I had been crying on and off for a week ever since spending a few days visiting the Ananda community on Camano Island in the San Juans north of Seattle. It was an exquisite opportunity to learn about natural farming from one of the greats, but I did not want to be away from my new home at Laurelwood and the world outside felt full of mechanical, impersonal, and misguided, albeit cheerful, activity. On my return up the road towards the familiar blue-green roofs, past St Francis’s blue scarf fluttering in the middle of the garden and the flowering orchard trees, my eyes watered and heart rose in silent celebration. I slipped effortlessly back into the flow of meals, conversation, and chores, my days once again infused with laughter, mutual support, and meaningful work, but I found it took far more effort than before to stay focused on mantras, prayers, and words of self-love. I was determined to manage the gradually intensifying swirl of irrational jealousies, flashing resentments, cravings, and fatigue, but my sadness was deepening. Then, walking back from my weekly visit to Ananda’s elder care home, surrounded by such generous, vibrant green hillsides, plump bunches of pink cherry blossoms bowing the thin branches, and abundantly rolling grey clouds, the repressed sobbing tore through me like a convulsive, wracking cough.
“I am so blessed!” I cried aloud. “I am healthy, and privileged, with purpose and friendship and freedom! Why do I still long to wrap my arms around someone, feel enveloped in their warmth?” Images came rushing over me of all the love I have given and received, how it all faded and fell away, and all the friends I have, single and partnered, who feel alone. I felt consumed by my own deepening crush, the way his warm eyes see through me, the way his words move my heart, the way I am drawn to him for comfort that seems so much more accessible than the divine union I could nurture here. The world appeared to me crowded with people drowning in unrequited longing to be held unconditionally, bravely carrying on in its absence, consoling themselves with love songs, with vows of chastity, with pizza, with honorable work. “We all want that comfort,” I lamented. “But I am as powerless to bring it to others as I am to bring it to myself. Why is it this way?”
And so I began asking for help. I began kneeling at the end of my meditations and expressing my willingness to follow whatever guidance I received. I reached out to a woman who lives here as a Bramacharya, having vowed to live unpartnered in order to dedicate all of her energy to her spiritual practices. And I shared my struggle with my permaculture mentor, Jennifer, who arranged for us to meet with our spiritual director, Daiva, that afternoon for tea. Daiva came to Ananda for a work party 30 years ago and never left. His manner is soft, patient, and eloquent; his banter with his daughter moving; his attitude one of both directness and compassion. He speaks about Ananda as any good salesman must, but he also lives the teachings in every interaction I have witnessed and has a reputation for being able to bring a person’s deepest needs to light, even if they are initially difficult to accept.
I shared with Daiva the struggle over my spiritual ambivalence and my enduring longing for romantic attachments despite my clear understanding that they cannot fulfill me. He assured me this tension between worldly and spiritual desires is an unavoidable part of being human and then, in his characteristic manner, went straight for the unconscious core of my dilemma. He questioned whether I was ready to take the trip I was planning and suggested that I stay, take the raja yoga course, learn the kriya technique, and then reassess my ambitious plans. I initially recoiled in indignation that in my moment of vulnerability, he was questioning my intuition and trying to earn a new recruit. “Sometimes,” he added, “we receive a calling to go south, and we don’t realize that we only need to take twelve steps. You feel pulled to Tuscany, and perhaps you will find your way there by another path and realize that was how you were meant to arrive all along.”
Twelve steps. Something in me shifted and opened at his words. Yogananda traveled all over India in desperation for his guru and finally found him living in a village only twelve miles from home. I am far too familiar with that misguided expense of energy in response to a subtle whisper of clarity. I am inspired by the light in a man and decide we are meant to be partners. I am inspired by a book that I read and start researching graduate programs. I dream of the Tuscan hills and plan a yearlong solo global tour. I had chuckled on a number of occasions over how ironic it would be if I fell in love with the first place I landed. And I recalled thinking in the early stages of planning that my ardor over it reminded me of the way I dove so completely into my wedding planning that I had no space to entertain the doubts that arose and may have steered me towards a truer course. Once again, my will to stubbornly enact the calling I had received to drift freely and dissolve in the world had grown into an exquisitely packed itinerary that compromised my ability to stay tuned in and adjust as that guidance refined my direction.
The tears began streaming as a small, deep voice named the source of the deepening sadness that had been pursuing me. “I will do this trip if my spirit tells me to, but I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to do this alone.” Daiva and Jennifer were visibly moved. “Shit,” I added quietly once I had regained my composure. Now that these words had been spoken I could no longer hide from the fact that as my departure date approached, the most palpable feeling I had was one of mustering my courage and girding myself for a trial in order to validate my initial intuition, fulfill my commitments, avoid losing the money I had already invested, and uphold my image as someone who is daring, self-sufficient, worldly, and living life to the fullest. Although the reality of canceling my trip was still too much of a shock to act on, as soon as this new path had opened in my mind, everything around me began shifting. Other residents stopped asking me when I was leaving and began asking me if I was still planning to go. Our resident acupuncturist told me that she could tell I wasn’t done here, and that my vibration felt too fragile to attempt such a trip. As I put my travel planning on hold to be more present, I began to feel calmer and more rooted, and my meditations deepened.
Then, during the Saturday evening devotional kirtan chanting, rocking back and forth on my knees and singing my soul out to Durga, my heart broke open. I gazed around the room and saw everyone around me swaying and lit with warm, golden light. What my heart was trying to get through to me was that everything I hoped to gain from my journey – nurturing community, engaged learning, a sense of purpose, and the opportunity to shed the final layers of my old life – were right in front of me. If I truly meant what I said about community and belonging being what matter most to me, why would I abandon something real for a mere vision on the other side of the world? I want to be a part of what is happening here and becoming closer to the people here – to share in their griefs and joys, to contribute my gifts and allow the best of me to be nurtured. I have always wanted to speak and give more deeply – and I don’t believe there is anything deeper than this place so full of radiant beauty and laughter and ease and hope in a world of growing darkness. And of all types of people I could be, I most long to be the one so in love with something that I am willing to sacrifice for it.
After the singing had ended, I sat next to Jennifer, took her hand and let the tears fall. In addition to bonding over the daunting task of managing Laurelwood’s gardens, we had triumphed earlier that day over a challenging assignment to make a vegan wedding cake for a group of guests. She was one of several residents who had expressed regrets over my leaving, and I felt a new tenderness for the impact I had on her and the potential for our friendship to ease her burdens. It took me a while to speak the words that needed to be said. She looked pensive and unsure what was happening, but said she would sit and hold my hand all night if I needed it. I looked into her eyes and spoke the words that felt as though they had been wedged in my chest my whole life: “I’m staying. Everything I want is here.”
I once heard someone say that our hearts that are meant for making decisions and our minds for figuring out how to follow through. My heart heard the call of intentional community and permaculture. It carried the memory of finding my happiest moments in shared work towards an honorable goal and my most grounded in times of regular meditation. And it heard people telling me how radiant I look here and how much I belong. My mind planned how to leave my home, charted a course towards learning opportunities and community, and will now manage the process of cancellations and refunds. I’m keeping my itinerary on file. It is a work of art that in many ways is even more gratifying than the reality of the journey. If and when the small, inconvenient, ever-shifting, and eternally loving inner voice of mine tells me it is time to venture out again, I know I will be so much better prepared to thrive because of all I receive here through meditation, through grace, and through service to and with my dear, dear friends.
Nancy
Discover more from InnerWoven
Subscribe to get the latest posts to your email.