Living, Loving and Learning to Love More

By Geoffrey Woodbridge and Renu Woodbridge

Are you ready to love? Are you able to receive love? Living, Loving and Learning to Love More is a powerful, life-changing book which will enhance your understanding of life, love and soul purpose.

Jasmine Truelove unexpectedly embarks on a thoughtful exploration of love and spirituality one evening after she fails to recognise her husband. Aided by synchronicity, her devoted husband Ted and her friends, Jasmine discovers that life is about far more than she previously considered.

After missing out on life’s greatest joys by trying to do too much, Jasmine enters a whole new world of love as she and her husband set out together on a quest to understand themselves, coupledom, their soul purpose and the world around them.

As she learns the importance of quality time, abundance-thinking, self-accountability and faith, Jasmine slowly begins transforming her criteria of what success means to her while conquering her constant fears and worries. Amazed by the many things she has never thought about, Jasmine finds the universe’s loving messages about being present in the moment and adhering to life’s purpose of loving more, opens up an illuminating pathway that will change her life forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Nov 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781982213510

Geoffrey Woodbridge

Geoffrey and Renu Woodbridge have shared their life path journey of living, loving and learning to love more in their marriage for over 30 years. During their time together, they have learnt about the powerful and highly beneficial workings of universal spiritual principles in love and marriage. Their mission is to encourage others to pay attention to the universe’s clues while navigating through life’s ups and downs.

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Living, Loving and

Learning to Love More

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Geoffrey and Renu Woodbridge

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Copyright © 2018 LoveMore Solutions International Ltd.

The authors’ moral rights have been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Print information available on the last page.

ISBN: 978-1-9822-1350-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-1349-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-1351-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018912004

Balboa Press rev. date:  11/13/2018

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Sources of Inspiration

on the Path of Spiritual Love

Life is adorned by patterns of continuity. Most of all,we are indebted to the Beloved for us being unconditionally loved, blessed, and cherished, for our faith and receiving the grace of innumerable miracles every day. All praise, inspiration, blessings and credit belong to Love Almighty.

We are also indebted to the following great souls for sharing their spiritual insight. Their ideas give us beneficial and very useful direction, inspiring us as we search for our own truth on the path of spiritual love; living, loving and learning to love more. As the patterns of love continue through all eons of time, we sincerely hope that the wisdom and inspiration distilled by listening to these great voices and shared through Jasmine’s chronicle may help you in your travels along the path of spiritual love. We wish you a fruitful, wonderful and enlightening journey learning to love more.

Oprah Winfrey, Mira Nair, Shams u0-Din Hafez, Dr. Deepak Chopra, Marianne Williamson, Muhyiddin Ibn ’Arabi, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Lao Tzu, Esther and Jerry Hicks, Shmuley Boteach, Shems Freidlander, Himanshu Biswas, Louise Hay, Vasko Popa, Gary Chapman, Rev. Norman Vincent Peale, Stephen R. Covey, Sadhguru Jaggi Vasudev Jalaluddin Rumi, Wayne Dyer, Eckhart Tolle, Andrew Schilling, David Aaron, Paul Ferrini, Hakim Sana’i, Sadi Shirazi, Dr. Phil McGraw, Elizabeth Lesser, Gabrielle Bernstein, Omraam Mikhail Aivanhov, Joan Boryshenko, Abu Sa’id, Caroline Myss, Elissar Zakaria Khoury, Daniel Odier, Daniel Ladinsky, Jane Fonda, Prof. Fred Alan Wolf, Diana Richardson, Michael Gurian, Gary Zukav, Abraham Maslow, Maya Angelou, Lynne Twist, Valmiki, al Hallaj, Kala Ramnath, Paul and Patricia Richards, Patricia Joudhry, Masaru Emoto, Eknath Easwaran, Sarah Anne Taylor, A. H. Almaas, Joseph Bailey, David Frawley, Ronald Rolheiser, Robert Frager, Kabir Helminski, Javed Nurbaksh, Don Miguel Ruiz, Thomas Merton, Ustad Sultan Khan, David Zeller, Zulma Reyo, Sheikh Muzaffer Ozak, Idries Shah, Pir Hazrat Inayat Khan, Sharon Marcus, Phillip Gowins, Nazir Kabbani, Mark Gungor, Nahid Angha, Deng Ming-Dao, Diane Dreher, Albert Einstein, Hua-Ching Ni, Martha Ann Selby, Yahiya Emerick, Farid ud-din Attar, Haruki Murakami, J. K. Rowling, Robert van Gulik, Ursula le Guin, Rene Magritte, Georg Feuerstein, Henri Nouwens, Joel Osteen, Begum Parveen Sultana, Dr. Laura Schlessinger, Mohammed Abdu, Jacques Prevert, E. Gayathri, Thich Nhat Hanh, Sonia Choquette, Rabia al’Adawiyat, Paul Ferrini, Theresa Caputo, Emerson Eggerichs, Lama Marut, Lorin Roche, Jimmy Carter, Allison Dubois, Eben Alexander, Michael Singer, Mike Dooley, Marcia Ford, Bryan Stevenson, Oriah Mountain Dreamer, Suzanne Somers, Byron Katie, Mari Perron, Helen Schucman and William Thetford, Tina Turner, Amy Purdy, Sister Joan Chittister, David Brooks, Ann Lamott, the Kumars at Number 42, Martha Stewart, Rouwaidah Attieh, Anita Moorjani, Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma, Wayne Pacelle. Rev Philip and Rvds Julia Davies, Michelle Obama, Teol, Dr. H Grant Stiver, Max Ehrmann.

We also wish to lovingly thank our mothers Virmati Nagrath and Eileen Violet Woodbridge and our fathers Dr. Krishan Dass Nagrath and David Woodbridge. Loving good wishes to our siblings and the whole family; both blood and chosen family of friends. XX

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In which Jasmine has a nasty shock that, unbeknown to her, is the start of her search. Jasmine’s upset is compounded by an insistent message from The Universe.

Life is unpredictable for all of us. We are never surprised when our lives change due to significant personal events, but sometimes profound change occurs for no apparent reason. One minute we feel secure in our way of thinking, then life suddenly pulls the rug from under our feet and we tumble and stumble in the dark. This perfectly summarises what happened to me on that fateful Friday. My life changed in an instant and this led me to discover many universal principles and spiritual truths. I hope that by reading about them, you will derive comfort, guidance, and growth when encountering parallels in your own life.

My real name is Mallikāthevī Truelove, and I am a busy architect in a professional practice. As my forename suggests, I am an Indian by birth. In my mother tongue, Mallikā refers to the Arabian jasmine, and thevī means goddess. Having lived in England for most of my life, I have found that many people here have difficulty pronouncing my name correctly. It is much easier and simpler to tell everyone my name is Jasmine, so that is how I am generally known. I confess that I am an irrepressible socialite and devote much of the little spare time I have, outside of work, to being an active partygoer. Of course, being married automatically means that I am also, by default, a housewife.

I always thought my life was exceptionally ordinary and free from anything remarkable or worthy of writing about. Until that day, that is. It seems amazing now, as the autumn leaves are falling, that everything in this journal happened to me only this past summer. It was definitely a summer I shall never forget. It all started one Friday which, at first, seemed a typical summer’s day in every respect. I went to the office, ready to work my usual day of 9 hours or more, but came home early, feeling very tired. After having a bath, I had just managed to find time to take a brief nap between the many demands on my hectic life.

In fact, my exhaustion had been greatly increased by talking to Dede Despritt in response to the four repetitive telephone messages she had left me. Dede is a clingy acquaintance of mine. She literally has hundreds of friends but somehow always seeks my immediate and frequent attention whenever she is at a loose end. Thinking of her always brings to mind an image of a highly insecure but manipulative child. Dede always feigns deep affection when she rings in order to get attention, but every time I speak to her, she has very little to say. Her whole conversation always consists of minor variations of three basic sentences: ‘I love you Jasmine, you’re my best friend’; ‘What are you doing now?’; and ‘What have you been doing?’

Because Dede usually tends to ring around nightfall, Ted, my husband, somewhat humorously refers to her calls as the ‘dusk patrol.’ She has single-handedly justified my purchase of telephone voicemail equipment. A further irksome thing about Dede is that when she and I attend the same parties, she is too busy with other people to even say hello to me. Although she has so many friends, she never introduces me to any of them. Dede always plays little games designed to entrap friends emotionally. Put simply, she is a high-maintenance, somewhat toxic person who is a great drain on everyone’s energy, especially mine. But I digress.

It was early evening and I was reclining with my legs up on the sofa in the sitting room after my nap when Ted came home. Tedward Truelove is my husband of 13 years and despite my myriad nonstop activities, I really thought I loved him greatly. Hearing Ted enter the room and greet me, I looked up to return his greeting. To my great consternation, however, exactly at that moment, I felt something snap inside of me. It was as if a chasm occurred in time, altering my whole world. When I looked up, Ted seemed to have changed somehow. Even to this day, I cannot describe exactly how he had altered. It was not a physical transformation, but a change in how I regarded him. Perhaps I should say an alteration in the way our personalities interconnected. I do not know quite how to describe it; I can only confirm that I had difficulty recognising him and felt I was beholding a stranger.

The stranger walked up to the sofa and repeated his greeting. Odd indeed! Although he sounded like my husband, I questioned myself about who exactly this man was. He had a dark brown moustache and there was a kindly familiarity in his smile, but I did not feel I knew him. It was as if some unknown actor was wearing my husband’s costume. The nose looked familiar and the eyes sparkled with warmth as he greeted me with great affection. Somehow I recognised the features, but not the face.

Throughout my life, I have carried a feeling of unease and foreboding in my womb. Being used to this feeling, I never thought much of it or tried to analyse how this knot of consternation was conceived. However, it tightened viciously in my belly now and I felt alarm when looking up at this man who had entered my home and who, judging by his familiarity with the house and his ease in my presence, must be my husband. Although I am not always a very observant person, like most of us, my hindsight is 20/20. Looking back, I can say now with complete assurance that it was at that moment, when I looked up at this man in the early evening of 25 May, my extraordinary journey of seeking began.

I tried to analyse what had happened and why I was feeling so out of the ordinary. My vision and hearing seemed unimpaired. The room and its contents were familiar; nothing there seemed out of place. I could hear the clock ticking and the mesmerising hum of lawnmower motors floating indoors through the open windows. Birds were singing outside. I could hear only the usual sounds one hears on an idyllic summer evening. I did not feel dizzy and had no headache. I experienced my usual dull ache of abdominal apprehension and indeed felt quite normal, apart from a deep and different sense of unease clutching at my heart.

I looked up again. Once more, a peculiar prickling sensation running along my spine accompanied my newly acquired belief that I did not know this man standing beside the sofa. I noted that he was wearing my husband’s favourite purple tie, but I did not feel at ease in his company. What can you do when a stranger enters your home in a highly amicable way, greets you, kisses you on the cheek, and then walks upstairs and takes a shower in your en suite bathroom? This man was very conversant with Ted’s routine: he knew exactly where everything was in the house and he did things the same way I liked Ted to do them. Even so, I felt very unsure about him. I wanted to go back to my old way of seeing my husband but possessed no knowledge about how to do this. I wondered, if this was Ted, how could he have changed so much from the groom I had married, and when had this change occurred?

I decided to conduct two tests to reassure myself and confirm this man was truly my husband. The first test after his shower would be to call him and see whether he responded to my husband’s name. I tried this. The man responded instantly to my call and even had the temerity to embrace me, ardently, kissing me on the lips and calling me, ‘Darling’. This felt decidedly weird.

My second test consisted of requesting that he empty the kitchen rubbish bin. I am very specific about the routine for emptying our rubbish bins, which this man followed to my complete satisfaction, thus passing my second test with full marks. I was now in a quandary and, to be quite frank, really did not feel like preparing dinner. I felt tired and edgy and confused.

The man spoke to me again, ‘You look very tired tonight, Darling. Why don’t we dine out? I’ll reserve a table at the Excelsior Hotel Brasserie.’

This man seemed well aware this was my favourite local restaurant. Whoever he was, he was certainly considerate. The thought flashed across my mind that perhaps he was trying to seduce me into accepting him, but I felt too tired to bother with thinking about this any further. Agreeing to his offer at least dealt with the practicalities of dinner. It would also afford me time to scrutinise him better. When I got up from the sofa, he asked me to wear my carmine cocktail suit, but I demurred as I felt tired. The suit to which he referred fitted me well, showing my winsome feminine curves to full effect. It was made of satin, a material which I knew my husband always found inordinately alluring and sexy on me. If the man had not been Ted, how would he have known about my suit, and why would my refusal have caused the flicker of sadness that appeared in this man’s eyes?

I got ready lethargically, dragging myself upstairs to dress. Making no effort at all, I slung on a pair of black yoga pants and a long, shapeless, baggy cotton blouse. Although I did not experience my customary pleasure in dressing, from habit I checked myself in the bedroom mirror. A strange, drawn face stared back at me. Who was that? The woman who gazed back at me did not resemble me at all. Who was she? Logic dictated that when you look in a mirror, you see your reflection, so therefore how could I deny that woman must be me?

Once I overcame my initial shock, it seemed apparent that not only had I lost my husband, but I had lost myself as well. This was serious. I desperately studied the face in the mirror, looking urgently for some feature I recognised as mine. It was to no avail; my eyes appeared empty. I entered a trance, mesmerised by the unknown person staring back at me. The trance ended when I heard the man calling me gently to see if I was ready yet.

Dinner was fairly uneventful, as I said little, excusing myself from conversation on the grounds of fatigue. While this was a deliberate strategy to give myself ample opportunity to observe my companion quietly, it was certainly no lie. I felt completely drained and exhausted. I watched my companion carefully. I found him handsome, although the years had already left their signature upon his facial features. Memory can play funny tricks on us, but I felt sure Ted had much younger features.

My escort was polite and seemed competent at anticipating my needs with extreme accuracy, surely not something that could be accomplished by anyone with only the knowledge of a passing acquaintance. He knew my favourite things and anticipated my choices very precisely. It appeared that he enjoyed spoiling me because the pleasure that lit up his face whenever I showed some appreciation of his efforts was unmistakable.

My dinner companion appeared very relaxed, happy, and amiable. I felt a little ashamed that he was obviously so pleased to be with me, despite my somewhat scruffy attire, and I began to feel the sting of regret over not dressing more appropriately. My whole evening was submerged in anxiety and suspicion, as I remained unsure whether he really was the man I had married all those years ago. He had much more confidence than I ever remembered Ted possessed.

Ted is a computer programmer, both by profession and by nature, although he now works as a chief executive officer of a large company. I remembered shortly after first meeting my husband, laughing knowingly at a joke about programmers being introverted by nature; an extroverted programmer being one who looks at his client’s shoes instead of his own. This image did not fit the able, eloquent, and confident man sitting beside me, however. Can someone really change so much in one evening? What had I missed?

As soon as dinner was over, we got up and left our table. As I walked towards the entrance, I caught a strong waft of the fragrance of jasmine. This seemed incongruous with the surroundings, and I smelt the air carefully to confirm my nose’s message. Yes, there it was. I supposed it to be the main ingredient in somebody’s perfume; I quickly scanned the nearby tables but saw no obvious wearer of such a divine perfume.

As I approached the stairs leading out of the restaurant with Ted in tow, I saw Reverend David Soles, the vicar of St. James’s Church in Little Hapning, standing at the entrance, peering intently into the restaurant. At first, I mistakenly thought he was staring at me, which totally unnerved me. However, as we approached the reverend, I noted with relief that he was evidently looking for someone in the restaurant. He was so absorbed in his search that he did not pay too much attention to us when we greeted him. His greeting was civil, although distracted, and he commented to us, ‘It’s so wonderful to see that you both understand the importance of spending quality time with your significant other.’

I cannot say why this struck me as odd, but the comment’s apparent strangeness caused me to feel another kick in the belly. I shrugged it off, thinking, ‘Duh! What have I been doing the last 13 years?’ But this thought had a hollow ring to it, as if, somehow, I was lodged in denial but failed to admit it to myself. Perhaps I was just annoyed at being referred to as a significant other, a term I always detested. My companion, Ted or pseudo-Ted or whoever he really was, reacted differently to the comment. He seemed genuinely pleased, as though he had been recognised as a follower of the truth or something. I found this even more unsettling than the reverend’s remark, but I honestly could not tell you why.

During the brief moment when we exchanged greetings with the reverend, he found the subject of his search and exclaimed, ‘Good! He’s already arrived.’

I followed the vicar’s gaze to a man sitting two tables in front of where I had eaten my dinner. Reverend Soles smiled as he saw me follow his line of sight. ‘That’s Dayāvān, a highly illuminated lover of God,’ he explained reverentially. ‘We have a dinner meeting planned for this evening,’ he added a little absent-mindedly.

The man sitting at the table had longish, dark brown hair and eyes, a neatly trimmed beard and regular features. He wore an olive linen jacket, dark trousers and a saffron coloured shirt with a bright red breast pocket and matching buttons. There was nothing apparently too unusual about him, and I found it hard to believe he was a successful adherent of the spiritual path, as the reverend had intimated.

However, when I saw the man, my heart froze because I was immediately struck by how his frame and smile strongly resembled that of my late maternal grandfather, Tāttā Subrahmanyam. My grandfather, who everyone simply referred to as Dayāl, was an extremely popular man of high character. Although he had reputedly never set foot in a temple, he was a very moral and spiritually advanced man who was always joyful and positive in his outlook. He was well known throughout the whole of South India for his kind deeds, helping and serving others, as well as the angelic smile constantly present on his face. Sometime after immigrating to England, I worked out that his nickname Dayāl was derived from the Hindi word for kindness. It was a very apt name for a man whose glowing reputation for loving-kindness was renowned and respected for hundreds of miles around.

When I was little, my parents often left me with my maternal grandparents and I quickly came to love them both very dearly. Their exemplary marriage taught me about true love and helped me develop a strong ethical code. I fondly remembered my grandfather’s face and glowing smile. Tāttā Subrahmanyam always used to encourage me lovingly whenever I stayed with him and Paţţi, my grandmother.

He would often chat about pens and crayons with me, asking which ones I liked best and why. He never talked down to me, even though I was a young child, and he always respected my views. It was he who encouraged my writing and drawing. I now see that my profession as an architect is largely due to his encouragement of my love of drawing. Furthermore, my eagerness and devotion to employ ethical social principles in my profession are, I believe, also directly attributable to that venerable man.

Although it felt really disconcerting to see how the stranger sitting in the restaurant bore such a striking resemblance to my Tāttā, I was grateful for the reminder of happy days when I was not beset by so many worries. For some inexplicable reason, at that precise moment, I knew deep within myself that Dayāvān was also an eminently suitable name for the man at the table. Considering the close resemblance between my Tāttā’s nickname and the name of that man currently enjoying a chocolate milkshake while waiting for the arrival of Reverend Soles, I felt a shiver run down my spine. The coincidence seemed uncanny and I could not help but wonder whether it had any significance.

Dayāvān was obviously aware of being the focus of our attention. He looked up at us and smiled. His smile was very unusual in its message of deep kindness; for some inexplicable reason, my heart remembered the overawing love, peace and goodness I felt in my Tāttā’s presence. Judging by his expression, Reverend Soles seemed to experience similar feelings because he paused momentarily to catch his breath. He went on to explain that Dayāvān was an acquaintance of his from South India who was visiting the area for a multifaith conference being held in Castleton. He added that Dayāvān had received no religious education but was irresistibly drawn and completely dedicated to his spiritual path.

Reverend Soles then said that Dayāvān was well known across the whole of India for his kind and compassionate deeds, helping and serving others tirelessly. He was famous there for always aiding others in times of drought, floods and famine, and volunteering to comfort those who suffered in natural disasters. He encouraged the poorest to receive an education and organised many activities such as eye operations for the blind and partially sighted. The vicar added that Dayāvān’s soul had been likened to a limitless well of unconditional love for God’s creation and was the embodiment of loving-kindness.

As the reverend explained all this to us, I found my mind questioning whether Dayāvān could ever have known my Tāttā. An irrelevant query, perhaps, and even as I write it now, I am surprised my mind asked this so insistently. I did not actually ask Reverend Soles this question but quickly turned to leave, mumbling a truncated farewell to the excited clergyman as I did so.

As soon as I left the restaurant with my husband, Reverend Soles went to join Dayāvān at their table. Dayāvān stood up to greet the reverend. Looking at Reverend Soles, still with a gentle smile playing on his face, Dayāvān put his right hand over his heart and said, ‘Blessèd are they who walk the path of love, Brother. As the roses bloom so is love’s path about being and becoming. Life is a sacred journey when lived, learning how to love.’

The reverend told me later that he had never seen such deep, divine love in anyone’s eyes before meeting Dayāvān, and he felt completely overwhelmed by it. He also mentioned how he dearly would have liked to respond to Dayāvān at that moment, but his tongue was overpowered by a feeling so deep and compelling, which he could only describe as supreme love and deep peacefulness.

At the time, I was unaware of any of this. I simply walked to Ted’s car, got in it, and let my companion drive me home. Once there, I changed for bed in a way that seemed quite routine. While I brushed my hair, my companion embraced me, kissing my neck and fondling my curves as Ted had done so many times before, clearly keen to demonstrate his passion towards me. I extricated myself from his not-too-odious embrace, and apologising, I excused myself from going to bed just then. I explained that as I felt so tired, I wanted to sit alone for a while downstairs.

I noticed sadness flicker in the man’s eyes again, in a similar way to when I refused to wear my satin suit that evening. He agreed, however, mentioning that I had looked a little strange all evening and adding that a little tranquillity would probably help me. I heard the silent tape running in my mind, ‘It’s not me who is so strange, buster. Take a look in the mirror!’ But I said nothing. The silent tape had caused a chill to run down my back as I recognised that, in fact, I had looked so odd in the mirror that evening, I did not even recognise myself.

After coming downstairs, I sat in the lounge exhausted, apprehensive, confused and lost. I mumbled a prayer for guidance, upset by the whole evening. To my surprise, out of the blue, Tāttā’s insistent teaching during my childhood that prayers are always answered went round and around in my distressed mind. Then my eye chanced upon the crystal picture frame on the sideboard. It contained my wedding photograph and looking at it, I could no longer deny that the man upstairs in my bed was undoubtedly Ted, my bridegroom.

I looked at the pretty bride in the red sari and questioned myself, ‘Where had she gone? She was not in the mirror when I got ready for dinner, nor when I brushed my hair just now.’ I began to feel frantic, trapped in a prison of loss, where it seemed I was desperately alone and unrecognised, and so too was my love. I got up and picked up the frame, eagerly scanning the groom’s features. They were a younger version of those possessed by the man who took me to dinner. Recognising the man upstairs was my husband did not actually make things seem any better. On the contrary, it made them feel worse. It meant I did not feel comfortable with my mate of 13 years.

My anxiety gave way to agitation and deep grief. ‘Oh Ted, where have you gone?’ I thought sadly. ‘You used to be by my side all of the time. Whenever I needed a knight, you were there defending me, protecting me, encouraging me. You were ever my refuge when storms entered my life. And you were always fingering my buttons, always embracing and kissing me.’ I sobbed as the truth revealed itself brilliantly in my mind, compelling me to go on with my line of thought. My mind continued its monologue, ‘Then I filled my life with ambitions and success, working overtime and attending endless parties with their chit-chat: but for such a full life I feel so empty and very alone. Where have you gone, Ted, leaving me alone with that man upstairs, who I do not even recognise?’

I sat down again, curled my feet up under me on the sofa and put the photograph on the seat beside me. Although exhausted, I could not relax. Cuddling one of the cushions in this distressed state, I picked up the remote control and turned the television on. Immediately, I was greeted by Professor Ino Mutch on some cable channel’s fundraising programme. I hated Ino Mutch: he was just one more treasure hunter in the callous self-help industry. I was sure he knew much about having a multimillion dollar bank account but little about anything else. How could the public be so gullible about the words of such pretentious people?

I flicked the channel; sports, ugh! I changed the channel again; more sports. I changed channels again and again, mindlessly, oblivious to the passage of time. Finally, I got back to the end of the fundraiser. The presenter, obviously an Ino Mutch boot-licker, said ingratiatingly, ‘Tell me, Professor, if you had to summarise this important and highly relevant presentation in just one sentence, what would you say?’

Looking directly at me through the screen, his oily voice jarring my nerves, the professor replied smoothly, ‘Tell me truthfully, how much quality time do you give to yourself and to your significant other?’ I did not hear what followed because an icy shiver ran down my spine when I heard Dr. Mutch’s question; I recognised it was definitely directed at me.

I have no memory of going to bed that night, or anything else, until my dream sometime early the next morning. In my dream, I was in a room surrounded by cuckoo clocks. It was nearly o’clock but I could not make out the hour. I peered closely at one of the clocks to find the exact time but had to jump back quickly as the cuckoo sprung out suddenly in my face. It stared at me with malevolent, beady, black eyes and then moved its sharp, pointed, serrated beak. I expected it to say, ‘Cuckoo!’ but it did not. Instead, it shouted at me in a grating voice, ‘How much quality time do you give to yourself and your husband?’ It sprang back into the clock, and all was silent for a moment.

I was basking in the relief that silence brought me when all of the other cuckoos, maybe 40,000 or 50,000 of them, sprung out of their clocks. All of them were shouting at me. Some shouted, ‘How much quality time do you give yourself?’ The others shrieked, ‘How much quality time do you give to Ted?’

Like a criminal receiving a guilty verdict, I crumpled to the floor, crying out my remorse before awakening, terrified by the cacophony of cuckoos, all shouting at me. Somehow, my terrible ordeal reminded me strongly of what everyone suffers being bombarded by telephone, fax, and email, all insistently demanding our constant attention, together with all the other jobs which lie in wait.

Ted must have sensed my discomfort in his sleep, for he turned towards me and started rubbing the small of my back. Although I felt very upset and confused, I was too tired to pull away. His touch was actually very soothing, and I drifted into a more peaceful slumber. The following morning, I was woken up by Ted, who had brought me breakfast in bed. He reminded me it was Saturday and I had arranged to meet my best friend, Joy, for coffee that morning. He confirmed that he would be fine on his own, doing his hobbies, and he assured me that I should take my time. I never really understood what Ted does in his hobbies, but he seems to enjoy writing and I’ve noticed he is also enthusiastic about foreign buses, for some inexplicable reason.

The prospect of chatting with Joy gave me something to look forward to, until I remembered that she had also invited Ailsa Boering. Although I tolerated Ailsa’s company, I did not feel able to cope with her inane babble in my current mood. I rang Joy to offer my apologies for my absence, but she was too sharp for me, quickly picking up that I was feeling some sort of distress and did not want to see Ailsa. As she promised to cancel Ailsa in a very tactful way, my coffee date was on again.

Things seemed to be improving when, after leaving home, I turned on the car radio and found The Diva Divine Show was being broadcast. I was a big fan. Diva had women’s concerns at heart and had captured an adoring audience of women worldwide. She was spiritual, successful, and savvy. She defied convention where it was meaningless, while espousing wholesome family values. In her programme that morning, she was talking about the meaning of life, one of her favourite spiritual topics. Despite my adulation for Diva, I missed most of the show through concentrating on my driving. However, as I pulled up into Joy’s driveway, I just caught Diva saying, ‘So life has the greatest meaning when we meet our commitment to maximise the quality time we spend on ourselves and our marriage partner.’

There it was again, the same message I kept receiving. Diva’s sentence was too much for me. I turned the engine off and sobbed. ‘Why was everyone on at me about giving quality time to Ted? What did they mean by quality time?’ And then I thought sadly and, I felt somewhat irrationally, ‘Where have these 13 years gone?’ I started to wonder who Ted really was on the inside and when had I ever spent enough time with him? Perhaps the problem actually stemmed from my not getting to truly know him. I broke down and wept inconsolably, my brain flooded with unanswered questions and doubts and fears. My perfectly managed life had unravelled in front of my eyes in the course of less than 24 hours.

I was shaky, listless, exhausted and agitated. The familiar seemed strange and out of place. I felt I did not know anything. None of my usual answers seemed to match any of the questions now springing up in my life. I felt rushed and incapable of focusing on anything, anymore. And I yearned just to sleep forever.

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In which Jasmine visits her best friend and learns about divine messages from The Universe and one strand of Jai’s Theory of Time. Jasmine’s bemusement at what she is told leads her to