Now before I get too Louis Farrakhan here with this numerology
business, let me conclude by saying that I also like the idea of stringing
these stories along the structure of a japa mala because it is so . . .
structured. Sincere spiritual investigation is, and always has been, an
endeavor of methodical discipline. Looking for Truth is not some kind of
spazzy free-for-all, not even during this, the great age of the spazzy free-
for-all. As both a seeker and a writer, I find it helpful to hang on to the
beads as much as possible, the better to keep my attention focused on
what it is I’m trying to accomplish.
In any case, every japa mala has a special, extra bead—the 109th bead
—which dangles outside that balanced circle of 108 like a pendant. I
used to think the 109th bead was an emergency spare, like the extra
button on a fancy sweater, or the youngest son in a royal family. But
apparently there is an even higher purpose. When your fingers reach this
marker during prayer, you are meant to pause from your absorption in
meditation and thank your teachers. So here, at my own 109th bead, I
pause before I even begin. I offer thanks to all my teachers, who have
appeared before me this year in so many curious forms.
But most especially I thank my Guru, who is compassion’s very
heartbeat, and who so generously permitted me to study at her Ashram
while I was in India. This is also the moment where I would like to
clarify that I write about my experiences in India purely from a personal
standpoint and not as a theological scholar or as anybody’s official
spokesperson. This is why I will not be using my Guru’s name
throughout this book—because I cannot speak for her. Her teachings
speak best for themselves. Nor will I reveal either the name or the
location of her Ashram, thereby sparing that fine institution publicity
which it may have neither the interest in nor the resources for managing.
One final expression of gratitude: While scattered names throughout
this book have been changed for various reasons, I’ve elected to change
the names of every single person I met—both Indian and Western—at
this Ashram in India. This is out of respect for the fact that most people
don’t go on a spiritual pilgrimage in order to appear later as a character
in a book. (Unless, of course, they are me.) I’ve made only one exception
to this self-imposed policy of anonymity. Richard from Texas really is
named Richard, and he really is from Texas. I wanted to use his real
name because he was so important to me when I was in India.
