"Again and again she hurriedly appeared in the margins of my life, without influencing in the least its basic text... Occasionally, in the middle of a conversation her name would be mentioned, and she would run down the steps of a chance sentence without turning her head... Once I was shown her photograph in a fashion magazine full of autumn leaves and gloves and windswept golf links. On a certain Christmas, she sent me a picture postcard with snow and stars." ~Nabakov, Spring in Fialta
Hey G:
It's safe to come out now. If you're still reading this—I'm pretty sure everyone has forgotten about Rituals of Disenchantment except you and me (and whoever has the seva of monitoring and printing out your web-mentions, naturally). And, so, now that we're nearly alone...
Look, I almost forgive you for all of it. The years lost in selfish service, the hundred-grand or so invested in dreams of enlightenment that vanished the day I finally woke up—these turned out to be not that difficult to relinquish, after all. I discovered it's not in me to grow old with regrets. Maybe that's even something I learned from Siddha Yoga. If so, consider the money paid back in full.
Other losses are not so easily forgotten. Trust. Belief. Friends. Family, for some. For many. You'll forgive me if I don't chant the entire litany, we understand each other well enough.
Last night there was a cricket outside my 6th floor bedroom window, chirping its endless one-note song from atop a nearby tree. In twenty-eight years in New York I'd never heard a cricket outside of Central Park. He's back again, and just now I transformed my annoyance at this little rerun into something like gratitude for another night's special serenade. The sort of little miracle you were always so good at pulling out of your sleeves, G. It made me miss you.
Damn. Look at me, I almost just experience-shared all over us both!
I feel I have to tell you this—right now, I am somewhat stoned. Not whacked, just mellow. I hesitate to mention it because I know I'll get a bunch of posts from breathless readers panting: "What path are you following? Smoking pot is SO NOT spearitchool!" These sort of comments can be tiresome to moderate. I never did understand the rule against getting high in Siddha Yoga—weed is most definitely more spiritual than Laksmi oil or Blue Pearl incense. The sevites who most liked to enforce the ban on pot were usually those who, IMHO, desperately needed to skip the evening chant, sneak out behind the cow shed and torch up a really fat one.
But-enough-about-me-how-about-you! Where the hell have you been? Fun Fact. Most people who find this blog through a Google search are directed to Ritual's very first post, entitled "Where The Hell is Gurumayi?" That means they were all typing that exact question into the search bar with the exact same expression of frustration! That's hilarious! The worldwide Siddha Yoga sangham has atomized into a million separate people, all searching with the same words to find the same thing. You.
I was disappointed to read in Guruphiliac that you like spending time in Ojai and Italy. I would have pegged you for a Goa girl. All that abject abandon to trance music beating beneath neon club lights—so like the good old dancing sapthas in the Shakti Mandap, yes?
No, No, you're right. I'm fishing. I have no idea where in the world you are. That used to make me nervous, made me think that I might accidentally run into you one day on the streets of New York. I'd heard how you occasionally pitched the saffron while traveling, and imagined bumping into you at the Well-Appointed Traveler on Broadway, me in a business suit buying a neck pillow, you in jeans and a sweater leafing through a Lonely Planet Guide to....where? Where would it be, G? When you finally found time away from SoFalls and GSP and touring, where did you like to go? And are you there now?
It wouldn't make me nervous to encounter you by chance today. I actually think I'd find it a tasty coincidence. The best would be to run into you at an airport bar, both our flights delayed for hours. Then I could buy you a drink (let's see, what would yours be, what would it be......Absolut Mango Lassi!) and then we could just play Catch the Freak Up, Girrrrrl. Only one rule; I can't ask you for any advice and you can't ask me for any money. Ha! Didn't see that one coming, did you!
(Listen, don't be pissed. You are way overdue for some payback. Any of your girls who aren't ribbing you back and calling you on your shit—cut them loose, they still think you're God and need to get away from you for everyone's sake. And no, the rule doesn't say I can't give you any advice. Just be grateful I'm not asking you for money.)
