“Everything is energy,” she said. “Everything vibrates. The more you meditate, the more sensitive you will become to energy and vibration.” I held a brand-new $20 next to an old, grimy, crumpled $20. She was right; the difference was immense.
During our first class, she rose from her chair, walked to the front of the small stage, looked at all of us to make sure we were listening, and said emphatically, “Tantra does not mean sex. How ridiculous. People are confused.”
She paused, shifted her weight, played a bit with the wire from her microphone. Then she continued. “Tantra got confused with sex because tantric monks do everything; nothing in life is off-limits for us unless it interferes with our ability to keep our minds stable. Tantric monks have romantic relationships, have sex, eat meat. Tantric monks live; they live life. They live in the world. It is the hardest path there is, the most intense, the most difficult, because we do not lock ourselves away from the world in an ashram. Instead, we live in the world and use every-thing—every day, every experience—as our spiritual practice. Our minds become the ashram.” She paused again and allowed her words to sink in.
“This is a no-bullshit path,” she continued. “You have to be a warrior to walk this path. Anyone can act saintly closed away in an ashram on top of a pristine mountain. Try to act saintly jammed in a Manhattan subway car on your way home from a fifteen-hour work day.”
She was wearing dark jeans, black high-heeled designer boots, and a perfectly fitted eggplant-colored jacket with a stylish silk scarf tied around her neck. Her long hair was pulled off her face. She was stunning. She looked like a warrior to me. She looked like she could kick my ass in those boots and not even mess up her hair. She sat down. The room was silent. We were all in awe.
She continued, “Our path is the path of the Bodhisattva. We are not doing this for ourselves. Everything we do, everything we practice, all the trials we go through will enable us to serve others. If you are walking this path only for yourself, you will fail. It is too difficult. Only with the sincere desire to serve others will you survive. Only with the sincere desire to serve others will you make the changes you need to make.”
More silence.
Another dramatic pause.
And then, “Work is going to become your spiritual path. I will coach you. I will guide you. You will excel in your careers. You will get promoted. You will make more money. You will work your asses off. And you will dedicate every moment at your job to the Divine. Your work will be an all-day—sometimes allnight—offering to the Divine.”
She continued, “Almost nobody does this. Nobody spends every second at work utterly focused on the task at hand. Everybody is distracted. Social media, text messaging, online dating. Imagine how quickly you will be promoted if you are the one person bringing the best of yourself to every moment at your job.”
She explained more about Bodhisattvas—beings who incarnate over and over in order to help ease the suffering of humanity. She said it was our job to create financial abundance and stability of mind so that we could help others. “How much assistance can you give to others if you are struggling to pay your rent? How much of yourself and your time can you offer if you are obsessed with and bogged down by your own cravings?” Then she told us some of the tasks her spiritual teacher had given her: She had to get a black belt in karate, learn to scuba-dive in freezing polluted water, jump out of an airplane, become a project manager, and get a job on Wall Street—all of which she accomplished before she turned thirty. This path seriously rocked!
I loved that I could be spiritual in a way that increased the size of my life rather than shrank it. I loved that I could be spiritual in nice clothing, driving a nice car, rocking a high-powered career, doing things I loved, rather than stuffing myself in a church or ashram. Everyone I had met in my life thus far that had claimed the title of “religious” or “spiritual” seemed self-righteous and hypocritical and unhappy and mean, as if they were depriving themselves of the fun in life and then angry with everyone else out there having fun. I had tried being Catholic, and it simply had not worked for me. Then I read about other religions, and they all seemed the same: over-structured and damning. Except Buddhism. But I thought all Buddhists lived lives of austerity. Lakshmi was telling me I could still have fun in life, still enjoy the pleasures of it, and still be spiritual. And not only could I make money and have nice things and still be spiritual, but that it was my duty to do so. I had never been exposed to anything like this. It was utterly perfect for me.
In the beginning, she suggested we make small changes. “You can tell the state of somebody’s mind just by looking at that person’s desk or home. The clutter in your home, your car, your computer, and your life is a reflection of your mind. Clean up the clutter in your life, and you will clean up the clutter in your mind,” she said. “Think military precision. Those men and women fold their underwear to within an inch of its life. Imagine how sharp their minds are. Imagine how much easier it is for them to meditate.”
I went home and tidied up everything. Soon, my lingerie was folded to within an inch of its life.
She told us to begin paying much more attention to our thoughts and our words. Mindfulness, she called it. “If you want to get rid of the thoughts in your head, and the majority of our thoughts cause us pain, so we do want to get rid of them, start with the negative thoughts. Stop complaining—in your mind and out loud. Stop gossiping. You will have cut down your mind chatter by more than half if you do this.” I began to pay attention to my thoughts and was shocked at how much of my mind space was filled up with whining, complaining, and gossiping. I stopped. It felt amazing!
I did everything she suggested. I read all the books. I watched all the movies. And my life started changing. I noticed my mind became sharper. Things I needed to remember would instantly pop into my attention at just the right time. I had much more energy and started to feel happier and lighter. I felt so alive. The world suddenly seemed magical. I meditated every morning and every night without fail; I never missed a day.
Lakshmi always opened our sessions with a meditation, followed by a talk, and then she took questions from the students. She ended the first half of the night with another meditation. Next, we had our half-hour break, during which we mingled outside the meeting room and loaded up on cookies, brownies, coffee, and tea. We were told the sugar and caffeine helped “balance out the energy.” Lakshmi opened the second half of the night with a meditation, followed by a discussion of the assigned books and movies. She then answered a few more questions and closed with a final meditation.
She taught us to meditate to music, using headphones. Music and headphones, she explained, created a buffer against the psychic noise of seven billion people. “People broadcast thought,” she told us, “the way a radio tower broadcasts a signal. Whether we realize it or not, all of us are susceptible to absorbing the thoughts of others. That’s why just being around certain people, without even speaking to them, makes us anxious, or angry, or depressed, or optimistic, or calm. We are picking up on the predominant genre, the vibration, of their thoughts. Headphones,” she said, “help create a bubble of unimpeded space. The music can be used as a tool to focus in the present. You can focus on each note of the music, or you can focus on your third-eye or heart chakra, or you can chant the word ‘Om’ inside your mind. You can rotate these tools so that when the thoughts arise (which they always do), you have three different ways to shift your attention away from them.”
After the first night with her, we were assigned to meditate twice a day at home: three songs on the third-eye chakra in the morning and two songs on the heart chakra at night. I loved this part of the practice, although I was not very good at meditating. I couldn’t stop the thoughts, but I did get rewarded with milliseconds of silence that were so pristine, so peaceful and blissful, that I had to keep trying for more. When these tiny moments occurred, I would get flooded with the knowledge that I was more than just my body, that I was an eternal Being
of Light. In this state of mind, no matter how fleeting, I knew through the depths of my being that nothing really mattered, that there was never anything to be afraid of, that everything in my life, in everybody’s life, was unfolding perfectly. I began to crave these moments the way an addict craves drugs, and I slowly but surely became willing to do whatever it took to access them more regularly.
We typically had no contact with Lakshmi between the weekend classes, and the only way we could speak to her during a class was if she called on us to ask a question. Additionally, we never knew when or where our next meeting would take place; the invitation would arrive by e-mail a week or two in advance, making it very difficult to make weekend plans.
There was, however, a way to have more contact with her. During our first class, Lakshmi said she needed volunteers to help with her events. Those of us who signed up stayed after class and met with Vishnu.
Vishnu was Lakshmi’s first line of defense against the outside world; any exchange with her had to go through him first. Vishnu was handsome, in his mid-forties, muscular, well dressed, and carried himself like he was Secret Service. He usually wore an expensive dark suit without a tie, mirrored sunglasses, and highly polished black shoes. On the ring finger of his left hand he wore a shining silver ring, like Lakshmi’s gold one. He was meticulously groomed and on the rare occasion I got close enough, I noticed he always smelled great.
Vishnu drove Lakshmi everywhere in an immaculately clean Audi SUV with heavily tinted windows. When Lakshmi entered a seminar, she did so escorted by Vishnu. They would walk in, we would all stand, and Vishnu would help Lakshmi onto the stage. He would remain standing, legs apart, large masculine hands clasped in front of his pelvis, chest puffed out, until she sat. Then he would sit, facing the audience, in the chair that was always next to the stage. Vishnu looked like a bouncer, but a sophisticated bouncer. And the energy surrounding him said, I will kick your ass. I actually kind of want to kick your ass.
When Lakshmi left a seminar, Vishnu would escort her out of the ballroom, and a security team made up of student volunteers, mostly young military men, all dressed in black, with sunglasses and wires coming out of their ears—like mini-Vishnus—would be waiting at the closest exit with the car. They would surround it as he and Lakshmi got in and drove away. We learned that Vishnu was Lakshmi’s first student and had been studying with her for close to ten years. None of us knew for sure if they were dating, but the rumor was that they were. They fit perfectly, they matched each other, they both reeked of power, and in our minds they were the ultimate couple. Vishnu treated Lakshmi like royalty, like a goddess, like his sole purpose on earth was to serve and protect her. I have to say, it was incredibly sexy.
As volunteers, we reported to Vishnu. We arrived early to events, and we did whatever he asked of us. I was in charge of the linens that covered the tables, including Lakshmi’s small stage table. It was my job to place them on the tables, collect them after the event, and get them dry-cleaned and pressed. I was also in charge of picking up the flower arrangements: one for the registration desk and one for the stage. My responsibilities soon increased to handling the audio, as well. I had to test the small clip-on microphone that Lakshmi wore, check the speakers and the volume of the music, and plug in a small device that recorded each evening’s talks. Eventually, I was also put in charge of Lakshmi’s chair. I would remove it from a cardboard shipping box on Friday nights and would place it back into the box at the end of the seminar on Saturday evening. This, of course, was a huge honor. It meant I was “energetically clean” enough to touch her chair; no one else was allowed to.
The events were run with complete precision. Every detail was perfect, from the very simple yet elegant flower arrangements to the meticulous alignment of the chairs to the exact centering on the table of the crease in the linen that covered it. Lakshmi did not mess around; anything out of place was a reflection of her and she took her job “to get us to the highest states of mind possible” very seriously.
Volunteers were allowed to ask her one question between events by writing a letter. In my letter, I asked for career advice. I was ready for a change. I had been dancing professionally for close to ten years and wanted something different. Opening a dance studio of my own seemed like the next step, but for some reason, that felt like a dead end to me.
Shortly after submitting my letter, I got a call from Vishnu; he told me to arrive early for the next class and that Lakshmi would meet with me in the back of the event room. I arrived early, incredibly nervous, and saw two chairs set up facing each other in the far corner of the room. A member of the security team approached me and told me to sit in the chair facing the corner. He then disappeared and returned a moment later with Lakshmi, who sat down in the chair across from me, with only two feet of space separating us. She was dressed in all black and looked stunning. She smelled like flowers. Her eyes sparkled. The moment she sat I felt like I was being sandblasted with light and could barely remain in my body. I lost sensation in all of my limbs. I felt as if I was dissolving.
She told me that she read my letter and that she agreed it was time for me to retire from dancing. I held my breath, scared to hear what was coming next, worried she was going to suggest a career I could not do. With her next sentence she suggested that I start a career in computer programming. In ancient times, she explained, monks would stare at mandalas, memorizing the intricate patterns in order to sharpen their minds so that they could meditate better. Computer programming, she told me, was the modern-day version of this. Plus, she noted, a career in computer programing paid very well.
I tried to pay attention. The idea of learning to program computers terrified me. In fact, I couldn’t think of anything in life I would be worse at doing. I hardly knew how to check my e-mail.
“Eventually, you will get paid very well to ‘meditate’ all day long,” she said.
I thanked her and bowed, then I left my chair so the next volunteer could meet with her. I signed up for computer-programming classes immediately; they started the following week.
The class I chose was Oracle, one of the most difficult languages. I showed up to my first class frightened, filled with self-doubt. I had to ask how to turn on my computer. I couldn’t find the “on” button. I had been used to using a Mac and hadn’t used a PC for years. Every other person in the class was a professional computer programmer; I immediately labeled myself the class dunce.
Making it through that class was one of the most difficult things I had ever done. I would get frustrated and start to cry in class and get up and go to the bathroom. Then I would shut myself in a stall and cry harder.
I would quote Lakshmi to myself, “If it is not difficult, you are not changing. Anything worth having in life is difficult. Anything worth having in life takes work. If you want to change, you must be uncomfortable. Get used to being uncomfortable. This path is the path of the warrior.”
I would walk to the mirror, look myself in the eyes and say, “If it is not difficult, I’m not changing,” and then I would dry my eyes and walk back to class.
On the day of the final exam, I looked at the test and didn’t understand any of it. I was going to fail. I closed my computer, I put on my headphones, I meditated for three songs on my navel chakra (my power chakra), and then I opened my computer. I knew almost all the answers. I got ninety-eight percent and an A in the class. The instructor called me to congratulate me and told me he was shocked at my progress.
“You should be incredibly proud of yourself,” he said. “What you pulled off is short of a miracle.”
I smiled. Lakshmi had explained that when she gave us a task, we were assisted in accomplishing it by our Enlightened Lineage, that Enlightened Beings who were “not in the body” would support us. This was what it felt like to be assisted by an Enlightened Lineage. I felt invincible.
It was during our third event, in November, that Lakshmi told us about her “senior students.” They were students who had studied with
her Teacher. She had “adopted” them once he had “left the body,” and she taught them monthly seminars, as well. She told us that when her Teacher died, he left open a portal for them, one through which they had seven years to use his energy to reach Enlightenment. (Teacher, we were told, got capitalized when referring to one’s Spiritual Teacher.)
The seventh year was almost up, the portal he left open would be closing soon, and as a final attempt to get them through the “door,” Lakshmi was taking them on a “Power Trip” to the great pyramids of Egypt. She told us it had suddenly occurred to her that some of us might want to go to Egypt with them. Of course I wanted to go. By this stage, just three months into my classes with Lakshmi, I was obsessed with the idea of Enlightenment.
As far as I could tell, Enlightenment meant that one was no longer troubled by human states of mind. One could rise above them. I thought that once I became Enlightened, I would live in peace, always, regardless of my outside circumstances; that my mind would remain in a state of grace and peace and love and light, which would radiate from me and touch others, allowing them to feel a tremendous sense of peace and reassurance in my presence. I yearned for this. I yearned to soothe souls the way saints did. And it seemed the other students did, too. I had finally found a place where I belonged, a place where I fit in. I had finally found my Tribe.
Lakshmi made it sound like we would meditate our way into Enlightenment, that if we meditated long enough and tried hard enough, we would one day blast through a portal into another realm, and life from that point on would be different, we would be utterly changed. If going to Egypt could help blast me into this realm, I was going to go, no matter what.
The Burn Zone Page 4