Are You Willing To Give Up Your Life for You?
A few years ago my best friend was debilitated by an unrelenting illness and was anticipating a diagnosis that would mean further deterioration. She was a single parent and I routinely traveled the seven hours between us to accompany her to her myriad of medical appointments as an advocate and witness. I had told her that if she was diagnosed with the illness that was expected, I would sell my business and move in with her to provide the care and parenting support she would need. She called one day informing me that she did not receive the diagnosis we had expected and dreaded. Although still ill, she had a chronic condition that would not worsen. I sagged with relief, and promptly decided I needed to get out into the wilderness for some time to reflect. Hours later my tent was erected by my favourite lake and I was pondering life by a campfire.
Staring into the flames, I reflected on how close I came to giving up my life as I had carefully built it to support my friend. I asked myself, “are you willing to give up your life for you?” I answered immediately with a firm “yes”. “What do you want to do?” I asked myself. I was floored when my brain responded with “go to India”. I had never given India a thought. A few friends over the years had gone to India and always came back smitten with a particularly intense travel bug. I knew there was something about India that suffused one’s being; that changed you. But I found the idea of going to India daunting, and believed it would require more than I had.
It took two months to sell my house, my possessions, and close my business. During the relatively quick process of preparing for my trip, I questioned the sanity of my decision. I was a single woman in my mid forties who according to my society’s mores ought to be working hard and saving for my retirement. I had reached some success in my profession and kept thinking, you don’t “arrive” only to throw it away. It didn’t help that when people asked me why I was going to India that I didn’t really have an answer. Numerous times I had to face my fears – especially my fear of being lonely and of being overwhelmed. Stories and stereotypes of India crowded my consciousness and I feared the onslaught of bodies, the curiosity of the people and their endless inquiries, the myriad of rules and regulations and the poverty of a country of one billion people.
I arrived in Delhi at 2:00 am, exhausted and fairly tense after having listened to a ninety something year old Indian gentleman provide extensive advice about matters of safety in his country. He was the oldest man I had ever laid eyes on. He was implacable. Calm. As our wheels hit the tarmac, my ancient seat companion turned to me and spoke in an authoritative tone. “There’s just one thing to remember while you’re in my country,” I was eager for his advice. “…nothing in India makes sense”. His pronouncement was unembellished and emphatic. His words resonated with me through out my three months there. They were the best guide I could ever have. I heard him often in my head. “Nothing makes sense”. His deep wisdom allowed me to let go, surrender, and be amused.
Carrying my inner ancient Indian guide, I relaxed into nothing makes sense. Laughed often at my disbelief. Laughed at my discomfort. Laughed at my unknowing.
India was the biggest gift to me I will have in my lifetime. It’s intensity – the intensity of pollution, poverty, harassment, abuse of women, children, animals and the intensity of its generosity and beauty – forced me to live in the present moment. I could walk a mere street in India and be completely taken over by joy, amazement, mirth, disgust and rage all in a matter of minutes. India taught me that I could detach from my emotional states, allowing them to flow through me of their own volition leaving me to keep moving forward, keep experiencing, keep engaging.
India also taught me gratitude. Not only for my privilege and comfort, but a deeper sense of gratitude taught to me by a legless beggar. This unnamed man had been inching his way towards our bus, dragging his torso across unspeakable filth to beg his sustenance from us. My pity was instantly humbled into a deeper connection, when he bestowed a beatific smile upon me as I gave him a small offering, and I was bathed in his joy. Gratitude expands beyond circumstances and experiences.
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