from the most superficial to the most profound. Depending on my “relationship goal,” I might choose to match their level or nudge them up or down the equalizer.
For example, if someone is just “shooting the breeze,” and my goal is simply to connect in a fun, lighthearted way, I’ll match his or her level and chitchat in return. However, sometimes I can sense that people want or need to be pushed to go a little deeper, such as when they’re struggling with a relationship problem and can’t articulate the real, underlying issue. Or sometimes I sense it’s best to bump people up on the equalizer, like when they’re getting stuck in fear or depression, and I can help lift them back up to a lighter, more hopeful place. Just as I adjust the bass and treble levels to maximize my music, I make adjustments up and down the communication equalizer to make the most of my interactions with people.
My Way, Not Your Highway
Find the Courage to Follow Your Own Spiritual Path
“Taxi, lady?” “Rickshaw?” “Hotel?” “I love you, baby . . . green card?” As soon as I got off the train in Varanasi, I was swarmed by pushy hopefuls. Gripping my backpack tighter, my only thought was “I hope to God I don’t get sick.”
A few feet ahead of me, I saw a man pinch a female tourist on the butt. She was about five feet tall and looked like she weighed all of ninety pounds. She turned around and walloped the man behind her with an echoing slap. The man she hit looked completely shocked.
“Um, excuse me . . .” I said.
“What?” she snapped.
“You just hit the wrong guy.”
“I don’t care!” She stormed off down a side alley.
I was on the Ganges River at dawn. The smell of burning wood filled the air in the inky, chilly darkness. As the sun rose and my surroundings became clear, I realized that what I’d thought were pieces of driftwood were human body parts floating past the boat.
“Why are there . . .?” Cutting me off, the oarsman pointed to shore.
Along the banks was row after row of thickly smoking funeral pyres where dead bodies were being ceremoniously burned.
In front of the pyres, thousands of people were wading in the river, washing their bodies and clothes and drinking the same water. I watched a man push a floating leg out of the way so he could continue to splash his hands in prayer. I was mesmerized and horrified at the same time.
I’ll never eat chicken again. After being cooped up on a bus for two days straight surrounded by chickens in baskets and their high-pitched, non-stop squawking, it was enough to put me off poultry for life. I’d just come from Dharamsala, where the Dalai Lama lived. I had traveled all the way to northern India to meet the Dalai Lama in his hometown only to discover that he was back in mine, giving a talk in Boston.
I decided to make the most of it, and I ended up having a powerful experience at his monastery, listening to the monks chanting. Each baritone “OMMM” seemed to penetrate directly into my heart, swirling and reverberating inside my chest until the sound became part of my cells. When I left three hours later, I felt completely calm and at peace. If that stuff could be bottled, it’d put Xanax and Prozac right out of business.
After another twenty minutes on the chicken bus, I arrived in Rishikesh, a well-known Hindu religious hub. The Beatles had studied there with their guru, the founder of Transcendental Meditation. I chose a different ashram not too far away.
I knew several people who’d had life-changing experiences at ashrams, and I hoped I would find enlightenment too. I decided to stay for at least a month.
That spiritual venture lasted exactly three days. In the words of a California Valley Girl: “OMG, hated it!”
From the stories I’d heard, I was expecting an environment of joyful, ecstatic prayer within the fellowship of a friendly community. Instead, the atmosphere at that place just felt oppressive. Nobody greeted or interacted with one another; everyone was somberly absorbed in their own prayers and tasks.
Once, I made the mistake of smiling and saying hello to a man who was pulling weeds from the garden. He glowered at me.
I felt absolutely no union with something higher, just tension and a sense of my own resistance to following someone else’s rules. We had to eat at a specific time, clean our dishes a certain way, and pray in a designated manner with precisely dictated words. I wasn’t hungry for breakfast at 4:00 a.m. I didn’t always feel moved to pray using someone else’s script. While I enjoyed some of the communal chanting, I began to appreciate what Robinson had written in Honest to God about being allowed to communicate with your Higher Power on your own terms, on your own schedule, and in your own way. I confirmed what I’d discovered in college: My spirituality was an eclectic blend of various world religions and my own unique practices and beliefs. Although the details were still evolving, my path included not only flexibility and openness, but also passion and connection with others, creativity and spontaneity, love, humor, and joy.
I wrote in my journal on the third morning, “I find no God here,” then I packed my bags and left.
It’s Your Job
The Duty to Share Your Gifts
Buddhism? Check.
Hinduism? Check.
Judaism? Hmm, not really the best place for that.
Islam? I’ll wait to check that out in Indonesia.
What was left on my list?
Ah, yes, Christianity.
What better place to get a deep taste of Christianity than in Calcutta (now known as Kolkata), former home of the famous Catholic missionary, Mother Teresa. I had heard that Calcutta was a place of intense poverty, and I was powerfully drawn to seeing the slums for myself.
For the fourteen-hour train ride to Calcutta, I could only afford the lowest-class ticket. I walked into the littered, dimly lit cabin crammed with people of all ages perched on ripped seats with their parcels piled high around them. The train reeked of perspiration and curry. Once I was lucky enough to find a seat, I didn’t move. I had no companion to watch my stuff, and I trusted no one. I had witnessed enough petty thievery to know that if I even so much as turned my head, my belongings would be history. I popped an anti-diarrhea pill so I wouldn’t have to use the bathroom.
“Baksheesh, baksheesh!” (“Tip, tip!”)
“You give me money, lady.”
“Please, lady . . . p-l-e-a-s-e . . . ”
All around me in Calcutta, people were crying, pleading, and moaning in an orchestra of suffering and despair.
A drooling blind man grabbed my pant leg and refused to let go. Filled with repulsion and guilt, I pried him off and kept walking. I had been raised with the Jewish ethic of tzedaka: “Always help those less fortunate
