Chapter 71

           

           MyflightleavesIndiaatfourinthemorning,whichistypicalofhowIndiaworks.Idecidenottogotosleepatallthatnight,buttospendthewholeeveninginoneofthemeditationcaves,inprayer.I’mnotalate-nightpersonbynature,butsomethinginmewantstostayawakefortheselasthoursattheAshram.TherearemanythingsinmylifeI’vestayedupallnighttodo-tomakelove,toarguewithsomeone,todrivelongdistances,todance,tocry,toworry(andsometimesallthosethings,infact,inthecourseofonenight)-butI’veneversacrificedsleepforanightofexclusiveprayer.Whynotnow?

           Ipackmybagandleaveitbythetemplegate,soIcanbereadytograbitandgowhenthetaxiarrivesbeforedawn.AndthenIwalkupthehill,IgointothemeditationcaveandIsit.I’maloneinthere,butIsitwhereIcanseethebigphotographofSwamiji,myGuru’smaster,thefounderofthisAshram,thelong-gonelionwhoissomehowstillhere.Iclosemyeyesandletthemantracome.Iclimbdownthatladderintomyownhubofstillness.WhenIgetthere,Icanfeeltheworldhalt,thewayIalwayswantedittohaltwhenIwasnineyearsoldandpanickingabouttherelentlessnessoftime.Inmyheart,theclockstopsandthecalendarpagesquitflyingoffthewall.IsitinsilentwonderatallIunderstand.Iamnotactivelypraying.Ihavebecomeaprayer.

           Icansithereallnight.

           Infact,Ido.

           Idon’tknowwhatalertsmewhenit’stimetogomeetmytaxi,butafterseveralhoursofstillness,somethinggivesmeanudge,andwhenIlookatmywatchit’sexactlytimetogo

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