Eat, Pray, Love

by Elizabeth Gilbert

  This is the destination of the kundalini shakti.

  In mystical India, as in many shamanistic traditions, kundalini shakti is considered a dangerous force to play around with if you are unsupervised; the inexperienced Yogi could quite literally blow his mind with it. You need a teacher—a Guru—to guide you on this path, and ideally a safe place—an Ashram—from which to practice. It is said to be the Guru’s touch (either literally in person, or through a more supernatural encounter, like a dream) which releases the bound kundalini energy from its coil at the base of the spine and allows it to begin journeying upward toward God. This moment of release is called shaktipat, divine initiation, and it is the greatest gift of an enlightened master. After that touch, the student might still labor for years toward enlightenment, but the journey has at least begun. The energy has been freed.

  I received shaktipat initiation two years ago, when I met my Guru for the first time, back in New York. It was during a weekend retreat at her Ashram in the Catskills. To be honest, I felt nothing special afterward. I was kind of hoping for a dazzling encounter with God, maybe some blue lightning or a prophetic vision, but I searched my body for special effects and felt only vaguely hungry, as usual. I remember thinking that I probably didn’t have enough faith to ever experience anything really wild like unleashed kundalini shakti. I remember thinking that I was too brainy, not intuitive enough, and that my devotional path was probably going to be more intellectual than esoteric. I would pray, I would read books, I would think interesting thoughts, but I would probably never ascend into the kind of divine meditative bliss Saint Teresa describes. But that was OK. I still loved devotional practice. It’s just that kundalini shakti wasn’t for me.

  The next day, though, something interesting did happen. We were all gathered with the Guru once more. She led us into meditation, and in the middle of it all, I fell asleep (or whatever the state was) and had a dream. In this dream, I was on a beach, at the ocean. The waves were massive and terrifying and they were building fast. Suddenly, a man appeared beside me. It was my Guru’s own master—a great charismatic Yogi I will refer to here only as “Swamiji” (which is Sanskrit for “beloved monk”). Swamiji had died in 1982. I knew him only from photographs around the Ashram. Even through these photographs—I must admit—I’d always found the guy to be a little too scary, a little too powerful, a little too much on fire for my taste. I’d been dodging the idea of him for a long time, and generally avoiding his gaze as it stared down at me from the walls. He seemed overwhelming. He wasn’t my kind of Guru. I’d always preferred my lovely, compassionate, feminine living master to this deceased (but still fierce) character.

  But now Swamiji was in my dream, standing beside me on the beach in all his power. I was terrified. He pointed to the approaching waves and said sternly, “I want you to figure out a way to stop that from happening.” Panicked, I whipped out a notebook and tried to draw inventions that would stop the ocean waves from advancing. I drew massive seawalls and canals and dams. All my designs were so stupid and pointless, though. I knew I was way out of my league here (I’m not an engineer!) but I could feel Swamiji watching me, impatient and judgmental. Finally I gave up. None of my inventions were clever or strong enough to keep those waves from breaking.

  That’s when I heard Swamiji laugh. I looked up at this tiny Indian man in his orange robes, and he was veritably busting a gut in laughter, bent over double in delight, wiping mirthful tears from his eyes.

  “Tell me, dear one,” he said, and he pointed out toward the colossal, powerful, endless, rocking ocean. “Tell me, if you would be so kind—how exactly were you planning on stopping that?”

  47

  Two nights in a row now I’ve had dreams of a snake entering my room. I’ve read that this is spiritually auspicious (and not just in Eastern religions; Saint Ignatius had serpent visions all throughout his mystical experiences), but it doesn’t make the snakes any less vivid or scary. I’ve been waking up sweating. Even worse, once I am awake, my mind has been two-timing me again, betraying me into a state of panic like I haven’t felt since the worst of the divorce years. My thoughts keep flying back to my failed marriage, and to all the attendant shame and anger of that event. Worse, I’m again dwelling on David. I’m arguing with him in my mind, I’m mad and lonely and remembering every hurtful thing he ever said or did to me. Plus I can’t stop thinking about all our happiness together, the thrilling delirium when times were good. It’s all I can do not to jump out of this bed and call him from India in the middle of the night and just—I don’t know what—just hang up on him, probably. Or beg him to love me again. Or read him such a ferocious indictment on all his character flaws.

  Why is all this stuff coming up again now?

  I know what they would say, all the old-timers at this Ashram. They would say this is perfectly normal, that everyone goes through this, that intense meditation brings everything up, that you’re just clearing out all your residual demons . . . but I’m in such an emotional state I can’t stand it and I don’t want to hear anyone’s hippie theories. I recognize that everything is coming up, thank you very much. Like vomit it’s coming up.

  Somehow I manage to fall asleep again, lucky me, and I have another dream. No snakes this time, but a rangy, evil dog who chases me and says, “I will kill you. I will kill you and eat you!”

  I wake up crying and shaking. I don’t want to disturb my roommates, so I go hide in the bathroom. The bathroom, always the bathroom! Heaven help me, but there I am in a bathroom again, in the middle of the night again, weeping my heart out on the floor in loneliness. Oh, cold world—I have grown so weary of you and all your horrible bathrooms.

  When the crying doesn’t stop, I go get myself a notebook and a pen (last refuge of a scoundrel) and I sit once more beside the toilet. I open to a blank page and scrawl my now-familiar plea of desperation:

  “I NEED YOUR HELP.”

  Then a long exhale of relief comes as, in my own handwriting, my own constant friend (who is it?) commences loyally to my own rescue:

  “I’m right here. It’s OK. I love you. I will never leave you . . .”

  48

  The next morning’s meditation is a disaster. Desperate, I beg my mind to please step aside and let me find God, but my mind stares at me with steely power and says, “I will never let you pass me by.”

  That whole next day, in fact, I’m so hateful and angry that I fear for the life of anyone who crosses my path. I snap at this poor German woman because she doesn’t speak English well and she can’t understand when I tell her where the bookstore is. I’m so ashamed of my rage that I go hide in (yet another!) bathroom and cry, and then I’m so mad at myself for crying as I remember my Guru’s counsel not to fall apart all the time or else it becomes a habit . . . but what does she know about it? She’s enlightened. She can’t help me. She doesn’t understand me.

  I don’t want anyone to talk to me. I can’t tolerate anyone’s face right now. I even manage to dodge Richard from Texas for a while, but he eventually finds me at dinner and sits down—brave man—in my black smoke of self-loathing.

  “What’s got you all wadded up?” he drawls, toothpick in mouth, as usual.

  “Don’t ask,” I say, but then I start talking and tell him every bit of it, concluding with, “And worst of all, I can’t stop obsessing over David. I thought I was over him, but it’s all coming up again.”

  He says, “Give it another six months, you’ll feel better.”

  “I’ve already given it twelve months, Richard.”

  “Then give it six more. Just keep throwin’ six months at it till it goes away. Stuff like this takes time.”

  I exhale hotly through my nose, bull-like.

  “Groceries,” Richard says, “listen to me. Someday you’re gonna look back on this moment of your life as such a sweet time of grieving. You’ll see that you were in mourning and your heart was broken, but your life was changing and you were in the best possible place in the world fo
r it—in a beautiful place of worship, surrounded by grace. Take this time, every minute of it. Let things work themselves out here in India.”

  “But I really loved him.”

  “Big deal. So you fell in love with someone. Don’t you see what happened? This guy touched a place in your heart deeper than you thought you were capable of reaching, I mean you got zapped, kiddo. But that love you felt, that’s just the beginning. You just got a taste of love. That’s just limited little rinky-dink mortal love. Wait till you see how much more deeply you can love than that. Heck, Groceries—you have the capacity to someday love the whole world. It’s your destiny. Don’t laugh.”

  “I’m not laughing.” I was actually crying. “And please don’t laugh at me now, but I think the reason it’s so hard for me to get over this guy is because I seriously believed David was my soul mate.”

  “He probably was. Your problem is you don’t understand what that word means. People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that’s what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that’s holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then they leave. And thank God for it. Your problem is, you just can’t let this one go. It’s over, Groceries. David’s purpose was to shake you up, drive you out of that marriage that you needed to leave, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light could get in, make you so desperate and out of control that you had to transform your life, then introduce you to your spiritual master and beat it. That was his job, and he did great, but now it’s over. Problem is, you can’t accept that this relationship had a real short shelf life. You’re like a dog at the dump, baby—you’re just lickin’ at an empty tin can, trying to get more nutrition out of it. And if you’re not careful, that can’s gonna get stuck on your snout forever and make your life miserable. So drop it.”

  “But I love him.”

  “So love him.”

  “But I miss him.”

  “So miss him. Send him some love and light every time you think about him, and then drop it. You’re just afraid to let go of the last bits of David because then you’ll really be alone, and Liz Gilbert is scared to death of what will happen if she’s really alone. But here’s what you gotta understand, Groceries. If you clear out all that space in your mind that you’re using right now to obsess about this guy, you’ll have a vacuum there, an open spot—a door-way. And guess what the universe will do with that doorway? It will rush in—God will rush in—and fill you with more love than you ever dreamed. So stop using David to block that door. Let it go.”

  “But I wish me and David could—”

  He cuts me off. “See, now that’s your problem. You’re wishin’ too much, baby. You gotta stop wearing your wishbone where your backbone oughtta be.”

  This line gives me the first laugh of the day.

  Then I ask Richard, “So how long will it be before all this grieving passes?”

  “You want an exact date?”

  “Yes.”

  “Somethin’ you can circle on your calendar?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lemme tell you something, Groceries—you got some serious control issues.”

  My rage at this statement consumes me like fire. Control issues? ME? I actually consider slapping Richard for this insult. And then, from right down inside the intensity of my offended outrage comes the truth. The immediate, obvious, laughable truth.

  He’s totally right.

  The fire passes out of me, fast as it came.

  “You’re totally right,” I say.

  “I know I’m right, baby. Listen, you’re a powerful woman and you’re used to getting what you want out of life, and you didn’t get what you wanted in your last few relationships and it’s got you all jammed up. Your husband didn’t behave the way you wanted him to and David didn’t either. Life didn’t go your way for once. And nothing pisses off a control freak more than life not goin’ her way.”

  “Don’t call me a control freak, please.”

  “You have got control issues, Groceries. Come on. Nobody ever told you this before?”

  (Well . . . yeah. But the thing about divorcing someone is that you kind of stop listening to all the mean stuff they say about you after a while.)

  So I buck up and admit it. “OK, I think you’re probably right. Maybe I do have a problem with control. It’s just weird that you noticed. Because I don’t think it’s that obvious on the surface. I mean—I bet most people can’t see my control issues when they first look at me.”

  Richard from Texas laughs so hard he almost loses his toothpick.

  “They can’t? Honey—Ray Charles could see your control issues!”

  “OK, I think I’m done with this conversation now, thank you.”

  “You gotta learn how to let go, Groceries. Otherwise you’re gonna make yourself sick. Never gonna have a good night’s sleep again. You’ll just toss and turn forever, beatin’ on yourself for being such a fiasco in life. What’s wrong with me? How come I screw up all my relationships? Why am I such a failure? Lemme guess—that’s probably what you were up at all hours doin’ to yourself again last night.”

  “All right, Richard, that’s enough,” I say. “I don’t want you walking around inside my head anymore.”

  “Shut the door, then,” says my big Texas Yogi.

  49

  When I was nine years old, going on ten, I experienced a true metaphysical crisis. Maybe this seems young for such a thing, but I was always a precocious child. It all happened over the summer between fourth and fifth grade. I was going to be turning ten years old in July, and there was something about the transition from nine to ten—from single digit to double digits—that shocked me into a genuine existential panic, usually reserved for people turning fifty. I remember thinking that life was passing me by so fast. It seemed like only yesterday I was in kindergarten, and here I was, about to turn ten. Soon I would be a teenager, then middle-aged, then elderly, then dead. And everyone else was aging in hyperspeed, too. Everybody was going to be dead soon. My parents would die. My friends would die. My cat would die. My older sister was almost in high school already; I could remember her going off to first grade only moments ago, it seemed, in her little knee socks, and now she was in high school? Obviously it wouldn’t be long before she was dead. What was the point of all this?

  The strangest thing about this crisis was that nothing in particular had spurred it. No friend or relative had died, giving me my first taste of mortality, nor had I read or seen anything particular about death; I hadn’t even read Charlotte’s Web yet. This panic I was feeling at age ten was nothing less than a spontaneous and full-out realization of mortality’s inevitable march, and I had no spiritual vocabulary with which to help myself manage it. We were Protestants, and not even devout ones, at that. We said grace only before Christmas and Thanksgiving dinner and went to church sporadically. My dad chose to stay home on Sunday mornings, finding his devotional practice in farming. I sang in the choir because I liked singing; my pretty sister was the angel in the Christmas pageant. My mother used the church as a headquarters from which to organize good works of volunteer service for the community. But even in that church, I don’t remember there being a lot of talking about God. This was New England, after all, and the word God tends to make Yankees nervous.

  My sense of helplessness was overwhelming. What I wanted to do was pull some massive emergency brake on the universe, like the brakes I’d seen on the subways during our school trip to New York City. I wanted to call a time out, to demand that everybody just STOP until I could understand everything. I suppose this urge to force the entire universe to stop in its tracks
until I could get a grip on myself might have been the beginning of what my dear friend Richard from Texas calls my “control issues.” Of course, my efforts and worry were futile. The closer I watched time, the faster it spun, and that summer went by so quickly that it made my head hurt, and at the end of every day I remember thinking, “Another one gone,” and bursting into tears.

  I have a friend from high school who now works with the mentally handicapped, and he says his autistic patients have a particularly heartbreaking awareness of time’s passage, as if they never got the mental filter that allows the rest of us to forget about mortality every once in a while and just live. One of Rob’s patients always asks him the date at the beginning of every day, and at the end of the day will ask, “Rob—when will it be February fourth again?” And before Rob can answer, the guy shakes his head in sorrow and says, “I know, I know, never mind . . . not until next year, right?”

  I know this feeling all too intimately. I know the sad longing to delay the end of another February 4. This sadness is one of the great trials of the human experiment. As far as we know, we are the only species on the planet who have been given the gift—or curse, perhaps—of awareness about our own mortality. Everything here eventually dies; we’re just the lucky ones who get to think about this fact every day. How are you going to cope with this information? When I was nine, I couldn’t do a thing with it except cry. Later, over the years, my hypersensitive awareness of time’s speed led me to push myself to experience life at a maximum pace. If I were going to have such a short visit on earth, I had to do everything possible to experience it now. Hence all the traveling, all the romances, all the ambition, all the pasta. My sister had a friend who used to think that Catherine had two or three younger sisters, because she was always hearing stories about the sister who was in Africa, the sister who was working on a ranch in Wyoming, the sister who was the bartender in New York, the sister who was writing a book, the sister who was getting married—surely this could not all be the same person? Indeed, if I could have split myself into many Liz Gilberts, I would willingly have done so, in order to not miss a moment of life. What am I saying? I did split myself into many Liz Gilberts, all of whom simultaneously collapsed in exhaustion on a bathroom floor in the suburbs one night, somewhere around the age of thirty.