Secrets of a Spiritual Guru (Guru 1)

by Tamara Dorris

  “Kind of.”

  “And he wants to leave her?”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “But that your posts are helping their relationship?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you only paid for ten minutes?”

  Out of pity, I am sure, Crystal Visions throws in a few extra minutes. The woman is a saint. She talks about integrity. I tell her about my racist lesbian client. She says my client is a mirror. I assure her I am not racist, and I like guys. She explains that what she means is that I am a walking contradiction myself. She tells me that I cannot be a spiritual guru when the very way I am being one is based on a lie. She also tells me that I need to meditate on integrity for both my lesbian racist client and myself.

  Wisely, Crystal did not give me any answers about Ron. I think she wants me to come to my own conclusion. It seems like her biggest concern/direction is helping me get my karma clean, which it can’t be when I’m a big fat liar. She made me see that lying about being a spiritual master (her words, not mine) was kind of like a slap in the spiritual face to all masters. I am ashamed and quickly do an Internet search to see if there might be an ashram in India I can run away to.

  My consciousness kept me up all night. Either that or the frozen pizza I found frosted to the bottom of my freezer and didn’t cook long enough. I’ve gotten to where I am eating mostly healthy salads at night, with no alcohol. I guess I shouldn’t have soaked myself in self-pity and undercooked frozen pizza, plus a bottle of cheap merlot.

  If joining a convent or ashram are not viable options, then I have to figure out what I want to do. I know for sure I will have to stop blogging. I guess I still have to decide about Ron. I mean, winning him back on my terms was the whole idea, right?

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I’m feeling sleepless in Sacramento as I sip my coffee and stare blankly at my computer screen. I decide to go to the office because I know if I stay home, I will eat, drink, and worry about not being married. Oh, then there’s that whole burning in Hell for all my lies thing. Right about now, though, I am deeply regretting said decision.

  I have intentionally not even spoken to Tac all morning. When he said hello, I pretended I was so busy that I couldn’t even take the time to respond. I nodded briefly and did not make eye contact. I still cannot believe that he had the gall to tell Nala I liked him. It occurs to me that this is merely a perfect example of his immaturity. As if I would give the time of day to someone so juvenile. I’ve seen him and Stan exchange glances when they see a pretty agent or lender come to the office. He doesn’t fool me for a minute. I’m guessing that he thinks because he’s Mr. Top Producer, and sort of (I mean, marginally) handsome that any girl is going to like him. Ha! He’s so wrong.

  I don’t think I really heard anyone come in, being that I’m all comatose, insulted by Tac and confused about Ron, but when Becky’s on a roll of excitement, it’s pretty hard to miss it if you’re anywhere in the tri-county region. Now she’s oohing and ahhing over something, and I hear a male voice that I’m pretty sure doesn’t belong to Broker Bert.

  “Sure, go on back,” she says.

  Then suddenly I see a mass of red and Ron, and Becky trailing close behind him.

  Roses? Ron?

  Out of the side of my eye, I see Tac look up at the massive bouquet of flowers. The good me wants to cower down into a child’s pose, but the egotistical me is jumping up and down and shaking a champagne bottle. My boyfriend is running back into my arms with roses, and both Tac and Becky are here to witness it. It’s so intoxicating in a kind of dirty way. Becky stands there long enough to check my expression, so now I feel like I’m on stage. I smile curtly at her, and she turns to go back to her desk. Tac is acting like he’s not impressed.

  For a moment, I am not sure what to say. I guess this is obvious because Ron says, “I just wanted to bring these for you.”

  It’s like another me is reaching for the bouquet. I mean, you don‘t turn away a dozen long-stemmed roses. And I’m not being greedy. Am I supposed to hurt Ron’s feelings, sending him back into Barbie’s arms when he went to all this trouble?

  “Well, I’m not sure you should have done this,” I say, making sure the roses are within my grasp before I say it.

  “There’s a note,” he says, motioning to the mini-envelope lying on top. I only nod, suddenly trying to remember if I put makeup on this morning.

  “So, listen,” he says, sheepishly, “if you don’t have a date for Thanksgiving, then I’d be happy to come with you to your mom’s place.”

  “Actually, I’m bringing a friend already,” I say.

  He does not look like he believes me, so in some kind of automatic idiot effort, I say, “Yes, I’ve invited Tac.” Those words tumbled out of my mouth before checking with my brain. I have no idea why I said that, and based on Tac’s expression, which is now facing us, I see he is equally surprised.

  “You have?” he asks, almost blowing my cover.

  However, he sees the desperation in my eyes and quickly acquiesces.

  “That’s right, you asked me last week…sorry, busy day.” He turns back around, ignoring us, probably planning on how he will rub my face in this for the next two centuries. I know I will pay for it. I could have said anyone on the planet, but I have to pick my arch-enemy who is a Leo.

  Ron looks sad but understanding. He steps closer, presumably so Tac won’t hear, and speaking in a low voice, says, “I pick you over Shanza, if you ever change your mind.” He kisses my cheek and turns to go. And there I am, holding my red roses, when Tac turns around and says in a most eerily annoying voice, “Shanza?”

  Crap.

  I go into the mail room to see if I can find a vase. After all, a girl doesn’t get roses very often. Knowing Becky has gotten flowers something like thirteen times in the past few years—I haven’t kept track because I’m not that kind of person—I figure there’s a vase in here. I find one up on a shelf, and I stand on my tiptoes to reach it. In walks Tac, being all taller and everything, and he reaches up and swipes the vase, waving it in front of me like a third grader.

  “So, let me get this straight. Your boyfriend’s been seeing Shanza? No wonder you acted so weird that day; you didn’t want to meet her.”

  He assumes an expression like he’s the most brilliant person on the planet. He’s taunting me, and I want to punch him. I swear if I had pigtails he would pull them. This day really might have ended better if I’d just stayed home and drank drain cleaner.

  “After I dumped him, they met.” I disregard him and yank the vase from his hand. He watches me as I fill it with water, sticking my roses in, breaking at least two of them from the sheer force in which I am jamming them into the small opening. I head back to my desk. Damn him and his stupid hair.

  I put the vase on my desk, not even reading the card, and without the excitement I could have had if things were not so messed up, and I head out. Just as I’m nearing Becky’s desk, Tac hollers nice and loudly.

  “I’ll need your mom’s address.”

  Becky shoots me a delightfully surprised look. I shake my head, wishing I had a toilet to stick it in. And now I get to go show my racist lesbian houses. I am worried about my driving. Quite frankly, I’m concerned that I’m not breathing very much. I think of Dawn and yoga and try to find my breath. I am pretty sure I left it at my desk. I feel like calling Becky and asking her to check.

  “Hi there!” Maggie says. I do not even notice that she is wearing a darling sweater dress.

  “How are you?” I ask, smiling at both of them.

  We go inside the house. They both like it. Amy seems really pleased. We walk outside, me a bit in front of them because Maggie is holding on to Amy’s arm, whispering about how much she loves it. Then, standing in front of my car, Amy says, “So, we like it. But before we write an offer…um…is there any way to get the demographics?” She is testing my patience.

  I tell her, “You can go to our company website and put in the zip code
to get crime rate, tenant, and owner demographics…even socioeconomic stats.”

  “Well, that’s a start, but that’s a whole zip code. I only care, you know, who our neighbors are.” She’s looking around like zombies might be listening. Now Maggie lets out a sigh and rolls her eyes.

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” I say, holding her stare.

  “Well, I’d just like to know we’re not mixing in with the wrong kind of people.”

  Now I am sure I have lost all signs of sanity. I can’t see anything but red roses and bright lights. Am I having a heart attack? A nervous breakdown? And then, just when I am sure I will pass out, I hear my unfaithful mouth say, “Why don’t you just knock on all the doors and ask if any black people live there?”

  Uh oh.

  Amy looks at me like maybe she will kick me with her big biker boots, and Maggie looks afraid. Then, as if a little angel out of nowhere struck Amy silly with her good fairy dust, Amy cracks up. Maggie lets out a breath of relief and laughs too. Not having any idea what to do, I smile like an idiot.

  “I like your spunk,” Amy says. Then she rubs the back of her neck, looks around at the other cars parked in surrounding driveways and says, “What the hell, let’s write it up.”

  This has been the oddest day ever.

  When I walk in the door, I decide I am not going to sink any lower by eating badly or drinking on a weeknight. Instead, I grab a glass of water and go into my office. Herman wants me to pet him, but I decide I have to e-mail Barbie before I chicken out.

  “Dear Shanza, It is with deep regret that I must relinquish my blogger assignment. This is for personal reasons, and I am very sorry for any inconvenience. Please forgive me. I wish you well, always. Namaste, Nala.

  (kind of)

  I sit back and wonder if Tac is really coming next Thursday.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  One-legged balancing poses have been a tough nut to crack. God gave us two legs for a reason, right? I’m rather fond of the standing bow pose, though, because I get to be a bow, but I can’t hold it too long. Anyway, taking yoga off the mat, it’s a great metaphor for life: balance. I actually haven’t felt more balanced, physically, in my entire life. I’ve been eating well, drinking tons of water, and the wine I do drink on the weekends must certainly get diluted with all that water.

  Plus, I’ve been doing yoga religiously, listening to Kelly Dean and Tony Robbins, and even counting these damn prayers beads in meditation most mornings. The idea of prayer beads, I think, is that if you finger them one at a time while you meditate, this gives your busy mind (and fingers?) something to keep it present and not wandering around the Milky Way like minds tend to do.

  All that said, I’m wondering how, with all of these positive changes, I’m still feeling so unbalanced in my emotions. I have to admit, quitting the blogging job gave me some relief, but boy, I sure loved it. And winning Ron back was one of the main goals, but I’m not sure I even want him. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve betrayed Barbie, and that’s really got me scratching my head. Even Tac has got me off balance. Is he really coming to my mom’s for Thanksgiving? Does he think I’m at all interested in him that way? My mind is reeling. I stay home today to think, but send a text to Becky to water my roses.

  She texts me back, “I think it’s so cool you invited Tac for TG!”

  “It was an accident. Doubt he’ll come.”

  “He just said he is.”

  “I’m suspicious.”

  “Listen, he’s hot and he likes you, get over it. Or, is it Ron u want?”

  Now she’s getting nosy, and truth be told, I don’t have any idea what I think about Tac. I want to tell her no, Tac is really sprung on Nala, but then, how would I know that? The good news is that I have decided something about Ron. I write him an e-mail.

  “Dear Ron, Thank you for the roses. I have to say, at one point I really was waiting for the day you came back, realizing I was the one you wanted. However, I’m sorry to say, I’ve changed and am no longer the same person who was wishing you’d never left. I hope we can be friends. PS. I am sorry I burned your hiking boots. I was mad. Warmly, Melissa.”

  I hit send, and at the moment see that Barbie has responded. I swallow hard. I just was hoping she would never say anything else to me. I should have told her I died.

  “Nala, I’m sorry, I don’t understand? Have I done something to offend you? With all due respect, if this is about money, just let me know. I will pay you gratefully. Your posts are so popular, award-winning really, so I am baffled and concerned. Please reply. Shanza.”

  The first thing I notice is that she didn’t end her message with Namaste. I decide to e-mail her right back.

  “I’ve been dishonest with you. I am the one Ron lived with when he left me for you. I have grown to love blogging for you and like you more than I like Ron. I need to bow out so you two can be happy. I am so sorry for betraying you. You are a wonderful person. Warmly, Melissa.”

  I stare at the screen for a minute wondering if I should send it. Will this kill her? The shock, I mean. I think about calling Crystal Visions, but I already know she would tell me to send it, and I really don’t need to pay forty-eight dollars for that. I pet Herman, who is arching his back, very happy to serve as my distraction. Poor Barbie. This is going to hit her hard. I mean, losing her best blogger and her man on the same day? Maybe Ron will bring her roses, too. I should text him.

  I send it.

  Satisfied that I have just had some self-served karma, I do a downward dog. A few asanas will help ground me from this crazy week. I’m sure there must be some benefit for serving yourself karma, right? Admitting the crime and facing the victim has got to have some kind of integrity perks. Bonus points seem fair. It’s like going to the police department and saying you’re the one they want. Maybe doing it over e-mail was kind of cowardly, but then again, my entire relationship with Barbie has been online.

  I’m on the floor in my home office, doing an upward dog now, feeling my breath like I’m supposed to, when I hear my e-mail notification. Part of me wants to stay on the floor. Maybe just never open anymore e-mails from Shanza ever again. I know! I can block her or cancel the account. Now I’m being horrible. I get up to see what she says. I am so nervous and ashamed.

  “Melissa? I’m not even sure what to say. The universe certainly works in mysterious ways. I guess, first, I want to say, I am so sorry. Had I known that Ron was living with you, well, you must believe that I wouldn’t have become involved with him. He and I have tried to mesh lifestyles, but it has proven impossible. He moved out two days ago, with my blessings. In fact, I suggested he attempt to make amends with you, if that is something you might consider.

  Now, about the blog. While I don’t know a single thing about you, I do know that you have amazing insight and that your posts have gotten us several hundred followers and more than a dozen new members. Let’s not forget all the other sites reposting and nominating us for awards. You yourself taught me the importance of forgiving, so please understand, I forgive you for any un-truths you’ve told. I can understand what you must have been feeling. However, now that we are on an honest foundation, I would like to propose that we make a fresh start. You keep writing. OK?

  Coming forward took a lot of courage, and I honor you for that. Namaste, Shanza.”

  What does one say to an e-mail like that? I respond with:

  If I do this, continue on, you’d have to promise to protect my real identity. I could never let Ron or my readers know that Nala is someone different. I mean, after all, like you said, I have insight.

  Barbie: Of course.

  OK, I’m feeling pretty good about my new almost honest approach. I mean, it’s not like I can break Tac’s heart or anything by letting him know both Nala and Melissa can’t stand him.

  Chapter Forty

  I check my email before I do my monthly beauty treatment that I do every six months. I am shocked at what I read:

  “Dear Miss Murphy,
Thank you very much for your repeated emails, and no, we are not ignoring you, however, Tony has a very busy schedule and is unable to respond to your questions personally. He does offer a coaching program, as well as seminars, however, so perhaps you would like to explore these possibilities? Sincerely, R.M. Watlkins, Tony Robbins, Inc.”

  Hmmpf.

  Admittedly, I kind of thought Tony was ignoring me. I assumed he would respond to my emails, read my blog, and fall deeply and passionately in love with me. Clearly, this R.M. Watkins fellow didn’t really read all of my emails or he would have seen the one where I mentioned (casually, of course) that I was nominated for spiritual blogger of the year. I decide I can’t hold a grudge against Tony for an employee who obviously missed a key point, and I will give him another chance. I may have to investigate this coaching opportunity that Mr. Watkins seemed to imply would be a good way to meet Tony in person.

  I used to hate it when I was growing up and my mother told me not to do something, which was exactly enough reason to do it. Inevitably, there would be a disastrous outcome and she would rub it in my face like she was the great and might Oz. Anyway, apparently old habits die hard and it seems that Ron was right about not flushing kitty litter down the toilet.

  I have a mud mask on my face, my hair hasn’t been washed since March, and I need to go to the grocery store to buy some stuff to unclog the drain. I do a quick rinse of my face--green mud mostly removed--and stick a baseball hat over this mess I call my hair. Because I’m not a big fan of what you see is what you get, I decide it best to go a few miles out of my way and hit a grocery store I never go to. I mean, can you imagine if I see someone I know looking like this? I shudder at the thought as I pull my baggy gray sweatpants up around my waist, feeling fragile over the whole Tony Robbins thing.

  What happens next is kind of in slow motion, only really fast. Does that make sense? Like when you trip walking down the aisle at your best friend’s wedding, accidentally tearing the train of her dress. That was a bad day. Anyway, it’s kind of surreal like that. Here I am, sneaking in the store on the down low. I successfully locate said drain stuff, slip through the 10 Items or Less Lane like a real pro, and manage to get back in the parking lot before making eye contact with even one person. I feel like a proud warrior, but then I see him. Tac. My inner self says, run, hurry, get in the car and drive away, fast! But the other part of me, the mean Melissa, she wants to see what he’s up to. I mean, if I absolutely had to admit it, he is a little easy on the eyes, but being the arrogant guy he is, I would never admit that to anyone. Ever.