dream up the horrors that humans do to one another. It would be easy to get bitter and pessimistic, but then I remember that He has dreamed up beautiful and breathtaking things as well, like my friend Joan, and the Arizona sunset. It is tempting to think that because I went through a divorce and was attacked by a dog that God does not care. But I do not believe that is it. God is seated in His cosmic stadium, and like the ancient Greek Philosophers who wrote plays of comedy and tragedy that taught a moral, God is dreaming this play so we might learn our lessons. And the projection that Papaji said we must get to the root of? Once you discover the answer to that riddle, God will surely wake up.
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