I walked away from my Western life to sleep on the floor of an ashram.  Dissatisfaction had become a normal state of being. I was deeply embarrassed by this. As I canvassed my home I perused every object, and breathed its beauty. My thoughts were about how grateful I was to have a living museum in my house, what a treasure it was to live in a spiritual temple that I created. I was ashamed by my soul’s ambivalence, when it responded so what.  Consciously, I counted each and every blessing. I was truly grateful for the richness of my life, but the emptiness overshadowed consciousness. 

A few months after my yearly 41-day water fast, one night an ocean of sleep washed over me and I calmly floated on the white waves into silence. I was cocooned from the world around me as I drifted from consciousness. Before reaching the realm of dreamland I was caught in whiteness when a scroll appeared. While in that state of semi-consciousness between being asleep and being awake, a beautiful East Indian woman illuminated on the scroll. I stared long and hard at her form. My senses knew when she was about to fade away and I heard myself say,

          “Wait!  How will I know you?”

The image got larger. I took my time studying the details of her face and said,

          “Okay.  I will know you when I see you.”

The beautiful face vanished. I resumed full consciousness and imprinted the image in my mind. After a night’s rest I woke up and immediately thought about the encounter with the enchanting Indian woman. She must be a mahatma. Although I recognized her greatness, I was confused.  I am an African woman living in America with a strong Yoruba spiritual path, Medicine Woman and a High Priestess in my tradition.  I wasn’t in search of a guru. 

Shortly after my vision, India began enticing me with her beauty. My palate craved the warmth of curry and the colorful textures of Indian cuisine. Images of me worshiping in sacred Hindu temples gently wafted through my mind as the arms of serenity held me close. Meditation and asana practice allowed me brief moments of bliss, and reluctantly I allowed thoughts of travel to linger.  Through my dreams at night, the path was formed. Despite my deep African connection, I longed for India, and my soul couldn’t betray the call of her shimmering face.

On this morning I gently awoke to the rising sun rejuvenating my face. My mind was integrated with my still and peaceful body when I heard a whisper,

"Your youngest son is not evolving spiritually. You need to take him and live in an ashram in India.”

I thought for sure I was crazy.  The information was so random, but what bothered me most was India. 

In our tradition, we have Medicine Men also known as African Shaman or Priests, who through divination, ask God for guidance in our decisions. There is no major action taken without the confirmation of at least three separate priests. Their word is the word of God. Despite my reluctance, divination confirmed that it was best for both of our spiritual evolution to go to India.   Second best was Africa and third the Tibetan side of China. 

We never do second best, so my son and I were headed to India. The trouble was that I had no idea where we were going.  The first order of business was to find my mahatma. It all seemed ridiculous really. How in the word would I find a woman from a face I saw in a dream? From time to time I even doubted myself and wondered was it all a special message or was I just a person who loved to travel and wanted an excuse to go? Holding her fading image, I began searching the internet for ashrams in America. After a conversation with my mother, I remembered an ashram I visited nearly 20 years prior in California.  The guru was a woman so I thought it must be her. My need for resolution and desire for attachment was so strong, that I immediately began to convince myself that she was calling me home. Imagine the disappoint I felt when I saw her picture and nothing drew me close. It wasn’t her. Daily, I searched the internet, e-mailed possible leads and made dozens of phone calls to India.  Finally, after a week’s worth of sleepless nights, I was referred to an ashram with a known female satguru. When I went to her website and saw her face, my heart raced, jaw dropped, eyes widened and I clenched my chest. This was the woman in my dream. I wasn’t crazy and God is real. I thought, "I must go to her at once."

Apparently, there is a name for people like me. We are known as downshifters, people who have renounced the acquire and consume mentality of the Western world. A life with meaning, valued relationships and spirituality is what we desire. In line with these values, I decided to give up my house and all of its contents. I wanted to walk away with one backpack for me and one for my son.  I wanted to be free.

Judy, my best-friend, pulled up to my house at 2:45am on a hot and rare, humid Saturday morning. It was garage sale day. Judy is a walking contradiction. At 64 years old she looked at least 15 years younger, she is still always fun and crazy, but she doesn’t drive after dark and she is definitely in bed by 8pm. The fact that she was even participating in this event was a testament to her love for me. I went outside to greet her at the car, and true to form, she handed me two bottles of champagne, 2 flutes and homemade scones. There was no way that we were going out without a bang. Our intention was to get an early start and organize the massive mess in my garage in time for the shoppers that she was sure would show by 6am. This was nuts to me, but even after two trash pick-ups and literally 50 bags of garbage; the 2 car garage could fit one car in a tight squeeze. This stuff had to go. For the past 2 weeks I had been belly-aching all this crap. What to keep, what to throw away, what to give away, and what to sell. I wanted all of it gone.

Once the signs were strategically placed we went back to the house, sat at the kitchen table and popped the first bottle. The whole scene reminded me of a rebellious school girl. I spent many years alcohol free. Now, headed to an ashram and spiritual life, I had to eat and drink every ridiculous thing possible.  So much for renunciation!  Judy and I drank and laughed and talked about every stupid thing we had done or gone through in the previous 5 years of knowing each other.

Just as my garage sale guru had predicted, the first man showed up promptly at 6am. After touching everything he could, asking a dozen annoying questions and some foolish haggling he left empty handed. Really, I hated garage sale people. He set the tone for the day of aggravation ahead. After him it became so crowded that we could have used extra help in the form of cashiers. The place was packed. And I was being raped. I looked at things that were brand new or very slightly used and people wanted it for nothing. Judy had warned me, but that didn’t make it any better. With a little help from our flowing champagne, I quickly got into the groove of saying “$1, $3 or $5.”  When a person was particularly annoying, I gave Judy the look and she negotiated the price for me. Towards the end there were still many, many glasses sitting neatly in the driveway. Judy decided to put a FREE sign on them and literally, within seconds the entire blanket was empty!  Was there really that big a difference between $.05 and free? Annoying. By 10 am, it was done. All my crap was gone. There was a much needed $600 in my pocket and aside from more trash, the garage was cleaned out. It was a soft goodbye to my dear friend.

As it got closer to India time, I got very frugal with money. One Saturday, as I was headed to the grocery store, I received a call from my husband in Africa.  As soon as I saw his number on the caller ID, I was prepared for aggravation.  It was in my gut. Sure enough, there was a small pox outbreak in our orphanage and I needed to send money. My stomach churned. I didn’t have any to send.  This meant that kids would die for sure. I felt sick.  Full of sadness I hung up the phone, my mind was whirling. 

As I scrutinized my necessity only shopping list, I called the bank for my balance so I knew my exact budget. What happened next was a dream come true, and I promise you it’s the truth. The automated teller told me that I had several thousand dollars more than expected in my account. Yes, several thousand!   I hung up and dialed again. After five phone calls to the bank and speaking to a live customer service agent twice, it was confirmed that there was no mistake.  A legitimate credit had been added to my account for an issue stemming from years ago. I was in absolute shock. How many times in life have we all wished for that?  Well it happened. I immediately went to the money transfer counter, sent money to the orphanage and held the rest aside for India.

Within 2 months, it was all wrapped up. The house was empty and under contract; and my older boys were in college, neatly tucked with my mother. As for the 2 backpacks well, that’s another story. I tried, truly I did. But perhaps I hadn’t evolved as much as I’d like to think I have. I ended up with a third bag.  And here’s why: The enlightened renunciate, that would be me, decided that she needed several vanity items. I got nervous about my physical appearance and overbought on everything. Several deodorants, 4 jars of black bees wax for my dreds, 4 lotions, 4 jars of cream for my face and the list goes on and on. I will admit in writing the vainest of all the products. Truly, I couldn’t leave the continent without 4 compacts of MAC mineral powder for my face. Isn't that ridiculous? What does one do at an ashram with face powder?  I can tell you, wear it! I still had a lot of growing to do.

We boarded the plane without incident. As we waited for our seatmate to take his place, a man with an interesting appearance approached and excused himself.  In Arizona, especially at that time, there were predominantly a few types of people; White, Native, Mexican and a few Blacks. This man didn’t fit into the categories, and I was curious about his ethnicity. He sat by the window and tenderly began talking to my son. We talked about my journey to India and he told me I was beautiful and courageous. He insisted that I wouldn’t find discrimination, but that I would blend with the people and be readily accepted.  He admired my strength and determination. In the end, he smiled warmly as he told me that he was originally from Kerala, the exact place we were headed. This served as my final confirmation.

After a delayed flight, catching the flu, 14 hours of travel, a missed flight, another 3 hours of flying and then 3 hours in a taxi all with a 7 year old boy in tow, in the dead of night we arrived at the ashram. Immediately, I was irked by the volume of the devotional music shouting at me so late at night. Most of the people walking to and fro were wearing white saris and for a moment I thought I might have entered into a cult. The thought of someone trying to make me participate in an orgy, made the possibility of seeing the inside of an Indian jail rather plausible. I became keenly aware of any freaks. Due to the time, we were given temporary accommodations. We dragged our luggage to the 8^th floor of what looked like tenement housing. Once the room was located, it was difficult to maneuver the combination lock which secured the room. Finally, the lock opened, I slid the latched and entered the room. I was hurt. It was a tiny space with open bared windows, peeling pale yellow paint, a small bathroom, small “kitchen” and I use the word kitchen loosely, as there was only a sink, and no appliances. To my surprise there were 2 beds. Everything looked so dirty.  When I say dirt I don’t mean city dirt, but literally dirt, sand and spider webs everywhere. The bathroom horrified me. The floor was stained in way that I knew there was no way to clean it and the toilet, well wow. That’s all I can say.  I didn’t want to touch anything. The room felt like it was actually half outside.  The thought of all the bugs lurking was intolerable to me. I feel so sorry for my mother.  She is always the one who truly suffers through all of the twists and turns of my unconventional life. I must have sounded miserable. My voice was hoarse, and “God, help me” was my continuous mantra. Happily we had clean sheets, but there was no soap, toilet paper, or towels. I wanted to cry. I was humbled to my knees. My only choice was to have faith.

The morning came and I anxiously awaited 10 o’clock to be assigned our permanent room. While waiting we went in search of food. We found the Western Café and my son was excited to see veggie burgers, french fries and pizza on the menu. My reaction was far from excitement. The first thing I noticed was a glass case that housed baked goods. First of all I am a cake connoisseur. I love baked goods. When I looked at the offerings there were flies landing all over the baked breads, cakes and cookies. I wanted to vomit. My son offered me a french fry and it just tasted wrong. It was awful. I thought to myself, no sense in worrying about your weight here, because there is no way in hell you will ever eat in this place. Sadly, that didn’t last too long. The fries are wonderful. And I hate to admit how delicious the baked goods are. Can you imagine that? My sugar addiction followed me all the way to an ashram in India. I learned to ignore the flies.

We finally got our permanent room assignment. The heat and humidity was relentless and of course our flat was far away from the “center of town.” I was sweating profusely and quietly cussing myself for going against my first inclination, which was one backpack each. There was way too much stuff in our bags and I felt every kilo. When we finally found our building, my poor son was doing his best to drag my bag up the 2 flights of steps. Our room was better than the temporary room and at least it wasn’t in a tenement. The floors looked clean and we had a bit more space, but this time there were no beds.  All we had were 2 thin vinyl mattresses on the floor, and spider webs everywhere.

The next day was a pre-birthday celebration for the guru. We walked over to the college and went about selecting our seats, and things got interesting. Until now everyone had been so kind and welcoming, but I am no fool. This isn’t my first rodeo and I have been around the block a few times. There were several Westerners that I eyed from a far and knew that I should do my best to avoid them.That’s the funny thing about being in an Ashram. It’s not warm and fuzzy all the time. There are many, many people there in pain, many people in process, and many people working their karma. My experience is that a lot of the most difficult people are Western. Maybe this is because I cut the other people a lot of slack for the cultural differences, I don’t know. But, even if they are nasty they have boundaries. Western people have none.  All this being said, I went to sit down and I heard an uncouth woman yell,

          “Oh no, don’t sit in front of me!”

How can a person think that they can control who sits in front of them? This is just unconscionable to me.You may think it in your mind, but you don’t actually think you can tell someone not to sit in front of them, do you? Well, she did. I ignored her especially since I realized I wasn’t directly in front of her. My hair is in dreds and in the heat I pile them on top of my head.  So then I heard this ldy going on and on.

          “Oh, I can’t see.  I can’t sit here because I can’t see. Her hair!” 

I stayed calm and still ignored her. I previously made a promise to myself that under no circumstances, would I argue with anyone in an ashram. Now I was technically outside of the ashram, but still I find that to be absolutely ridiculous. I was calmly sitting next to my son fanning us, as the heat was intense. The next thing I knew she asked the woman next to me to switch places with her because my hair, that was not directly in front of her, was blocking her view.  She moved to the seat to my right and I saw her squinting her face, and wriggling around, still unhappy.  Then she said,

          “I can’t sit here.  She is driving me crazy with that fan.” 

Now the lady wanted to control me, as I sat in my personal space fanning my young child.  Still I said nothing.

          “I have to move, that fan is too much.”

So, she gets back up and moves back into a seat behind me and to the right.  And she tells her friend in a loud voice for me to hear

          “Ugh, that fan is driving me nuts and she stinks of perfume!”

I don not wear perfume in 200 degree weather. My button was pushed with that comment. Just as I turned around to tell her a thing or two, I saw the lady next to her look in my direction and shake her head as if to say don’t bother.  She has issues. She was right, and I turned back around. 

After that day everywhere I went she was there. I mean it. She just kept turning up. I got the message loud and clear. I refused to have any bad interaction with her. When I saw her daily behavior I realized that she was just in pain. She struggled so much that I thought she was one of those types of people that cause all that commotion and then forget; the kind of person that eventually tries to be friendly with the people that they have previously antagonized. I waited for the perfect moment, walked up to her and said,

          “Om Namah Shivaya.”

This is a common saying at the ashram. Literally, it means I see the God in you and I bow down. We used it there to say hello or excuse me or thank you. It is very difficult to be nasty to a person after they greet you with such respect.  Even she had to respond in kind. She was embarrassed to look me in the face which made me certain that she remembered how ugly she was at the birthday celebration. We made small talk for a few moments and she asked me the name of my son, and where in the states we were from before we parted ways. I rarely saw her after that. Perhaps I officially gained self-control and she was no longer a lesson for me. I wonder. I stayed on guard for the next person that could possibly move me from my spirituality and cause me to act a fool.

Life there was strenuous.  We slept on the floor. We never got rid of the bugs. Dirt and sand continued to appear routinely. We couldn’t drink the water from the faucet. Throwing out trash was a whole job in and of itself, due to the intense recycling efforts. There was no air conditioning or refrigerators. And we walked constantly. My personal favorite was washing clothes by hand. What makes that worse was that the water comes out dirty, so you must first filter the water with cheese cloth, which takes forever, or use salt crystal to pull the sediments to the bottom of your bucket, and then pour the clear water off of the top. Laundry was a major undertaking. It became a moving meditation and time for healing. There is no price too high for the peace of a spiritual life and the unconditional, all-encompassing love of the guru. The ashram was a beautiful place to deal with the pain of life. People are well supported and somehow, what you need, in your time of need, always shows up. It was the best decision I ever made.

On my third day in the ashram, I was surprised to see a new black face. Until this point my son and I were the only people of African descent that I had seen in India. He looked out of place clad in black jeans, a black t-shirt emblazoned with the words “Be Humble” across his chest and dark shades. Nonetheless, following African protocol I said “hello.” He looked very familiar, but I dismissed that as my imagination. It was the guru’s birthday and there were more and more people coming to the ashram to celebrate. That evening we attended the official birthday program. After a few lovely traditional acts, the MC for the night announced the next performer, a rap artist from the United States known as Doug E Fresh. My jaw hit the ground. I spent my teenage years listening to his music. Apparently he had a relationship with the guru, and had come to perform for her birthday. The concert was a hip hop anthology reaching back to the early 80’s with music that brought back memories for every stage in my life from adolescence to early adulthood. Healing began to occur as each song took me to a time and place that I needed to mend. I sang, danced, waved my hands in the air and screamed enough for my 7 year old to be embarrassed.  For his finale, he performed his latest hit, which was familiar to my son. My boy couldn’t contain himself; he had to get on stage. Our fellow ashramites lifted him into the air and passed him from one to the next over the crowd and hoisted him on to the stage. He ran up the ramp, gave Doug E Fresh a pound and proceeded to dance the dance Doug E had taught the world. We laughed and partied until midnight. In that show, somehow the tumultuous years that had brought so much pain and sadness were transformed in my soul. Deep healing had begun. This truly was a homecoming. A rebirth. At 41 years old, in the middle of India, life for me was starting over.

When the excitement was finally over, my son and I headed back to our flat.  We were both beaming. It must have been about 1 am when we started our relatively long walk home. We got to our door, opened it and there, perched on the wall was the largest spider I had ever seen up close. It was huge. My son immediately began to panic. He was just about crying when he asked,

                                                  “What are we going to do?” 

In that moment it hit me. Everyone in his world was male. My mother and I were the only females he was accustomed to. For the most part he depended on the men to solve everything. In his prior life, the only life he has really known, he has the biggest, baddest older brothers and father in the world and here was this enormous spider and all he had was mommy. It’s funny because he wasn’t alive in my younger years when my ACES issues were still fresh and I was off the chain. My older sons think I am the biggest and the baddest.  This is a new era, one where I am much calmer, mild tempered and more regulated. I had to decide what to do. I was in an ashram where you’re not supposed to kill anything. We are all God’s creation. However, there was simply no way in heck that I was going to try to catch it or leave it alone. I heard these spiders can jump, and I didn’t know if it was poisonous. I wasn’t sure if my shoe was sturdy enough to kill that big thing. I had no choice, I grabbed my sandal took aim and smacked the crap out of it. It fell lifeless to the floor. Om Namah Shivaya.   Welcome to India.