The Secret Letters of the Monk Who Sold His Ferrari

by Robin S. Sharma

  Juan was not a stupid man. He could see that I had no desire to get involved. He stopped coming by my office. But I would see him in the hallways, looking troubled and gaunt, deep lines carved down his face, his eyes pouchy and sad. One of the last times I spoke with him, he had caught me by surprise in the company parking lot.

  “Ah, Jonathan, I know you know what’s going on,” he said sadly. “And I know there is nothing anyone can do to help. But I’m a fifty-five-year-old man. I can’t afford to retire yet, but if I quit… Well, who is going to hire an old guy like me?” Then he climbed into his car and pulled out of the lot.

  It was only a month later when the news buzzed through the office. Juan’s car had flown off the road the previous evening on his way home from work. He was dead by the time the ambulance arrived.

  THE LASAGNA WAS DELICIOUS, but the combination of the rich food and the time difference was making my eyes heavy. Angus cleared the dishes from the table, but Mary stayed sitting.

  “I know you need to get to bed now,” she said. “But I’d like to give you the talisman tonight. Actually, I was going to give it to you tomorrow just before the party. I decided to have the party because of the talisman. I thought it would be appropriate—the right kind of way to celebrate the hand-off. But I know me. I’ll be flying in all directions at once tomorrow, getting dinner ready, so now might be a better time.”

  Mary took a small padded envelope from her pocket and put it in the center of the table. But she kept her hand over it.

  “Before you open this,” said Mary, “may I see the other talismans?”

  I was so used to the feel of the soft suede on my skin, the gentle weight against my chest. I was surprised by how reluctant I was to lose the comfort of the pouch, to take it off. But I drew it out from under my shirt and lifted it from my neck. I opened the top and very gently slid the talismans onto the table.

  Mary looked carefully at the small assortment.

  “Julian must think very highly of you, must care about you deeply, to entrust you with this task,” she said.

  “Well, I don’t know,” I said. “He and my mother are close. But I don’t really know him.”

  “But he clearly knows you,” said Mary. She was smiling softly.

  She reached toward the center of the table and picked up the grinning skull.

  “Embrace your fears,” she said. I nodded.

  She put the skull down and reached for the crane.

  “Kindness.” She placed the crane in front of her, next to the skull.

  “Small daily improvements.” She was running her fingers over the little pyramid.

  She put the red clay piece on the table and picked up the paintbrush. Like I had done when I first got it, she twirled the dark wood between her fingers.

  “All work can be a means of creative self-expression,” she said.

  “How do you know all this?” I asked her.

  Mary looked up at me and tilted her head, as if trying to decide something.

  “These talismans,” she eventually said, waving her hand over the small pile on the table, “there is only one of each of these things. But they are symbols, after all. Julian has talked about their wisdom for years. And I’ve been listening.”

  Finally, Mary picked up the sun and moon amulet.

  “Ah,” she said. “Live your authentic life. This is a very good one. This one is so important, but few people make use of this truth.”

  She put the piece down on the table, and looked at me.

  “Can I ask you something, Jonathan? Something personal?” I didn’t really feel I could say no.

  “Do you think you are being true to yourself? Do you think you are leading the life you are meant to live—the one that most honors the real you, celebrates your deepest values and respects your highest dreams?”

  I blanched, lifted my tea mug to my mouth to stall a little. Mary was looking at me intently. I couldn’t fathom why she would be so interested in me or the answer to that question. I took a sip of tea, and then put my cup back down.

  “I … I don’t know,” I stammered. “I’ve been trying to figure that out during this trip.”

  “I understand,” said Mary. “It’s a tough one.”

  “I mean, I think maybe I’m not,” I offered. “But I’m just not sure what my authentic life would look like. I am beginning to rethink my work, but I’m not sure about the rest of it.”

  Mary nodded.

  “Since I’ve been prying into your life, maybe I should tell you a bit more about mine.”

  “Sure,” I said. Anything not to have to talk more about myself.

  Mary had told me earlier that she was a painter, but she said that her story wasn’t one about rebellion. She hadn’t become an artist because her family had wanted her to become an accountant. Nor had she had an epiphany one day while working at a nine-to-five job that her real passion was art. She had always known she wanted to be an artist, even as a child. It’s what made her happy. Drawing, painting, sculpting, making things, it’s all she ever wanted to do.

  “Like Picasso,” I said. I was remembering what Lluis had told me about his childhood. But Picasso’s father was an artist, too. He encouraged the young Picasso. I asked Mary if her parents were artists.

  “Good grief no. My dad had a fishing boat; my mom worked part-time at a grocery store,” Mary said. “But they are amazing people, and they thought it was a great gift that I had something I loved so much. They just wanted me to keep doing it.”

  “And they weren’t concerned about how you would make a living?” I asked.

  Mary laughed. “My dad used to always say, ‘Well, you’d be hard-pressed to make less money than your mother or me—but go ahead and try!’”

  Her family was never affluent, but they were joyful. The prospect of being a starving artist didn’t scare Mary. She won a scholarship to study fine arts in university in Halifax. Then she graduated and moved to Manhattan. She waited tables, and she painted. She worked her way into the art scene there. She started to exhibit. Eventually she was able to quit waitressing and paint full-time. She worked hard at making her living by painting and printmaking, but she was lucky, too.

  “Right place, right time, I guess,” Mary said.

  “So you were living your authentic life, being true to yourself and all of that,” I said.

  Mary looked into her mug for a few seconds before she spoke. “Well, that’s the interesting thing. I really thought I was, all those years in Manhattan. I was young, successful. I had friends, an active social life. It was exciting.”

  “So what wasn’t real about it? What was wrong?” I said. Now she had me curious.

  “What a lot of people don’t realize is that the art scene can be pretty competitive. You know, who gets into what galleries, who gets attention from the critics, who’s got the buzz and who doesn’t. There can be a lot of shuffling for position, a lot of infighting and backbiting.”

  I must have looked surprised because Mary nodded her head and said, “Really.”

  Mary explained that another young artist, whose style and approach was similar to hers, arrived in Manhattan from Los Angeles. Suddenly he was at every gallery opening, every party, every artistic event. And wherever he was, he would make a beeline to Henri, the man who ran the galleries that were displaying and selling Mary’s work. Mary knew Henri wouldn’t take on the new artist while he represented her because his style was too similar to Mary’s. But that didn’t mean he might not drop Mary and take on the fresh face.

  “That just sent me into a tailspin,” Mary said.

  Henri had made it possible for her to stop waiting on tables. And with his help, she had become the darling of the art critics for a while. But she could easily slip back into obscurity. Mary realized then that while she owed Henri a great deal, she didn’t trust him. He was a canny businessman, never bogged down by loyalty or guilt. She could see she was slipping from his favor. And she could see that Henri wasn’t the only one who tho
ught Mary’s star was fading. Some of Mary’s friends stopped calling so often. There were dinner parties that she was not invited to. She dropped off the A-list for some gallery openings. One night at a film premiere, Mary found herself sharing a piece of gossip she’d heard about the Los Angeles painter with a writer for a local arts magazine.

  “It was something about his time in California, something that reflected badly on his artistic integrity. I told the writer because I thought it might make him look like a flash in the pan. A poseur who wasn’t going to be in the art world for long. I thought it would make me look like a more serious talent by comparison.”

  Mary went home that night disgusted with herself. She had never bad-mouthed anyone, and her behavior made her feel small, petty, desperate.

  “I kept asking myself why I had done it. What had got me to that place,” Mary said. “And that led me to take a long, hard look at the people in my life.”

  She realized that the people fell into two categories, more or less. The people whom she trusted and loved, who were true friends, who made her feel secure and happy, who always brought out the best in her. And then there was another group. People who might interest or entertain her—who she might be attracted to for all sorts of reasons but were also negative in some way. Some of them were funny but mean-spirited. (I thought of my old roommate Evan, and his “good luck with that.”) Some of them interesting but angry. Some clearly saw everything as a competition—and because they were always comparing themselves with her, she compared herself with them. And then there were some who, through no fault of their own, really, just had an overall bad effect on her. Whenever she went out with one woman she always drank too much. Another guy was such a pessimist that she felt dispirited for days after she talked with him. Another was so laid-back that she would find herself sleeping in until noon if she spent too much time with him.

  “You know,” Mary said a little sadly, “Julian was part of that second group back then.”

  Mary decided that she needed to spend more time with the first group and less with the latter. But then she realized something else. There were a lot of people missing from both lists.

  “My family was so important to me, but I hardly ever got to see them.”

  She knew that when she was with her mother and father, her brothers and sisters, her aunts and uncles, she felt most herself. They brought out the best in her.

  “I realized that my authentic life was in art, but it was also with my family. Living life in a way that is right for you is sometimes about finding all the different elements you need.”

  Mary decided to go back to Cape Breton but not to Mabou, the small town where her parents lived. Instead she settled outside Baddeck, in St. Ann’s, because at a SoHo art show she had met and befriended Christine, a wonderful sculptor who lived there. Tbe town was home to the Gaelic College of Celtic Arts and Crafts, and Christine had told her that the small community featured a number of accomplished artists and artisans.

  “I knew it was also important for me to be surrounded by people who shared my passion, and who would inspire my own creativity, maybe push me a little. And that is why Julian asked me to take care of this particular talisman.”

  Mary pushed the padded envelope toward me. I tore open the top and pulled out a leaf of paper. With it came a small piece of carved wood. It was only an inch wide and half an inch high. And it was two hands, holding on to each other.

  I unfolded the creamy parchment.

  Choose Your Influences Well

  We do not move through our days alone or apart from the world around us. And so we must always be aware of the things and the people we allow into our lives. It’s a mark of wisdom to choose to spend time in those places that inspire and energize you and associate with those people who elevate and uplift you. Whether in our work or within our personal lives, these most positive friends and peers will inspire us to be our greatest selves and to lead our largest lives.

  I folded the paper and slipped it into my pocket.

  “I suppose tomorrow night I’m going to meet some of the positive people in your life,” I said.

  “Exactly,” said Mary. She was slipping the talismans gently into the pouch. “Julian is one of them now. I just wish he could be here.”

  It was only ten o’clock, but it was three in the morning Barcelona time. Mary handed me the pouch and then showed me to a bedroom on the second floor.

  “The bathroom is just down the hall, and I’ve put towels at the foot of your bed,” she said. “Sleep well, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  WHEN I WOKE UP the next morning, I felt as if I were crawling back to the world. I lay in bed for several minutes trying to figure out where I was. The smell of coffee and cinnamon wafted through the bedroom door. That’s when I remembered—Cape Breton.

  When I got into the kitchen, Angus and Mary were both busy at the counters. “Please help yourself to coffee,” said Mary. “The pancakes are almost ready—buttermilk apple.”

  There were blue pottery mugs beside the coffeepot. I took one and filled it up. The coffee was rich and strong and just what I needed. That’s one of the things I had missed at the hotel in Barcelona and the inn in Kyoto. The warm aroma of breakfast drifting through a house.

  Just as Mary placed a heaping platter of pancakes in the middle of the table, the phone rang. Angus picked it up, and almost immediately his brow creased.

  “How many? Okay. Any other injuries? You’re sure? All right, then. Keep the ice pack on his mouth, and I’ll meet you at the office in half an hour.”

  Angus put the phone down and looked over at Mary. “Connor Ashton. Fell off his bike and broke his front teeth.”

  Then Angus turned to me. “I’m so sorry, Jonathan. It’s an emergency—I have to rush.”

  I told him I understood completely, but my words trailed him as he disappeared out the door.

  As Mary and I listened to his truck send gravel flying, Mary lifted some pancakes onto my plate.

  “Oh dear,” she sighed. “Now I don’t know what to do. I should take you out, but I’m not sure how to do that and get ready for the dinner.”

  It occurred to me that this turn of events, as unfortunate as it was for little Connor Ashton, might just work quite nicely for me. I had a rental car; I could do the drive around the Cabot Trail on my own while Mary did what she had to do. Mary nodded at my suggestion.

  “As long as you aren’t afraid of heights, and you like driving, you’ll be fine,” said Mary. “You can’t really get lost. It’s a circle route and only about two hundred miles long. Just stay on the main road, and eventually you’ll end up back here. But you’ll want to stop often—at the lookouts and in some of the towns along the way.”

  After breakfast, Mary found a road map, and we sat down together. She circled places on the map, and on a separate piece of paper wrote down names of spots to visit and things to see. It turned into a very long list.

  “Oh, I know, you can’t do all this in one day. Pick and choose. And call me if you have any questions.” Mary was filling a water bottle for me and putting some fruit and a sandwich in a bag. I told her not to worry about a lunch. I would stop in somewhere.

  “Well,” she said, “once you get into the highlands, you can drive for quite a while without finding any place to get food. You don’t have to eat this, but it’s there if you need it.”

  IT WAS STILL EARLY MORNING as my car carved through the Margaree Valley. Mary had suggested that I follow the Cabot Trail clockwise so that I would be on the inside lane when I started driving up and down the outside of the mountains. Right now, I was being enveloped by deep green hills on either side of me. I had driven for twenty minutes and had seen only a couple of cars. A hawk swooped down across the road, and out of the corner of my eye, I caught an occasional movement in the trees. Probably just a squirrel or a bird, but I wondered if I might come across a fox or a deer.

  I started to think about Julian’s note about influences and people. And ab
out Mary’s decision about those she wanted to keep in her life. Her stories had made me think about friendships I would like to renew. And I would like to see more of my sister, Kira, and my mom. Kira especially always brought out the best in me. It was as if, in her presence, I remembered how to be someone a younger sister might look up to. And my mother—I took her for granted, I knew that. Her habit of telling me to put on a sweater or to finish my peas—even once I was grown and a father myself—sometimes had me racing out the door after Sunday dinner as if I were escaping a torture cell. But I also saw what a blessing it was to have been raised in her home. I was beginning to feel grateful for that. When I came through the door after a baseball game, she always asked, “Did you have fun?” instead of “Did you win?” And she managed to find something good to say about everybody—including Uncle Teddy, which was a feat of creativity to rival anything Picasso had pulled off. And when my father died, she showed a strength and bravery I couldn’t have imagined in her before. Even in the early days after his passing, she showed more concern about the loss Kira and I had suffered than about her own. Her influence was certainly one I should return to, I thought.

  But were there people who were dragging me down? People who were not positive elements in some way? David and Sven immediately sprang to mind, but I couldn’t think of anyone in my personal life. Even when Annisha and I were fighting … I might not have behaved well, but was that her influence? Or was I just doing my best to win an argument? Annisha is one of the most optimistic people I know—which is probably why she stuck it out so long while I resisted her wishes at every turn. What about Tessa? She was lively and funny and beautiful. She actually reminded me of Annisha in many ways. I would like to keep her in my life, but in what fashion? I decided that when I next stopped the car, I would belatedly reply to her message. I would tell her the truth: I was in a state of transition; I was trying to figure out my life on many fronts. I appreciated her note, her thoughts, but I would have to talk to her about her proposal when I got back. I needed some time to sort myself out.