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Memoirs of an Anesthetized Soul
Dear teacher of great wisdom, I beg of you, help me to relay my tale to the masses as a story of strength and courage, rather than one of regret and despair. I have traveled all over the world seeking someone who can heal me such as you did, and I find I should not have traveled at all. Only you can acquire the power and passion necessary to do this honorable story justice. So I ask, no I plead of you one final time, posses me with your will and knowledge as I attempt to disclose my tragically humbling life saga.
I have traveled the world in search of the so-called “missing piece”. I was desperate, like so many others to obtain true enlightenment, or what I have now discovered to be an escape from myself and an introduction to reality and its true wonders. This may sound like the beginning to a glamorous, yet touching story of finding one’s true self. I assure this is not the case, in fact I must warn you this story is not for the light-hearted, you may read things that sicken and disgust you.
I recognize that there are those out there who have not dealt with many trials in their life and have had the fortune of living truly blissful and peaceful lives. It would be an utter lie to say that I do not envy these people in their perfect worlds, however their bliss is short lived. They live their lives oblivious to the true wonders of the world; they are too short-sighted to see past their front door. I have seen all forms of pain, I have been the cause and I have been the victim, however in the midst of all of this pain I have found simple and intangible beauty.
As I you read this biography of my life I ask you to be patient with me, for it is difficult to call upon such painful memories. However keep in mind that pain is not all that you will find in this epic; you will discover the epitome of truth, beauty, and the undeniable reality in which we reside within. I beseech you to keep patience and with that I will begin.
“Please stop! No, no, no. I beg of you, please at least spare the kids from hearing this!” Once again I was the solo audience to my mother’s shrieks of pain and pathetic cries imploring the ignoramus that I am saddened, actually more sickened, to admit relation to. I found it extremely formidable to have to sit there, her screaming and sobbing I was forced into ignoring.
By this time he must be tired of tormenting my depleted mother, I imagine he will soon be coming my way. I do not mind, after all, this frequent occurrence is not singular to this very day. I hear him stumble down the hall; he has to be the most revolting being that has ever walked the Earth, what gives him the right to treat people as his possessions? Regardless I know my questioning will do nothing but add fuel to his pointless and reckless obsessions.
Ah he has finally managed to make his way down the stairs; maybe I should ask him if this accomplishment brings him one step closer to becoming a big boy! I decide against it, as entertaining as using sarcasm on his feeble mind is, I’d rather not be thrown about the room like some worthless toy.
As my hands glides across the page my barely legible chicken scratch speaks the unforgettable story that I would rather extricate from my memory. I do not know how writing is going to help me embody true awareness. Honestly I would rather find my awakening in post-meditation tea. However I have traveled all the way to India from New York to hear what this supposed guru has to say. Moriah, messenger of the winds. That is what they call her, people have come from far off lands to study her ways. My training has begun today.
Moriah is said to literally receive messages from God if she meditates during times of high winds. As you can see it is fairly safe to assume that this is the situation from which her name originates. And I have come to learn from this woman, this prophet, and as soon as I caught her eye I was told to sit and write the about the entirety of my life, then promptly dismissed. This woman certainly has an interesting manner about her, including her extremely serene yet somber demeanor. I paused to contemplate if this was truly right for me when, “Get back to your writing!” I heard her suddenly hiss. So I do as she says, after all she is suppose to know all, right? If they’re all-knowing you have to listen to them, so I continue to scrawl.
So the woman finally did it, she finally reported the disgusting sliver of a man known as my father. Her and my own vicious battle scars should be enough to send the worm away, but “No, of course not,” the officials say. We are to now sit in front of a jury in a court and spill our deplorable life stories to them in hopes that the loathsome bane we would condemn.
We did the best we could, we fought the good fight. However our efforts come to no avail, they released the revolting pest that night.
As I write I can feel fast and cold shivers crawl up my spine, like the spiders I have always irrationally dreaded. I can recall that night clear as day, watching him walk casually out of the prison hold, in his usual cocky manner. He looked like a snake slithering out from under a rock; one that just recently devoured an entire family of mice in one gulp. His eyes flickered just like those slimy vermin and though his face remained firm, you could swear his eyes were smiling with victory; they were focused on me, and I felt like the snake had just targeted his prey.
My last entry had brought back memories I had long since forgotten, or at least I had pretended to. Now as I am contemplating pressing my fresh recycled pencil to the banana paper once more, I feel as if that was enough for me, that I can no longer take the torture of having to relive such painful memories.
Out of nowhere I hear a voice, one that is unexpectedly soothing and soft. I glance up and I see Moriah at the front of the room sitting, no floating, atop her zafu.
“My children,” she begins “please extend to me your ears. I do not require your eyes for it is not necessary to see my lips moving when you listen to me and absorb the world’s beauty all at once.” Oy vey, I can tell this is going to be one of those long-winded lectures she is so famous for. I listen as she continues;
“There are some amongst you who have come to me in the hopes of gaining true knowledge and wisdom, some who have come to regain their spirituality, some who have come to see if the rumors are true, and finally there are those of you who have come to be healed. You may not be aware of which of these groups you belong to, but you need not worry, for I know. I now wish to speak to those in need of healing; our dear Lord has told me exactly who you are. He wishes me to give access to this knowledge so that you may be able to gain feeling and life once more and glow in the light of his love and protection. You who are spiritually deprived, you who are numb, you must know that one day you will be whole again. You must know that you are where you are meant to be, that this is all part of His design. He desires you to know that it will be a long and toilsome road ahead of you, but not to lose faith, for you know of the treacherous path that lies behind you and how much strength you have obtained from it. He wants you to know that if you persevere and listen to him and if you never give up on him or his teachings, you will find all you have been looking for and more. As a mere messenger for the Lord I end his message with this; Love and you will be loved, hurt and you will be hurt, fight and you will be in battle, and finally persevere and you will prevail.
As I sat there and thought about how ironic it was to come to India for a guru who is Christian, I realized that the message she had just relayed had been for me.
Break in the story, months have gone by at this point and I have been studying all of Moriah’s teaching and have become more knowledgeable and at peace than I could have ever imagined, yet I am still yearning for something more. I have yet to fill that missing piece.
As I watch Moriah as she gives her daily sermon, I find myself thinking about a conversation I had had with my mother earlier that day.
MOM: Hi dear, will you be coming home soon? Your father misses you terribly!
ME: No Mom, you know it will be at least another three months until I even debate coming home. And I miss you too.
MOM: You know maybe if you were home right now your father might start getting better. You are, after all, a professional and he needs professional help!
ME: Mom I am studying to be professional therapist, and although I am certain Rob needs therapeutic help, therapy will not heal his faulty replacement valve.
MOM: How many times have I told you not to call him Rob! He is your father! And maybe if you were around more, his heart would be full of love instead of swollen and run down.
ME: You do realize how cheesy that sounds, right?
MOM: I am just saying that maybe forgiveness is what he needs to be healed; maybe your forgiveness is better than any other medicine.
ME: Yeah sure Mom, and all the Nazis needed was some love and compassionate understanding and they would have freed all their captives and ended the war. I love you and I’ll talk to you later.
I am not quite sure why the conversation keeps popping into my head but it does not truly matter, I am more captivated by Moriah’s perfect oneness. People can try to teach oneness but you can never truly grasp in that manner. Oneness always seems to slip from your hands the moment you think you have it, and it leaves you grasping for just one more chance. However Moriah need not worry about her lack of oneness, for she is the perfect embodiment of being one. Watching her is like watching a swan take flight, always with such grace and confidence. The manner in which she obtains oneness is so effortless, like a swan spreading out its wings preparing for flight. When she meditates she is the epitome of perfection and imperfection all at once. As her swan-like patience, determination, and unimaginable beauty sets her apart from the other water fowl, she is also imperfect, like the mute swan with a simple knob above its beak. By saying this I mean she somehow manages to make her pupils envy her imperfections, and especially the manner in which she humbles herself and accepts and loves her imperfection. Moriah is also like a great owl, majestic and all-knowing. She is the messenger of God and she has been chosen because of her great owl-like wisdom. Like an owl she intimidates, yet spikes an undeniable curiosity within you to question her for more. She is everything that everyone residing in our community aspires to be, and a hero we only could have hoped for. I decide that I should discuss this seemingly meaningless conversation with my great teacher, but before I can she begins a new message;
““My children please extend to me your ears. I do not require your eyes for it is not necessary to see my lips moving when you listen to me and absorb the world’s beauty all at once. I have a burden on my heart, one that weighs too heavy for even I to bear and I know it belongs to one of you. One among you is broken, she has been hurt and she feels she is beyond repair. She angry, furious, at the one who caused her such pain, yet she is not quite sure of its origin. She believes that her purpose here is to be healed of her searing pain, pain that has burned in her memory forever. However the pain is not what she needs to release, she will find that the pain has made her strong. Now is the time for her to realize that it is her anger, her fury that makes her weak. Now I beg of her to see that which lies right in front of her, that which the Lord has lain in front of her. It is the missing piece of the puzzle of her life and it is just eagerly waiting for her to grab hold and complete her damaged heart and soul. I pray that she knows who she is and I ask that we all meditate in silence now and send our love and prayers to her.”
I do not know how God could have made that more clear to me, other than maybe a billboard that read “ FORGIVENESS WILL SET YOU FREE! “. Well to be honest I think I would rather live with a hole in my soul than forgive that slimy snake, so I meditate and pretend to send prayers to that oh-so-poor soul.
As I sit and meditate I become more and more upset with myself. Why am I such a coward?! Why can I not just forgive the man who made my life a living hell for sixteen years? It is not like I will ever actually have to see him again. My mother was wrong he did not need my help; he just needed to know that he did not entirely screw me up and that I did not hate him with every fiber of my being. To be honest that was the truth, he has made me the amazingly fierce woman I am today, and he is my father I will always love him, despite his violent and aggressive past treatment of my mother and I. “Oh my God”, I say out loud, “It is me.” I am the one I need to forgive. I never helped my father, I never wanted to. He was a sick man I believed deserved the torment he was receiving, I believe all of his pain was justified and that he would never experience the horrific terror and pain he put my mother and I through. I never once thought of how much he had been hurting during those dark years, I am studying to become a therapist for God’s sake and I did not even care to notice that he had been ill. “I am sorry,” I say aloud a little too loudly, “for everything.” As I say those words I feel as if a mountain has been lifted from my back and I can finally crawl out from the shell I have been hiding within my entire life. I get up and leave meditation, not caring who notices, and I walk to the lounge.
I put my slender finger inside of the different perfectly circular slots and slowly dial the number.
ME: Hi Mom can you give the phone to Rob please?
MOM: He is almost asleep dear, can it wait?
ME: No Mom, now please.
ME: Hi Dad, it’s me.