by Saeeda Hafiz
The ashram was a controlled environment, but that didn’t mean the outside world never seeped in. During the last week at the ashram, I called home. My mother told me that my nephew, Rahima’s son Daoud, had been abandoned in an Atlanta apartment and was in foster care. It seemed that my sister was on drugs and that no one was there to care for Daoud.
When I got this news, I decided to go to Atlanta whether or not I had an immediate job there. Even though I had applied for jobs nationwide, I wanted to be in Atlanta in the hope that my sister might see me as a rung for her to grab on to. I wanted my sister to know that she had family nearby. I wanted her to see a familiar lighthouse while she was swirling in her own mysterious Bermuda Triangle.
The day I received the news about my sister and her little boy, participation in the evening Satsang was different. Turning the page to the chant we’d been asked to find in the booklet, the soft pages fell open, and that time my heart felt hollow as if the blood was pouring out of it. I had a new hole in my heart and I could feel my heart breaking.
News from my family, often bad, made me physically sick, but this time I felt that I had the tools to help me. Sivananda provided an atmosphere that fed me good food and two Hatha yoga classes daily, spiritual scriptures to read, meditations to ponder, and chants to sing. That night one particular chant gave me a glimmer of hope for my sister.
The chant was called “Hey Durga-Ma.” It evokes the power of different Hindu goddesses, Durga, Kali, and Lakshmi, just to name a few.
My sister was a goddess in her own right. I was certain that she was looking for her way home, if only someone would evoke her personal power. The chant Ma Durga called out to each of the Hindu goddesses, beginning each name with the word “Ma” as an invocation of the divine mother. We sang, “Hey Ma Durga, Ma Durga!” I extended verses to include my sister’s name, “Ma Rahima, Ma Rahima.” I chanted this over and over each day. I didn’t have a pretty voice, but I sang a throat sound directed toward her heart. I visualized her hearing my tone and feeling my embrace. I mentally pictured her in a safe place, while I was still brokenhearted.
While I was at the ashram, Care International, a company newly based in Atlanta, responded to my résumé. The manager’s secretary called me to set up a phone interview for the position of marketing database manager.
The interview went well. Then I thought, “I can actually move to Atlanta with a job and start my holistic food and yoga business, while being there for my sister.”
* * *
I had not been blissed out for thirty days, as some had predicted I would be, but I did have an encounter with ananda, or Bliss. I did indeed feel high, but Bliss was not like any kind of drug that I knew. My Bliss made me feel a profound sense of satisfaction and salience. I was joyfully alive in this state.
I imagined that my Bliss was not the same kind of high my siblings experienced. My younger brother Omar once told me that my older brother Samir described getting high on crack as a hundred times better than an orgasm. “It’s like busting a nut one thousand times.” He said, “Man, crack is cheap and only lasts a few seconds. I was hooked rrright away. And all I wanna do now is get high. Nothin’ else matters.” Samir’s high was a different kind of bliss. However, I’m sure that my lift-off into Bliss matched his experience of being high. But we took off and landed in two very different places.
My meditating in Padmasana, sitting crossed-legged, was coming from the opposite direction. I couldn’t shoot Bliss in my arm, snort her up my nose, or mix her in with fruit juice. She would not allow me to inhale her through cigarette paper or a pipe. She wouldn’t let me place her on my tongue to be washed down with a fizzy beverage. I could breathe her in, but only straight from the Earth’s atmosphere.
My Bliss required that I merge with her through singing, chanting, gardening, Hatha yoga, cleaning, repeating Om, and reading scripture from holy books. She asked that I breathe fully, expanding my lungs, retaining my breath, and then exhaling deeply. This merged my outside world with my inside space. Finally, she would give me a breath-full kiss of pure energy. She straightened up my spine and lifted my conscious self above my body. I knew that I was still sitting on the ground, but it felt like I was floating, levitating. Then, Bliss softly suggested that I become one with everything around me—no separation. I felt the thing that lots of people have jokingly described as a merge with the cosmos—one with everything. I was sure this feeling lasted longer than my older brother’s crack high, because when I returned to my body, everything mattered.
Bliss asked me to not drop out of life. She asked me to be more loving and serve others because everything in life mattered—my sister, her son, my ashram life, the green cardigan, the fifty dollars to the Nigerian, and my authentic path. But my challenge was to prioritize and discern all that mattered and not become overwhelmed by the weight of it all.
The last day at the ashram, my bags were packed with my new visible and invisible tools. Navigation tools for the world awaiting me. Then Swamji’s words echoed in my mind, “It is easier to be peaceful at the ashram, but the real challenge is being peaceful in the secular world, a world that needs peace more than ever.”
His words scared me.
CHAPTER 9
Hot-lanta
THE FLIGHT FROM NEW YORK CITY back to Pittsburgh was late. Spontaneously, while waiting around in the departure area, I went into a shoulderstand to release that you-have-to-wait tension. There I was in an airport full of people, and I was upside down, feet in the air, standing on my shoulders for two minutes, unafraid of what people would think.
I said goodbye to my Steel City friends and rented a car to drive to Atlanta. Leaving the sparkling side of downtown, I decelerated as I headed east toward the abandoned steel mills of Braddock, Pennsylvania. As if the music was cued up from the soundtrack of my life, the melody of “Hey Durga Ma” vibrated from the car’s radio speakers. Bursting into my own rendition of “Rahima-Ma,” I was determined to evoke the mother goddess that I knew lived inside my sister, the mother goddess that could save her.
* * *
Several days later, I arrived in Atlanta. I thought about my sister, and how we’d had a similar upbringing but our paths had greatly diverged. I constantly sang the goddess chant using her name along with the name of other goddesses, while adding an affirmation, “I am here. I am your beacon. Find me.”
I don’t know how or if my chanting was working, but one night I had a lucid dream about her.
Rahima was living under a bridge like a troll. The bridge reminded me of the Duquesne Bridge that connected our old neighborhood, Rankin, to Homestead. There was broken glass and needles everywhere. It was dark, with only one highway light working, and the air was sharp with the stench of urine. I was frightened, but felt like I needed to be there to watch over her. I wanted to run from it all as I saw her crawling on her belly through sewage and sludge.
I woke up chanting “Rahima-Ma,” and I could still smell the pee from under that bridge. Next, I showered, meditated, and then visualized my sister becoming strong enough to worm her way out of that crack-high hole and live the meaning of her name—peaceful and safe. At this time, I felt like the only help I could offer her was invisible, because her situation was becoming worse and I didn’t know where she was and she didn’t know that I was in Atlanta.
Meanwhile, my Atlanta life was about firmly planting myself into fertile soil. I was now living in a place where Martin Luther King Jr., had had a dream, where historically black colleges like Morehouse and Spelman had been built, and where there were plenty of successful African American men and women living in million-dollar homes in black neighborhoods. They were doctors, lawyers, investment bankers, and entrepreneurs. It was easy for me to feel I was the least accomplished person in the crowd. Atlanta was the place for me to implement my new intentions and vision, which was living a dynamic, organic life. Perhaps it would land me in the middle class, b
ut just being middle class was no longer the goal. I wanted to find my own way, even if it wasn’t a popular one.
* * *
In Atlanta, the Black Mecca, being That Black Girl was how every young African American woman was living; it was the status quo—the young African American career woman drove a nice new car, dated her socioeconomic counterpart, and was usually from another city, where she was the most educated one in her group. After she received her bachelor’s or master’s degree, she made her professional pilgrimage to the Black Mecca. I did the same. But I was also looking for my sister and I didn’t quite fit the image of That Black Girl anymore. My spiritual foundation had evolved, and just fitting into the black middle class wasn’t my aim anymore. I wanted to fit into my true holistic, spiritual nature inspired by the Asian philosophy of Taoism. I aspired to become what I called That Tao Girl.
As That Tao Girl, I was spending more money on quality sea vegetables and organic produce, instead of on a leased BMW and other status symbols. Luxuries went into my body, as opposed to on my body. I knew that material things did not motivate me, and I was beginning to tap into my heart’s true desire. I wanted to learn how to balance yin and yang energies in my life at last.
When I first arrived in Atlanta, I stayed with Stacey, a friend from the INROADS days. “I see myself as supporting others on their path,” she said when I asked her why she was letting me live at her place until I found a suitable living situation.
“That’s cool. It’s nice that you don’t seem to have an agenda for me,” I said, thinking back to when I first met Stacey. We were at an INROADS alumni conference at the San Francisco Hyatt Hotel. She and I were on the alumni board of directors, recent graduates from college. We weren’t fast friends at the meetings, but that soon changed when she noticed that I was reading The Tao of Pooh. In an instant, on the elevator, Stacey went from the president of our board to a hip girl I could talk to about my Taoist philosophy. We must have talked that night for several hours. She was a person who “got” me, even though she was a Wharton graduate from the University of Pennsylvania.
“People become successful in different ways, doing different things,” Stacey said. “Besides, I’ve seen you teach. You transform into Saeeda-Sensei. You could have a successful business teaching yoga.”
I smiled humbly. I didn’t know if I transformed when I taught, but part of me, the everyday Saeeda, seemed to leave the class. It felt like something else within or outside of me took over the class. Perhaps that was part of my destiny. Stacey’s words calmed and encouraged me. She was the first person from the black intelligentsia who supported me as That Tao Girl.
But while I was becoming That Tao Girl, who was supporting my sister and what was she becoming?
* * *
It was winter 1993, and I was twenty-seven years old. All at the same time, I had secured positions in Atlanta as a live-in macrobiotic chef, a corporate marketing database manager, and a yoga instructor. I was the first yoga instructor Peachtree Center Athletic Club (PCAC) had ever hired, and this was my first professional yoga job.
Immediately, I noticed that some students projected images on to me. Some thought that I could heal their physical ailments. Others thought that I would cross-train their type-A training workouts by adding a deep stretch. Some thought that I would be a spiritual beacon who would guide them toward peace. Still others thought I would help them attain a body that would look like mine, long and lean.
At the end of each class, inevitably someone would ask me a personal question about my life based on their own yoga practice. “Saeeda, what led you to yoga? Did you always have that kind of body? Are you vegan or vegetarian? Did you chose your spiritual name yourself? Do you only teach yoga? Are you naturally flexible and disciplined? Saeeda, did you always want to live this kind of lifestyle?”
Each question triggered my definition and redefinition of my life’s path. One day I had an intense spiritual conversation with a PCAC massage therapist colleague.
“How did you make your way here to Atlanta from Pittsburgh?” he asked.
“I set my intentions, visualized, and meditated on it,” I responded.
“Wow! And you got it just like that?”
“No, not just like that. I did what my spiritual teacher taught me: First you set up your intention, the invisible energy, and then go out in the world and do the work,” I explained.
He crinkled his brow. “You mean you are not one of those spiritual types who just says this is what I want, and if it is meant to be it will happen?”
“No. I’m the spiritual type that does the work in three parts. First, I set my intentions, visualize, and meditate. Second, I make the calls, post the flyers, and do the work needed to make it happen. And last, I’m grateful and acknowledge whatever the outcome is,” I said.
“You have a good spiritual teacher,” he nodded. “And you are a good spiritual teacher, too.”
“I understand that we are spirits living in human bodies, which means we have weaknesses to overcome. I feel my biggest weakness is that if I don’t have to do it, I won’t. So I have to set up my life in a way that gets me out of bed,” I told him.
“Really, you seem so disciplined,” he said.
“I’m not. I just look at things long-term, or thoroughly. If being a drug addict wasn’t so much work, I would have loved to just escape from this life,” I said.
He chuckled.
“I am the kind of spiritual person who finds it easier to use her effort, putting her sail in the direction of the wind instead of just letting the boat drift. And it’s easier than rowing.”
He laughed. “Rrr-ight.”
I went on to tell him that living this holistic lifestyle is as much practical as it is spiritual. I teach what it is I need to learn. I create venues that require me to show up. This way, I can learn and earn at the same time. For example, if I want a healthier body, different from those of my family members, then I need to practice and teach yoga, and cook and eat whole foods mostly from plants. I reported to him how my family members managed their sicknesses, and it seemed much harder to me than living a healthier lifestyle.
He agreed. He sadly mentioned how his Midwestern family was overweight and thought that massage therapy is not a “real” job.
* * *
When Rahima got settled in Atlanta a while back, she had told my mother that she was hired at a fancy seafood place where some of the Atlanta elite dine. I called the Crab House looking for my sister.
“I understand Rahima Hafiz works as a hostess in your restaurant,” I said to the woman who answered the phone.
“Uh, you’ll have to speak to a manager,” she said.
“Okay. Can I speak to a manager?” I asked.
“You’re going to have to call back. We’re setting up for dinner hour,” she explained.
The calls went like this for the better part of a week, until I finally got more news.
“Rahima used to work here, but we don’t have any more information. Sorry.”
That night, I cried myself to sleep…chanting Rahima-Ma.
* * *
Craig had non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma and needed a macrobiotic live-in chef for his health. He interviewed me and offered me the job. When I accepted, I remembered what my bank mentor, Ted, had said to me. “You’ll move into someone’s house and they will probably murder you. People don’t want to eat this kind of cooking,” I told him. “I only need one person who wants to eat this way; it’s not for the majority of people.” I wanted to prove Ted wrong.
As I pulled my rental car into Craig’s semi circular driveway, I noticed the big tall trees that surrounded his house. The area was close to the center of the city, yet it had an antebellum, rural feeling. Though it was 1993, looking at the trees surrounding the house, I felt my racial ancestors stir within me. Not having traveled at all to the South, but being educated about th
e plight of black folks there, starting with slavery and Reconstruction stories, I had strange thoughts of black bodies being lynched or hiding out in these trees. Billie Holiday’s song “Strange Fruit” played through my mind. It was a feeling I hadn’t expected.
I got out of my car, softly treading along the paved walkway as if it were rice paper that I didn’t want to tear. I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to act or who I was supposed to be. I caught myself firmly gripping my Day-Timer binder, leaving fingerprints of perspiration on the leather, and thinking, What will this new adventure hold? Could my banking mentor be right? Will I be in harm’s way living with a stranger? Can I do this kind of job?
I wasn’t Jacques Pepin, the famous French American chef, about to live in the house of the French president. I also wasn’t hired help for a busy suburban housewife with three kids. My new duties felt unique. I felt unique. I was about to embark upon something that felt significant, which also made me anxious. I had never done anything like this before.
Craig opened the door, standing about six feet tall, and greeted me in a friendly manner. He showed me around. I walked through his ranch-style house, which reminded me of the house on “The Brady Bunch,” especially because the kitchen had an island sink and stove that opened up into the eating area, just like on the TV show.
We sat down in the family room. I noticed that he was quite skinny and fragile. Then he removed his baseball hat. His head was bald, due to the radiation treatments for his cancer. But when we discussed at length the cooking schedule and details, I could tell that his spirit was strong. He described what he liked and didn’t like about the healing diet. I hadn’t expected to laugh much, but he was funny. He had the kind of laugh that said, “I might be sick, but I want to survive.” When he smiled, it was bright.