The Complete Elizabeth Gilbert: Eat, Pray, Love; Committed; The Last American Man; Stern Men & Pilgrims (4 page)

7

The other notable thing that was happening during that time was the newfound adventure of spiritual discipline. Aided and abetted, of course, by the introduction into my life of an actual living Indian Guru—for whom I will always have David to thank. I’d been introduced to my Guru the first night I ever went to David’s apartment. I kind of fell in love with them both at the same time. I walked into David’s apartment and saw this picture on his dresser of a radiantly beautiful Indian woman and I asked, “Who’s that?”

He said, “That is my spiritual teacher.”

My heart skipped a beat and then flat-out tripped over itself and fell on its face. Then my heart stood up, brushed itself off, took a deep breath and announced: “I want a spiritual teacher.” I literally mean that it was my
heart
who said this, speaking through my mouth. I felt this weird division in myself, and my mind stepped out of my body for a moment, spun around to face my heart in astonishment and silently asked,
“You DO?”

“Yes,”
replied my heart.
“I do.”

Then my mind asked my heart, a tad sarcastically:
“Since WHEN?”

But I already knew the answer: Since that night on the bathroom floor.

My God, but I wanted a spiritual teacher. I immediately began constructing a fantasy of what it would be like to have one. I imagined that this radiantly beautiful Indian woman would come to my apartment a few evenings a week and we would sit and drink tea and talk about divinity, and she would give me reading assignments and explain the significance of the strange sensations I was feeling during meditation . . .

All this fantasy was quickly swept away when David told me about the international status of this woman, about her tens of thousands of students—many of whom have never met her face-to-face. Still, he said, there was a gathering here in New York City every Tuesday night of the Guru’s devotees who came together as a group to meditate and chant. David said, “If you’re not too freaked out by the idea of being in a room with several hundred people chanting God’s name in Sanskrit, you can come sometime.”

I joined him the following Tuesday night. Far from being freaked out by these regular-looking people singing to God, I instead felt my soul rise diaphanous in the wake of that chanting. I walked home that night feeling like the air could move through me, like I was clean linen fluttering on a clothes-line, like New York itself had become a city made of rice paper—and I was light enough to run across every rooftop. I started going to the chants every Tuesday. Then I started meditating every morning on the ancient Sanskrit mantra the Guru gives to all her students (the regal
Om Namah
Shivaya
, meaning, “I honor the divinity that resides within me”). Then I listened to the Guru speak in person for the first time, and her words gave me chill bumps over my whole body, even across the skin of my face. And when I heard she had an Ashram in India, I knew I must take myself there as quickly as possible.

8

In the meantime, though, I had to go on this trip to Indonesia.

Which happened, again, because of a magazine assignment. Just when I was feeling particularly sorry for myself for being broke and lonely and caged up in Divorce Internment Camp, an editor from a women’s magazine asked if she could pay to send me to Bali to write a story about Yoga vacations. In return I asked her a series of questions, mostly along the line of
Is a bean green?
and
Does James
Brown get down?
When I got to Bali (which is, to be brief, a very nice place) the teacher who was running the Yoga retreat asked us, “While you’re all here, is there anybody who would like to go visit a ninth-generation Balinese medicine man?” (another question too obvious to even answer), and so we all went over to his house one night.

The medicine man, as it turned out, was a small, merry-eyed, russet-colored old guy with a mostly toothless mouth, whose resemblance in every way to the Star Wars character Yoda cannot be exaggerated. His name was Ketut Liyer. He spoke a scattered and thoroughly entertaining kind of English, but there was a translator available for when he got stuck on a word.

Our Yoga teacher had told us in advance that we could each bring one question or problem to the medicine man, and he would try to help us with our troubles. I’d been thinking for days of what to ask him. My initial ideas were so lame.
Will you make my husband give
me a divorce? Will you make David be sexually attracted to me again?
I was rightly ashamed of myself for these thoughts: who travels all the way around the world to meet an ancient medicine man in Indonesia, only to ask him to intercede in
boy trouble
?

So when the old man asked me in person what I really wanted, I found other, truer words.

“I want to have a lasting experience of God,” I told him. “Sometimes I feel like I understand the divinity of this world, but then I lose it because I get distracted by my petty desires and fears. I want to be with God all the time. But I don’t want to be a monk, or totally give up worldly pleasures. I guess what I want to learn is how to live in this world and enjoy its delights, but also devote myself to God.”

Ketut said he could answer my question with a picture. He showed me a sketch he’d drawn once during meditation. It was an androgynous human figure, standing up, hands clasped in prayer. But this figure had four legs, and no head. Where the head should have been, there was only a wild foliage of ferns and flowers. There was a small, smiling face drawn over the heart.

“To find the balance you want,” Ketut spoke through his translator, “this is what you must become. You must keep your feet grounded so firmly on the earth that it’s like you have four legs, instead of two. That way, you can stay in the world. But you must stop looking at the world through your head. You must look through your heart, instead. That way, you will know God.”

Then he asked if he could read my palm. I gave him my left hand and he proceeded to put me together like a three-piece puzzle.

“You’re a world traveler,” he began.

Which I thought was maybe a little obvious, given that I was in Indonesia at the moment, but I didn’t force the point . . .

“You have more good luck than anyone I’ve ever met. You will live a long time, have many friends, many experiences. You will see the whole world. You only have one problem in your life. You worry too much. Always you get too emotional, too nervous. If I promise you that you will never have any reason in your life to ever worry about anything, will you believe me?”

Nervously I nodded, not believing him.

“For work, you do something creative, maybe like an artist, and you get paid good money for it. Always you will get paid good money for this thing you do. You are generous with money, maybe too generous. Also one problem. You will lose all your money once in your life. I think maybe it will happen soon.”

“I think maybe it will happen in the next six to ten months,” I said, thinking about my divorce.

Ketut nodded as if to say,
Yeah, that sounds about right.
“But don’t worry,” he said. “After you lose all your money, you will get it all right back again. Right away you’ll be fine. You will have two marriages in your life. One short, one long. And you will have two children . . .”

I waited for him to say, “one short, one long,” but he was suddenly silent, frowning at my palm. Then he said, “Strange . . . ,” which is something you never want to hear from either your palmreader or your dentist. He asked me to move directly under the hanging lightbulb so he could take a better look.

“I am wrong,” he announced. “You will only have only one child. Late in life, a daughter. Maybe. If you decide . . . but there is something else.” He frowned, then looked up, suddenly absolutely confident: “Someday soon you will come back here to Bali. You must. You will stay here in Bali for three, maybe four months. You will be my friend. Maybe you will live here with my family. I can practice English with you. I never had anybody to practice English with. I think you are good with words. I think this creative work you do is something about words, yes?”

“Yes!” I said. “I’m a writer. I’m a book writer!”

“You are a book writer from New York,” he said, in agreement, in confirmation. “So you will come back here to Bali and live here and teach me English. And I will teach you everything I know.”

Then he stood up and brushed off his hands, like:
That’s settled.

I said, “If you’re serious, mister, I’m serious.”

He beamed at me toothlessly and said, “See you later, alligator.”

9

Now, I’m the kind of person who, when a ninth-generation Indonesian medicine man tells you that you’re destined to move to Bali and live with him for four months, thinks you should make every effort to do that. And this, finally, was how my whole idea about this year of traveling began to gel. I absolutely needed to get myself back to Indonesia somehow, on my own dime this time. This was evident. Though I couldn’t yet imagine how to do it, given my chaotic and disturbed life. (Not only did I still have a pricey divorce to settle, and David-troubles, I still had a magazine job that prevented me from going anywhere for three or four months at a time.) But I
had
to get back there. Didn’t I? Hadn’t he
foretold
it? Problem was, I also wanted to go to India, to visit my Guru’s Ashram, and going to India is an expensive and time-consuming affair, also. To make matters even more confusing, I’d also been dying lately to get over to Italy, so I could practice speaking Italian in context, but also because I was drawn to the idea of living for a while in a culture where pleasure and beauty are revered.

All these desires seemed to be at odds with one another. Especially the Italy/India conflict. What was more important? The part of me that wanted to eat veal in Venice? Or the part of me that wanted to be waking up long before dawn in the austerity of an Ashram to begin a long day of meditation and prayer? The great Sufi poet and philosopher Rumi once advised his students to write down the three things they most wanted in life. If any item on the list clashes with any other item, Rumi warned, you are destined for unhappiness. Better to live a life of single-pointed focus, he taught. But what about the benefits of living harmoniously amid extremes? What if you could somehow create an expansive enough life that you could synchronize seemingly incongruous opposites into a worldview that excludes nothing? My truth was exactly what I’d said to the medicine man in Bali—I wanted to experience
both.
I wanted worldly enjoyment and divine transcendence—the dual glories of a human life. I wanted what the Greeks called
kalos kai agathos
, the singular balance of the good and the beautiful. I’d been missing both during these last hard years, because both pleasure and devotion require a stress-free space in which to flourish and I’d been living in a giant trash compactor of nonstop anxiety. As for how to balance the urge for pleasure against the longing for devotion . . . well, surely there was a way to learn that trick. And it seemed to me, just from my short stay in Bali, that I maybe could learn this from the Balinese. Maybe even from the medicine man himself.

Four feet on the ground, a head full of foliage, looking at the world
through the heart . . .

So I stopped trying to choose—Italy? India? or Indonesia?—and eventually just admitted that I wanted to travel to all of them. Four months in each place. A year in total. Of course this was a slightly more ambitious dream than “I want to buy myself a new pencil box.” But this is what I wanted. And I knew that I wanted to write about it. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to thoroughly explore the countries themselves; this has been done. It was more that I wanted to thoroughly explore one aspect of myself set against the backdrop of each country, in a place that has traditionally done that one thing very well. I wanted to explore the art of pleasure in Italy, the art of devotion in India and, in Indonesia, the art of balancing the two. It was only later, after admitting this dream, that I noticed the happy coincidence that all these countries begin with the letter
I.
A fairly auspicious sign, it seemed, on a voyage of self-discovery.

Imagine now, if you will, all the opportunities for mockery this idea unleashed in my wise-ass friends. I wanted to go to the Three I’s, did I? Then why not spend the year in Iran, Ivory Coast and Iceland? Or even better—why not go on pilgrimage to the Great Tri-State “I” Triumvirate of Islip, I-95 and Ikea? My friend Susan suggested that perhaps I should establish a not-for-profit relief organization called “Divorcées Without Borders.” But all this joking was moot because “I” wasn’t free to go anywhere yet. That divorce—long after I’d walked out of my marriage—was still not happening. I’d started having to put legal pressure on my husband, doing dreadful things out of my worst divorce nightmares, like serving papers and writing damning legal accusations (required by New York State law) of his alleged mental cruelty—documents that left no room for subtlety, no way in which to say to the judge: “Hey, listen, it was a really complicated relationship, and I made huge mistakes, too, and I’m very sorry about that, but all I want is to be allowed to leave.”

(Here, I pause to offer a prayer for my gentle reader: May you never, ever, have to get a divorce in New York.)

The spring of 2003 brought things to a boiling point. A year and a half after I’d left, my husband was finally ready to discuss terms of a settlement. Yes, he wanted cash and the house and the lease on the Manhattan apartment—everything I’d been offering the whole while. But he was also asking for things I’d never even considered (a stake in the royalties of books I’d written during the marriage, a cut of possible future movie rights to my work, a share of my retirement accounts, etc.) and here I had to voice my protest at last. Months of negotiations ensued between our lawyers, a compromise of sorts inched its way toward the table and it was starting to look like my husband might actually accept a modified deal. It would cost me dearly, but a fight in the courts would be infinitely more expensive and time-consuming, not to mention soul-corroding. If he signed the agreement, all I had to do was pay and walk away. Which would be fine with me at this point. Our relationship now thoroughly ruined, with even civility destroyed between us, all I wanted anymore was the door.

The question was—would he sign? More weeks passed as he contested more details. If he didn’t agree to this settlement, we’d have to go to trial. A trial would almost certainly mean that every remaining dime would be lost in legal fees. Worst of all, a trial would mean another year—at least—of all this mess. So whatever my husband decided (and he still
was
my husband, after all), it was going to determine yet another year of my life. Would I be traveling all alone through Italy, India and Indonesia? Or would I be getting cross-examined somewhere in a courtroom basement during a deposition hearing?

Every day I called my lawyer fourteen times—
any news?
— and every day she assured me that she was doing her best, that she would telephone immediately if the deal was signed. The nervousness I felt during this time was something between waiting to be called into the principal’s office and anticipating the results of a biopsy. I’d love to report that I stayed calm and Zen, but I didn’t. Several nights, in waves of anger, I beat the life out of my couch with a softball bat. Most of the time I was just achingly depressed.

Meanwhile, David and I had broken up again. This time, it seemed, for good. Or maybe not—we couldn’t totally let go of it. Often I was still overcome with a desire to sacrifice everything for the love of him. Other times, I had the quite opposite instinct—to put as many continents and oceans as possible between me and this guy, in the hope of finding peace and happiness.

I had lines in my face now, permanent incisions dug between my eyebrows, from crying and from worry.

And in the middle of all
that
, a book that I’d written a few years earlier was being published in paperback and I had to go on a small publicity tour. I took my friend Iva with me for company. Iva is my age but grew up in Beirut, Lebanon. Which means that, while I was playing sports and auditioning for musicals in a Connecticut middle school, she was cowering in a bomb shelter five nights out of seven, trying not to die. I’m not sure how all this early exposure to violence created somebody who’s so steady now, but Iva is one of the calmest souls I know. Moreover, she’s got what I call “The Bat Phone to the Universe,” some kind of Iva-only, open-round-the-clock special channel to the divine.

So we were driving across Kansas, and I was in my normal state of sweaty disarray over this divorce deal—
will he sign, will he not
sign?
—and I said to Iva, “I don’t think I can endure another year in court. I wish I could get some divine intervention here. I wish I could write a
petition
to God, asking for this thing to end.”

“So why don’t you?”

I explained to Iva my personal opinions about prayer. Namely, that I don’t feel comfortable petitioning for specific things from God, because that feels to me like a kind of weakness of faith. I don’t like asking, “Will you change this or that thing in my life that’s difficult for me?” Because—who knows?—God might want me to be facing that particular challenge for a reason. Instead, I feel more comfortable praying for the courage to face whatever occurs in my life with equanimity, no matter how things turn out.

Iva listened politely, then asked, “Where’d you get that stupid idea?”

“What do you mean?”

“Where did you get the idea you aren’t allowed to petition the universe with prayer? You are
part
of this universe, Liz. You’re a constituent— you have every entitlement to participate in the actions of the universe, and to let your feelings be known. So put your opinion out there. Make your case. Believe me—it will at least be taken into consideration.”

“Really?” All this was news to me.

“Really! Listen—if you
were
to write a petition to God right now, what would it say?”

I thought for a while, then pulled out a notebook and wrote this petition:

Dear God.

Please intervene and help end this divorce. My
husband and I have failed at our marriage and now
we are failing at our divorce. This poisonous process is
bringing suffering to us and to everyone who cares
about us.

I recognize that you are busy with wars and
tragedies and much larger conflicts than the ongoing
dispute of one dysfunctional couple. But it is my
understanding that the health of the planet is affected
by the health of every individual on it. As long as even
two souls are locked in conflict, the whole of the
world is contaminated by it. Similarly, if even one or
two souls can be free from discord, this will increase
the general health of the whole world, the way a few
healthy cells in a body can increase the general health
of that body.

It is my most humble request, then, that you help us
end this conflict, so that two more people can have the
chance to become free and healthy, and so there will
be just a little bit less animosity and bitterness in a
world that is already far too troubled by suffering.

I thank you for your kind attention.

Respectfully,

Elizabeth M. Gilbert

I read it to Iva, and she nodded her approval.

“I would sign that,” she said.

I handed the petition over to her with a pen, but she was too busy driving, so she said, “No, let’s say that I
did
just sign it. I signed it in my heart.”

“Thank you, Iva. I appreciate your support.”

“Now, who else would sign it?” she asked.

“My family. My mother and father. My sister.”

“OK,” she said. “They just
did.
Consider their names added. I actually felt them sign it. They’re on the list now. OK—who else would sign it? Start naming names.”

So I started naming names of all the people who I thought would sign this petition. I named all my close friends, then some family members and some people I worked with. After each name, Iva would say with assurance, “Yep. He just signed it,” or “She just signed it.” Sometimes she would pop in with her own signatories, like: “My parents just signed it. They raised their children during a war. They hate useless conflict. They’d be happy to see your divorce end.”

I closed my eyes and waited for more names to come to me.

“I think Bill and Hillary Clinton just signed it,” I said.

“I don’t doubt it,” she said. “Listen, Liz—
anybody
can sign this petition. Do you understand that? Call on anyone, living or dead, and start collecting signatures.”

“Saint Francis of Assisi just signed it!”

“Of
course
he did!” Iva smacked her hand against the steering wheel with certainty.

Now I was cooking:

“Abraham Lincoln just signed it! And Gandhi, and Mandela and all the peacemakers. Eleanor Roosevelt, Mother Teresa, Bono, Jimmy Carter, Muhammad Ali, Jackie Robinson and the Dalai Lama . . . and my grandmother who died in 1984 and my grandmother who’s still alive . . . and my Italian teacher, and my therapist, and my agent . . . and Martin Luther King Jr. and Katharine Hepburn . . . and Martin Scorsese (which you wouldn’t necessarily expect, but it’s still nice of him) . . . and my Guru, of course . . . and Joanne Woodward, and Joan of Arc, and Ms. Carpenter, my fourth-grade teacher, and Jim Henson—”

The names spilled from me. They didn’t stop spilling for almost an hour, as we drove across Kansas and my petition for peace stretched into page after invisible page of supporters. Iva kept confirming—
yes, he signed it, yes, she signed it
—and I became filled with a grand sense of protection, surrounded by the collective goodwill of so many mighty souls.

The list finally wound down, and my anxiety wound down with it. I was sleepy. Iva said, “Take a nap. I’ll drive.” I closed my eyes. One last name appeared. “Michael J. Fox just signed it,” I murmured, then drifted into sleep. I don’t know how long I slept, maybe only for ten minutes, but it was deep. When I woke up, Iva was still driving. She was humming a little song to herself. I yawned.

My cell phone rang.

I looked at that crazy little
telefonino
vibrating with excitement in the ashtray of the rental car. I felt disoriented, kind of stoned from my nap, suddenly unable to remember how a telephone works.