23

Signs and Signings

I wrote Wholemates: Relationship as a Portal to the Divine over a two-year period. It was quite the project to archive my walls of heartspeak into book form. After many edits, I finally transmuted it into a tangible document, ready for publish.

As often happens when walking your true-path, the energy of the writing had its own natural momentum. Rather than hunting around for an agent, I decided to send it to two publishers whose work I valued. Within six weeks, both responded with offers. I chose the publisher with the smallest advance. They were kind and ethical, and I wanted someone kind to publish my work.

While waiting for the book to come out, I worked hard in my mediation practice in an effort to save money for a three-month sabbatical. I had agreed in the book contract to do a 29-city signing tour throughout north America, to begin the following autumn. I had no idea what to expect, but looked forward to the adventure. In my personal life, I continued on my separate trajectory—not dating, not looking for love. I had tried it all, and nothing satisfied me like the beloved. Another may come, but I doubted she would come if I went looking.

IOD

Shortly before going on tour, I went looking for Dude to sit with. I missed his dear presence. I looked everywhere and finally found him sitting in front of the Asian dry cleaner that I used for my suits. Apparently he was waiting to get his Hawaiian shirts pressed.

“How you dudin’, Dude?”

“Waiting on the Chinaman. He’s always late with my stuff.”

You had to love the dignity of this houseless man, always making sure he made an elegant appearance.

“How are things?” I inquired.

“Good. You looking for some wisdoms? Because my price has gone up.”

Then he reached for a white plastic sign in his bag and showed it to me. In bold purple ink, it read:

$5 Dollars per Dudism.
No deferral plan.
Pay or adios.

Dude was getting bold.

“Got tired of promises to pay. What do they think I am—the Toronto Dudeminion bank? no, no way. It’s not like I am charging a fortune. I mean, I give them the goods for a pittance. And they can take my wisdom all the way to the karmic bank and cash in. I can’t tell you how many IODs I’ve written that never got paid.”

“IOD, isn’t that a contraceptive device?”

“Not an IUD, idiot! An IOD: I Owe Dude. I mean, they pay for all that detachment drivel. How many times do I have to tell all of you? Detachment’s just a silly tool. It’s not a life, people! At least my Dudisms actually keep people in their bodies!”

Clearly it wasn’t the right moment to sit peacefully with Dude. I got up to leave, but not before handing him a $50 bill.

“What’s this for?” he inquired.

“For ten people who didn’t pay their IODs,” I replied.

He looked a little stunned, then slowly grinned.

“Hey, now I can pay the Chinaman. Sit back down. I owe you some Dudisms.”

I didn’t want any Dudisms right now. I felt at peace. I shook my head no, thanks.

As I crossed the street, he shouted after me: “Well, at least YOU have gratitude in your attitude. You are living proof that my wisdom works, lover boy!”

And so I am. My pushcart guru had made all the difference.

The Scent of the Beloved

The book tour was grueling—29 cities in 45 days. Publishers want to get their money’s worth. Intensifying my discomfort was a driver who never stopped talking, despite my request that he relax and breathe on numerous occasions. He talked so effusively that we missed the correct highway exit on four different occasions. Eventually, I surrendered to the wave of words, trying to catch some shut-eye between paragraphs.

The rigors of the tour reminded me that I am not as physically vital as I once was, something that I’d failed to notice in my habitual life. I was now 50—it had been more than 14 years since Sarah and I said goodbye—and my aching back and strained eyes reminded me of my limitations time and again.

Making things more difficult were some of the interactions I had at the signings. They were often triggered by the same question, usually asked right after I read the sections in the book that celebrated the path of the beloved as a spiritual practice. A woman’s hand would shoot up from the audience and she’d ask whether I was currently in a relationship. I always answered the same way, “My heart is always ready for the beloved.”

She or someone else in the crowd would then express cynicism about my claiming to understand so much about soulmates without being in a successful partnership. It was always an uncomfortable dialogue. People don’t understand that the greatest loves of all are often the hardest to hold together in this mad world. But, still, the question nagged at me, as it illuminated the strangeness of my path. I was talking about great love without a single prospect in sight.

Before the final leg of the tour, I took a few days to myself at Rockwood Hot Springs, the place where I had first started the healing process, in the smoldering aftermath of the relationship. Being at Rockwood seemed to bring the beloved close again. One morning, I was sure that I smelled Sarah’s sublime scent on the wind. That night, I dreamed of a love that was never truly gone, as we communed with great spirit in the halls of eternal reflection. I was never alone. The beloved was everywhere...

After a few signings in Southern California, my driver picked me up before dawn for my final book signing in Petaluma, way up north. It was an eight-hour drive and he ranted most of the way. Interestingly, his rants were all about love—its impossibilities, its illusions, its disappointments. It never ceases to amaze me how much we all have to say about something so entirely mysterious, myself certainly included. And what do we know? I mean, really, what do we know about life’s greatest offering? We haven’t even begun to remove the wrapping paper, let alone look inside. The divine’s greatest gift lies in wait, cloaked in mystery and paradox, patiently waiting for humanity to open it fully and real-eyes its treasures.

After we missed yet another highway off-ramp, we arrived one hour late for the signing. I forgave him—love does have a way of confusing our exits. When I finally got inside, I was surprised to find there were over 200 people waiting to hear me speak, our largest crowd yet. The book was moving quickly to bestseller status, catching fire in the marketplace. The beloved was well-pleased.

Ready

I read from the book for about 30 minutes, then answered a series of forlorn questions from the broken-hearted. Goodness, had anyone been able to sustain their great love? I had been hoping for a simple ending to my tour, but it wasn’t happening in Petaluma. This crowd was alive and wanting answers!

When I finally sat down to sign books, I was overwhelmed by a scrum of purchasers, most of them buying two or more copies. I went into warrior signing mode, only looking up now and then, opening and autographing books as fast as they could put them on the table in front of me.

After an hour of rapid-fire signings, I suddenly noticed a subtle shift in the energy. Although people were still presenting book after book to the table, it felt like the world around me was slowing down. A feeling of warmth overcame me, a sudden softening around my heart. Then, as if in slow motion, a book was calmly placed in front of me on the table. I reached for it to sign, when I noticed words on the hand that laid it there. The hand hadn’t moved an inch. The words were unmistakable, written in bold green marker.

I am ready

I knew that hand anywhere. I knew. My hand began to shake, dropping the pen. My eyes moistened as I stared intently at those words. The hand of my beloved. As I opened the book of our love, a small tear fell on the page. No need to sign my name. This was the perfect signature.

I stared down at the book, feeling a sudden shyness. I needed a moment, I needed a lifetime. Can life change this quickly?

Yes. It can.

I looked up and deeply into her eyes. She met me there. Yet again, a bridge of remembrance formed between our souls. Not a moment had passed since our last meeting, not a bloody moment. Soon her tears fell too, landing with ferocity on the book of our love. My breath deepened, as she re-entered the chambers of my heart. The gateway opened wide, as every cell came alive. The great out-pouring, the great in-pouring. Our love was the perfect kindling for a heart-fire of ecstatic proportions. In the no-blink of an eye, our souls were set ablaze yet again.

The room went entirely quiet. People began to return to the table, as though they were witnessing a great rebirth. They could sense that this was no arbitrary encounter. The depth of presence was unmistakable. I looked at Sarah’s face, as though I too was witnessing something extraordinary. And so I was. My be-loved had returned. Oh the heart, the heart.

After forever, I walked around the table to hug her, but she backed away. “Not yet,” she whispered, just like the first time we met. “After the signings.” That voice! I forgot there were people still in line. Returning to the table, I completed the signings, while Sarah sat down on one of the nearby chairs.

After the last book had been signed, my chatty driver appeared, eager to take me to the airport. With my heart now wide open, I suddenly loved hearing him talk. Sweet chatterbox, how can I disdain you now? You have driven me to meet my beloved. I took him aside and told him I wouldn’t be needing his services any longer.

I wasn’t flying home tonight. I had already arrived.