The sun finally appears again and things begin to dry out. Today is our last day to visit Khahurajo. Alone, I wander and ogle the amazing temples here at the Unesco World Heritage site one last time. The temples are spread over a broad green lawn dotted with enormous ancient trees. Each building is covered in figures, the most striking of which depict humans engaged in all sorts of erotic activity, from simple breast fondling to large outright group-fornication scenes where everybody is in on the action—in any way they can be. There are penetrating headstands and other gymnastics—even bestiality.
The figures and faces are broad and curved, evoking a sensation of softness. Bliss and ecstasy are palpable on the faces and in the positioning of the bodies. Everybody is really having a good time here. It's as pure a depiction of ecstasy and interconnectedness as I can imagine. Did someone model for these pictures and was it considered an outrageous activity at the time? Or are they simply an artful celebration of pleasure? Or was it, in fact, Tantric instruction for sacred transformation. Perhaps these figures depict the nectar of immortality—the idea that, in divine connection, we can taste a little bit of that grand sweetness.
Maybe it's because I only have a few days left, and I'm starting to feel as if India is slipping away from me. Maybe it's the wadded-up rupees burning a hole in the passport case that I've worn around my neck since the first day. In either case, my old desire to take my adventure home with me returns. I'm hungry for souvenirs, and I need to make a clean kill. And as someone once said: Nothing haunts us like the things we didn't buy.
I wander through a few of the shops, stopping to admire an antique cast-brass figure of the Hindu Lakshmi, whose face has already been adoringly touched so many times by the devout previous owner that her features have been worn away, rendering her faceless. Like the Creator. God. The Universe. This is the kind of devotion I seek to experience. I want to be so faithful and devout that I wear away layer after layer of suffering through prayer with only my repeated soft touch. This is the kind of faith that can create miracles. Enamored of this figure, I inquire, but learn that it is, in fact, an antique and well beyond the limits of my budget.
I have a modest shopping accident at a government-sanctioned gift shop. I tell myself that means that fair trade is guaranteed. I purchase my very own cloud-like pashmina (it's an investment!), a beautiful embroidered silk coat (I'm quite sure I can wear it, “Iris Apfel-style,” into my nineties), cotton sari fabric, a brass Ganesha, and bathrobes for my mom and my sister. I'm trusting that it's okay to acquire a few more beautiful things.
On our last evening in the jungle near Khahurajo, I fortuitously stumble into a second chance to visit the underground cave that contains the stone that reveals the divine. A small group of people are hanging around the main building waiting for Nathan. I'm intrigued, yet unclear about why I want to go. I guess I'm simply curious. What is this darshan like, I wonder. How does this spirit reveal itself? Will I be able to perceive it? It seems that another divine opportunity has been placed before me. And my going seems sort of predestined, as I discover the group of about a dozen just as they're about to leave.
A few long-time devotees chat casually with Nathan as we all begin moving toward the temple. I keep my distance. In this final opportunity, I don't feel any draw to make any more intimate contact with him. It's about 8:00 in the evening, and the sky is dark and riddled with bright stars. We follow the dimly lit path to reach the temple and silently remove our shoes before we walk up the slippery polished stairs and into the first chamber, the mandaba, where we symbolically lay down our worldliness and prepare to open to the sacred. Then we descend halfway down the staircase leading to the underground chamber and line up. This subterranean part of the temple is even darker. My eyes are trying to adjust, straining to see through the dimness. In a soft whisper, we're told by one of the staff to wait until we're called in by twos or threes.
It's a very murky but swanky cave, with a polished granite floor and minimal lighting. I shift silently back and forth on my feet as we wait for the first group to finish. I am a wee bit excited to see what the stone is all about.
My turn arrives. My mind feels oddly blank as I casually step across the threshold and into the cave that's lit almost imperceptibly. We are slowly led to a spot on the floor where we are instructed in a whisper to sit.
When I look at the stone perched there in the center of the room, I immediately see it—or rather, him. It's not pleasant. A colorless hologram leaps out at me—the gaunt face of an old man. His facial muscles stand out in sharp relief and he has an intense, penetrating stare. It's nothing new for me to see a face in a stone—I often see faces in trees and stones—but this is different.
The face feels terribly unfriendly and seems to be looking right at me. Through me. It is clear and fully detailed. Photographic. It's similar to the ghost-like faces I used to see until my spirits gave me a protection to prevent it. Instead of being agonal or suffering, however, it seems very intent on something. I'm not sure of its intention, but it is disturbing.
As this goes through my head, Nathan slowly walks over to point out the vision on the stone with his finger, in case we've missed it. Then he returns to stand directly behind where I'm seated on the floor. I stare uncomfortably for a few moments at the face emerging from the stone, then I notice the presence of Nathan immediately behind me. I can feel his legs just inches from my back. Suddenly my brain is flooded with memories: The giddy guy who moved across the country on command, Nathan's ominous commment, “The nearer to the lamp the darker it is,” and the ridiculously scrupulous cleaning of Nathan's throne by his dedicated attendant. This sudden total recall along with this disturbing holographic face converges into a forboding inky wave.
Something in me wants to flee. Something here is wrong. I have an overwhelming feeling that I need to get out of here right now. It comes in a loud whisper from within my chest, from my own soul. I sense that this place, this darkness, is dangerous for me. I quickly disengage from the penetrating stare of the unpleasant gaunt face in the stone and, as quietly and composedly as I can, rise and leave. Momentarily, I wonder if I'm leaving too soon in anyone else's opinion, but I don't care. I've simply got to go. The other two pilgrims who entered the cave with me seem to take my exit as a signal that it's time to go, and we all walk out together. We silently slip our shoes back on in the darkness and leave separately.
As I wander back to my room under the bright stars, I reflect. I sensed a lot of power in that face. And it did not seem to want me there. Or rather, I did not want to be there with it. Perhaps the spirit dwelling in the cave wanted nothing to do with me. I suspect that he may be an ancestral type of spirit, the kind that's truly only interested in helping his own devotees, his own “family.”
According to shamans, these ghosts and disembodied spirits of the Middle World can have a very human and flawed nature, as their compassion is selective—unlike spirits dwelling in the Upper or Lower worlds. Some ancestral ghosts choose to remain here in the earthly realm to help only those to whom they're devoted—family members and other loved ones—and those who are devoted to them. They haven't evolved enough to have love and compassion for all.
With sudden clarity, I see that I don't need the spiritual clutter of another guru or another tradition. I didn't come to India to seek a guru or another religion or tradition to follow. I already have a connection to my own helping spirits. While lying in my bed in the darkness with my headlamp on, I page back through my journal and discover my notes from Nathan's lecture earlier on: It's imperative to enter a cave inhabited by spirits with reverence. This is where these ghosts rest. It's their home. Not all soul ghosts are compatible with us. Perhaps my mere curiosity wasn't well received. Perhaps having a clear intention before entering would have changed my whole experience. Whatever the case, this much is clear: For me, this spirit is most definitely incompatible.
I'm truly trusting my inner guidance now, and it feels good. I also have a clear understand
ing that this cave and this tradition are not for me. But neither do I feel a need to dismiss this experience of darshan. I felt a real sense of power there in the cave, and I don't need to judge it. That spirit may indeed be a valuable teacher for others. Maybe this is why I've come all this way—to recognize that what I already have is perfect and beautiful; to learn to trust my own path.
Despite this uncomfortable experience, I realize how grateful I am that I came here—and to those who made this miraculous adventure possible. Without it, I would have never met Auntie, or bathed in the Ganges, or received my mantra initiation from Ben, which has truly helped me take my meditation to a deeper, sweeter place.
I rest in sweet silence. I feel newly unshakeable and possessed of everything I need to step forward.
PART FOUR
Return Home
There is nothing sweeter in this sad world than the sound of someone you love calling your name.
Kate DiCamillo, The Tale of Despereaux
CHAPTER 36
The Way Back
The ache for home lives in all of us.
The safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.
Maya Angelou, All God's Children Need Traveling Shoes
The return trip to Agra is grueling and bumpy. We take a completely different route from the way we came. For hours, we drive through what can only be described as an open field, but one with exercise-ball-sized potholes. We bounce along, occasionally passing over bridges with flimsy guardrails that look like Popsicle sticks. For perhaps forty miles, there's no recognizable road because the two-lane highway simply vanishes before us.
We stop for lunch and laze in the sun in a fancy-ish hotel courtyard overlooking a river with house-sized boulders in it. I feed some of my leftovers to the most forlorn stray dog I've seen yet. He gratefully and politely gobbles it all up. With this tiny offering, I feel as if maybe, in this homestretch, I have relieved a small piece of the suffering in India.
After staying in hay huts by the Ganges, the hotel in Agra feels like the Four Seasons. I can hardly contain my excitement and head to my room for some luxurious time alone and a nice, hot shower that doesn't involve damp clothes, and muddy feet. I'm aware now that I only need a bucket of water to do the job, and I shower quickly, wanting to use only what I need. I'm grateful for the bounty.
In the morning, I drag my belongings to the porter's desk and order my first pot of black coffee in twenty days. I relish every single drop. As we mill around waiting to board the final bus to the Delhi airport, Lloyd, the white-bearded psychologist for whom I did the healing, approaches me. He presses some folded bills into my hand, looks me directly in the eyes, and says: “Thank you. Since our session on the Ganges, my hip has been nearly pain free.” We smile and hug. I'm delighted.
After thirty-six hours on buses and planes, I land in Duluth. Mark picks me up at the airport accompanied by Katherine, Josephine, Charlie, and Spirit Frances the Wonder Dog, who leaps irrepressibly into my lap for the ride home. George is off with friends. Everyone seems to have a sweet glow of happiness—an aura of love—around them.
“Mom,” says Josephine. “You are not going to believe it when you see our rooms!”
When I ask what she did, she answers, “Oh, you'll see!” with a huge grin.
“It's going to be really nice to have you home,” Mark tells me.
“Are you admitting that I am slightly indispensible, Mark Seidelmann?” I tease. Then I relent and tell them all how good it is to be back home and how much I missed them all. Charlie is more pragmatic, asking immediately if I brought anything back for them. I tell him I have a few things for each of them, and he shouts with glee. In fact, everybody seems to be fairly bursting with joy! These are my people! We hug and hug and hug.
At home, I'm immediately ushered off to Katherine's and Josephine's rooms, which have been rearranged and restyled. Charlie then grabs my arm and proudly introduces me to his new hermit crab. “His name is Mr. Krabs, and I'm taking care of him all by myself,” he tells me excitedly. For once, it is on Mark's watch and not mine that the family menagerie grows.
As I walk through the house reacquainting myself with this familiar space, I marvel at how wonderful everything looks. The countertops are clutter-free and glowing. The fridge is stocked. Nobody seems to have been kicked out of school or met with any other disaster. “The kids helped,” Mark reports. He looks fine. In fact, if anything, he looks more relaxed and content than I've seen him in a while.
After we eat a beautiful welcome-home cake made (with party sprinkles!) by Josephine and Katherine, I hand out the special stone mala beads I selected for each one of them—grounding black onyx for Charlie, heart-centered rose quartz for Josephine, turquoise for Katherine (it's her favorite color), tiger's eye for George (who's partial to big cats), and rudraksha seed for Mark. They seem genuinely thrilled. The kids move toward their rooms to squirrel away their sacred new treasures.
The depth of my blessedness settles on me like a soft, well-tattered quilt. This is my temple. Leaving all of it for a little while has taught me an enormous lesson: Despite all of my fretting, it was just fine for me to go. And while I was learning something deeper off in India, it seems that my whole family was learning as well.
I want to broadcast this on a megaphone to every mother or person who feels tied down by their circumstances or otherwise reluctant to leave their post for an adventure: “Go! Seize your adventures! Everyone will benefit!” I'm excited and ready to return to my sacred work here as mom, partner, lover, writer, and healer.
Everything I do is an offering. Everything is puja. Everything is prayer.
Even sweeter yet, in the weeks that follow, I notice more harmony between Mark and myself. It seems that we've found an easier way to coexist, while still retaining our own uniqueness. Maybe we're just more grateful. He's looser, letting me be me. He's not constantly trying to clean up behind me as I turn the kitchen into a temporary disaster every time I cook. And I find myself intentionally being a bit neater. Maybe we're both just being more conscious. Mark smiles mischievously and tells me that something has changed in me—that I'm easier to be around. Apparently, there's also more honesty between us.
A month later, while visiting my sister Maria in Los Angeles (who is now happily thriving!), I discover some kooky monster drawings at the Hollywood flea market. They're colorful, freaky, and made out of vintage book pages. I buy several and, at home, frame them by replacing my diplomas and Board certifications with the drawings. This shift makes me so happy. The diplomas tell of my accomplishments, but they no longer reflect who I am. I lean the newly framed drawings on the fireplace mantel—a place of honor.
Then, I have a somewhat scary dream about a brown recluse spider dropping from a dead branch onto me as I lay on the couch. Ackkkkk! I wake up just after it crawls into my sweater, and I freak out. It is so vivid that I know I need to investigate more.
Curious, I re-enter the dream via shamanic journey and discover that, despite its menacing reputation, this brown recluse spider is a new spirit guide stepping forward to help me with my writing, to help me weave a web out of my pilgrimage and other stories from my life. Her name? “You can call me Charlotte.” On the journey, she shows me that she spins rather unusual webs. I immediately recall one of my favorite quotes from E. B. White's Charlotte's Web: “It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer. Charlotte was both.” When I return from the journey, I immediately Google “brown recluse spider”—knowing nothing about them except the awful medical complications of their bites—to learn more. I discover that these spiders actually do spin unusual webs—a disorderly thread creates its lair. This feels so completely apropos for me that I can hardly believe it. After that, I reread Charlotte's Web and go on to read collections of E. B. White's essays and an autobiography, which I find deeply inspiring.
The pesky web that had entangled me in my old career as a physician was being transformed into a new kin
d of disorderly, yet helpful, design that I can weave as I continue to walk my path as a writer and a shamanic healer.
A few months after India, I return to northern California to the Foundation for Shamanic Studies to attend a program. We spend most of the days preparing for an important initiation ceremony scheduled for the end of the week. The mood is somber, to say the least, and one person elects not to participate.
I stand in the group that is singing together in the near dark. As the singing continues, I experience overwhelming emotion and tears come. My voice wobbles. My body begins shaking all over, and I feel so much—what it is, exactly, I cannot say. Fear? Joy? Surrender? Or perhaps all three becoming one?
Suddenly, I am falling and land curled on the cushioned floor on my left side in a fetal position. I immediately plunge into what I can only describe as an all encompassing and riveting embrace of love and extraordinary compassion and I hear the words: I am here. I immediately understand this to mean God. Then I hear: I am with you always. I am with you on each step of your path. I am in everything. I am everywhere. I feel simultaneously that I am being held and that a giant hand is reaching for mine—the hand of God. The Creator. The Universe.
I experience an instantaneous understanding of and connection to the painting of God touching Adam's finger on the Sistine Chapel ceiling—something I had seen with my own eyes but never understood before. I am overcome with joy and sobbing with gratitude. I can see so clearly now. My mind's eye floods with throbbing, all-encompassing purple light.
I am in the overwhelming, paralyzing presence of God—or rather, I choose not to move, afraid that it will somehow disconnect me. I am held in his vast outstretched hand. I begin to see flashes of past experiences and to understand on a very deep level that each relationship in my life—with Mark, my mother and father, George, Katherine, Josephine, Charlie, Maria, even Suzi—has been perfectly orchestrated by this powerful force.
Swimming with Elephants: My Unexpected Pilgrimage from Physician to Healer Page 21