Love at First Sight
It was raining in New York and I was depressed. Nothing in my life, at this point, felt right. My relationship with a rather reclusive and self-absorbed psychotherapist in Brooklyn had ended sadly. We simply conceded that there was no juice between us, no real love, just convenience. Time to move on.
Time to let go of any attachment to men, relationships, and sex. None of it was working. The romantic dream of finding Mr. Right was not for me. It was all a trap, an illusion.
I was surely meant to spend my life alone and to focus, once again, on meditation and spiritual awakening.
At twenty-eight, it seemed evident to me that I would not find freedom in the realm of human love. And in any case, men were not to be trusted. They used me, or I used them.
The problem was, nothing compared to the mystical experience of my first night of love with Richard. True, I enjoyed sex. But in “normal sex” I experienced only attachment, dependency, longing, and ten percent highs against ninety percent worries and dissatisfaction.
That very day, at home, I conducted a meditation to cut the cords with men who, in one way or another, were still lingering in my psyche. It seemed necessary, because in every relationship a special link had been created between our energy centers: the heart, the third eye, the sex center, etc.
Energy had been exchanged, as well as words, ideas, promises, visions, etc. These are like cords that, according to certain shamans, remain tied to both partners and keep them under the influence of each other even after separation.
Think of those times when you were obsessive about someone, when you couldn’t get them out of your head or heart. According to this shamanic perspective, that’s an uncut energy cord.
That morning, at home, I imagined each of the men I had loved, one by one, sitting in front of me. I thanked each one for the gifts he had given to me and then, when it felt complete, I cut the links between each of our energy centers—the heart, the third eye, the belly, the sex … After that, I let each of them go. One by one, like a bird in flight, receding in the sky, I let them disappear from my inner landscape.
After this liberating ceremony, I felt lighter and more open to the new and unknown dimensions that life might reveal. I acknowledged that, in truth, I didn’t know enough about love. All I knew, on a very practical level, was that I had to hurry across town or I would be late for the Arica evening meditation, held at its headquarters on 57th Street, near Fifth Avenue.
I took a cab to the address, walked quickly in through the street door, and found myself traveling up to the first floor on an escalator covered with a tunnel of cobalt-blue cloth. Invisible lights shone through the material, giving the tunnel an air of romantic mystery, as if entering a wonderland.
I had been told about Arica by John Lilly, who, together with a group of people from the Esalen Institute in California, had participated in a lengthy spiritual training in South America with a Bolivian mystic named Oscar Ichazo. Ichazo named his school Arica after the town of Arica, in Chile, where the initial training had been conducted. Now Ichazo had relocated to New York and I had begun to investigate—this was my second visit.
The landing opened onto a large carpeted room, elegant, modern, with subdued pastel colors and indirect lighting. It had an empty, Zen feeling to it, even though there were about fifty people sitting quietly on meditation cushions on the floor.
I sat on an unoccupied zafu,10 tucked my legs into a half-lotus posture, took a deep breath, and relaxed. I had made it. In a few seconds, the lights would be dimmed. But I needed to ground myself here, have a quick look around, scan the place, see the faces.
Suddenly my eyes locked with those of a black man sitting at a distance. His eyes seemed like they were boring into mine … deep brown eyes, set in a powerful face with high cheek bones, fine Ethiopian features, and a thin nose above a prominent chin. His high forehead was framed with thick black hair.
He was, without doubt, a good-looking man, but it was his eyes that penetrated all the way to my soul. And I knew, in my heart of hearts, that he was feeling the same. It was as if a lightning bolt had struck us both—the kind of impact you call “love at first sight,” just like my first meeting with Jakob in Paris, only with twice the intensity. Irresistible. No discussion.
The lights went out. Time to go into the meditation. But I could not get that face out of my mind. My inner voice, my conscience, quietly reminded me that only a few hours earlier I had decided to “let go” of men, and yet here I was having a love attack—even in the dark!
I was distracted. His presence swept me out of my rational mind like a tidal wave. There was nothing I could do. The inner voices raged within. One, very stern, said, “It’s going to be more of the same … expectations … hopes … dreams … You are letting yourself get hooked again.”
“But this time it’s different,” said another voice. “I know the feeling is mutual. He feels it too. So why not see where it leads?”
“Nowhere … as usual. Just another tryst, a few thrills, a quick orgasm, and then reality will intrude and you will be disappointed once more.”
“Come on, don’t be so cynical!”
“It’s for your own good.”
“Quiet!”
It took me a long time to find my center. I hated this overly romantic gushing tendency of mine, but I seemed incapable of avoiding it. When the lights came up again, forty-five minutes later, people slowly got up, stretched, and started to socialize. I did too, seemingly at random but never losing track of the man with the hypnotic eyes.
Would we meet? I noticed we were moving in separate circles but in such a way that eventually our orbits would overlap. We seemed to be connecting with others, but really we were inching our way toward the spot where our circles would intersect. I pretended not to care.
And there he was, standing in front of me.
“Hello,” he said. “I am Miles.”
“I am Elise,” I replied—that was my nickname back then.
We shook hands. He had a strong grip. He was tall and I had to lift up my head to look at him—a rare thing for me, as I am tall myself. He was well built and I liked the feeling of his power, his presence. His eyes seemed to smile into my soul.
As he came closer, I noted with satisfaction the man’s casual elegance: he wore well-pressed black jeans, a brown belt made of woven leather strands supporting the silver head of a snake, and a white cotton long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Really there was nothing remarkable about what he wore, but on him it looked stylishly unique. Looking in his eyes, I suddenly felt exposed … speechless … glued to the ground. The contrast between the pure white of his eyes and the dark shine of his black pupils made him look so fierce that I was at once intimidated yet fascinated.
Miles rescued me from my helpless state with natural, effortless charm.
“Will you join us this evening?” he inquired, indicating a small nearby group of people. “I’m having some friends over for a little party.”
“Yes, with pleasure,” I said.
“Come with us. I have a car.”
Miles lived in a ground-floor apartment on the Upper West Side. It was spacious and had a staircase leading down to a cellar converted into a recording studio. Miles was a musician and a performer. His studio was full of musical instruments: a grand piano, drums, djembes, saxophones, flutes, keyboards, and computers. Behind the studio was another room filled with cameras, tripods, and light tables, with camera lenses spread out on a table.
Besides being an accomplished musician, Miles, I soon learned, was an amateur photographer. Later in the evening, he called himself “an image hunter.” Indeed, the walls of his rather elegant apartment were covered with photos of exotic landscapes and the striking faces of black men and women. I appreciated his way of catching the unexpected moment in a photo. The evening was spent gossiping about “the school,” as Arica was called by its members, and about its founder, Oscar Ichazo. Miles informed me that the New York school was barely a year old, expanding rapidly and frequently launching new programs. To my secret disappointment, Miles informed me that he was more interested in music than silent meditation. He did not plan to participate in the Arica programs, although he had many friends there and sometimes played music for the school.
Then another black African man talked about a jazz band that was scheduled to perform at a jazz club downtown.
“Shall we go?” Miles asked me.
I loved the way he included me in his plans, talking as if we were already together, a couple, a done deal—a normal part of his life.
Miles and I started seeing a lot of each other. He was upbeat and exuberant, with a boyish, humorous charm in the company of his friends, which gave him a certain popularity. He was part of a jazz band called “Mockingbird,” which often performed in various jazz cafes in New York. I went to see him play, and when he picked up the flute or the saxophone, he was so sexy. He made me vibrate. Tiny explosions trickled up and down my spine following the musical notes. It was like lovemaking. I wanted him right then and there.
My attraction was so strong that I purposefully remained as neutral, yet as receptive, as possible. I was not, under any circumstances, going to make the first move. I waited for him to make the moves … and he did. In his company, I felt protected, feminine, at ease. Our energies felt like a perfect fit.
Two weeks later, we were in his music studio down in the cellar. It was getting late and I was about to leave. Reluctantly, I moved toward the stairs. My heart was tight. Even going to another place in the same town seemed like a wrenching separation, but I kept those feelings to myself.
Suddenly, Miles pulled me back toward him, held me tightly in his arms, and said, “Stay with me!”
A storm of contradictory feelings was raging in my chest, a cacophony of voices giving their opinions.
“At long last!” said one.
“Don’t even think about it,” said another.
“But this is exactly what you want,” said a third.
“Don’t be too easy—you’ll look cheap,” yet another voice chimed in.
In the end, the heart won. The heart knew.
“Yes,” I said.
It was that simple.
From that day on, a new life began for me. I was learning how to love in a new way. I was discovering the feminine delight of surrendering from the heart.
It was the first time in my life that a man was, well, the man, in his masculine place, in charge, powerful, so there was nothing for me to do but relax in my feminine presence. I did not have to be in charge. Rather, I was letting go, falling into a deep well of love.
Sexually speaking, Miles and I were a good match. We wanted each other insatiably and surrendered to the irresistible pull of the mating instinct. To put it plainly, we had the hots for each other. We wanted to make love all the time, again and again and again.
It certainly wasn’t Tantra, in the sense that there was no attempt to raise the energy to higher, more meditative levels. It was passion. Lust. And here I learned something important: when passion overwhelms you, it’s good to live through its first flush without trying to contain and channel the energy. Just enjoy it! Later, when things cool down a little, that’s the time to introduce Tantric practices.
Miles was in love, and so naturally, as an amateur photographer, he also expressed his love for me through the lens of his camera.
In fact, he had many cameras, many different lenses—wide angle, zoom, close-up—and at home, in “our” apartment (I had moved in upon his invitation), he would follow me around taking photographs, telling me things like, “You are beautiful, you are gorgeous, show me your profile, turn toward me, smile, I love you, you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever loved,” and on and on, all day long, day after day.
To his credit, he respected my modesty and never asked for nude pictures. His way of “catching” me was to let me go about my business and just follow me around. He wanted to capture the natural me.
At first, I felt utterly uncomfortable with it all. I mean, I was used to paying a woman’s dues in the beauty department, but until I met Miles it had been mostly for show.
Behind the façade, I didn’t believe I was anything special. In fact, in the self-esteem department, my rating was low. I hadn’t yet learned to love myself, so I pretended, doing what the world expected of me, and I was good at it. But deep down? I was still stuck with the “performance thing,” thinking I had to prove my self-worth through doing, through achievement—definitely the lingering influence of my father here.
But Miles offered me the precious gift of self-love simply by showering me with his continuous affection and attention, showing me a thousand daily reflections that seemed, with every lovely picture, to shout, “See? Here you are! Are you not lovely, innocent, dreamy, languorous, aristocratic, sexy? Look at you! For sure, all this shows how lovable you are, how precious, how perfect.”
Those photographs slowly imprinted in my psyche this amazing realization: “Yes, just being who I am is enough unto itself. There is no need to do something, to prove anything.”
For Miles, it was all about capturing the perfect image of Elise that would best express his delight in her, his way of catching her beauty—a beauty that was not just skin deep, but soul deep.
I was uptight—I mean, being photographed all the bloody time! But to resist didn’t help. When I did, the pictures weren’t good. So I let go. I accepted. I imbibed his delight and enjoyed being chased, appreciated, loved and loved some more.
One day, three months later, when I was alone in our apartment, I looked at myself in the mirror and heard a voice whisper, “I love you.” It was my voice. And I felt this recognition deeply and sincerely for the first time. I felt a warm glow of acceptance spreading across my chest. Yes, it was possible. I could love myself … simply for being me. It was okay.
In that instant, in a flash of revelation, I saw both the beauty and the failure of the Woodstock Festival—indeed, of the Flower Power movement itself. Inspired by drug-induced visions, we had gathered together, believing that an outward declaration of peace and love was all that was needed to bring about a social revolution.
But the real work had yet to be done: the hard, sometimes painful task of looking within ourselves, as individuals, undoing the wounds, healing the hurt, reclaiming the heart. Maybe this was the main reason why people needed drugs—because they hadn’t yet learned the deep and delicate art of loving themselves.
One glorious Monday morning in bed, Miles asked me to “be his forever.” I wanted to say yes, but in order to do that, there was one important thing I first had to find out.
I gave Miles a passionate kiss of appreciation and exclaimed, “Wow! This is important! Wait for me here. I’ll be right back.” Then I went downstairs to his office and, after discreetly closing the door, called a friend of mine who was a New York lawyer.
“Hey, Robert,” I said, “can you tell me how long it takes to get divorced in New York State—and how much it costs?”
“Two days and two hundred dollars,” was the answer.
“Thanks a lot, Robert. That’s very helpful!” I replied.
I went back to bed, hugged Miles, gazed into his eyes with the most deeply meaningful look I could muster, and murmured, “Yes! But I don’t want to marry officially and not in New York.”
It may sound strange, but I was allergic to the idea of getting married in a way that would allow a legal entity to have a say in my affairs. I rejected the status of “being a wife” because, watching my parents, I equated being married to being stuck in a golden cage. You made a deal with the devil: you gave up freedom for security and the never-ending, elegant protocols of high society. As a wife, you had to compromise, or so I thought.
But in my flawed model of wifehood, I had left out the most vital element: love! Love was the attraction that bound it all together. In a love relationship, there were no duties, just enjoyment and mutual exploration; no golden cage, but just the expanded dimension of mutuality.
Miles and I went everywhere together. We belonged to each other. It was easy to admire Miles, to accept him, to feel him as a part of me, a part of my heart, and to know deeply, without a doubt, that he had chosen me and I was the one he wanted.
Exploring the New York music and jazz scene together was a double bonus. Not only were we discovering each other’s worlds, we were uncovering new dimensions of ourselves. I loved to hang out with other black musicians. Their sensual and playful talent at improvisation on a theme turned me on. I envied their skills; it seemed they played from their gut. Especially saxophone.
I continued to go to Arica. It was not Miles’s scene. He had tried to meditate but gave it up.
At Arica, Ichazo’s teachings drew on many spiritual traditions, including Buddhism, Sufism, Tantrism, and Greek philosophy. The three-month training that had begun in Chile had been condensed into forty days, and I signed up for it.
The training taught us the unification of body, heart, and mind so all human energies could be gathered to awaken what Oscar called the “spiritual body.”
Every morning, I got up and practiced psychocalisthenics—the Arica gym workout—then sat in a ritual meditation to bless the day. In the evenings, I enticed Miles to practice a new and very intimate meditation with me: the Trespaso, an eye-gazing meditation. Sometimes we stared so long into each other’s eyes that reality would shift and we would begin to see a whole kaleidoscope of multiple faces: old, young, wrinkled, fresh, male, female …
In such moments, I would ask myself, “Can I love this man?” I was given a new vision of what unconditional loving was all about: to love the child in him, the old man in him, the animal in him. It was a challenge, an adventure, a quest that we shared passionately.
I first met Oscar himself when he taught the Enneagram of Ego Fixations. Nowadays, use of the Enneagram is widespread, having been adopted as a tool for self-understanding in therapy, in business, and in personal growth. But then, it was utterly new. And, to my knowledge, Oscar was the first one to bring this knowledge to the United States. The idea was to become aware of the habitual strategies adopted by each ego type and then transform them into conscious and transparent awareness.
At the presentation, Oscar showed the group a nine-pointed star within a circle, indicating the correspondence between human energies, states of consciousness, and personality types.
At first, I was more interested in studying the teacher than his subject. To me, Oscar looked surprisingly “normal.” He was elegantly dressed in black pants and a matching cashmere turtle-neck sweater. He was of medium height, with a rather pale complexion and strong, shining dark eyes under black eyebrows that gave him a look of intensity and presence.
There was a thin black moustache above his upper lip, and his face was mobile and expressive. When he looked at me, I felt deeply seen by this man, but without criticism.
He seemed fluid, as if some energy was moving through him, even when he was immobile. As Lilly put it, “His speaking originates from a unified, restful center, extremely present and tuned in to what’s happening.”
On the first day of the training, we had to line up to be photographed. These were close-ups, or “mug shots,” focusing on the face alone.
On the second day, each participant’s face was projected onto a screen in a very large size for everyone to see. Using a long wooden stick—the kind university lecturers point with—Oscar showed us how to look for our ego fixation type by analyzing the points of tension in our facial features.
What a challenge, to be thus exposed, with all of the ego’s unattractive tendencies clearly described and highlighted. To me, it seemed worse than taking my clothes off in public.
The names given to the nine types didn’t help, either: Resent, Flat, Go, Melan, Stinge, Cow, Plan, Venge, Indolent.
What a company! Later, the school adopted new names that were milder and easier to digest, but in the beginning Oscar had no mercy on us. After all, the ego had to be recognized and transcended, not protected.
When my turn came, it was announced that I was a “Venge,” the number eight on the Enneagram model. Oscar pointed to the tell-tale indication on my face: tension in the nasal fold at the bottom of the left cheek.
Moving from the photo to the description, I was in for it. As Oscar spoke, I wanted to disappear into the ground. He explained that the mind of a Venge swings between two extreme attitudes:
1. I must follow the rules laid down by others, and if I follow the rules, I will go to heaven.
2. I rebel! Leave me alone! I make my own rules and to hell with any impositions.
There was much more to the Venge. For example, psychologically, a secret part of my ego stalked every person and situation with an obsession to uncover hidden unfairness or injustice. Consequently, I had a strong compulsion to fight for justice, an appreciation of strength, a need to protect others, a need to be right, a need to be my own boss—well, that certainly explained why I ended up directing my own department (on counterculture) at Paris Match magazine.
Embarrassingly, Oscar also pointed to what he called “an extreme sexual lasciviousness” in the Venge type, in which it might seem perfectly okay to make love all day and all night—well, I couldn’t argue with that! But this type also swung between indulgence and self-denial, between excess and asceticism, a trait I also recognized in myself.
It was exposing but fascinating. Oscar’s purpose in teaching this work was to strip the ego of all its defenses, exposing its raw reality, so that it could be “reduced,” thus gradually revealing the “divine human prototype” that shines beyond the ego in all of us.
One day, while helping in Arica’s main office, I found a copy of Oscar’s writings about Tantra and discovered, to my dismay, that he was not in favor of it—at least, not in its sexual form. He claimed he’d tried to teach sexual Tantric practices earlier in Arica but stopped because it was a “risky and dangerous path.”
He distinguished several types of Tantra, including the cultivation of sexual orgasm to the point where it was divested of any attachment to a partner. This meant practicing a sort of “tribal Tantra” with many different partners. Riding the ecstatic energy of sexual pleasure to a point of “divine union,” the partners became the embodiment of Shiva and Shakti—Shiva as pure consciousness, Shakti as pure energy—who, through their blissful communion, recreated the universe.
Oscar, however, thought that Westerners could not, in the long run, divest themselves of the influence of Christian morality, which equated sex with sin, thereby creating an atmosphere of repression, guilt, and shame that would risk opening the door to “perversions and the darkest of sexual passions.”
I never believed this, until I came across the perversions that I describe in chapter eleven, “Tantra: The Shadow and the Light,” which speaks about the shadow side of Tantra.
Another form of Tantra, explained in Oscar’s notes, also focused on the cultivation of sexual energy and pleasure yet required sexual orgasm to be suspended and reabsorbed by both partners. Thus contained, sexual energy would be converted into higher vibrations via a complex inner alchemy. In this way, sexual energy would be channeled up through the chakras as a powerful vitality that became radiant light in the crown chakra. This, in turn, could generate an extraordinary force for spiritual awakening.
However, Oscar noted that this practice of sexual alchemy was extremely difficult to master and required both partners to have the same level of training—a rare occurrence.
Somewhat dramatically, Oscar’s notes further warned that abuse of these Tantric methods, when not properly mastered, could lead to superstition, spiritual pollution, and sexual slavery. Ichazo’s own version of Tantra, which he developed later, promoted the transformation of energy within the body, but through strictly nonsexual methods.
Back home, I talked to Miles about all this and wondered what to do. Of course, I wanted us to become a “Tantric couple,” but we had no clue how to go about it. We tried a variety of exercises, hoping to awaken the vibration of “Kundalini Shakti” in our spines and send it shooting upward, releasing white light in our crown chakras.
To no avail. All we got was a faint trembling in our backs, often accompanied by a fit of uncontrollable laughter. Obviously, “Madame Kundalini” didn’t show up on demand. But I enjoyed trying, playing, exploring. More than ever, I felt drawn to the Tantric path, and my intuition told me there was much more to be discovered.
After some years in New York, Miles and I decided to move to Paris. We found a small but romantic apartment on rue Saint-Séverin in the heart of the city, with a view over Notre-Dame Cathedral. I started to research the teachings of different Tantric traditions, and Miles and I experimented with Tantric practices on our own.
We became very creative in devising new approaches to enhance intimacy and heighten sensuality, such as the Yin-Yang game.11 In this exercise, the time is divided into two equal portions. During the first half, one partner is given all the power—as King or Queen—while the other has to unquestioningly obey. In the second half, the roles are switched.
The first time we played this game, we were in the French countryside, in Normandy, on a sunny summer day.
Miles started as King, saying to me, “From now on, you are my slave. Do not look directly in my eyes or my face, but always keep your gaze on the ground. We are going on a picnic. Prepare the picnic basket and carry it. I want you to wear my favorite skirt, the white one with pink flowers. No underwear, please.”
Miles gathered his cameras and off we went.
“Walk ahead of me, slowly. Look to the ground. Walk from your hips,” he ordered.
Being a slave made me very self-conscious, and this, surprisingly, turned even a simple act like walking into an erotic meditation. I was aware of the way each foot touched the ground, how each step made my hips sway.
Miles followed with his camera at a distance.
We entered a clearing in the woods. Miles suddenly shouted, “Stop!” I did.
“Put your basket down,” he said. I did.
Then he told me to set up the picnic. First, I had to feed him. Then he told me to take off my clothes and lie next to him. He proceeded to eat on my naked body, covering my nipples with jam and my sex with chocolate, then slowly licking it off.
It was difficult for me to lie still amid all the myriad sensations he elicited with his lips—his sucking, his grunts, his caresses. I was so turned on I wanted to explode. A sensation like champagne bubbles under the skin started in my belly, then moved down between my legs and triggered a liquid longing.
I became an ocean of vibrant tickles and licks. The hard part was to stay silent. I was lucky just to be able to breathe without moaning and groaning in orgasmic delight—the slave had been commanded to be silent.
At first, Miles and I delighted each other in these kinds of games, but they required a deep trust, and the time came when this bond was broken.
It was in our apartment on rue Saint-Séverin. I was Queen and commanding Miles to play the roles of my favorite male archetypes—for example the troubadour lover in a medieval court, adoring his queen. Then, at a certain point, I ordered Miles to become a caveman roughly conquering his female partner. He got into it, grabbed hold of me, turned me over on my belly, threw me across his lap, and started to spank me on my ass.
At first, it was fun and, as I had intended, a turn-on for both of us. But then the spanking got stronger and the pain was too much. But when I commanded him to stop, he just went on and on and on.
The more I screamed for him to stop, the more it excited him to continue. His blows were now real. Miles was sadistically enjoying beating me up. I screamed bloody murder, managed to jump up, ran out of the room, and locked myself in the bathroom.
A dialogue ensued through the door. Without mentioning anything about it, I wondered whether this episode of unexpected violence was due to the fact that Miles was a black man and I was a white woman. Was this a deep and secret way of claiming revenge over the horrible treatment his enslaved ancestors had received? My self-esteem had taken a beating, but we had to find a solution. Meanwhile, it seemed the caveman was returning to his senses. But I was beyond furious. I berated him, cried, and accused him of breaking my trust. He apologized. We negotiated and he explained that he’d been in a kind of trance. Half an hour later, I came out, on the condition that he not touch me. He agreed.
We chose, for the time being, not to talk about what had happened. We needed time to digest it, going about our daily business, but even so, this was the beginning of a new and terrible feeling that I no longer knew with whom I was living.
Later that week, while Miles was away at a music practice, I decided to deep-clean the apartment. As I lifted pillows and pulled furniture away from the walls, I discovered empty wine bottles hidden everywhere—at least six of them.
So Miles was a secret drinker. He kept it under control, in the sense that I’d never seen him drunk, but still it was a shock to me. Maybe this was the cause of his caveman behavior? The man I thought I knew was becoming even more of a stranger.
What to do?
I had to face this ugly truth: I had been the victim of domestic violence. And it could happen again, because my man was drinking. I knew that I needed to exit the stage. Move on. Do something else. Be somewhere else. Pronto!
At first I didn’t say anything. But the time for “surrender and let go” was over. From then on, I had to be on my guard, lest another episode of abuse occur. This turn of events was the beginning of the end.
A short while later, I signed a contract with a French publisher to write a book called Le Chemin de l’Extase—the path to bliss. I needed a quiet place to write and was blessed with the loan of a regal duplex apartment in Crans-sur-Sierre, a picturesque ski resort in Switzerland. So I went to Switzerland to enjoy a writing retreat while Miles flew to New York.
It was summertime. The mountain paths started at the door of my building and the meadows were covered with flowers. Birdsong resonated everywhere. Miles called often. I felt distant. His love felt like a jail. I couldn’t really trust it anymore. We argued over the phone. We wavered between seduction and rejection. It interfered with my concentration.
I could not really blame Miles for it, because I had been a willing partner in allowing a subtle form of domination to develop between us. Only much later did I see it as the symptom of an ongoing power struggle—so typical of relationships after the honeymoon phase is over—in which two partners find themselves constantly negotiating and compromising, wanting to stay together and yet, at the same time, trying to assert their personal will.
The caveman incident had been another symptom of the same phenomenon—evidence that, even though Miles appeared to enjoy those times when I was Queen, his male ego resented being commanded by a woman.
One month later, I received an invitation to present a lecture on meditation at the University of Geneva. I went on my own and the lecture was well received.
The next day, several members of the audience invited me to visit an ashram in Geneva run by disciples of Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, an Indian guru. When I arrived, the first thing I saw was a large black-and-white picture of the mystic, hanging just inside the entrance, facing the door. I had the shock of my life: this was the face of the man who had appeared during my isolation retreat in England whispering, “Ecstasy is already within you.”
Naturally, this made me very curious about his meditation techniques, and shortly thereafter I was introduced to “Kundalini Meditation.” The instructions were to begin by letting the body gently shake to enticing music, which, I found out much later, had been composed and performed by Deuter, the well-known German musician.
“Imagine you are naked and shivering in a field of snow,” explained one disciple, as we stood in the meditation room. “Then relax into the trembling until you are no longer ‘doing’ it, but are allowing the shaking to take you over.”
Music began to play. It felt exactly right for this exercise, with rhythmic streaming tones that seemed to provoke a subtle trembling in the body. I started to shake, but letting go of control was not easy for me. I discovered I was a habitual “doer.” Moreover, shaking would happen “by itself” in one part of the body, while another part felt nothing—no sensations and no energy—as if I were composed of disparate bits and pieces.
I persevered. Suddenly, ten minutes into the meditation, the shaking took over like a huge tidal wave. My whole being was seized by a storm of inner waves, undulations, jumps, and shouts that erupted like an involuntary storm. I started to sweat profusely. The flood of energy was astonishing.
Simultaneously, a burden was being released. The energy seemed to be carrying away the unfinished business with Miles that had been lingering in my psyche. As the shaking possessed me, my attachment to him seemed to dissolve.
During the last part of the meditation, we were asked to lie down on the floor, completely relaxed, doing nothing. Involuntarily, I started to cry and cry, feeling a tremendous sadness as the realization dawned that my love relationship with Miles was ending.
That wonderful feeling of togetherness, which I had once imagined would stretch far into the future, was fading after only five years.
I knew I had to go to India to meet Bhagwan. His meditation had been the equivalent of a huge purge, forcing me to face hidden truths. Later I called Miles, who was back at rue Saint-Séverin. He told me that he was not interested in going, believing that India’s so-called mystics, masters, and gurus were charlatans and opportunists.
I returned to Paris, feeling insecure. How would I break the news to Miles? But events were already taking their predestined course.
Miles told me he’d met a beautiful jazz singer named Maya. He proposed that we invite her for tea so I could get to know her. During the course of the evening, it became evident that she didn’t care about me. She wanted Miles.
She was, indeed, breathtakingly beautiful—a mix of Caribbean and European bloodlines. She seemed interested only in Miles. She was half-black and sexy, she could sing, and she had a gig at the Paris “Club du Jazz.” That evening, in our living room, she sang “Summertime,” supported by Miles, who played the sax. Then they went into a wild jazz improvisation. It was deep and sexy and such a convincing and seductive fit that I knew instinctively I was being “replaced.”
It was an unexpected happening that made my departure easier. I, too, was falling in love—not with a new lover but with the call to meet a mystic in India. The pull was strong. The discovery of this new guide, the prospect of visiting an Indian ashram, acted like a magnet, and I thought about it all the time.
I was done with appearing like the perfect couple with Miles in the eyes of the public while quarreling at home. I was impatient and felt trapped. After much discussion, we decided it was time to divorce.
Once again, I called Robert, my lawyer friend in New York.
“Yes,” said Robert, “a divorce will still cost you two hundred dollars and take two days. You’ll have to claim abandonment from your spouse.”
Don’t you love Americans? How easy they make it! I flew to New York, went to the civil office, filled out a declaration of abandonment, and paid my dues, and two days later I was a free woman.
In my heart of hearts, I knew it was the right move. But when the reality of the new situation dawned on me, I spent weeks crying my heart out. I had loved Miles. I still loved him. I would always love him. But the relationship was over.
I was determined to move on, but boy, was it painful! I surrendered to the agony like a patient just out of the operating room. I needed somewhere to heal, to convalesce, and what better place than an ashram in India?
What I Learned
When love takes over your heart and envelops you in its totality, you have been gifted a treasure that will remain with you forevermore. In a moment, which can last a minute, or forever, or all the shades of eternity in between, you have become whole. Complete. Satisfied. Seen. Appreciated.
In this experience lies the key to the kingdom of Shambala, the abode of the gods and goddesses.
This is the gift I received from Miles, and for this I will be eternally grateful. Such love as the one we shared, even when it must end, can never be regretted. When you love fully, you simply dive into it, drinking it in and drowning in it, even though it is bound to contain heartbreak and sadness as well as joy and bliss.
To become mature human beings, we need to pass through the fire of love. To become adults, we must first realize that, when it comes to affairs of the heart, we are often still children who were sent out into the big, wide world to fumble and stumble through our relationships, picking up what little we know through the school of hard knocks.
This is why Tantra needs to be revived in the West. This is why we need a “school for love”—to learn those essential lessons about life that our teachers couldn’t tell us.
Tantra begins with sex—at least, the Tantra I am interested in! It does not end there, but it embraces everything the first chakra 12 can teach us. And when this erotic totality is bathed, suffused, and softened by love in the heart, all it needs then is an awakened spirit that can give us the courage to survive when things don’t go the way we had hoped.
We cannot possess another. We cannot control another. We cannot even change another. And sooner or later, our differences become stronger than the love that binds us.
With Miles, I learned more deeply than ever that, in this moment of my life, even the sweetest togetherness was bound to end. It is the case for many people. To me, the happy couples who are still lovingly fulfilled after thirty years of marriage are the exception. In most cases, no matter how hard we try, no matter how strongly we cling, a relationship is going to complete its cycle, breaking the bond, taking us back to ourselves.
Of course, we would dearly love to know the secret of enjoying pleasure while avoiding pain, but these two experiences seem to come as an inseparable package. So be it.
We lose ourselves in love. We learn. We fall. We grow. Tantra embraces it all with a wholehearted yes. And now, many years later, I am glad to report that I have many friends who are practicing Tantra regularly and are still happily married after ten, twenty, thirty years or more.
The Practice:
Cutting the Cords of Attachment
This meditation is done alone.
Prepare the room or space in which you are going to practice this ceremony. Light candles, burn incense, and play some soft background music. Make sure you are not going to be disturbed. Turn off the Internet, faxes, and phones.
Make sure you have a bottle of your favorite essential oil—such as lavender or mint—to pass over your aura, or energy body, at the end of the meditation, to seal the event.
Sit in meditation, facing a wall. Imagine that the person from whom you wish to separate is sitting in front of you, between you and the wall. Place a cushion in front of you to symbolize this person.
Bow down to this person with a namaste, or heart salutation.
Explain that you are doing this ritual to regain freedom and that this is beneficial for both partners, because when both are free—from longing, dissatisfaction, resentment—then friendship is again possible.
Close your eyes. Imagine there is a cord of energy between the center of your chest and the chest of the person in front of you, rather like an umbilical cord.
When ready, bring your hands in front of your chest and lay the back of your right hand in the palm of your left hand. Your hands are now creating a sort of “guillotine,” an imaginary cutting blade.
Inhale deeply, lifting your hands above your head, and then hold your breath for a few seconds.
Exhale fully, shouting loudly, “Ho!”and bringing your hands down forcefully, breaking the cord that is connecting you.
Inhale deeply once more, placing both your hands on your chest. Exhale fully, pushing your hands out toward your imaginary partner, saying, “I give you your energy back!”
Repeat both gestures several times.
Now rest your hands on your heart. Inhale deeply. Say aloud, “And I take my energy back!”
Breathe deeply into the heart chakra area for a few minutes until it feels relaxed and full.
Now focus on the lower belly, or hara center, just below the navel, and repeat the process, breaking an energy cord between your two haras. Do this for all energy centers that you feel need cleansing, such as the sex center (genital area) or the power center (solar plexus area) or the third eye (between the eyebrows).
When finished, take your spray bottle with purifying fragrance and spray all around yourself, front and back. This will help to seal the new energy formation, in which all cords are severed.
Rest in meditation for a few moments, feeling your lightness and freedom.
Get up, put on some great music, and dance for five to ten minutes.
You are now ready for your next life adventure.
If the bond with this person was deep, it is recommended to repeat this meditation once a day for a week.
I have taught this process in my groups for years. It has been helpful for people who want to be free of the lingering influence of a parent, a divorced partner, or a person whom they loved dearly and who passed away.
Never oppose anything or anyone.
Instead, choose to express and manifest
What is true for you.13
10. A round meditation pillow filled with kapok, a natural cotton substance.
11. See the full practice of the Yin-Yang game in my book The Art of Sexual Ecstasy (New York: Jeremy P. Tarcher/Putnam, 1989), p. 257.
12. In the SkyDancing Tantra system, the first chakra corresponds to the sex center.
13. Adyashanti, My Secret Is Silence (Los Gatos, CA: Open Gate Publishing, 2003), p. 67.