Ешь, молись, люби

Chapter 49

           WhatamIsaying?IdidsplitmyselfintomanyLizGilberts,allofwhomsimultaneouslycollapsedinexhaustiononabathroomfloorinthesuburbsonenight,somewherearoundtheageofthirty.

           IshouldsayherethatI’mawarenoteveryonegoesthroughthiskindofmetaphysicalcrisis.Someofusarehardwiredforanxietyaboutmortality,whilesomeofusjustseemmorecomfortablewiththewholedeal.Youmeetlotsofapatheticpeopleinthisworld,ofcourse,butyoualsomeetsomepeoplewhoseemtobeabletogracefullyacceptthetermsuponwhichtheuniverseoperatesandwhogenuinelydon’tseemtroubledbyitsparadoxesandinjustices.Ihaveafriendwhosegrandmotherusedtotellher,"There’snotroubleinthisworldsoseriousthatitcan’tbecuredwithahotbath,aglassofwhiskeyandtheBookofCommonPrayer."Forsomepeople,that’strulyenough.Forothers,moredrasticmeasuresarerequired.

           AndnowIwillmentionmyfriendthedairyfarmerfromIreland-onthesurface,amostunlikelycharactertomeetinanIndianAshram.ButSeanisoneofthosepeoplelikemewhowerebornwiththeitch,themadandrelentlessurgetounderstandtheworkingsofexistence.HislittleparishinCountyCorkdidn’tseemtohaveanyoftheseanswers,soheleftthefarminthe1980stogotravelingthroughIndia,lookingforinnerpeacethroughYoga.Afewyearslater,hereturnedhometothedairyfarminIreland.Hewassittinginthekitchenoftheoldstonehousewithhisfather-alifelongfarmerandamanoffewwords-andSeanwastellinghimallabouthisspiritualdiscoveriesintheexoticEast.

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