The Cosmic Joke
The very first time I went to India, I went alone. Any dreams I’d secretly nurtured of going with Miles had long since died, leaving only an ache in my heart.
I arrived at the Mumbai airport on a flight from Paris and was instantly struck by the utterly foreign smell in the air. It offered a strange mix of repugnance and adventure: repugnance because of the unmistakable aroma of untreated sewage, burning garbage, and rotting vegetation; adventure because of the enticing, interwoven fragrances of spices and incense and sweat and car fumes that gave Mumbai an ancient, timeless feeling, like a city caught on an endlessly rotating karmic wheel of birth, death and rebirth …
It told me that here was a land of enlightenment, of great Tantric rajas, of intricate and mysterious temples and powerful goddesses.
I instantly felt at home there. The stench penetrated my heart and I accepted it. Crowds of people were waiting outside the exit, their faces masks of human passion: the longing, the staring, the expression of naked curiosity, the greed, the impatience, the hope on a thousand faces asking for … what? It wasn’t clear. Business? Money? Clients for their taxis?
I found the taxi rank, appreciating the kindness and helpful attitude of the people I asked for directions, then climbed in the back of an old yellow-and-black Fiat and raced off in the direction of Victoria Terminus Station. The taxi driver, joking and friendly, described the city sights in broken English as we passed. Victoria Station was an elegant remnant of the British Raj, with its cathedral glass ceilings and ornate facades, but nobody seemed to pay attention to architecture. The station was crowded with people of all races, luggage, bundles of goods wrapped in colored cloth, and a menagerie of live and dead animals carried by hand or on backs. At the train station, a Sikh porter, wearing a white turban wrapped around his dark, bearded head, helped me get a ticket and catch a train headed for Poona, a few hours away.
The train, overcrowded and slow, was crammed with people. Some had climbed into the luggage racks, many were standing in the corridors, and others chose to ride precariously on the train’s outside steps, clinging to the door handles.
I wasn’t afraid. Rather, a new feeling was growing in me. All around me there was a sort of friendliness, a sense of camaraderie and goodwill; an immediate openness and willingness to connect that you simply didn’t find when riding trains in Europe. But here it was as if we were all one and the same people. Nothing special. Just friends on similar journeys. We smiled and talked, using broken English.
Meanwhile, we were passing through an alien landscape that seemed to take me back in time: the cars on the roads looked like they were from the fifties, the train I was traveling in from the thirties, the bullock carts in the fields from thousands of years ago.
Chai wallahs brought sweet tea through the compartment, and I wondered if I dared drink a cup—probably a sure way to catch some tummy bug. I passed.
At every stop, beggars thrust their brown, weather-beaten hands through the windows, while women in brilliantly colored saris glided along platforms, jewelry hanging from their noses, ears, wrists, and ankles. For me, it seemed like a voyage through many centuries toward an unknown destiny.
The journey ended in a small hotel in the center of Pune, near the train station. The bed was full of bugs. The night was hot and humid and filled with the sounds of honking car horns, the whistling warning calls of locomotives, the voices of people laughing … so many strange sounds and smells. I couldn’t sleep, but I didn’t care. I was so excited about coming to see Osho. Would he look as welcoming as he had in the picture I saw in Geneva?
The next day I took a rickshaw to the ashram located outside the city, in Koregaon Park, a quiet, wooded residential suburb filled with elegant houses from a bygone era.
After the preliminaries—filling out enrollment documents, paying a modest entrance fee, stating the purpose of my visit—I walked through an imposing, ornately carved gate of black teak, studded with brass floral emblems.
Inside, I found myself on a wide pathway, passing among a steady stream of people wearing orange robes. This color, I soon discovered, was worn by those who had decided to “take sannyas”—the expression used for being initiated as a disciple of Osho.
Even though these people were ethnically diverse—Indians, Japanese, Europeans—I noticed how the similar costumes and colors gave a sort of lookalike impression, as if everyone were part of a fluid, moving energy wave rather than standing out as individuals.
The pathway was lined with trees, bushes, and flowers, linking colonial-type buildings, a bookstore, and gardens.
The time came for Osho’s discourse. It was happening in a picturesque auditorium, with a polished, black-and-white marble floor and large white pillars to support the oblong roof, opening out into a garden with such thick vegetation that you couldn’t see the end of it.
I was seated in the back row. Osho walked in, light as a cloud, surrounded by silence. He had a small, delicate build, his frame disappearing in a simple white robe and his round face surrounded by gray-white hair that blended with a long beard falling on his chest. His lips disappeared under a thick moustache and the crown of his head was bald.
His intense, dark brown eyes were the most striking part of his face. They were set wide apart, enhanced by strong eyebrows that gave him a rather fierce look, tempered by well-designed eyelids that added a lazy, sexy, movie-star touch and softened his gaze.
He looked like a holy man straight out of the Bible, so silent that he was almost transparent. Slowly, delicately, he greeted us all with a namaste, turning to face each part of the auditorium, then sat in a big armchair with high arm rests. He took one foot out of his flip-flop sandals and crossed it over his other leg, then settled back, gently running his fingers through his beard as if to position it correctly.
Before he spoke, his hands formed an unusual sort of mudra: both hands folded so that the tip of the middle finger touched the tip of the thumb, with both hands resting against each other in such a way that the tips of the thumb and middle finger of the left hand rested against the tips of the thumb and middle finger of the right hand. Only much later did I discover that this mudra (which is called the Mudra of Inspiration), so habitual to him before speaking, was the hand position most conducive to opening the inspiration for teaching.
Slowly, softly, Osho started speaking. To my surprise, it was in Hindi, the main language of Northern India. I found out afterward that we were now in a period of Hindi discourses—ten days every month. No wonder most of the few hundred people attending were Indians.
Sitting there, watching him, listening to him speak in a language I did not understand, was a revelation. He spoke in a slow, rhythmic manner, fiercely accentuating some of his words or half sentences, seemingly scolding us, rising to a peak of frenzy, and then suddenly tumbling down into the softest, most welcoming voice, almost cajoling us.
There were meaningful silences between his sentences, the sound of his voice flowing and melodious, as if he were composing an epic poem, improvising on the spot. Listening to him, I gradually felt myself transported into an altered state, my consciousness sliding into the long silences between his words. He was literally talking me into a state of meditation.
I don’t know how it happened, but that very morning, by the end of the discourse—or rather the “poem,” or the “concert”—I had fallen in love with Osho. Intuitively, in my heart, I knew he would be my spiritual teacher. There was no doubt about it. I was completely charmed, conquered. It was as if I’d recognized an ancient family member whom I had somehow lost track of, and found again.
How had he managed, I wondered, to come and pay me a “psychic visit” during my sensory deprivation retreat, to give me that important message about inner bliss, just when it was needed, at the perfect moment? He had thousands of disciples worldwide. How could he be personally related to each one—even to someone like me, who, at the time of his psychic appearance, didn’t even know about him?
It was an intriguing mystery and yet, as the days went by and I continued listening to him, I felt as if a hand were knocking at the door of my consciousness. He was extending an invitation:
You can go deeper … further … take a leap now!
Gradually, over the following days, I began to understand the alchemy of connecting with a spiritual master. I once heard him say it this way:
The lotus flower comes out of the mud. The mud can be transformed; you can become a lotus. Sex can be transformed, and it can become samadhi. Anger can be transformed, and it can become compassion. Hate can be transformed, and it can become love. Everything you have that looks negative right now, mud-like, can be transformed. Your noisy mind can be emptied and transformed and it becomes celestial music.
What a conundrum: someone outside of me was speaking a language I could not understand yet was helping me get to know myself! And, ironically, it seemed that I had to do away with this “me,” because apparently it was an illusion. Osho was already seeping into my soul in uncanny ways.
It was scary to allow this new, unfamiliar intimacy with a stranger, and this was my struggle during that first visit. I kept wondering, should I stay here and dive deeper within or leave and go back? But I could not go back, not yet. I had to heal the deep sadness inside and move beyond the wound of separation from Miles.
I learned that one could meet personally with Osho, talking with him about any subject, in the daily evening darshan. So I made an appointment.
It was dark when we filed into Chuang Tzu Auditorium. There were about thirty of us, and everyone sat on the marble floor, close to Osho’s chair. He came in, greeted us with a namaste, and sat down. Names were called and people went up and sat at his feet. Some were leaving for the West, while others, like me, had just arrived in Poona.
Eventually my name was called and I went to sit at Osho’s feet. I saluted him with a namaste. I looked into his smiling eyes and the world disappeared. Only his presence remained. He was connecting with me absolutely. No one else existed. I told him how difficult it had been to part with Miles.
In response, Osho indicated I should come closer, so I scooted forward on my bum. Then he asked me to raise my arms in the air and look intently at his hand without blinking, while he shone the beam of a small hand-held flashlight at my face. He seemed to be checking my aura.
After a few moments, he turned off the light and invited me to relax, saying, “You have just crossed into hell and back. But it did not damage your center, your energy. Be happy about this. In fact, it was worth it.
“If one can dive so totally to the very bottom of such an agony without having the center of one’s being damaged, one has passed through a great test and acquired a great integrity. One knows with total certainty that one is complete.
“You will never be the same. You have transcended all hesitation, all indecisiveness. You have crossed through hell itself, but soon you will feel what benediction that was and you will be grateful. Be grateful to your husband now. Forget the past. Forgive and be grateful.
“Now you are going to enter into a new dimension, and this is why I called you. And remember, as long as you still have feelings of reproach and resentment, it is impossible to forget and to let go. To forget, you must be able to forgive. The two go together. You must leave your wounds alone. They will heal more quickly. Now begins the real life.”
After a moment’s pause, he smiled and added, “It will be good to do the Vipassana group. Come see me afterward.”
I left darshan feeling rather confused. Be grateful to Miles for walking out on me with a young model? For being a drunk and beating me up? I could feel the indignation inside me and, beneath it, the unresolved anger toward my former partner.
Later, when I went to sign up for Vipassana, I discovered it was a ten-day retreat that started the next day. The group, about twenty of us, arrived in the morning. The venue was a beautiful house overlooking the nearby Mula-Mutha River, bordering Koregaon Park.
Vipassana, as many people know, is a Buddhist meditation method that goes back thousands of years. It is said that this was the practice adopted by Gautam Buddha himself before his spiritual awakening.
You sit with your eyes closed, your back straight, and your chin slightly tucked in toward your chest, and you breathe softly through your nose.
As you inhale, you focus your attention on the cool air entering through your nostrils. As you exhale, you feel the warm air going out. If you find this is too difficult, there’s an alternative: you can watch, or feel, your belly expand as you inhale, then watch it contract as you breathe out.
Either way, the task is to focus your awareness on watching your breath and then catching those moments when the mind wanders off and gets lost in thoughts—you have forgotten about watching your breath. Then you remember, the thought disappears, and you return to watching. Gradually, through this process of inner watching, the mind grows quiet.
We were woken from sleep at 5:00 am, given a few minutes to wash, and then sent outside for a walk in the garden. We walked very slowly and consciously, one foot after the other, feeling the sole of each foot as it touched the ground, while looking at the tip of the nose or at the earth.
I often cheated a little, gazing for a moment at the beautiful river or at the sunrise before returning once more to gazing at my nose.
A bell rang and we returned to our places, to our sitting positions in the main room, in which everybody had their own zafu pillow. Here, we sat in a half-lotus posture or with our legs tucked under a Zen-style meditation stool, and practiced Vipassana.
Having spoken with Osho and feeling relieved that I had landed in the right place, I now assumed I could put this whole separation issue behind me and dive deeply into inner silence and peace, receiving a blissful resolution to my drama with Miles.
After Arica, I regarded myself as an old hand—or at least an experienced practitioner—as far as meditation was concerned and presumed it would be easy to arrive at a place of inner quietude that would allow a contentment to shine through and heal all.
However, it was a shock to discover, as I began to meditate, that my mind was busy with a series of TV-like soap operas that absorbed all my attention. These scenes were projected onto the screen of my mind all day long—the same scenarios, obsessively repeated, with minor variations, day after day.
Day One: I could see a chalet in Switzerland and recognized it as a place I liked a lot, where I had taught meditation retreats. But now Miles and Maya were there, in the chalet. I wasn’t happy about it, to say the least. This had been my place, our place—a place where we had experienced so many blissful moments.
As the scene unfolded, I noticed that Miles and Maya were uncomfortable together, having quarrels, not getting along. It seemed that the honeymoon phase of their romance had already passed, and as I watched, their relationship slowly degenerated into more and more unhappiness.
Part of me enjoyed their discomfort, basking in the sweet taste of revenge.
Day Two: Miles and Maya were in the same chalet, still arguing and quarreling. But now things were escalating.
A karate master arrived at the chalet in the dead of night, stealthily, silently. He found his way into their room and grabbed them by the neck, beating them, breaking their ribs. I saw the whole movie: how they were being caught, how they tried to defend themselves, how the karate master was winning and dragging them, broken, into their bedroom, throwing them on the bed and then leaving the house again.
Day Three: The murderous movies continued unabated, repeating themselves with variations. I tried to fight this plethora of deadly visions, remembering I was supposed to be watching my thoughts, not getting caught up in them. Many times I tried bringing myself back to the breathing, tried to bring more awareness to the walking in the garden.
But it wasn’t easy. The problem was, I was deriving too much satisfaction from these movies. At some deep level, I was cooperating with them. They seemed to be fulfilling a fierce inner need for revenge. They were pouring out of my psyche, and there was nothing I could do to stop them.
So it was a struggle. I’d watch my breath, then go back to a scene of the karate master breaking Miles’s bones, then go back to watching my breath …
Day Four: I woke up at five o’clock in the morning, sat on my meditation pillow, and began watching my breath once again. This time I felt sure I would be able to empty my psyche of all these horrendous scenes and enjoy inner silence.
No chance. Not even five minutes had passed before the next movie came. Miles and Maya had been out driving and got a ticket for speeding in the local village. They had been followed by a nosy police officer who found out where they were staying, checked Miles’s criminal record, and discovered he was a very bad person who had tons of tickets for his car, did not know how to drive, had debts everywhere, and never paid his fines.
The police officer confronted both of them, gave them even more tickets, had a big fight with Miles, and eventually arrested them both and threw them in jail.
And so the fourth day passed …
Day Five: As I awoke, I again hoped I would be rid of my obsessive mental repetitions. I washed my face, sipped a cup of warm herbal tea, walked meditatively around the garden, came back, sat on my cushion, and focused my attention on my breathing.
Here we go … and here comes another scene …
Thieves and hooligans in the village had an account to settle with the owner of the chalet where Miles and Maya were staying. One night they decided to take their revenge, so they brought jerry cans filled with gasoline, dowsed the whole house in petrol, and set fire to it, with Miles and Maya asleep inside.
They woke up scorched, their pajamas burning, and only managed to escape death by jumping in the swimming pool, half-burned, half-drowned, while the house was consumed in flames. They had lost their passports, their driver’s licenses, and all their money. They staggered off, naked, into the forest, trying to find their way to the village.
Part of my mind derived immense satisfaction from being avenged in this way, while another felt extremely guilty about not being a good meditator and wasting a precious opportunity to be blissful, totally caught up in these cheap Hollywood productions.
I needed help. I asked to talk to the Vipassana facilitator, a friendly, middle-aged Englishwoman named Pradeepa. When I told her about my predicament, she wasn’t in the least surprised.
“Your psyche reacts like your body,” she explained. “You have been emotionally hurt and you have a wound to heal. The infection is oozing out like puss, throwing the past hurt from your mind in the form of these negative scenarios.
“This is the path your mind has taken to cure itself. It’s a catharsis, a kind of purge. It happens to everybody; it’s a perfectly normal way of processing a deep wound of separation from a loved one.
“Just stay with it and watch, witness what the mind is producing. Think of it as the puss from a wound trying to release infection. And eventually, when you have done it, you will find that none of these fantasies are coming anymore.”
I understood what she meant. It made sense to me, so I thanked her and went back to my pillow. There I found myself stalking emptiness, longing for silence, calling upon “empty mind” to manifest itself … to no avail.
The assassinations continued. I was fed up and also increasingly upset to realize I had so little control over my mind. It was like suffering from mental diarrhea.
On the evening of the sixth day, I wrote to Osho, explained the situation, and asked for his support.
“Dear Master, can you help me? My mind is busy killing. Where is the meditation? Can you help me clean my house? Please send me some peace! Thank you.”
The next morning I was awoken, as usual, at 5:00 and went through the by now familiar routine of washing, sipping tea, and walking in the garden. At the sound of the bell, I walked slowly to my cushion and sat down, wearily expecting another day of soap operas.
Nothing appeared in my mind. There was a blank. The screen was empty. With relief and joy, I found I could simply sit with my eyes closed and be a witness to inner spaciousness. Yes, the master had helped me do some serious “house cleaning.” After so much struggle and turmoil, this inner silence felt like cool spring water to a thirsty person lost in the desert. Now, finally, I could relax and let go into the natural realm of inner tranquility.
For one day, I enjoyed the pure, luminous nature of empty mind, the consciousness that mirrors everything and contains nothing. In this spacious, silent place, I did not have to be worried about Miles and Maya. I did not have to fight with them, take revenge. There was nothing left. They were gone.
As the sitting continued, thoughts passed through my mind, but they could not catch hold of me. Visions appeared, but fleetingly, for they could not consume me. Resentment requested attention but could not be triggered. Indignation demanded to be remembered but could not be activated. There was not much of a personality there anymore. Nothing could scratch the diamond-like surface of this presence of being.
As the gong marked the end of the retreat, I realized, right at that moment, that I was touching a new sense of freedom. I knew within the core of my being that I was now and forever a complete person and a free woman, whether I had a man in my life or not.
Here was the reason Osho had sent me to Vipassana: to taste my essential nature, which was whole, in itself, with or without anyone else. It was extraordinary, unbelievable, to feel so complete … the joy of it, the immense gratitude … to Osho and to existence. What a mysterious, intangible, yet so evident revelation.
Later, I understood that this realization of inner freedom did not mean that I was now free from the passion and pain, the highs and lows, and the ups and downs that are inherent to falling in love. Many times over the coming years I would ride the emotional roller coaster of romance, but somewhere deep inside I would always know that I was safe from harm, because of this anchor of wholeness within.
Osho was right when he told me that I would never again suffer the way I did with Miles. It had, indeed, been an acquaintance with a double agony: the one of leaving him and the one of feeling I’d been unable to fulfill my role as his loving wife. I knew he had loved me deeply. But now it was over. In ten days, I’d been gifted with the resolution from a nasty divorce that would normally take years to heal.
Life in Poona continued to surprise me. There was always something new and unexpected happening, either in the ashram or—more likely—inside myself. Being with a spiritual master has often been compared to peeling an onion, except that in this situation the onion is you. When you take away a layer of “you,” you have no idea what’s going to be revealed underneath.
The highlight was having a meeting with Osho in darshan. This always got me percolating with excitement, almost like a kid about to open Christmas presents from under the tree. What was it going to be this time? What new revelation would take place?
When Osho sent me to Vipassana, he had said, “Come and see me afterward,” so I did. As darkness fell, we assembled at Lao Tzu Gate, walked silently along the path that led to Chuang Tzu Auditorium, and sat down before Osho’s empty chair.
About forty people were there, and the mood was serious, silent, and focused, probably because many were participants in a workshop or training and therefore were wrestling with various inner demons as they looked within themselves.
Osho entered through a side door, greeted us with a namaste, slowly turning to face each person in our semicircle, and then sat down. Eventually my name was called, and I went to sit at his feet. I looked in his eyes. Not a line on his face. No tensions anywhere. Fleetingly, I thought of Oscar Ichazo’s “ego fixations” and realized it would have been impossible to find Osho’s type through facial diagnosis.
“I don’t have a question,” I told him. “I just wanted to see you and say thank you.”
He smiled, asked me to close my eyes, then gently laid a finger on my third eye, or sixth chakra, which is located between the eyebrows.
Gradually I started to feel a tremor like a rumbling that seemed to come from beneath my coccyx, deep in the center of the earth, almost like an earthquake. The rumbling approached the surface at the spot where I was sitting, penetrating my pelvis, which started to shake, rattle, and roll … and I found myself laughing uncontrollably.
It was an irresistible laughter that took over my entire body like a tidal wave, surging through my sex, my hips, and my belly, and moving up into my solar plexus and chest, where I now abandoned any and all reserve and let it rip.
I was rolling on the floor in front of the Bhagwan (meaning “the blessed one”), helpless with laughter. I guess it was like an epileptic fit, in the sense that there was nothing I could do but surrender. More laughter washed through me. Something was undeniably hilarious … life … us … this.
This laughter was not my laughter. It was a universal laughter, bigger than the auditorium. In the middle of it all, I caught a glimpse of Osho’s face and he was chuckling.
My time with him was up. I knew it, but there was no way could I get up. I was still shaking uncontrollably. Two helpers had to carry me to my seat. By now, the whole room was laughing. The glee had become contagious. Everybody was infected by it.
Another name was called and darshan proceeded.
It took me almost the whole evening to calm down. By the time it was over, I felt spent, exhausted, every part of me extended, distended, like a balloon inflated to the max and then suddenly emptied as the air whistles out. But something had fallen into place inside me, rearranging itself. I felt round and fulfilled.
For thirty days afterward, every evening at exactly the same time as that “laughing darshan,” during whatever I was doing—having dinner with a friend in a restaurant, writing a letter, cooking food, walking down the street—the laughter came back. It would rush in without warning, like a volcanic eruption, shaking everything inside me and showing me, undeniably, the hilarious aspect of whatever situation I was in.
Tears would start streaming down my cheeks to the point that, after a couple of days, I started to carry a pack of “laughing tissues” in my bag.
Naturally, this had the effect of preventing me from taking myself seriously. It also presented me with a new approach to meditation, because laughter had the effect of making me detached. As I laughed, I felt the presence of my inner witness, taking some distance to perceive the amusing side of every dimension of human existence.
I realized that I couldn’t laugh at something without stepping back from it. It was a very freeing experience, especially because there was no “me” involved in doing it. It was happening of its own accord—another gift from the master.
One time I was having dinner with a good friend who lived and worked in the ashram. She was in a serious mood, recounting a personal issue. The boss of her department was a well-known and much feared Italian “mama,” the head of the kitchen. My friend explained how this mama was a total control freak and gave her no space to be creative. She went on and on about her bad boss, wondering how such a “dictator” could be allowed in Osho’s ashram.
I was listening, sympathizing, and realizing that life in an ashram also had its troubles, just like anywhere else. At that moment, a cartoon-like character, a vision of this big-bosomed, fat and fierce Italian “pizza mama,” appeared in my mind’s eye.
Suddenly, there it was again: the rumbling, the laughter exploding so strongly it almost blew my food away from the plate. I looked into my friend’s eyes, helplessly. She looked back. She started laughing.
This “serious problem” was becoming the focus of the most hilarious story ever told. We were simply characters in a never-ending saga—my friend, myself, the ashram, the Italian mama, Poona, India—and the laughter grew and grew until it was so big that it seemed to encompass the whole world.
Yes, in this moment, it was all a gigantic joke. It was, as the Hindus call it, Leela, a divine game with no real purpose except to entertain itself. Being here, being human, being part of it all, was a divine comedy.
This gift lasted for one month. For thirty days, the laughter erupted every evening and I surrendered to it. Every day, more and more, I found myself feeling lighter, unable to take life seriously, unable to identify with any problem, whether it was mine or someone else’s. This gift enabled me to glide through the day gracefully and freely, without getting caught in personal dramas, projections, or resentments. There were no hooks in my being.
In the days that followed, I found myself nursing a secret fantasy about “taking sannyas”—Osho’s expression for initiating people as his disciples—but felt I had to wait for the perfect moment.
My cautious, practical mind informed me that I could not take sannyas now because I had a book to finish. But I could not complete the book yet, because first I needed to find the perfect house with a writing studio in a temperate climate where my brain would stay cool and inspired. It was a sort of motivation, an excuse for “waiting.”
A few days later, I was called to darshan and Osho asked me if I was ready to take sannyas—to become a disciple, a sannyasin. I said, “I’d rather wait.”
But he must have seen the longing in my heart, because he asked an assistant to hand him a mala—a necklace of wooden beads—then he passed it over my head, laying it gently around my neck, effectively going through the ceremony of initiation.
He looked at me with those shining, joyful eyes and said, “You have already waited too long. All waiting is futile. Waiting can become a habit and then it becomes difficult to get out of it.
“That’s why I insist that you don’t wait. It is not only for sannyas—I would like you to break the habit of waiting. You have already waited more than was needed. Now start living. And there is only one way to live and that is to start now.”
He wrote my new name on a piece of elegant paper with embossed letterhead carrying his name. Holding it, he leaned forward and explained its meaning.
“ ‘Anand’ means bliss, ‘Margo’ means the way—the way to bliss. You have to become the way to bliss … and you can become!”
Afterward, I had a celebration dinner party with my friends at a nearby hotel. And, of course, they playfully teased me, saying, “Oh, Margo, you are the path to bliss … but when will you actually get there?”
What I Learned
Looking back, I learned that the call for awakening was stronger than the call to be in a relationship. And so I let go of the husband and I chose the master.
In the East, some call the master “the little death,” while in France, that is the name given to an orgasm—“la petite mort.” In both cases, it’s about getting out of your own way to allow a more oceanic experience to engulf you.
Miles had been the love of my life. I appreciated the way he had been willing to explore, to play, to try things out, to be my Tantric partner, to taste my potions and lotions. He had been supportive. He was creative. I had loved his body, his sex, his face, his arms. He had been mine, and with him I had felt safe.
But I had to let him go. At first it seemed doable, a fairly easy project—two days and two hundred dollars and you are free.
But then, having cut the ties, I fell into a deep well of agony. I screamed in my pillow at night so the neighbors wouldn’t hear. I relived every nostalgic, blissful moment. I had to confront the fact that Miles had loved me very deeply, had wanted to go all the way with me, forever, as man and wife. I had botched it. I had “abandoned” him.
A voice in my mind nagged incessantly, “You could have kept him. You could have played your cards differently.”
But was it true?
Buddhism teaches us that one of the strongest causes of human suffering is attachment, clinging to other people and, through this clinging, maintaining a certain image of ourselves—our personal identity, or ego. But how the hell do we manage not to cling to someone who seems to be the source of our bliss?
Naturally, we do this by finding the bliss inside ourselves. And how do we do that? By finding our authentic being, the core of our awakened consciousness; through creating a thousand opportunities to help others and a thousand more to celebrate—a meal, a dance, writing, meditating, laughing …
Leading so many groups for so many years and experiencing so much bliss with so many partners, in so many different forms and shapes, I had to confront this dilemma every time. I am glad that it has been this way. It was the price of my freedom: to learn how to be as blissful, as happy, when I was soaring high in the arms of my beloved as when I was enjoying the freedom to be creative and live on my own.
This is why we meditate: to access the bliss and peace that comes to us when we rest in a space of stabilized contentment.
By refusing to go to India with me, Miles had drawn the line. So, reluctantly, I had to go alone. In the Vipassana process in Poona, I received the gift of freedom. I also saw very clearly how a woman defines her value through her partner and how scary it is to step out of this definition.
Every newly divorced woman knows this, especially those who have been pushed away by a husband who has been seduced by another woman. It is like being stripped naked and exposed to public humiliation. And it takes a long time to heal.
You are left with this terrible underlying feeling that something is missing in your life that you cannot give to yourself. But this is the challenge: to find it alone. It is your job to discover the water in your own well. You can no longer depend on your partner to quench your thirst.
For me, the gift of laughter certainly helped, because through laughter came detachment. Laughing for no reason—that was a revelation. Laughter coming as a spontaneous free energy, with my whole being shaking with glee.
I could no longer take myself or my problems seriously. In this laughter, I learned that forgiveness means you cannot hold any grudge, any resentment; you cannot keep any poisonous feelings of anger locked away in your body or hidden in your nervous system. You have to release all that.
In its place, there remains a calm feeling of simple neutrality in which whoever it was who hooked you, or wounded you, has no more pull on your emotions. You are free and clear.
There is no deeper forgiveness than that of Jesus nailed to the cross and crying, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” There is no greater compassion than that of the Tibetan monk who, while being tortured in jail by the Chinese, was reciting mantras and praying for their liberation.
These days, after many experiences of love affairs and personal relationships, I find it easier not to create personal attachments. I know in my heart that attachment is sure to bring suffering—a waste of my life’s precious resources, time, and energy. It is a kind of divinely inspired laziness, a feeling that attachment is … well … simply too much work. I notice that I get attached to my lover because I am afraid to be alone—or, rather, to feel lonely.
It’s something Osho often talked about:
Loneliness is a state of mind when you are constantly missing the other; aloneness is the state of mind when you are constantly delighted in yourself. In loneliness, you are off center; in aloneness, you are centered and rooted. Aloneness is beautiful. It has an elegance about it, a grace, a climate of tremendous satisfaction. Loneliness is a dependence; aloneness is sheer independence.
We are born alone and we die alone. It is our natural state. If we accept this, we discover that watching and witnessing what happens without wanting to change it opens the way to benevolence. The world is a benevolent place. There is goodwill all around us. People can be kind and joyful. Nature can, and does, shine its blessings all around us. And we are part of those blessings. When you know it, you can make a distinction between loneliness—missing somethings or someone—and a contented aloneness in which you enjoy yourself by yourself.
It is almost impossible to enjoy inner freedom and spaciousness if we have not forgiven and transformed what creates contraction in our being. And, paradoxically, the best moment to do so is when you face a challenge that appears unsurmountable.
Here is a simple practice that will help you transform and forgive the contraction of grief. Sit quietly in a silent space with no disturbance. Close your eyes. Take a moment now to relax your body. Contemplate the event that is causing you grief or difficulty. Feel the physical echo/response to that event inside your heart.
You might feel a contraction there. Tell your heart (or your belly, or any part of your body where the contraction is the strongest), “Yes, I understand. We are experiencing pain. We are contracted. But now I invite you to heal. Let’s heal the contraction together.”
Now inhale gently and fill your heart with this warm breath. Wait for a relaxed moment, as you keep the breath inside your heart/body. Very slowly and gently, exhale and let go of the inner tension. Feel it dissolve in your exhale and be released, little by little. Do that five times.
Now, as you inhale slowly, feel yourself take in light and place the light inside your chest/heart. Hold the breath effortlessly inside and keep your body relaxed. Now feel as if the light is spreading in your body. It is the light of forgiveness. As it enters your cells, it removes the contraction of the pain. The cells can let go and melt into the light.
Now, gently and very slowly, let go of the breath. Exhale slowly. Feel the light going out and taking with it the dark clouds and contractions of the pain. Do this five times slowly.
And now, just sit quietly, breathing in and out softly. Gradually you will feel more spaciousness inside, more peace. This is a sign that you are able now to let go of the person or the event that bothered you.
It is important to do this on a regular basis, to really practice it in a quiet space and to keep going as long as you need until you feel a change. An inner relaxation. An acceptance.
In any quiet moment when you are breathing,
the breath may flow out and pause of itself,
or flow in and pause of itself.
Here experience opens into exquisite vastness
with no beginning and no end.
Embrace that infinity without reservation.
Dive into it, drink deeply and emerge renewed.14
14. Lorin Roche, The Radiance Sutras (Boulder, CO: Sounds True, 2014), Sutra 4.