Space Between the Stars

by Deborah Santana

  Carlos opened my car door. I fell into the car as though I were drunk. Rage, sorrow, and a broken heart made me dizzy. I did not look at his face when he got behind the wheel. He put the key in the ignition, but did not turn the car on. “Do you want a divorce?” I asked.

  “What!” Carlos screamed. “What are you talking about?”

  “It's obvious that you and that woman have something going on. I've been through this before. I'm not going to live with you while you carry on with other women. We're married. That means something to me.”

  “This was nothing,” he said in a choked whisper. “I love you.”

  “Love is one thing. Fidelity is another,” I said, sounding like a schoolteacher instead of the brokenhearted lover. Why can't I cry? My mouth was dry. My eyes were dry. I was stunned, reduced to giving a nagging lecture. “Let's just go home,” I said. “I need to pack.”

  The hour drive from Burlingame to Mill Valley was excruciating. Road sign after road sign announced that my world was splitting apart. Like a train charging through my mind, the woman's face chased me. I had left the bracelet on the table. What was that supposed to have been? A gift for the wife from the girlfriend? All the pain of previous years raged through my body. What I had learned from Sly's twisted world was that it mattered to me if he slept with other women. Maybe it was my parents' long marriage and their image of togetherness—the bond they had forged fighting racism to seal their love—that made me want a pure intimacy with Carlos. Maybe it was my idealism that two people could love each other only, even in the hedonistic world we lived in. Trust and loyalty were essential to me in any relationship, friendship or marriage. I felt shattered knowing I had shared my body and soul with a man who had been making love to someone else. What had been a triangle with God at the top and Carlos and me sharing the foundation was now a series of disconnected lines. I stared out into the night, piecing together the past months. I had been caught up in planning the remodel of Dipti Nivas, in running, in learning Guru's songs, and in teaching meditation. When Carlos had gone out to clubs, he must have been meeting her.

  We drove in silence until we reached the gravel drive to our house. Carlos spoke: “I'm sorry. I don't want you to go.”

  I jumped out of the car, slammed the door, and ran to the house. The key would not turn in the lock. When it did, I turned off the burglar alarm, marched up the hall stairs, and dragged my suitcase from the attic.

  Carlos was standing in the living room, his head hanging on his chest. “Where are you going?”

  “I don't know, but I'll leave in the morning. It's too late now. I'm just going to pack.”

  I walked to our bedroom. Over the window hung a quilted banner I had bought at a country fair. Appliquéd letters spelled

  out: IF YOU LOVE SOMETHING VERY MUCH, LET IT GO. IF IT COMES

  back, it'syours to keep. My eyes spilled over with the waters of heartbreak. I opened drawers and filled my suitcase with saris, slips, underwear, running clothes, and toiletries. On the top, I placed Guru's picture and some of his books. I would have to move in with Kitsaun. I had a room there where I occasionally spent the night when Carlos was on the road. I could not believe this was happening. Should I ask Carlos if he is sleeping with her? He didn't deny it when I told him that's what I thought. Why couldn't he have denied it?

  From the studio beneath our bedroom floor, I could hear the beautiful notes Carlos's fingers were playing on his guitar. They pierced my heart; tears dropping like a storm on everything I packed. I sat on the floor, looking at Guru's picture— asking, pleading with God for help. The music stopped downstairs, and Carlos soon stood over me. “Please don't go. I promise I won't see her again. I love you.”

  “I love you, too. But if you loved me, you wouldn't have done this. I can't live like this. It's too painful. It's everything I went through with Sly.”

  “I'm not Sly,” Carlos said firmly.

  I wanted to scream, “Bullshit!” but my years of meditation would not let the words leave my lips. I looked up at the ceiling we had painted when we first began living together. “I don't know who you are right now.” I walked into the bathroom and locked the door, turning on the shower and letting it run for five minutes before I took off my clothes and stepped in. I did not move as the water sluiced over me. Too much was churning inside for me to move on the outside. My thoughts went over the past few weeks—every day, every detail—as I looked for something I must have done, some lack I had, to have made Carlos share the most intimate part of himself with someone else. I had left Sly knowing I had not been enough. He'd needed many women, different women—certainly not me, not my upbringing, not my love of purity. He had been a pimp before Sly and the Family Stone, for God's sake! But with Carlos, I'd thought I had found a soul mate, an eternal lover. What a fool.

  I had seen Carlos's eyes when women flirted with him from the audience and backstage after shows: a glint of passion; a thrill of the chase. It was so obvious they wanted to be with him. His melodies were an aphrodisiac, and he held his guitar as though it were a woman, caressing the neck, bending his knees into each note. Silent promises emanated from the stage—of sensuality, of tenderness—enough to weaken any woman's legs with desire. I towel-dried my limp body in the bathroom, dressed, and slowly opened the door to our bedroom. Carlos was not there. I could hear him playing his guitar downstairs.

  I slept fully dressed on top of the bed, waiting for morning. When I woke up as the orange glow of sunlight spread through the gray mist outside, Carlos was asleep next to me, under the covers. My wedding ring felt as though it weighed twenty pounds. I sat up, looking at Guru's photo. I've got to call New York. Guru will tell me what I should do.

  I walked to the sliding-glass door, opened it quietly, stepped onto the wooden deck, and pulled my wedding band off my finger. I tossed it over the railing, watching the gold spin into the redwood grove below. I picked up my suitcase, tiptoed out of 88 Marin View Avenue, and drove my Audi across the Golden Gate Bridge, wiping away an ocean of tears.

  ri Chinmoy and the disciples rallied around my broken heart, and I moved in with Kitsaun, searching for my deepest self within the breach of my marriage. Kitsaun had moved to a house in our old neighborhood in San Francisco, close to the places I had grown up and felt secure in. Saumitra and Sevika helped me paint and decorate a downstairs bedroom that became my new home. Carlos accepted my departure—he continued touring and living his music, which really was his sacred passion. I decided to train for the New York City Marathon; quite a few disciples were planning to run the 26.2-mile race. Running in Golden Gate Park—past the polo fields to the Great Highway, around the windmill standing stately and immobile—brought me deeper into myself. Runner's World magazine provided a training schedule of long runs and short runs that built up to a seventeen-mile distance a few weeks before the race. I ran hard and long and began to sift through who I was—with and without Carlos—to separate love from life, re- alizing I had used spirituality and meditation to try to protect myself from getting hurt. When I ran, my life ran alongside me. I saw how the choices we make can hurt others and how careful I had always been to consider others' feelings. But no one is immune from the human struggle of making choices for oneself that injure others; and although Carlos's choices had crushed me mightily, I perceived glimpses of my heart's transcendence and joy.

  In my morning meditations I became stronger by accepting being alone, although I was gravely disappointed that human love was not forever. My work at Dipti Nivas was a wonderful healing balm; and if I lapsed into a self-pity party, wanting to collapse into tears, the customers always said something that drew me out and demanded I serve the ideal I had created.

  The outcome of my separation from Carlos was that, after two months on my own, I enjoyed tremendous relief in not having to worry about whether he was being faithful to me, whether we were communicating well, or even how I looked. All of the constraints I had assumed as the wife of a rock star were sheared from my life while I h
ung out with myself on the hills of San Francisco—where I had first learned to think and live as an individual. There was a moment of revelation that ruffled through me like a great wind, and I knew I would be a magnificent person with or without Carlos.

  But it was not as freeing for Carlos, and after three months apart, he returned from Europe and asked to see me. I was nervous that I was not ready to hear what he had to say, but I stood in a belief in my feminine power, holding on to the strong, spiritual bond I had created with myself. He walked to me as I stood in Dipti Nivas, and slid his knit cap from his head. His scalp was bare. “I shaved my head to conquer my pride and my desires,” he said. “I want to be with you.”

  His smooth-shaven head frightened me. He looked a bit like Mr. Spock. I wanted to deny I was moved by his gesture. I wanted to say that it was too late to win me back—but the grandness of his act gripped my heart, and I couldn't speak. “I have so many feelings, so many fears,” I told him. “I know I love you, but now that you say you are ready to turn from your impurity, I don't know if I can change my life from what it has become.”

  “What do you mean?” Carlos's eyes reddened.

  “I've been living without the pain of worrying whether you love me. I've been free from striving to be enough to keep you.”

  “You have always been more than enough. I love you. I was running from the Centre, not you.”

  I was torn into fragments of love for myself and love for Carlos; afraid to believe him, yet understanding the seriousness of his shaved head.

  Carlos opened his arms—and the memory of our love bent me. I walked into his embrace, the bareness of his scalp lying against my temple, and I released the safe, closed person I had become. Sri Chinmoy called on the phone, having been alerted by the disciples that Carlos was back, and encouraged me to return to my husband.

  I felt as though I were in a dream when we drove home to Mill Valley listening to Wes Montgomery and John Coltrane ballads on our way up the mountain. Obedient to Guru, but not really sure on my own, I had returned to the mountain chalet where Carlos and I had first fallen in love. The cats mewed when I came into the house, and I bent to stroke their smooth, silky fur, biding my time to face Carlos and talk more. It was thrilling, but frightening, too.

  Carlos said, “I'll be upstairs in the meditation room.” Thankful for time alone to adjust, I opened my toiletry bag and placed my creams and toothbrush on the counter. The towels beneath the sink smelled damp and musty from sitting unused for three months. I showered and climbed the outside stairs to the meditation room in the tower. The fresh mountain air soaked into my body. I had not missed Mill Valley when I stayed at Kitsaun's, but now that I was back, the view of the redwoods and bay reminded me of happy times. I turned the doorknob of the meditation room. Books and candles were just as I had left them three months earlier. I sat next to Carlos on a pillow before the altar, closed my eyes, and felt a brush of heaven's peace inside me. The next morning, we drove to Stinson Beach and ate breakfast in a ramshackle café, then sat on the sand and watched the choppy sea become a waveless line at the horizon. I felt awkward, as though on a first date with someone I did not know. Carlos's soft words prodded me to be his friend again, and he picked up my hand every few minutes, kissing my palm. “I have something for you,” he said.

  “What?”

  Carlos put his hand in his pocket and slowly drew it out. When he opened his fingers, my gold wedding band sat in his palm.

  I was completely surprised and overtaken with emotion that he had my ring. “How did you find it?” “Jorge did. He searched the forest for me.” Carlos slid the band on my finger. I stared at it, shocked that Carlos's brother would humble himself to comb through the pine needles in the backyard for my wedding ring.

  “I can't believe he found it. I threw it into a tangle of ferns and redwood trunks.” It felt heavy, like this reunion of husband and wife. But I wore it with the hope that our marriage would survive.

  On the winding ascent back to our home, I massaged the back of Carlos's neck, like I always had when he drove and I was beside him. He pressed his cheek to my hand. I wanted our marriage to survive. I still loved Carlos madly and believed in the idea of us working together to bring God's message of light and truth to the world. My entire existence prayed I could forgive him for not being faithful to me and that I could regain trust and openness with him. Each day I awakened amazed that I was back in Mill Valley and I moved cautiously with my heart. Maintaining my training schedule for the New York City Marathon allowed me autonomy and solitude to heal my wounds.

  I flew to New York for the 26.2-mile footrace. Seventy-five of us were running from different Centres. Sundari from San Francisco had trained with me. Guru held a special meditation for us the evening before the marathon. We filled the pews of the Bayside Church, Guru on his throne above us. After meditating, he said, “You are all divine runners. You will be carried to the finish line by my transcendental consciousness. Now go. Get a good night's sleep.” His smile spread across his face, candlelight twinkling on his white teeth. At 6:00 A.M. we drove in vans and cars to the starting line at the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. A mammoth fear that I would not finish quaked inside me. The 26.2 miles loomed ahead like 100 as I thought of my hours of training. In the chilly October morning I stood with hundreds of runners at the four-hour sign, wearing trash bags that we would toss on the side of the road when we were warmed up. We hopped from foot to foot, adrenaline pumping and teeth chattering, waiting the ten minutes it took just to cross the starting line after the gun was fired.

  New Yorkers lined the streets, yelling encouragement. I ripped off my garbage bag at three miles. At mile fifteen, on the incline to the Queensboro Bridge, my legs became heavy. My prayer was to finish, no matter what. Volunteers handed out orange wedges and small paper cups of water and electrolyte-charged juice. Cups crunched under my feet as I ran past water stations. A disciple I began with moved ahead of me. Runners walked along the perimeter; some limped. Perspiration coated my chest and back. I kept my eyes frozen on a runner a quarter mile ahead of me, watching his back as though attached to him by a lifeline. My feet pounded through the neighborhood of Hasidic Jews—where men with ringlets poking out from felt fedoras stood with their families on door stoops. Voices called out, “Go on, sister!” as I strode through Harlem. At mile twenty-two, I walked for a couple of minutes; but when my calves began to tighten, I started shuffling along again. I was in a battle between my mind and body. My body wanted to sit along the curb and watch the other runners go by. My mind was determined to reach the finish line. Kitsaun's words about my training miles being deposited into a bank that I was now drawing from kept rolling through my mind. My right foot felt wet.

  In Central Park, hundreds stood cheering below the gigantic digital clock that ticked at the finish. The last quarter mile, my feet barely lifted above the asphalt. Someone threw water on another runner, and it splashed onto me. I tasted salt dripping from my upper lip. When I passed through the final chute, the clock said four hours, eleven minutes, and three seconds. Guru stood to the side, taking movies. I waved and smiled—jubilant! My time was more than two hours after the winner, but I did not care. I had finished!

  “Keep walking,” yelled a volunteer on the other side of the finish line. “Don't stop or your muscles will cramp up!”

  I staggered across the field where thousands of runners were standing, chugging beers, or splayed across the grass. I headed toward Tavern on the Green, where disciples had been told to meet. Seeing the sky-blue flag with Guru's photo silk-screened across it, I walked dizzily toward it. Sundari was lying on a table, her legs being massaged by Nandita; Sundari had finished five minutes before me; Gayatri, my friend from the Connecticut Centre, ran up and gave me a hug. I began shaking with exhaustion and emotion. I had done it. No matter what else came in my life, knowing I had run 26.2 miles would sustain me.

  I bent over to untie my shoelaces, and stars spun in front of me. I flopped down on the gr
ound and carefully took off my shoes. Blood covered my right sock. I peeled it off. My toenail was black and blue; blood oozed out from under the nail. Gayatri brought me water and a sweatshirt. Tears rolled down my cheeks. While Carlos and I had been separated, running was my solace, the cornerstone of my survival. I could not believe I had completed what I'd set out to do—three months of lonely determination washed down my face. I was surprised by my courage, and fulfilled that I had accomplished a rigorous goal. No matter what happened with Carlos, I knew I would survive. I smiled and smiled all the way back to Queens.

  The next night, I walked from the plane, the muscles in my legs and groin burning like wood in a fire. I looked through the waiting crowd for Carlos in his knit cap. Short, tall, women, men, children jumping up and down—but no Carlos. My eyes darted nervously; my heart sank. Then, from behind a pillar, arms waving a bouquet of yellow roses caught my eye. Carlos's mustached smile spread across his face. I hobbled to him.

  “You did it!” he said, pushing the flowers into my hands as he embraced me, the petals crushing between us. “I knew you would finish!”

  Warm and welcoming, Carlos's arms were around me again. I smiled, lost in the euphoria of my marathon victory and reuniting with Carlos.

  While my marriage was mending, Sri Chinmoy's demands on my time increased. “Give more meditation classes to bring more disciples, Urmila. Run more marathons. Come to New York to be in my divine presence,” he told me. I felt as though I would break apart from the pressure, and I began to disconnect inwardly from Sri Chinmoy's control. There was a gaping hole between what his books taught about enlightenment and the psychological and physical requirements of energy, money, loy- alty, and selfless allegiance. Carlos watched me, afraid to pull me away, but waiting for a splinter in my devotion. My head ached each day, and I admitted to myself that I was allowing Sri Chinmoy to keep me in bondage of mind and spirit. As disciples, we had no freedom to follow the God of our own hearts. Carlos's fame was used like fly paper to catch new devotees, and though we had once believed the Centre was a refuge from an iniquitous world, we now saw it was a closed, isolated cult filling us with fear of the world we were meant to be a part of. No spiritual teacher could save us; we had to strike a balance between the materialism of the world and the spirit of our souls. Sri Chinmoy was asking us to hide behind him in saris and white clothes, but he was also asking us to deny thinking for ourselves so that we would do whatever he said.