When the Universe Pays a Visit, You’d Better Pay Attention

Part 2

There have been a bunch of new subscribers this past week, so hey there👋🏼 and welcome. My writing looks at the world through the yogic lens. I hope you love yoga too, or maybe you just want to know more about it.

We're in the middle of a story, my story, to be exact. If you missed last week’s newsletter, first catch up here.

Samadhi is the Sanskrit word for the perfected state of thoughtless meditation.

To experience samadhi, the typical path takes years of daily meditation.

I've only begun my meditation journey seriously in the past few years. Yet, without realizing it, I've already experienced glints of the ineffable union with the Divine.

The ancient Vedic text, Tripura Rahasyacalls, calls this 'fleeting samadhi.'

Every instant free from thoughts when we are awake is samadhi.

That instant can happen anytime, anywhere.

Upon hearing the announcement of the first plane crashing into the World Trade Center, my consciousness opened wide, and time stood still for a moment.

Nothingness flooded in, and incomprehension followed.

Joy can also usher in fleeting samadhi. Maybe you experienced a profound union with the consciousness in a loving embrace or at first sight of your newborn's face.

There was no fleeting samadhi on the day I gave myself to God and his Church.

There was nothing blissful about it. I just wanted to pass the hot potato of thinking for myself to someone else because I was no longer up for this Herculean task.

For 18 years, I became deeply entrenched in the church's dogmas, so much so that it became my identity.

I served as a Eucharistic Minister, distributing communion at Mass and acting as a teacher of adults converting to Catholicism. I even ran an annual women’s retreat for mothers with Mary, the Mother of God, as its focus.

I went to Mass at every opportunity, including during the week, and said the rosary daily. I filled prayer journals with desperate pleas begging God to heal him. I wanted a happy and healthy husband and father for our family. I did everything to get right with God so he could fix my mess.

He never did.

The truth is that I was perfectly capable of fixing it myself. But I was too afraid to go up against my husband, parents, and the church.

My kids, two daughters, and a son were all my complete responsibility and sweetest joy.

They were growing up fast, and I savored our time together.

My daughters were teenagers doing teenage things. They were into their phones and the curious new online world that was unfolding in 2009.

My kids had never taken to reading books. I was the family bookworm and was shocked to discover them reading the same book.

All the girls at their school were obsessed with "Twilight," a newly released novel by Stephenie Meyers.

To deepen my connection with them, I decided to read along.

I almost changed my mind when they explained the book was about vampires. That didn't sound like my kind of thing, but I picked up the book anyway.

Once I started reading, I was hooked.

The characters, Edward and Bella, vampire and human, were entangled in an unlikely love affair. The author's honeyed words awakened romantic feelings I hadn't felt for a long time.

The intensity of Edward and Bella's love was familiar. I dated a man named Larry in college for three years, and after we broke up in 1985, my love life went from technicolor to transparent.

After we broke up, I dated a few men, but there would never be another like him. I settled down and married in my late twenties, exhausted by the dating scene.

The book magnified my predicament. I questioned why I had the misfortune of a loveless marriage.

Hadn’t I done everything right?

Was it my destiny to live without a partner's love and devotion for the rest of my years? It was a bitter pill.

Like my daughters, I was intrigued by the recent developments of the internet. I explored the new information at my fingertips and became reacquainted with people from my past.

I connected with friends from all life phases, all the way back to elementary school. I started a Facebook group for my classmates to gather in preparation for our class reunion.

I connected with some old flames, long extinguished, but we were still friends. There was one old boyfriend in the back of my mind that I hesitated to contact.

Yes, that one—the one from college. Beginning an online connection with Larry seemed dangerous, but I wasn't sure why.

Was it really dangerous, or had I painted it that way?

My muscles ached from constant fear. When I turned 40 a few years back, I promised myself I'd stop being afraid of everything.

But there were too many things I couldn't control.

My mom had been a source of misery for most of my life, and I wanted peace. Cutting her out of my life was a scary step I wasn't ready to take.

Household finances were a huge problem, too. I didn't know how we would get out of debt, pay for our children's colleges, and fund our retirement. My husband and I disagreed on how to spend our money, and incessant worrying kept me up at night.

I was afraid for my kids out in the frightening world. I catastrophized that I would lose my job or my husband would lose his.

The fear was exhausting.

It was almost six years since I made that promise, and nothing had changed.

What if I just reached out to Larry and said hi? What was the worst thing that could happen? At least I would have proved something to myself, and it would be out of my mind.

Still, I couldn't do it.

My 46th birthday came and went that April, just like Valentine's Day and our wedding anniversary had, with my husband's barest acknowledgment.

My resolve to face my fear grew louder, more insistent. I crafted a short note to Larry on LinkedIn the day after my birthday. I would write something funny because he had always been a jokester. I hoped the years hadn't erased his sense of humor since our last contact 18 years ago.

I quipped, "Gee, you must be old by now. Would you like to connect?"

My finger hovered over the send key. A million arrows of fear flew through my mind. Once I hit send, there would be no going back.

My finger touched down. I braced myself, ready to be hit by the tidal wave.

None came. I exhaled, then sweet nothingness.

Stay tuned—to be continued next week.

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I recently wrote about the heavenly taste of rose honey a few weeks ago. Click here for a recipe to make it for yourself.