The Golden Virtue: Unveiled

By Tanja Murgel-Subotic

In a world that challenges us to rise above the disconnect and misfortunes presented in life, we are faced with a life changing question, how will you prevail in the dark and rise into the light of rebirth?

In a contemporary and creative memoir of a woman's inner voyage, a loving roadma

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paravidya Inc.
• Release date: Mar 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887595566

Book preview

Dedication

This dedication is to all of humanity. It is my desire that we may all live an inspired life, illuminated by light and love found within our divinity. May we all unite to the Divine and feel the love and comforts of our true home. May we inspire each other, sharing our light for the greater good of humanity. May we rise out of fear to stand strong in our essence so that we may, as a collective create the heaven on earth our hearts know so dearly to be true. May we speak words of truth that spawn the acts of goodness to build the foundation of love. May we see the soul in each other and recognize the love known to every being so that we may unite into Oneness with love and live in beauty.

Within us lives the Divine Omnipresence

This Divine Omnipresence is the light of all creation

When anointed with Divine light we are graced with Spirit

In union with Divine Spirit we are bestowed wisdom

In the light of wisdom we become one with Divine Providence

In the embrace of Divine Providence we are gifted the seeds of Divine creative inspiration

In the illumination of Divine inspiration we are creative life force energy

As creative life force energy we continue the evolution of creation governed with love

We are One

Tanja Murgel-Subotic

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

I thank the Divine for being the source of all light and vital, creative force energy in which sustains in light in me. The light is my source of Divine Inspiration which seeds the intuitive, creative ideas of storytelling and I am forever grateful for this profound relationship with my divinity. The truth of the Divine is the light of my writing.

To my love and light Gabriel, my son. My angel. My journey towards the light was birthed in the light of your presence, wisdom and offerings of love that has continuously been my anchor and life force energy in my life. Thank you for inspiring my everyday in every way and for being in your essence. You are my greatest gift and I forever cherish you. I thank you for choosing me. I love you.

To Mikhaiel my love, my second son. My angel. As you have just entered into this world, you have been a ray of luminous light. I am honored to be blessed the gift of your spirited presence. You have sprung in me yet another rebirth and have anchored into my life and this world the light of your life. I thank you for choosing me. I love you.

To my husband, David. I am grateful for your support and the journey we have taken together into the light. My best friend and my soulmate. I thank you for setting me free in my journeys of inspired writing, allowing my soul to fly, knowing that I am always right there. Thank you for seeing me now as I am.

To Zeus, my dog, my writing partner. All the endless hours, nights and days with you anxiously and loyally by my side. Thank you for your unconditional love and your wonderful presence.

To my friends, mentors and teachers. There are few that have the power to ignite a dimmed light, to encourage strength, to honor your essence and mostly to see you and your truth. With all my love and gratitude I thank my mentor Sonia Choquette, a true angel in my life, a light in this world and forever dear to my heart. I thank you for your presence and your loving support and guidance. To Raymon Grace, my friend, my mentor. I thank you for your generous support through many years of my journey from darkness into the light. I am forever grateful to you and your healing, and your presence in my life. To Dr Shefali, a teacher and a guide. I thank you for inspiring the strength and courage to step into my self and for igniting the dimmed fire within me that continued the rise of my light.

I give gratitude to my family and all of humanity for this journey of life in which we share as a collective. With all my gratitude and love, I thank you.

Along my life’s journey it became inevitable that every human being that has crossed my path has in some way or another offered my insight to the deeper unveilings of my true self and for this I thank you.

Chapter One

I do not remember the beginning and do not see an end in sight, surviving in a destitute place between life and death, hardly dying and yet, not fully living. Riddled by this journey called life, vulnerability and disappointment catch me once again before crashing down into the density of my reality.

I’m not sure this is working is the last thing I say before my dressmaker looks up from where she kneels at my feet, her expression changing from curiosity to worry. Black-headed pins fall from her lips as both the champagne flute and my cell phone slip from my fingers and I tumble off the fitting room’s dais. In the surrounding mirrors, each of my red and gold silk-draped reflections drop with me, fabric fluttering like flames enveloping me.

As though I am a bird, knowing deep within my bones I can take flight, standing on the threshold of departing from the branch, my wings are bound, I plummet, spiraling blindly, and fall into the cold, dense, and harsh terrain of this earth.

Completely consumed.

I wake to the wailing of the ambulance and the feel of an oxygen mask over my nose and mouth, an EMT’s face so close I can see the black holes of his pupils within his brown eyes. A flashlight shines in my face, washing out my view of the ambulance’s interior. The EMT speaks quickly to his partner—words I cannot grasp—and I slip away again, into the blackness, as one question fills me, wailing with the same fever pitch of the ambulance’s sirens: How did I get here?

Under the glare of fluorescent lights I wake again, this time on a gurney, racing through the too-familiar halls of the hospital haunting many of my waking hours. I blink, wondering how fluorescent lights can shine so bright but feel so cold.

Her eyes are opening, someone beside me says, their dark scrubs cutting a sharp silhouette against the stark white walls we rocket past. A nurse. Can you tell us your name?

My tongue thick and slow in my mouth, my words all but gone, I mumble, Ysabel Meyer.

Mrs. Meyer, the nurse says with barely a pause between his question and the echo of my name, you collapsed and were brought here by ambulance. You’re in the Emergency Ward.

Again, I think. How has my life’s journey spiraled so far out of control that these bare hallways and institutional walls have become a place I frequently return to? Why could I not remain unconscious rather than wake to the pain of my life? Instead I am here, coming back to awareness, and yet dead inside, detached somehow from myself.

From the corner of my eye I see the glimmer of an IV bag and recognize the sting in my hand where they placed its needle. The nurse explains, We’ve run an IV and bandaged the cuts on your other hand from the glass.

Glass? Right, the champagne flute.

We’ve done a couple tests and are keeping you overnight for more.

Of course. There are always more tests. Many questions and no discernible answer.

The gurney turns and we pass through a doorway, and I am just another statistic added into the database of our failing world.

Your husband’s been contacted, the nurse says before glancing across me to his teammate, confirming, and is on his way. They slide the gurney beside a bed and adjust their positions, doing a quick countdown before shifting me over, the gurney sheet briefly transforming into a hammock. One nurse hangs the IV and tosses a plastic bag into the closet—I vaguely remember being changed into a hospital gown—while the other hooks up the heart rate monitor, saying, The doctor will see you soon, as an emergency contact button is set on my stomach.

The clipboard they hang at the foot of the bed is still slapping against its frame when they leave the room, the door clicking shut behind them, and I am once again closed off from the world.

They didn’t even tell me their names, mirroring the same disconnect I feel.

I sigh, my breath catching in my chest becomes heavy, and let my gaze skim the room. A study in white, from the floor to the ceiling—the only breaks in it are the steel bed frame and the aluminum trim bordering the single window. If I stand and peer out the window all I will see is more of the sprawling building or the parking lots stacked on parking lots and packed with vehicles. All different shapes, sizes, and colors, all transporting people with one purpose: healing.

What does that say about the situation so many people find themselves in? That so many of us seek help, a structure this enormous is warranted?

What does it say about me? I am so frequently here… But I am ill, aren’t I? Something is definitely and deeply wrong. That much I know with a certainty filling me with dread. Illness is more than a condition I succumbed to—somewhere along the blurred line, illness has become who I am, an identity that has become home.

I am Sick.

I tug at the sheet the nurse has dropped over me, suddenly chilled.

Lying still in the sterile hospital bed, again, I close my eyes, trying to understand how someone like me—a woman seemingly with so much—has somehow let the ground slip out from under her. How have I lost both my balance and my power over my own life? Now, when I think about it, I am not even sure I ever had either. Not only has my state of health been lost, but I cannot help but wonder if that is all that has been lost. Have I lost my control, or… I open my eyes and take in the winter tone of the room…or given away what control I thought I had only to find myself here, at the mercy of medicine in a world I now doubt possesses the answers I seek to redeem my health?

The warring scents of antiseptic and illness along with the monitor beeping at my bedside, measuring and assessing me—all these confirm my personal reality, the prison in which I cannot source the key to escape. I glance at the IV, its tube snaking from the plastic bag hanging above my shoulder down to my hand, filling me with its solution.

How can I be so physically connected and yet so deep in the abyss? Tethered to the IV, gravity and exhaustion keep me on the bed, its metal railings surrounding me like the walls of a cage, still something inside me loosens, like a balloon battling high winds. I yearn to travel into that inner void of emptiness consuming me…

I am certain I have done all the right things, but somehow, I am literally bound to an institution designed to aid and to cure. A puppet suspended on its strings, held by the hand of another, marching to the beat of someone else’s drum. But I am in the right place to get help. If you are ill, you seek out doctors. It is what you do. Everyone knows that. Yet all my seeking of answers, of help, has never offered me solace. In frustration, my fingers curl around the bed’s railing and I give it a shake. It is enough to make the cold, smooth metal rattle, but not enough to change my view, or my place. Certainly not enough to change this moment in which I have fallen victim once again.

No more than an hour ago, I stood on a dais in an exclusive shop well within the borders of L.A.’s Platinum Triangle, draped in red and gold silk as I was fitted for a charity banquet my husband and I are scheduled to attend. I’d been standing still, sipping the provided champagne and watching the proceedings in one of the room’s many mirrors, while, kneeling beside me, the dressmaker pinched the fabric and placed pin after pin, tucking me into her vision. The silks I wore were some of the finest fabrics to be had, I had hired one of the city’s most renowned and experienced dressmakers, and yet a sense of unease grew in the pit of my stomach.

Peering then at the woman reflected back at me in the mirrors, I wondered if the dressmaker saw the same reflection. Beautiful and bright silk, yes. World-class handiwork, yes. But standing there, draped in finery, I saw the truth mirrored back to me. The bags under my eyes, the decades accumulating on my face in a few short years, and a body that suggests resistance to my fight for perfection. The light I remembered seeing in my own eyes had dimmed, and my luxurious garments were part of an elaborate facade I’d erected, another costume dressing up my sorrow. It all felt so separate from who I truly was—or who I wanted to be—beneath it all. Once upon a time, I was recognized as a light, a magnetic energy, a presence capturing attention and spreading hope, but all that had faded, and was muted beneath the veil of illusion garmenting me now.

Standing there, I finally truly saw myself, but struggled to recognize my essence in that haunting reflection. My vitality had been stripped away, revealing a dull and lifeless shell I called my self. I was tired, desperate, fearful, without direction.

Sick.

When the phone in my hand rang, I glanced at the caller ID. Work. Always work.

Then I was on the floor. And now another emergency is disrupting my daily existence. Shrouded beneath hospital sheets, confined in this repetitive cycle for no discernible reason—never leading me forward but always back, and stuck in a pool of quicksand. Landing here, as if I am in a hallway lined with doors, one I don’t remember entering, and one I am desperately searching for an exit. I rattle the railing again. My weakness cripples my authority.

Another nurse pushes through the door, announcing, Blood draw and little pinch, before drawing yet another two vials of blood.

Any news? I ask, but she only shrugs and leaves without another word.

An overwhelming sense of vulnerability encases me as I lay helpless, hopelessness squeezing the breath from me. Logically, I know I have a good life—a wonderful life—a life many claim to covet. I rose, working first by myself, and next in union with my husband. We moved past the burden of lifting life’s obstacles and achieved what many would classify as trophies—great shows of success by society’s standards. I am a blessed woman. So why the continuous suffering? And why this tremendous feeling of lack? Why the sense of deep sorrow as though death is alive inside me? Don’t I have everything everyone wants? Wealth, travel, a fabulous home, stylish cars and clothes, a handsome and kind husband, a beautiful and loving child? And yet all of that leaves me with a deep sense of longing, of something missing. Of a void I need to fill.

Why can I only count instances of true joy on one hand? I know I am blessed—and I am grateful for it—but a deep void in my heart dominates me. These questions, and the emotions accompanying them, have become heavier and deeper as time passes, and when no escape avails itself—I cannot help but wonder about my existence. The discomfort of questioning such things of the unknown, and the illness itself, is much less painful than the darkness wrapping itself around me, keeping me isolated, disconnected, and in fear.

Is this it? Is this all there is? There must be more than this constant emptiness, this chasing of the indefinable. Deep within me, something nudges at my gut: an undeniable, indigestible sensation that something more must exist…somehow, and my hunger for truth overcomes my weakness.

I need answers to my ongoing health crisis and…to everything… But as mysterious as this illness I am plagued with is, so too, are the questions of its origins. I have already fought a five-year battle with sickness, so long I can no longer recall the initial stages of my illness. It is as if I fell into the old cliche of hitting thirty and finding life is all downhill from there. I invested thousands of dollars into tests, treatments, therapies, medicines, and a variety of cutting-edge techniques to alleviate an illness doctors struggled diagnosing. Even when a treatment came close to ridding me of my mysterious ailment, and long enough doctors spoke the word remission, still I eventually always hit a wall.

It doesn’t make sense. I make the extra effort, eating well and working out, and I practice a variety of wellness techniques. I can’t imagine what else I can do to be healthy. I rode the waves of a variety of health fads—as the latest trends are never far from reach now we call California home. It is easy for me to latch on to the next big transformational thing. Most of my friends are into health and wellness, and we follow each other, bouncing around from one guru and one fad to another, all of us seeking the magical something we cannot even define. Most days, it feels like we are playing dress-up for another themed party or Halloween celebration—subservient to the latest trends and our desire to please our social circle.

There is a quick knock at my door, and it opens, revealing my husband, Christian, who rushes to my bedside and drops a kiss on my forehead. How are you, darling? he asks. No, not you, Robert, he clarifies, holding up an index finger to quiet me as he deals with a call, you are certainly not my darling. I need to go now. Revisit that report and have it on my desk by five. He taps the AirPod in his ear twice, hanging up. How are you?

Before I can answer he drops a bag of clothes in the closet, swings around, and hauls one of the chairs away from the wall, sitting as close as he can. He reaches out to take my hand but hesitates, seeing the bandage. I was at the dressmaker and sipping champagne when I fell and cut myself. The world around me was spinning and then… I woke up in the ambulance.

How much champagne were you drinking? he jokes.

Not enough to black out. I had never drunk enough of anything to black out.

So what has the doctor said?

Nothing yet, I reply. I’ve only seen nurses.

They’re probably processing more tests, he reassures.

I just don’t know what to do anymore, I say, cowardly wishing he would take control of my never-ending crisis, excusing me from responsibility, and fixing it all.

His phone buzzes and his eyebrows lift in question.

Go ahead, I say. You can take it.

You are an angel, he says. I’ll keep it quick.

He rises, taps his AirPod, and steps to the farthest corner of the room.

I don’t want to judge him. We have been together a long time—united in all ways—building our life, and long ago moved away from judging each other, finding balance in our partnership. The journey was not always easy, maybe even far from it, but somehow, I know we are meant for each other. And through our personal growth we evolved as a united couple. He maintains a busy work schedule which in turn helps maintain our lifestyle, and he still makes me a priority when I wind up here. He is back almost immediately, smiling at me, his blue eyes twinkling. I just set something big in motion, he tells me. When he kisses my cheeks and my forehead, his excitement is palpable.

Of course you did, I say, smiling back and trying to ignore my inner hollowness.

His phone rings again and he presses his lips together.

You can—

No, he says, shaking his head at me. It can wait. I’m here for you.

You are the sweetest, I say but his phone rings again, then buzzes. If it isn’t a call, it’s a text. You should take it.

No, it’s okay, he insists. But as soon as the phone stops ringing or buzzing, it starts up all over again. It, too, seems at war with itself—ringing, buzzing, vibrating.

I watch silently as a tightness grows in his jaw.

Please take it, I say. It must be important.

He gives me a sharp frown but nods and leaps up and takes the call, again returning to the room’s far corner. When done, he turns to me, his expression pained.

I know that face, I say, holding in a sigh. You should go. It’s okay, I got this. I am no rookie to this! I assure him, glancing at the clock on the wall. This—I wave at the room—has nearly become routine.

The dean should arrive soon with Elijah, he says, they were my first call. Thank goodness we donate as much as we do—it’s easier to ask things of him. It doesn’t hurt we occasionally connect over dinner and drinks, too. And the doctor, he continues, should have results soon. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

You do what you need to do. Call me later. Everything will be fine, I promise, though not without recognizing it as the lie it is. I tug the bedsheet up higher.

You are the best, he says, leaning down to kiss my forehead once more before he dashes away.

My heart feels a pinch as he exits my life for his vibrant and productive life. I envy him, and am proud of his vitality. He is good at living. He rarely hangs onto ideals or concepts, enjoying things without self-punishment, and he released himself years ago from the chains bolting him to his past. Although his previous burdens were not as heavy as mine, they were weighty and his to bear, but he severed them, a fact which silently challenges me. He often comments that much of my poor health results from the loads I choose to carry, or do not let go of, as they define my identity.

In self-defense, I reach for the TV remote and hit the power button, seeking any distraction to quiet the parade of questions rolling through my brain. I scroll through the channels, desperate to find something—anything to keep me from worrying, obsessing. But how can I not worry when fear or stress snakes through my IV, radiating into my extremities and manifesting as real pain? My sadness is so strong, it challenges my ability to choke down the threat of tears weighing me down.

I know there are people in situations far worse than my own. That is often what I hear in the voice refereeing my mental dialogue. But today that only makes me feel smaller—guilty somehow. How dare I be so miserable considering all I have? I am almost pathetic in my helplessness. Guilt eats away at me, from both inside and out, stoked like a fire by a suffering occupying me like an invading force overrunning the mental and physical territory that was once mine alone. I am waging a war within and without, but trying to identify the enemy and defeat it requires all my resources and leaves me hollow, listless, and lacking faith.

Finally an ad on the TV catches my eye. The camera pans across field after field of twisting vines weighed down with large bunches of ripe grapes in a vineyard, a destination seemingly enchanted and nestled in the rolling, lush hills of the French countryside.

With a sigh, I reflect on my visits to France. Blessed to have experienced the country twice, I am certain I could live there, thriving in nature and in such a different sort of unknown than the one I currently deal with every day. Mentally, I retrieve images of the luxurious landscapes, the intoxicating purity of the air that filled me with such life—with such an invigorating sense of being present—every time I visited. I recall a sensation of being rooted and connected to something deep and meaningful in such picture-perfect places. Shouldn’t I be able to experience such connection and contentment daily, instead of only when traveling—or dreaming? Nestling comfortably in my thoughts and imagining harvesting my own garden in the countryside, a smile paints its way across my face. Visualizing a future grounded in the wonder of nature and contrasting the chaotic chatter and endless noise of the bustling city, part of me that seems too tightly wound loosens as I gently explore the quiet, picturesque terrain of my mind. My imagination takes center stage in my mental landscape, and visions of a wonderland of nature unravel and release a bit of long-stored tension. I have to admit I sometimes prefer residing in the world of my imagination.

Knock-knock. The door opens, revealing my son—the light of my life, Elijah—and the dean of his school.

Elijah springs across the floor and embraces me, his dark curls bouncing as he runs. There is truly nothing more satisfying, more heart opening, than the embrace of my boy.

How are you, Mrs. Meyer? the dean asks, lingering by the door, his fingers on its handle. Like me, he wants to go as quickly as possible.

So I say what he needs to hear. I’m sure it’s nothing. You probably should get back to the school. We’ll take care of everything.

Are you certain?

Yes, absolutely, I say, waving him back toward the door. And thank you, I am grateful for your help in bringing Elijah.

It’s my pleasure to help our school’s families. Besides, he assures, isn’t that what friends are for? he adds with a smile.

The door closes behind him as he leaves and I snuggle closer to Elijah, breathing in the sweet scent of his neck and hair. The innocence of his energy calms me. I wish to capture these moments in jars, seal them up tight and return to such pleasures at my darkest