Manuscript Monday: Enlightening backstory

I have sporadically attended the same church in Sacramento for almost seven years, even though I don't have any religious affiliation. It's a "many paths one God" loosey goosey Unity church called Spiritual Life Center. (I secretly call it the First Church of Whoville, because of the way everyone holds hands and sways back and forth when we sing at the end of every service.)

I sincerely love the welcoming atmosphere of this church, but I am very shy there. I sing my heart out in the pews, but I rarely talk to anyone. I scurry away as soon as services are over, unless there are particularly delicious cookies in Fellowship Hall next door.

One day, after more than a year of unemployment and general confusion about my life, there were cookies. I don't remember what kind they were, but they changed my life.

I wandered into Fellowship Hall for a free cookie and instead found myself in line for a vision quest. In honor of Spiritual Life Center’s 10th anniversary, everyone was invited to join one of several meditation groups. The groups would meet in members’ homes with a trained facilitator to consider the question, “What does God want for me and for Spiritual Life Center?” The idea was to come up with future goals for the church’s next decade.

I was a back-pew lurker with a spotty attendance record. I knew I had no business determining the direction of the church, and I’d been ignoring the minister’s “SLC Vision Quest” announcements for weeks. Yet here I was, on the last day for sign-ups, spontaneously filling out a registration form and accepting an orientation packet. What was I doing?

I was still asking myself this question 10 days later, when I entered the lovingly furnished living room of a charming churchgoing couple and affixed a “Becca” name tag to my chest. I was the youngest person in the room by at least 20 years, and the only one who was not a confirmed member of Spiritual Life Center. I munched baby carrots and sipped iced tea as I listened to the others talk about church logistics—the need for reliable volunteers, options for a larger office space—and wondered for the millionth time what I was doing there.

The group facilitator distributed our official Vision Quest workbooks and asked us to prepare ourselves for guided meditation. We were to sit with our eyes closed and listen to a CD recorded by the church’s minister, with our workbooks and pens on our laps. When prompted, we would open our eyes and answer the workbook questions with the first thing that came to mind. Our facilitator stressed the importance of letting whatever thoughts we had flow onto the page without judgment.

I closed my eyes and followed the CD’s deep breathing exercises. My minister’s soothing voice lulled me into a feeling of trust I’d missed entirely during the last tumultuous year. I wanted to curl around my meditation cushion and nap right there.

On the CD, our minister asked us to imagine a time when we felt perfectly loved. I immediately pictured my parents’ shaggy black dog Dilin - the way he stood on his hind legs and bounced with excitement whenever I entered my parents’ house, even if he hadn’t seen me for months. I imagined my mom telling me how much she’d missed me since the last time we met. I saw her blue eyes shining with affection.

This kind of love is the way God feels about us, the minister told us. He paraphrased God’s description of Jesus in the Bible: “You are my child, in whom I am well pleased.”

This was almost too much to swallow. I could barely believe God was aware of my tiny existence, let alone took joy from my life. With a love like that behind me, what might I become? Tears sprang to the corners of my eyes. I wiped them away.

The CD continued and I silently prayed along with it: “God, tell me in words so clear that they leave no room for doubt. What is your vision for my life?” I wanted the answer more than anything. I was so tired of feeling lost, of struggling for happiness with no real sense of purpose. I picked up my pen and opened my workbook.

I fully expected to write down some basic morality rules: Work hard, Becca. Try your best. Don’t forget to floss. Give money to homeless people. Go to church more often.

To my amazement, I watched my pen scratch out the following words: “Let go of your apartment and Sacramento. Travel. Go. India. Go. When you get there you will learn/know. Bombay.”

I stared at the page, utterly puzzled. I had never considered traveling to India in my life. I’d met exactly two people who had been there. They’d both gotten malaria. I knew no one there and felt no attraction to it. I wrinkled my nose at the page and thought, “What the unbelievable hell is this?” So much for suspending judgment.

Confused, I flipped to the next page in the book. The question at the top read, “What talents, resources, time and gifts will be necessary for me to commit fully to engage and embody this vision?”

I touched pen to paper and an orderly list formed without any thought on my part:

“Give notice on apartment.
Pare down possessions.
Move in temporarily with friends.
Work and save.
Buy 1-way ticket.
Plenty of notebooks – write and photograph there.
When you get there: be present.
See through God’s eyes.
Find the joy. Write it down.”

Below this, I rapidly scribbled a stream-of-consciousness pep talk: “Give up fear and embrace radical trust, a fresh enthusiasm, the beauty of not having a clue what you’re doing. You are jumping off the cliff early and then you will tell others how you flew. The universe needs radical, unplanned faith and bravery. Show them how to really live – really.”

I watched my pen forcefully underline both “reallys” – even as the naysaying voice in my head began berating me. “You’re going to show people how to really live? You don’t even have a job!”

I turned the paper sideways and wrote in the margin: “India dollars buy time.” I was pretty sure they didn’t have dollars in India. I capped my pen and grabbed another baby carrot.

For a week, I told no one what I had written. It seemed crazy: “I’m moving to India because the voice in my head told me so.” What about my boyfriend? What about my cat? My apartment was the only thing that gave me the semblance of a normal adult life. Now I was supposed to sleep on people’s sofas and live out of a backpack.

As unrealistic as it seemed, it also sounded cliché. Ever since the Beatles flew to Rishikesh to sit with the Maharishi, Westerners romanticized India as this magical country of spiritual enlightenment. You just step off a plane, find a guru, and before you know it, your Kundalini is flowing and you’ve renounced all worldly possessions for the holy life. No more sorrow, ever again. I didn’t want people to think I was going to India to “find myself.” It sounded desperate.

I tried to dismiss the idea, but it wouldn’t leave. I’d asked for instructions in “words so clear they left no room for doubt” and received a very specific to-do list in return. The fact that going to India seemed so random made me trust it more. It didn’t feel like it came from me at all. There was nothing to gain, as far as I could see, by giving up everything and going there. It seemed difficult and very frightening. It seemed like a calling.

It seemed like God, or something beyond me, was on the other end of the phone.

It was what I’d always wanted — and nothing I wanted at all.