Secrets of a Spiritual Guru (Guru 1)

by Tamara Dorris

  I finish the piece up and take a small sip of vino. Maybe I did have something to do with him leaving. I hit send and check my texts. Nothing. I text my mom.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi, honey!” she texts back. I swear this woman uses speed texting. She must have me on some kind of alarm notification or something.

  “Ron sent me an mssagf.”

  “What’s a mssagf?” she asks.

  Damn virtual keyboard.

  “Message. Says he misses me.”

  “Oh! Wow. So?”

  “So, I told him I needed more time.”

  “Smart. But you will take him back?”

  I look over at the blank space on the living room wall. It’s not like I can afford a flat-screen anytime soon, so I say, “Yeah…eventually.”

  I do not tell her that he never responded to my text.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It’s been three days since I sent Ron a text back, and nothing. But I’ve just gotten approval on Kim’s short sale and am ecstatic. Two deals in escrow. I am one happy yogi. It’s hard not to whistle, especially when Tac looks as if he’s trying to concentrate on a contract. He looks annoyed, maybe at me, but I don’t care. Then Becky says, “Wow, this is so cool!” Both Tac and I look up. I yell, “What?” She tells us she’s reading this really great blog.

  “What’s so cool about it?” Tac asks, face back on what looks to be page seven of the California Purchase Agreement. If he would move to the left just a little, I would have a better view.

  “Just a cool blog. I’ll send you both a link.”

  I immediately wonder what new smoothie recipe she’s discovered now. Part of me pretends not to care, but that other part of me was rather fond of the blueberry delight she treated me to earlier in the week. I halfheartedly open her e-mail and click on the link to see a photo of Yoga Barbie’s very cute studio.

  No way!

  The blog she’s referring to is mine. Mine! On karma! Talk about cause and effect. Now Becky is standing there, looking at me.

  “Did you guys read it?” she says. She’s kind of right between Tac and me, looking at the back of his head, and facing me.

  “Yeah, karma, big deal,” Tac says, briskly hurting my pride.

  “Well, I happen to think it’s a very well-written article,” I say, assuming my best spiritual guru posture. Tac just looks at me, kind of like he had something bad to eat.

  “So, what brought this up?” I ask, dying to know.

  “Oh, I’m gonna try yoga, and this is the studio that’s closest to my house.”

  Yay.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come to mine? It’s way closer to work.”

  “I know, I thought of that, but really, Brian wants to try it too, and we’ll go together to the evening classes…plus weekends.”

  Wow. This Brian guy is like a little guru. Juicers, yoga…what’s next, his own blog?

  “OK, but mine is really fun,” I say, trying one more time.

  “I’m sure it is. But did you see the picture?” she asks, pointing. “It’s a very cute studio.”

  I am sure I will alone.

  At home, I make a salad. I can’t afford a juicer right now, but I can eat more veggies. I am deeply concerned about Becky going to yoga at the very cute studio. She’ll see Ron, especially if she goes to evening classes. Will she even recognize him? I mean, it’s not like I have a picture of him, except the one from two Christmases ago. Besides, it’s behind that dying Swedish ivy plant next to my real estate success books. But she did meet him…was it only that one time at our dumb holiday dinner last year?

  I take the tiniest sip of my wine because I am on a strict plan now where I am only allowed two glasses a night. That may not sound very strict, but it is. I mean, I get home around 5:00 p.m., and that leaves me with about five hours before starting my very regimented skin care process. Back to Becky. Maybe if/when she sees him, it will be that kind of thing where she won’t know why he looks so familiar because, after all, he won’t be in a Christmas sweater or black suit that I made him buy for that holiday dinner. And he won’t be with me. Suddenly I’m sad. I imagine Becky practicing yoga with Barbie and Ron. I didn’t realize this would make me feel so left out.

  In my office I am hoping I have an e-mail from Barbie. This always seems to cheer me up. Sure enough, her praise on my karma post just arrived:

  “Hello, Nala! I probably don’t even have to tell you how wonderful your words on karma were to me, but there’s more! Not only have you made a lasting impression on me, but apparently on many others, too. You cannot believe how many new subscribers we have! And, as a result, I am sure we are slowly but steadily increasing membership. It is my intention to pay you soon. Of course, you always have a free yoga home here, too. By the way, how is your skateboard injury? Will you be up to practicing with us here soon? One last thing. Someone asked about reposting your posts. I certainly don’t have any problem with it, but since it’s your writing, I wanted to let you know. Just imagine if your posts go international. With love, Namaste, Shazna.”

  Uh oh.

  It is so hard to know what to feel here. On one hand, my yoga ego is bursting at the seams. I mean, my posts are so good that other websites want to post them? How awesome is that? I quickly envision myself sitting on a rock, overlooking India in one of those loose-fitting orange robes. Instead of selling houses and dealing with short sales and dog-stealing buyers (and arrogant people like Tac), I could do yoga, sip wheatgrass, and wax poetic posts all day. And I would defiantly make a lot of smoothies and not drink very much wine. Again, there is nothing wrong with a spot of wine in the evening. I am absolutely sure Jesus would agree.

  But then there’s the hand that is bringing my Jesus-approved glass of wine to my lips. I am a liar. Apparently a very good and talented one, but still, a liar. However…it’s not like it’s not me writing the posts. I could see if I was plagiarizing, but hey, the only reason I don’t cite Wikipedia is because I’m not really using their words as much as fact-checking. So yes, plagiarism is a real sin. I am absolutely sure Jesus did not plagiarize. But he did talk about spiritual matters and drink wine. It seems to me I am just barely on the edge of the “What Would Jesus Do?” bracelet.

  So I’m not plagiarizing. Not stealing. I’m going to yoga, drinking less (trying), eating better (check), and writing my reflections on spiritual matters and yoga. In fact, I know that a lot of authors use other names. Ha! That’s what I’m doing, I’m using a pseudonym! A quick Wikipedia check proves I’m right:

  A pseudonym is a name that a person or group assumes for a particular purpose, which differs from his or her original or true name (orthonym).[1] Pseudonyms include stage names, screen names, pen names, nicknames.

  There it is, right there in black and white (and blue if you count the links). It even refers to a different name on the “screen.” Now, there is a possibility it is referring to the silver screen, but a computer screen is not any less of a screen than, say, a big flat-screen television.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I’ve been sore from yoga before. I mean, it’s not easy, what we yogis do on an (almost) daily basis. However, today is a different kind of sore. I ended up taking nice/meanie yoga teacher’s class, maybe feeling the need to prove to her that I’m worthy of her praise. Anyway, I think I stretched and pushed and strained a little too much. I just woke up and can barely move. I am convinced I have permanent spinal damage. Or Malaria. Aren’t the symptoms achiness and fever? I drag myself to the medicine chest for some kind of over-the-counter painkiller. How did I get malaria anyway? Could this be a case of canine karma? I swear I thought the dog was an abandoned victim. They really should feed him more.

  For obvious reasons, I will skip this morning’s class. I do not know why that yoga teacher in the evening class hates me so much. Maybe I should bring her incense or something. I manage my way to work, assuming that permanent spinal damage is not contagious. Becky is taking a message, and Tac has hi
s eyes closed with his headset on. Becky says he does this early in the mornings, but I guess I haven’t been in the office early enough because I’ve never caught him with his beady green eyes closed. I try not to make noise as I maneuver my way past him, wincing as I attempt to sit. I remember the chair pose from last night. Maybe I should have brought my own chair? Sitting in an imaginary chair has resulted in my near inability to sit in a real one. I rub my sore neck and wonder how long permanent spinal damage lasts. Hopefully it’s not permanent.

  Tac quietly removes the headset and then causally turns around, like maybe he felt me go by. I’m caught off guard and embarrassed because I was just staring at his head.

  “Morning,” he says.

  “Hi. Whatcha listening to?”

  “Oh, morning meditation.”

  What?

  “Yeah. You know, affirmations and stuff like that.”

  “Oh, yeah, I know what you mean.”

  I have no idea what he means.

  “You being a big yoga fan and all, probably have your own collection?”

  I wave my hand down in an exaggerated manner. “Tons.”

  “We should share libraries sometime,” he suggests, spinning back around.”

  “Sure,” I mumble, wondering what kind of library I need to get so I can act like I already had it.

  Shortly after, Tac leaves. I guess he’s got his game on and is ready to hit the streets, scaring children and seducing young women. And selling more houses than anyone in the damn office. I check to see if Becky is busy. She’s been running around all morning making copies and helping Broker Bert. Some new law is going into effect in January, about short sales I think. I guess I should know about important new laws like this, but I have three whole months to learn them. Some people take things so seriously. Becky must be in Bert’s office. Ever so gingerly I slip over to Tac’s desk. I am doing this gingerly because I can hardly move and because I am being a sneaky rotten snoop.

  It’s not like I’m doing anything horrible. I just want to know what the heck he listens to so I can get it too. I mean clearly, if Tac meditates, then there must be something to it because look how many houses he sells. I slide his top drawer open. This is the nearest to his desk I’ve ever been. His awards look larger up close. I grab the player and quickly push the play button and stick one of the ear thingies up to my ear. I hear soft music and a man say, “This is Kelly Dean’s Creating Abundance Meditation.” I hear Becky saying something to Broker Bert. She sounds close, so I quickly throw the whole thing back in his desk and stand up fast. My spine breaks in two. Becky sees me standing there like I just ate a mouse and got it stuck in my throat.

  “Are you OK?”

  I cannot tell her that I didn’t want her to see me being a terrible snoop, so I stood up too fast and made my permanent spinal damage worse. If that’s even possible.

  “Yeah,” I tell her, trying to arch my back, “I just went a little too far in yoga.”

  “Oh. Well what are you doing at Tac’s desk?”

  “Just stretching it out,” I say, and then quickly, “So, have you been to a yoga class yet?” Becky is not dumb, but she can be easily distracted with the right topic.

  “Oh, my God, I love it!”

  I head back to my desk, and although it’s only nine steps—I know because I’m counting as I go—it feels like a football field.

  “That’s great,” I tell her, cursing her youth and her “sneaking up softly” skills.

  Kim, the short sale seller, has left me six messages. This woman is more neurotic than my mother. I am so grateful she doesn’t text me. I’ve just opened escrow, which is the whole reason I came into the office in such pain today. Well, that, and apparently to break into Tac’s desk to see what he listens to in the mornings. Anyway, Kim has called me six times and e-mailed me seven.

  “Hi, Kim, what’s up?”

  “Hi, I’m sorry I left so many messages, but I’m kind of freaking out here.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Well, I need to get an idea of when I have to be out…you know, when’s the last minute to move it?”

  Now let me explain something. I listed Kim’s house eleven months ago. At that time, I told her that it usually takes several months between that point and this point. I mean, we have to get an offer, then I have to do all the hoop jumping, fire walking, phone calling, and faxing that getting a short sale approved requires. I also told her that not all short sales are approved. In most cases, the bank that owns the loan requires the person have some kind of a hardship. You know, a real good reason they can no longer pay their mortgage, such as death of loved one (or I guess themselves, I mean, that would be a real hardship), serious illness, loss of job, or divorce. I then told Kim that if we are lucky enough to get her short sale approved, then she will have exactly thirty days to be moved out and clean the house up. I mean, she doesn’t need to paint the ceilings or anything, but you can’t go leaving a big mess, right?

  Then, when we got the approval last week, I reminded her again, both on the phone and in a follow-up e-mail, she had just under thirty days to move out. Yet, here it is, six days into escrow, and she has contacted me fourteen times in two hours to find out what date she needs to be moved out by. This is my job. Also, did I mention that I was leery to take her on as a client in the first place? Her hardship? Allergies.

  We were sitting at her kitchen table in Carmichael. I asked all the questions we are supposed to ask before listing a short sale property.

  “The bank requires some kind of hardship.”

  “I have allergies.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Redwoods,” she says pointing matter-of-factly out the sliding glass door to a row of trees.

  “You’re allergic to trees?”

  “Just redwoods. Oh, and some spruce.”

  “So I’m supposed to tell your lender that you can’t pay your mortgage because the trees make you sneeze?” I say this with as little sarcasm as I can muster.

  “Oh, it’s worse than that. I get really sick.”

  I nod my head, wondering why in the hell she bought a house that has a million of the trees she’s allergic to three feet from her back door. At any rate, the bank somehow approved the short sale. Kim has not made a mortgage payment in something like a year now, but she’s telling me she doesn’t have enough money to move.

  “But you’re working, right?”

  “Oh, yeah, I just am terrible with money.”

  Do ya think?

  I am honestly at a loss for what to say. I explain that we’ve worked too hard and too long and that the buyer has been waiting ten months for this house. Somehow, I manage to convince her that she needs to find a place to stay. Even her mother’s is an option. She tells me her mother is neurotic. I try not to laugh. At any rate, I am relieved. For a minute there I thought I was going to have to leave redwood branches under her pillow.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  By afternoon, and about forty-two aspirins later, I am feeling a little better. Becky said I should go to yoga to loosen up. I tell her she’s crazy. Maybe it’s the juicing. Besides, with the time change and the cloudy skies, it looks like a good day to curl up at the computer with a hot toddy, whatever that is. First thing I do is e-mail Yoga Barbie and wait for a response. I’m hoping she will get back to me soon so I can start my new post.

  Next, I do a search for Kelly Dean and find the Creating Abundance meditation. It says if I download it onto my computer, then it’s only $19.99, and of course, no shipping. I opt for this version because it’s not only cheaper, but faster, and I’m all about instant gratification. I decide that I will meditate to Kelly Dean five times a day. If Tac does it and is so successful by listening to it once a day, just imagine how well I’ll do if I listen to it more. I start to plan where I’ll put all my awards. I pour myself a glass of wine, remembering that tonight’s ration is only one glass. I will have to take very small sips. I forget this by the third sip.

&nb
sp; Kelly Dean really does have a relaxing voice. I play the recording right there on my computer while it’s downloading onto my player. Even Herman is curled up on my VISA card and practically snoring. I like this Kelly Dean. She’s telling me that I am entitled to great wealth. She says that I can create wealth in my mind first, and what I believe, I can achieve. I wonder if she knows Tony Robbins. I bet they’d make a nice couple. After the thirty-minute session, I hear an e-mail notification. It’s Barbie.

  “Hello, Nala! I’m so sorry to hear about the pink eye! That really is unfortunate, and of course, you’re right, we don’t want everyone at the studio to get infected. Hopefully it heals quickly. And I think your idea on Creating Abundance is fabulous. We all can use a reminder about that! Have a wonderful evening. Hugs and Namaste, Shanza.”

  I listened to Kelly Dean again, but this time wide-awake and with one more glass of wine. This is groundbreaking stuff. It’s hard to only have one glass of wine when I’ve made such an amazing discovery. Between Kelly Dean’s ideas about money and Tony Robbins motivating me every morning, I should own the real estate market by Sunday. Seriously. There is no stopping me now. Knock down my signs, Tac. I’ll show you. After careful consideration and half a bag of wasabi peas, I craft my masterpiece.

  “While most people attribute money as the root of their problems, in reality, our scarcity is really fear-based. Abundance, according to Kelly Dean—meditate on her Creating Abundance program—tells us that we can indeed create an abundant life, if only we trust. Many of us suffer financially, yet fail to see that all of our suffering is self-induced. And really, is it our bank accounts that are empty, or our souls? When we settle into our meditation (and I am recommending at least two ten-minute sessions a day) we are able to feed our spirits in ways that span beyond any words I can share. Think of it as making a bank deposit to your soul. It’s important to remember that abundance is not just about money, either. We can enjoy abundant health, wealth, love, and success.”