In my grief book, I ran my finger over her e-mail address, as if I didn't have it etched in my mind like writing on a tombstone. My fingers trembled as I typed in her address in the “To” box.
Subject line: re: you and Joel Griffen. Backspace. Too specific.
Re: your past. Delete. Too mysterious.
Re: a question. Too vague.
I tried again: Can we meet for coffee? Yes, this would do. Non-threatening, the message right there in the subject line, meaning I wouldn't have to say much in the text box.
Monica,
As you may be aware, the anniversary of Joel's death is approaching and while this time is very hard for me, it is made even more difficult by some unanswered questions I have about his life. I was hoping that you might help me with this. Can we meet for coffee in the next few days?
Yours,
Ramona
Then wondering if she would know who Ramona was, or simply to be possessive, I signed it: Ramona Griffen.
The cursor blinked over the “Send” button. How simple an act just to press my finger down and have it be done with, sent through the cable lines that would cause my message to appear to her within seconds. But I didn't. Instead, I hit “Draft,” which would save it for later. I couldn't believe how weak I felt, how powerless, not even mustering the courage to send an e-mail, but the truth was as much I wanted to know the facts, I didn't want to know at all. The same reason that kept me from approaching her at the funeral or reaching her during the last two years remained to this day: knowing would end whatever hope I hung onto that Joel had been faithful to me. That he loved only me.
I turned off the computer, realizing I was already late to meet with the yogi. As I let myself feel the heaviness in my heart that I used to believe was sadness, I reconsidered based on Deacon Friar's advice. I changed my mind-it was full of love. If my heart felt like a hundred-pound sack of potatoes in my chest, I would imagine its weight was that of the love that all those eloquent writers spoke of.
It worked, though my mind felt heavy with anxiety over Monica. What if the seven wheels of energy could heal that and everything else that seemed out of sync with my life? It was worth a shot.
Chakra: a Sankrit word meaning wheel, or vortex, referring to each of the seven energy centers of which our consciousness, our energy system, is comprised. If the soul is energy, the mind energy and the universe energy, I had to believe there was some truth in this practice. How else had it survived thousands of years?
Just as the deacon had looked nothing like I'd pictured (because I hadn't spoken to him on the phone), neither did the yogi. The yogi did not look like Gandhi or a Buddhist at all, but rather like a soccer mom from my school. Someone my age had this whole mind/body connection figured out and had young kids in school? In fact, she had four kids and one husband who had left her for someone younger, so I had to believe she could've been on par with my life in the stress department.
Her studio looked like any other gym: blue mats rolled up on the left, large mirror in the middle and stereo equipment to the left. This is the room where I would find enlightenment? It seemed like a bubble bath with candles and aromatherapy would make more sense. I nearly turned around and walked out. I didn't know this woman from Adam. Was I supposed to reveal something to her? Share my deepest secrets? Tell her about Joel and Monica and da Vinci? My stomach (which I learned was a part of the solar plexus chakra) was in knots.
If my sister was the Energizer Bunny of the Workout World, then Cynthia Sheffield was the Cool Housecat who owned her domain without a word at all. She was tall and pretty and lean, with cat-shaped green eyes and long black hair. Gray hairs wove through her otherwise Crystal Gayle-looking hair. Wow. She must really have inner peace to allow her hair to show her age. Without the gray, I would've taken her for twenty-five, but I added fifteen years once I saw the silver streaks and the fine lines.
We sat cross-legged on a mat with soft mystical music playing from the stereo. She spoke softly, explaining the seven chakras and their purpose. We discussed the goal of “flow,” with no roadblocks within our consciousness. I was a wonderful student, listening intently, asking questions when permissible. I thought I got it-like a biology class, each section matching up like the skeletal system or the organs. I was doing fine right up until she explained the figurative representations of the chakras.
“They aren't physical,” she said, “but problems in the chakra can have physical repercussions.”
She talked of ego and personality and inner light. It turned out I had multiple roadblocks. If a speedway represented flow, then I wasn't even a quiet country road.
My brow chakra was in charge of spirituality and spirit-to- spirit communications. Deacon Friar hadn't put it this way, but my issues with my own spirituality and connectedness to Joel resided here.
My throat chakra was responsible for expression and asking for what I really want. No wonder I had choked up when I tried to send the message to Monica. And why had I been avoiding da Vinci ever since our shower? Hadn't I enjoyed the pleasures of our bodies?
My heart chakra was involved with sensitivity to touch. I had tried to make up for my heart sensitivity with hugs from my boys-something I'd done right. But I had no idea that the element of air and problems with breathing were associated with love. How often had I woken up and felt that the air in the room had been sucked out, that the air felt different when Joel died and I hadn't been able to breathe the same since?
The solar plexus chakra associated with freedom, power, and personality, one's sense of being. No wonder my stomach ached all the time. My identity had been shredded the day Joel died. My former self was locked up inside that teddy bear jar. Who was I now? Who did I want to be?
Even my root chakra was in trouble. Not only because it was associated with my mother, but with Mother Earth and trust and security. It was only because of da Vinci that I had started feeling connected again to Mother Earth-running through the leafy paths of our neighborhood, enjoying a country afternoon riding horses, soaking up the sun and enjoying wine again.
If five of my seven energy centers were on the fritz, how was there any hope for me at all? I had to be the worst case Cynthia had ever seen.
“There is hope for all of us,” she said in her soothing tone that I was certain could put me to sleep like a lullaby. She gave me tips on meditation, on how to quiet the chatter in my mind to concentrate on being present, to slowly unwind the knots that hindered my flow. I was still skeptical, but hopeful.
In fact, I was certain that before da Vinci had arrived, all seven of my chakras were out of whack. So as I left that studio, I made the decision that I didn't need less of da Vinci, but more. Much, much more.
Chapter 11
THE STUDIO WAS NOT meant for making love. It was meant for concentration, hunched over a drafting table, the sofa there only to sit a spell until inspiration struck again. Instead, we were bent over the drafting table, and one look at the pencil cup felt like the lead had punctured my heart. I couldn't. This was Joel's sacred place, his refuge. And what was I doing? Seeking refuge in the arms of another man, a passionate man covering me with kisses, warming me in his embrace, whispering, “ Ti desidero, Mona Lisa. ” I want you.
And I wanted him, too. God, I wanted him. If I let go, let myself feel the moment, calmed the chatter in my brain that said it wasn't the right time or the right man, then I wanted da Vinci as much as I had wanted any man.