On Be(come)ing a Woman of Wisdom: Memoir of a Modern-day Tantrika - Volume 2

By Patricia Spinoza

Volume 2 of this memoir picks up where Volume 1 left off with the author on her way to the Krishnamurti Educational Center in Alresford, England, about 60 miles southwest of London, to live and study in this spiritual community.

As she turns from the external journey of her youth and young adulthood to an inward psychic journey, devastating and sublime in its revelations, we witness the author’s continued quest to explode her natural sexual Shakti Energy into an influential and artful feminine wisdom. From mid-life to cronehood, we wonder at the unfolding of a relationship of chaos and love, at her embracing of celibacy, join her in the darkness of unknowingness, and journey into the hidden influence of the patriarchy. We cheer as she meets the challenges of attaining her bona fides as a Process Work therapist and delight in witnessing her heart opening during three months volunteering at an orphanage in India. Further, we follow the author’s growing psychological and emotional maturity through sorceric maneuvers and psychedelic medicine work. Her journey culminates in an unexpected relationship with a tantric partner that, through their united body energies, leads to a vast, formidable, and sustained opening to sublime joy and connection with the very fabric of life. 

In this and the previously published volume, the author unashamedly exemplifies a pathway through conventional, societal, and familial limits to the hidden spiritual truths behind women’s sexuality and truth-telling. These two books are nothing less than a call for women in every walk of life to dare to embrace their personal stories, family lineage, intimate relationships, motherhood, and sexual energies with wonder and curiosity and courageously tell their stories. The author proposes that this vital ownership and declaration by women of their full feminine wisdom and power is the key to reshaping our society and sustaining the beauty and plentitude of planet Earth so she can sustain us. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tantrika Press
• Release date: Nov 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9781977271068

Patricia Spinoza

Patricia Spinoza, M.A. psychotherapist and teacher, has worked and played among remarkable characters in over twenty countries. The author’s lifetime quest to manifest her true tantric nature has led her to an inimitable exploration of her inner and outer worlds and to the study and practice of diverse philosophical, psychological, and spiritual systems. She lives on the Big Island of Hawaii with her partner. 

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Praise for On Be(come)ing A Woman of Power – Memoir of a Modern-day Tantrika Volume 2

Spinoza is a fearless storyteller. The searing honesty in the relating of her life from childhood to cronehood leads the reader into her private world as she seeks to manifest her full Shakti Energy (the divine feminine). As she recounts the #MeToo experiences of her life and lineage, the joy and excruciating challenges of motherhood, her heartbreak, and ecstasy with lovers, her exquisite storytelling never falters. Spinoza’s courage to share what is often not revealed inspires and invites the reader to undertake their own spiritual journey to wholeness. Thank you Patricia Spinoza!

-- Nisha Zenoff, MFT, Ph.D. author of The Unspeakable Loss: How Do You Live After A Child’s Death. A gold medal award recipient in Grief, Death, Dying by Living Now Book Awards

Narrating one’s life is a complex task. As Patricia’s narrative effortlessly unfolds the ebbs and flows of a life fully lived, we are taken into moments of poignancy, of excitement, of softness. We enter the magical realm of her story – the mythical journey into woman empowerment, of Shakti Energy. We move with the rhythm of her breath, of her body and of her emotions as she shares her childhood and her lineage, her relationships, her woundedness and her path to healing. Patricia transports us into the making of life itself and invites us to see how our life has unfolded, too, in its own tender, wounded, and victorious way.

Her story reads like a fascinating page-turner - her life, our life.

-- Francoise Bourzat, M.A. Somatic Counselor, author Consciousness Medicine

Right there I found my warrior’s stance; feet planted apart, feeling the earth rising through feet and vagina, arms spread wide, face gazing out to the horizon. From that place of power, I spoke….I vow to leave the mouse in me here in the foothills of the mountains. Thank you earth for accepting it.

My friend Patricia’s superb power tantrika memoir opens a third eye to her transcendent feminine energy. I was fascinated to follow her journey, the challenges she faced even embraced, and the call for all of us to discover our own paths to divine Shakti Energy.

-- Gerard Sarnat, author of four collections - HOMELESS CHRONICLES: from Abraham to Burning Man, Disputes, 17s, and Melting The Ice King

Patricia Spinoza, a wise crone, shares with us her long journey, the mysteries of the feminine, and the complexity of life, in a rich, enchanting language and story.

--Ben Hanah, a fellow traveler, psychologist, teacher, and writer.

On Be(come)ing a Woman of Wisdom

Memoir of a Modern-day Tantrika - Volume 2

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2024 Patricia Spinoza

v4.0

The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Tantrika Press

Cover Photo © 2024 Isaiah Fleming. All rights reserved - used with permission.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For William

Table of Contents

Prologue

1. Spiritual Oasis: Brockwood Park, The Krishnamurti Educational Center, Bramdean, England

2. Setting Sun - New Horizons

3. Paris: Descent

4. Psychological Oasis: The Descent Deepens

5. The Labyrinth

6. Seattle: Disgorging the Demons

7. The Ascent

8. The Time of Women: Lesson from the Great Tao

9. Beginnings and Endings

10. Living and Dying

11. Three Intertwining Vines of a Tree of Life: Frank; Process Work; Sorcery

12. Wonderous Beauty: Commitment and Detachment

13. Convergence

14. Los Angeles: Restlessness on Steroids

15. Energetic Oasis: Stalking in Mexico

16. A Bifurcated Life: Cleargreen and Farmers Insurance

17. Fusion: Warrior and Victim Become One

18. Cracking Open My Heart

19. Hawaii: The Oases Merge into the River

20. The Dance

21. The Final Opening Act: Beyond the Horizons: Shakti-Patricia/Shiva-William

Epilogue

End Notes

Acknowledgements

One who enters the state of Shakti recognizes the non-distinction between Shiva and Shakti and crosses the threshold into divine oneness. As space and form are revealed by the sun’s rays, so, Shiva is revealed through the energy of Shakti which is the essence of the Self.

Vijnanabhairava Tantra #20-21

Prologue

Journey experience 2019

The tactile descent of silent energy that we (my partner William and I) have come to know quieted not only our minds but the very atmosphere of the cabin where we journeyed and the mountain itself. As I sat looking into William’s eyes, and he into mine, William and Patricia were no more. The abstract masculine Shiva sat cross-legged on the bed across from me, the abstract feminine Shakti. My body quivered though I had no body to quiver, only the suggestion of corporality. Then we joined together, Shiva and Shakti, through the magic of penis and vagina, and Patricia and William were manifest.

Time and space gave way to the vastness that knows no bounds. William and Patricia became the living embodiment of Ardhanarisvara, Shiva and Shakti joined together into one magnificent being.

Ardhanarishvara (Hindu male-female (Shiva/Shakti) figure of oneness beyond duality)

1

Spiritual Oasis

1983-1984

Brockwood Park, The Krishnamurti Educational Center, Bramdean, England

I had spent three years in the verdant green forests of northwest Washington, the familiar landscape of my childhood. Now, renewed and rejuvenated, I would enter a metaphorical desert landscape. Over the next years of my journey, I would encounter three oases that I can loosely describe as a spiritual oasis, a psychological oasis, and an energetic oasis. These deep life-sustaining oases aren’t separate. They are part and parcel of the deep underground river where the conscious and unconscious are always in congress.

This phase of my journey will encompass some twenty-five years. I will be well over half a century before each oasis will sink and flow into the synchronous river of wholeness – into the full expression of Shakti Energy through three separate yet united entities: William/Patricia, She/He, Shiva/Shakti and finally the form of Ardhanarisvara.

Flying across the Atlantic, I arrived by bus to Bramdean, England, and alighted onto the promised land. I climbed the hill to Brockwood Park, the Krishnamurti Educational Center, passing by what had been the guardhouse, and was now the abode of Ingrid and her husband, two longtime staff members. The expansive lawns surrounding the buildings were dotted with old oaks and cedars. I would learn that the Brockwood Park estate was first established in 1769 and that some of the trees tossing their branches to the sky dated back to around 1800.

My feet floated up the driveway, my head grazed the clouds, and like a whirling top, my mind spun fantastic tales of my new life: a school based on Krishnamurti’s teachings, a community of seekers, equality of income for all staff, a small room of my own, gourmet vegetarian meals, staff and school meetings with Krishnamurti (referred to also as Krishnaji or K), and the frosting on the cake - the yearly Krishnamurti talks given in locations in Europe as well as America and India. As I walked, I reflected on Krishnamurti’s books I had read over the years, the talks I’d attended in Ojai, California the year before, and how, at every step, I’d tested his teachings with my inner truth, and each time I’d affirmed, Yes, everything I read and hear rings true and right for me. I can find no daylight between what he says and what I believe. Krishnamurti’s most oft-quoted words spoken in 1929, Truth is a pathless land, were simplicity itself. Yet I found the underlying complexity mind-boggling, and I desperately wanted to unravel that complexity. My stop at this spiritual oasis would be almost a passing encounter, but its impact would be far-reaching.

And then there was freedom. I thought back to my eighteenth year when three days after high school graduation, my best friend, Peggy, and I had left our hometown in Bellingham, Washington, on a train to San Francisco. Freedom had been the driving force behind our flight to that mythical city. We wanted to be free from the constraints imposed by our small town, by our families, and for me, the Seventh-day Adventist church, which had dominated my family life - free to find my own way. At eighteen, I sought freedom as far as I could understand it, i.e., outward freedom from people, places, and things. Krishnamurti’s words described a whole other idea of freedom, "Freedom is pure observation without direction, without fear of punishment and reward." and In observation one begins to discover the lack of freedom. When Peggy and I left Bellingham, I didn’t understand that real freedom lay within. But this day, walking up the winding driveway, I understood the connection of the two freedoms – that the first was but a precursor to the second, and to learn to live in true freedom is what I now sought. I saw myself living and inquiring for the rest of my life in this communal spiritual oasis called Brockwood Park (BP). I was almost giddy as I imagined perfecting the art of observing myself and everything around me, witnessing my history without judgment or attachment, being free of its psychological stranglehold. I could hardly believe my great good fortune.

I joined staff and other volunteers to prepare for Krishnamurti’s September talks at Brockwood Park - a pre-application process of sorts. Seized by my fantasy, I cheerfully undertook every task I was assigned as my sacred gift to the spiritual life upon which I was embarking. We raised the gargantuan circus tent that would hold 3,000 people, set thousands of chairs in orderly semi-circle rows, set up the lunch tent and book tent, and inside, folding tables from which to serve food and sell books. I was then assigned to assist Ingrid, the school administrator. (I didn’t know at the time that I was being considered to be Ingrid’s assistant, a new position related to her increased responsibilities.)

Like a shooting star flashing in the heavens, the wonderous moment of the first talk arrived. The line at the tent entrance formed at daybreak. However, with a privilege given to volunteer helpers, I slipped into the tent when I awoke, placed my pillow on the floor directly in front of the stage, and went to have breakfast. As the hour approached, I entered the tent and took my seat on the pillow I’d left to mark my place at the foot of the master. When at last a staff member lifted the tent flaps, attendees from all over the world flooded through the opening and moved quickly to find a seat. We waited expectantly, some for the first time, some for the 100th.

And then, unobtrusively through a side flap, Krishnamurti entered the tent. Diminutive, androgynous, his white hair carefully swooped over the balding top of his head, dressed in slacks, a white shirt and dark sweater, shoes shining, he paused for a moment, his head inclined to the side as his eyes swept the space. He turned and climbed the few stairs to the stage where a single chair awaited him. A staff member met Krishnamurti at the top of the stairs and attached a microphone to his sweater. Krishnamurti turned and walked the few steps to the chair where he sat down, tucked his hands under his thighs, looked around the room, and then closed his eyes and remained a few moments in silence.

When he opened his eyes, he glanced over our heads, his eyes swept into the far reaches of the tent, and like a softly bursting geyser, the words poured from him. In one moment, his voice was thoughtful, his body swaying ever so slightly, then suddenly his voice would rise with an otherworldly passion, and with voice and hands animated, he’d implore us to inquire with him into conflict, sexuality, desire, affection, love, attachment, beauty, fear, separateness, compassion. While he spoke, he would sometimes pause and ask, Shall I go on? Collectively we’d all sigh, and some would whisper, Yes, yes. My ears were laser-attuned to receive his wisdom, and my eyes never left his face. I followed his words, felt his spirit when he’d take us into a question like, Can we live in a relationship where there is no shadow of conflict or ownership? Or when he’d insist, All time is contained in the present. The future is NOW. Do you see that?

Krishnaji never answered any question directly; instead, he urged us to examine our beliefs and assumptions because he assured us beliefs, assumptions, and knowledge limit and divide us. He passionately insisted that our ego-mind machinations keep us from being free and able to live in love and compassion. He urged us not to listen to him passively but to examine, probe, observe, query, and question not only in these passing inquiries but our lives in general.

At that first talk, hanging on his every word, I underwent a spiritual awakening. At the end of the talk, with a soft smile, Krishnamurti asked, May I go now? (Over time, I would wonder of whom, or of what entity, he was asking permission.) With that, he silently and elegantly rose from the chair, removed the clipped-on microphone, descended the steps, and slipped out the tent flap.

The room began to stir, voices drifted. I awoke from my trance, exited the door, and took the first steps from the tent to my room. What a shock when, with each step, my understanding slipped away like a runaway phantom train. Every hint of transcendent wisdom that had descended on me throughout the talk whirled away in a cloud of forgetting. I arrived to my room despondent at the swiftness with which my spiritual insight had abandoned me. Worst of all, I berated myself for my inability to hold, even for a few minutes, the wisdom with which he had imbued us. Every talk, one every other day, was the same - the tighter I clenched my fists around pure understanding, the faster it slipped through my fingers like drifting smoke in the wind.

Ah-h-h-h, but there was an alternative. Jabulani was his name. He came into the office with questions about setting up his tent in the camping area. I couldn’t help but stare at him, so elegant and handsome. Dark black ebony skin, curly hair framing dark black eyes, the broad contours of his nose, full lips, and lithe, trim body that suggested physical activity. I listened to his soft voice and answered his questions. Fortuitously, the office wasn’t busy, and we fell into conversation. When we parted, though the words were common, See you later, our eyes belied the ordinary and hinted at the extraordinary. On the second day of the talks, I searched him out in the camping area. His broad smile reaffirmed what I had intuited. From then on, whenever I was free from work, we sought each other. One night in the pouring rain, I invited him to put his sleeping mat on the floor in my room. Other than a few kisses, we stayed chaste, both doing our best to be good Krishnamurti-ites.

Meanwhile, my chance to show my value to the school came when Ingrid tracked me down where I was lounging in the sitting room of the manor house. Her blue eyes held mine, her thin lips pressing and conveying words before they were spoken. She was slim, her body upright, shoulders back, and I mused to myself that she was a muted version of her Germanic roots. Do you have a moment to come to my office? Her words were direct, pared to essentials. I jumped up, assuring her that, yes, I was free. I followed her brisk walk. Once in her office, she explained that David Bohm, brilliant physicist, and close friend of Krishnamurti, needed to write a letter. I was to go to Dorothy’s office in about half an hour and take notes while he dictated, type up the letter, give it for review, make changes, type the final version, and see that the letter was in the morning mail. She further informed me that the letter was to address an issue in the Krishnamurti Foundation Trust, of which David was a member, and was of a private sensitive nature. I was so-o-o nervous, feeling my whole future hinged on this one letter. I’d never taken formal dictation and had only my self-created shorthand from taking notes in college classes!

I entered Dorothy’s office and there he was, the famous David Bohm with his wife Saral, along with Dorothy and Ingrid. I hardly had a chance to take them in when my gaze was arrested by a six-foot-high photograph hanging above Dorothy’s desk of Krishnamurti as a young man. Dressed in an elegant, tailored suit, a hand resting in a pocket of his slacks, his stature belying his actual 5-foot height, his eyes gazed out beyond the photo. I could hardly tear my eyes from the image that dominated the room. Dorothy broke my trance when she stood, shook my hand, said hello, and thanked me for coming. She was tall and wore brown slacks, a brown leather belt, brown vest with a soft-colored blouse, ankle socks, and brown sandals. Her hair dyed a brownish red, framed a round face, wide mouth, and compassionate eyes that held my gaze and reassured me. As if to anchor myself, I stared hard at Dorothy as she sat back down at her desk, filled with objects, books, and a teacup and saucer. Though her eyes betrayed tiredness, no doubt from her recent heart attack, her friendly inviting smile was the same one I remembered from when I had visited Brockwood Park over two years ago. The office felt friendly and informal, a reflection of Dorothy.

She introduced me to David and Saral, and when we shook hands, I was struck by how warm and gracious they were. David’s pale mien contrasted sharply with Saral’s ruddy complexion, and where David’s smile held a teasing intrigue, Saral’s smile lit up her whole face and turned her eyes into pixie eyes. They were both almost frumpy in a casual way, and I was struck by how alike they looked and felt. I took the remaining empty chair that faced a wide windowed door to the front lawn and relaxed as David began to dictate. He spoke thoughtfully and distinctly. I scribbled and crossed out as discussion of the wording flew back and forth between these four people in whose company I felt small and insignificant.

A thankful sigh escaped my lips when they’d finished. I took my notes to the office I’d been working in and began typing. There were passages where I couldn’t decipher my shorthand, so with trepidation, I made a best guess. At one point, Ingrid poked her head into the office and asked how it was going. I’m almost there. I’m doing the final copy now. A few minutes later, my hands shaking, I handed her the letter. Ingrid had, in spades, that German sensibility of things being done exactly right. She glanced over the letter, said it looked fine and went to find the others for any last-minute changes or corrections. The letter passed muster; no changes needed. David signed it! I typed the envelope, licked the required stamps, and put the letter into the outbox for the morning’s mail. When I turned out the light and left the office, though I may have appeared to be walking, I was floating on an ocean of near certainty that I would be offered a staff position. BP, the dream lover of my life, had wholly captivated me.

It was high drama for me when, after staff and helpers took down the tent, loaded thousands of folding chairs onto carriers, dismantled the stage and serving tables where lunch had been provided to thousands of people, Ingrid gave me an appointment time in Dorothy’s office. From her demeanor, I felt confident they would offer me a job, and so they did. I would work in the office with Ingrid, at the center of the school’s doings. I was on a 9-month trial period, and my wages would be a half stipend. The full stipend wasn’t much, and though I can’t today remember the exact amount, only half was a little daunting. However, with my room and board fully paid, no financial demands on me like taxes and insurance, nor utilities, well, hell yes, the half stipend would work. Truth is, I’d have taken the job at a quarter stipend, so prodigious was my ambition and longing to be part of this spiritual community living Krishnamurti’s teachings.

I was assigned a room that looked out onto the large vegetable garden. I was charmed by the cozy but comfortably appointed room with a single bed, chest of drawers, wardrobe, desk, and full bathroom. I eventually added a corner shelf where I kept coffee and an electric coffee pot, even though some frowned on caffeine. (Word got out, and staff friends often joined me to imbibe the forbidden brew.) Each day, whether at work, joining staff and students for meals in the large dining room, doing kitchen rotation, or listening to K when he met with staff, I glowed in the knowledge that I had found the conscious community and spiritual path of my dreams.

My Father’s Death Vibrates the Ethers

About a month and a half into the term, I sat at one of the long dining tables, now empty except for myself and the breakfast dregs drying on my plate. I stared out the bay windows onto the expansive lawn where broad oak trees dotted the gentle slopes of this gentry-soaked land. Jim, one of the most senior staff members at BP, sat down beside me at the table. He was tall and thin, gangly even, slightly balding, with piercing eyes behind rimless glasses and thin lips that seemed as if they longed to smile but had forgotten how. As always, he wore a muted short-sleeved shirt with tan pants, almost like a uniform. I turned slightly, my eyebrows raised in invitation. Hey Jim.

Hi there. I was wondering if you’re doing anything with our three-day mini-vacation?

No, nothing planned, I replied. What’s up?

I’m going up to East Farmhouse for a 3-day leaderless meditation. We sit all day, take our meals in silence, and evenings are always a warm cozy time to sit around the fireplace and talk. I think you’d like it.

Yes! My response was instantaneous. When do we leave?

I have permission to take one of the staff cars, so let’s leave right after lunch.

The drive into the English countryside was pleasant, copses lining the narrow roads that had only been marginally widened from their horse and farm-wagon days. Our conversation meandered around the ins and outs, ups and downs of Brockwood Park, Jim regaling me with stories of BP’s 14-year history and especially the early days filled with promise and excitement. As he talked of the last year, I chose to filter out the acrimony in his voice, attributing it to his general curmudgeonliness for which he was known throughout the school community: the permanent frown, raised eyebrows, a laugh that often bordered on the cynical. On the other hand, I noted that, unlike the early days he described, I had detected and ignored hints of discord among staff.

We drove up a long country lane, coming to a halt in front of a large old farmhouse, its dull white paint chipped and faded. Exiting the car, I had a surreal moment. Where the farmhouse had stood, suddenly, I saw the house where I’d grown up on 23rd Street in Bellingham, Washington. I stared at the weathered building as if it were a tired, almost haunted scene from a grade B movie. How I had hated the view of the north side of our house that greeted me each day as I walked home from school. It always seemed to mock me, mock my longing to be like the other kids, like the cleaner, more orderly families of friends living in well-kept homes. Those others didn’t have to walk a mile to and from their grade school nor face the 2-mile trek to the junior high, rain, snow, or shine. Some mornings were beautiful and warm, but more often than not, the proverbial northwest mist, rain, or snow greeted us as we exited the door of our house. On those wet days, I abhorred arriving at school sopping wet and sitting with wet socks in wet shoes throughout the morning. When I returned home in the afternoon, as I crested the hilltop and saw the house standing like a ghost, I felt like a weary traveler who finds the home that fills her vision but a faded remnant of what she remembers.

The weathered yet stately farmhouse came back into view, the memory of 23rd street, a ghost chased away by the present moment. I blinked a few times, felt a shiver run up my spine, and shook off the peculiar feeling that had momentarily gripped me, glad to feel the solid stairs rather than the rickety stairs of 23rd street under my feet. I followed Jim through the heavy oak door hewn long ago. The resident staff greeted us warmly, and I was shown to my room, delighted to see only one bed, indicating I had a room to myself.

The next morning I awoke early and headed into the kitchen for a breakfast of tea and yogurt. I was grateful for the wood stove that heated the kitchen and gave the walls a glow of warm sunshine yellows. After breakfast, a guide led us to the meditation room. When he opened the door, a rush of cold air hit our faces, and I was again carried to 23rd street – to the sometimes-ice-cold bedroom on the 2nd floor where my sisters and I slept. In sharp contrast to my childhood memory, I found the tingling coolness refreshing and breathed in its crispness.

Frowning, I wondered why the 23rd street house, long ago bulldozed into the ground by the local college, insisted on fusing with the farmhouse as if caught in a repeating time warp. I did a quick mental calculation. I had been 18 when I’d left my childhood home to enter adulthood as a pregnant teenager, a wife, and soon-to-be mother. Wow, 22 years, and still its ghost lingered in my psyche! Find a zafu and sit down, the voice of the resident manager interrupted my reverie. You’ll find zabutons underneath the zafus and blankets as it is cold here. He smiled understandingly as we all nodded our agreement.

On the 2nd day of the retreat, I awoke with a curious nervousness. An hour into the meditation, I suddenly felt cold and pulled the blanket closer around me; my chest began to tighten. At that point, I managed to remain curious, and I returned to my breath. Inexorably, the coldness deepened, and a hint of worry crept in. I forced myself to return to my breath, but to no avail. I began to tremble as fear choked both my body and my mental awareness. Oh no, I thought, there’s no counselor I can consult. We’re supposed to be experienced meditators. Maybe I’m not experienced enough. Shit, oh shit. I forced a shift in my dialogue, Follow your breath, feel it moving through your nostrils, notice your belly filling, emptying.

Like a mantra, I kept repeating these phrases, yet my muscles constricted more deeply. Sweat dripped across my closed eyelids even as my body shivered with cold. Suddenly a jolt that shook me to my core - a tumultuous vibrational wave that originated in the depths of an ocean far, far away throbbed out across the sea, across the lands, and through my body, mind, and soul. I gasped as my trembling threatened to spiral out of control. Miraculously the adrenaline of fear forced a supreme effort. I focused my attention on everything I’d ever learned about finding my center – breath, body awareness, environmental awareness, breathe, breathe, in-out, in-out, in-out. And then, like the proverbial rainbow across a sunny stormy sky, I felt a calmness arise. A wave rolled over me and with gentle feathery strokes, brushed my skin, my blood, my bones. The agitation faded into a soft vibration - slightly uncomfortable yet profoundly satisfying. With relief, I settled back into awareness of the zafu under my butt, the blanket grasped tightly around my body, and with my breath, I breathed in an otherworldly quietness.

That evening around the fire, I decided not to speak of my experience, partly to save face but also to hold it with awe and wonder. The next day, the last of the retreat, I spent the morning and afternoon sessions in a familiar meditation space: thoughts arise, label them thoughts and return to the breath. Early evening, as Jim drove us back to Brockwood Park, where it nestled in the village of Bramdean, I conversed distractedly with him, my thoughts dominated by the experience of the second day. What the hell was that? I wondered. I could still feel traces of the vibration in my body and even a delicate hint of the fear that had nearly swallowed me. Humm, I mused, maybe I’ll call John. I smiled and let my thoughts drift fondly to John, my friend and lover in Seattle and a longtime meditator. I missed him desperately in moments like these: his gentleness, our bodies entwined, his evenness, our inquisitive conversations. He’d been excited for me when I’d left for England and when I’d been accepted as staff at BP. Though he was committed to Tibetan Buddhism and the Shambala community, he too had been touched by Krishnamurti’s teachings. Yes, I mused, I’ll call him.

The following day, sitting at my desk back at BP, engaged in my work as administrative assistant to Ingrid, I felt regenerated from the three days away. I effortlessly attended to the needs of students and staff. But underneath, my curiosity about the sensations that had invaded my body brushed and tantalized my awareness. I couldn’t wait to talk with John that evening to get his take on what had happened. I remembered how clarifying he had been the previous summer when I’d had the experience on mescaline of my hovering consciousness and my body separated, connected only by a silver thread.

Around 10:00, the phone rang. Picking up the receiver where I stood by the phone cabinet, I answered in my official receptionist’s voice, Brockwood Park Krishnamurti Educational Center, how may I help you?

Could I speak to Diane, please?

This is Diane. What can I do for you? It took me a startled moment to recognize the voice of my brother, David.

David? David! oh my god! a genuine smile in my voice, Wow, why are you calling me all the way over here in England? Not for a moment did it occur to me that David might be the bearer of bad news. I was so glad to hear his voice, easing that hint of loneliness I sometimes felt so far away from the west coast of America.

His voice was soft, grave, tremulous, Diane, Papa drowned two days ago off the coast of California. He rushed on, Marlene drowned as well; they never found her body. They recovered Papa’s body and their overturned catamaran. From what we’ve learned, it looks like they were caught in a terrible storm, something went wrong on the boat, and they had to abandon ship because it was sinking or about to flip over. We don’t have all the details yet.

A gale wind blew through the room and sucked my breath away. My legs turned rubbery and threatened to give out. I gasped in disbelief. No, no, it can’t be. They had just started their sailing life, their dream of exploring the oceans. Oh Papa, how could you? How could you? I wailed, unable to control the strange sounds and non-sensical words penetrating the air around me.

I was aware of Ingrid rushing from her office, What’s the matter? her voice alarmed.

My father is dead, was all I could say in answer to her question. I let her lead me to a chair where she sat me down, the phone resting listlessly in my hand.

David continued with news of the upcoming memorial, who was coming from where, and when. I was only vaguely aware. He asked, Diane, will you make it home for the memorial service? It looks like all of us siblings will be here.

I, I don’t know, I stuttered into the fog, blown by a far wind settling around me. David’s voice on the phone, Ingrid’s voice in the room – it was all so distracting. Will they all just shut up? I’ll call you back, David, okay? I can’t think right now. I’m sorry. I’ll call you back. (Sadly, I would choose not to return to Bellingham for the memorial service and would only find closure the following spring.) I hung up the phone and pushed past Ingrid, I’m going to my room. With my head bowed to avoid any friendly interactions with staff or students, I blindly dashed to my room. I stepped over the threshold into my private space and locked the door behind me.

I lay on the bed weeping, lost in timeless desolation. I wondered if I could ever stop the tears and wondered even more fervently that there were so many tears for this man who had wounded me so deeply, who at moments I had hated, who had awakened me so profoundly, who had given me life. Vacillating between love and hate, admiration and disdain, anger and understanding, this grating dissonance defined so many aspects of my life. Could the dissonance ever strike a chord of consonance?

Hiding out in my room, I sobbed in profound sadness for his pain and the end of his and Marlene’s lives and their dream. I talked to Papa, telling him I hoped he’d been brave when he and Marlene faced the sea’s deathly embrace.

Through tears, I reread the letter Papa had written me just weeks before, inviting me to join him and Marlene on the maiden voyage aboard So What. Their shakedown cruise was to start in Oxnard, California, put into various ports, and finally sail up the Sacramento River. Papa implored me to join them and share the expertise and experience I’d gleaned from my many years of sailing in both the Pacific and Atlantic oceans. Lying on my bed, I let the letter drop to the floor, closed my eyes, and drifted back to my years of sailing.

For over six years, with my kids, Ron and Pam, and my partner, Jackson, aboard Ariadne, our 37’ broad-beamed ketch, we’d explored the San Juan Islands and then sailed south from Neah Bay, Washington to San Francisco, California and eventually on to San Diego. And then the years after, when aboard Le Petit Prince, with my new partner, Vicente, in a 4-year odyssey, we’d sailed our little 31’ sloop from Argentina to Brazilian ports, through the Caribbean and Bahama Islands, north to Florida, crossed the Gulf of Mexico, sailed south to Panama, then through the Panama Canal and finally north to San Diego. And with profound clarity, I knew that no matter my experience, knowledge, or best intentions, nothing could have saved their boat and lives.

Chills trembled through my being as I realized that my rejection of Papa’s invitation had saved my life. Accompanying my relief, I was profoundly grateful that though I’d left their boat launching in the spring, utterly disgusted by Papa’s drunken behavior, when he’d written me those few weeks ago, my animus toward him had waned. I had written back thanking him for the invitation, letting him know I was well-established at the Krishnamurti Center, so no thank you. I’d wished them all the best in their voyage.

Sorrowfully, I recalled my disquiet at the chaotic launching of So What when the boatyard had had to quickly haul their catamaran out of the water because of a leak in the toilet ballcock through which seawater was rushing into the bilge. The debacle had lent an ominous, prophetic note to their future sailing life.

In lieu of short holiday breaks, Brockwood Park takes two month-long vacations, one in December, and the second in spring, to allow international students and staff to visit their homes spread across the globe. As winter break approached, I yearned for the warmth and physical closeness with Ron and Pam, my mom, and especially my brothers, with whom I could sink into my grief over Papa’s death. Unfortunately, I lacked the necessary finances to fly to Washington, so I determined to save every penny I could to go home to northwest Washington for spring break. Meanwhile, with my finances tight, Paris, my soul city, called to me. So, when the school doors closed, brimming with excitement, fed by my fantastical memories of the year and a half I’d lived in France, I boarded a bus to Dover, took a hovercraft across the channel to Calais, France, and from there, a train to Paris.

Nicole, my dear friend and ex-lover, picked me up at the train station. Though a constant stream of letters had flowed between us, it had been some three years since we’d last seen each other when she’d traveled to the U.S. and spent three weeks with me. During her visit, we’d continued being lovers as we’d been when I’d lived in Paris. I’d introduced her to Ron and Pam and proudly taken her sightseeing in my home country. While we had parted as lovers, over time, we had shifted to friends bonded in mind and spirit. In the years since we’d seen each other, she’d been in a couple of short-term relationships but hadn’t found the right woman. My sexual preference was now centered on men, and like Nicole, I hadn’t found the right partner. Now, together again in her apartment in Paris, like vestal virgins, we slept contently in the same bed that had held our passionate lovemaking a lifetime ago, enjoying the simple warmth and snuggling of our bodies in the cold winter nights.

During those days in Paris, come so soon after Papa’s drowning, I felt death riding on my shoulder as I outwardly laughed and played with friends, until one afternoon, snug in Nicole’s apartment, death spoke to me directly. I was sitting on a cushion, legs crossed, eyes closed in deep meditation. Without warning, across the horizon of my inner eye, the words appeared, Everything you have done in your life has been a lie. Pictures scrolled across this inner horizon showing me how everything I did was for my self-image, both positive and negative, or an image I presented to others. Internally, I argued with the disembodied speaker who had scrolled these words and pictures across my mind’s eye, but at every suggestion, this ghost rejected my attempts to give truth to my life. Seized by an unreasoning fear, my body began to shake. Then, as if someone had lit a firecracker under me, my eyes flew open, and I leaped up. It took only seconds to grab the house key and rush out the door to a neighborhood café for coffee and a croissant to ground myself. In my journal I wrote, What a terrible shock – what violence I felt toward myself. My energy was totally exhausted. What’s it about? Death felt very near. This incident was one of many irrational yet transformative experiences in Paris, my city of dreams and the epicenter of a future unprecedented psychic opening.

On Christmas day, with Nicole having gone to spend Christmas with her family, I sat alone, waiting for the agreed-on time to call my kids and their partners. In my journal I wrote:

Journal Entry Dec. 25, 1983

Today, last night, "la mort has been so present. Such a strong feeling of my own death, strange to be living so intimately with death. I see how paranoia can arise from all this - wondering if this is the moment. I feel more and more confused. I keep remembering that strained silence the other day when I’d had three Brockwood Park friends, also vacationing in Paris, over for lunch. I’d tried to talk of the flash of the lie that had come in my meditation, thinking they’d understand. But there was no empathic understanding; instead, a nervous tension hovered like a dark angel in the room and was only broken when one of them pronounced, I think we’ve talked enough. Let’s go have a coffee."

Whew, I can’t wait to talk with the kids. I know that will restore a desperately needed balance!

The first call with Pam, I listened while she recounted their Christmas Eve with her dad and the Carlson family and hers and Travis’s Christmas champagne breakfast for two in their cozy apartment. She sounded happy and excited about her Recreational Leadership studies and even her job at Kentucky Fried Chicken. Later I called Ron and Debbie in Uchee Pines, Georgia, where they were on a two-year residential course in natural healing. They were content and thrilled with their learning, and I listened to their dream of how to carry their healing abilities into the world. My children’s maturation into young adults with committed partners and independence added a wonderful dimension to our relationship – a growing family circle and a shift away from the interactions of a parent guiding a child. Connecting with them, hearing their voices, laughing together, hearing of their lives, telling of my life at Brockwood Park was a tonic that went beyond restoring balance. That evening, the phones silent, I gazed out a window at the city glowing with Christmas lights of every color. The brightness merged with my children’s voices and seeped into my soul, and for a moment, I was at peace.

While the beauty and aliveness of Paris had captured me, by the end of a month, I was antsy to be back at Brockwood Park and, in mid-January, was happily ensconced in my office. When guests arrived, students needed help, or staff wanted to hang out, my office was where they congregated. My desk was situated just outside the door to Ingrid’s space, a room added that summer to accommodate the needs of her elevated administrative position. Occasionally, Ingrid would close the door for a confidential conversation, but generally, there was constant movement through the open doorway. I loved being at the heart of the social and business aspects of Brockwood Park, though perhaps the downside was that I was privy to much of the quiet gossip of the school that often began with, I can’t believe what A. did…. or Did you hear…. or B. is really pissed off at C… . I quickly surmised that though the names and events were interchangeable, the mood seemed to be one of controlled anger masked as a simple observation.

Honeymoons reflect our highest hopes for a relationship, whatever its form, and I was passionately on a honeymoon, projecting unending illusions of an organization staffed by Krishnamurti devotees. Though we were all doing our best to be like him, follow his teachings, and bring our noblest selves to the students and each other, in trying to emulate K, we ultimately lost connection to our true selves. Reviewing my journals, I am surprised to find that the honeymoon sparkle began to lose its luster in May 1984. I had been at BP for eight months.

When I could, I polished the luster, reminding myself of the endless gifts of Brockwood Park: gourmet vegetarian feasts every day, staff and student talks with Krishnamurti, the discussions K had with David Bohm, the inquiring minds of the students, the English for Foreigners class I taught, work time in the garden and grounds, conversations with staff, and my room that was my refuge. Breaking the agreeable routine from time to time, I’d go on after-dinner jaunts with Jim, with whom I’d gone to the meditation retreat. We’d go to a local pub and drink non-alcoholic beer, and he’d amuse me with stories and inquire about my life. We’d lament how our efforts to have a small storage room converted to a quiet meditation room where staff and students could sit were met with firm resistance by the powers that be who insisted K never talked of meditating. This position seemed obtuse, considering the long hours Krishnaji would spend in silence! Jim and I schemed how to get this quiet space set aside but to no avail. Equally, when Marcel, a first-year staff with whom I was close (he would be one of three men friends I would come to call the three amigos), asked to do an hour of yoga, open to whoever wanted to join us, his request was only reluctantly agreed to. Privately, I felt that these meditative practices could be beneficial for staff. Still, it seems the decision-makers were stubbornly averse to any and all practices, a position I never entirely understood.

Meanwhile, my age and ability to listen and to hold things close to the chest, fostered a relationship of confidants between Ingrid and me, and she came to trust me implicitly. One afternoon, her blue eyes flashing excitedly, she pulled me into her office and shut the door. We have a visitor arriving. Once we’ve greeted her, you’ll show her to her room, check if she’s settled in and comfortable, and at meals, just keep an eye on how she’s doing. I’m telling you who it is, but you mustn’t tell anyone nor let her know that you know. I was all ears. Who could it be? "She’s going by the name Maria, but her real name is Svetlana. She is Stalin’s daughter and translating K’s book, Commentaries on Living, into Russian."

My eyes widened, Really? The daughter of Stalin? Oh my god, unbelievable.

Okay, okay, Ingrid replied, you see why no one, except a select few, must know!

Yes, yes, of course. When does she arrive? And so it was that I met one of the most curious VIPs to come to BP. Twice at lunch, I sat with her. She was reserved and quiet. Sitting with her in the expansive dining room at BP, I marveled at being across the table from the daughter of one of history’s most infamous and treacherous rulers. I wanted to ask her about her father, but I was faultless in my discretion. Sitting talking with her, I would think, What a thing to be Stalin’s daughter. I felt a part of history.

With his wife Saral, David Bohm was a regular visitor to Brockwood Park. When David and Krishnaji had conversations, staff and students would often be quiet witnesses to their taped exchanges. Other august professionals like Rupert Sheldrake, biologist and parapsychological researcher who had recently published his idea of morphic resonance, and the psychiatrist David Shainberg, a leading proponent of integrating eastern and western philosophies, came for conversations with Krishnamurti.

And then there was Hannah. In early March, I moved to a second-floor room in one of the BP cottages about a block from the main campus. My new room was larger, sunnier, and looked out over sloping lawns. I liked being off-campus with the mental and physical space my new room provided. Hannah, another temporary staff member, occupied one of the two rooms on the ground floor. Hannah was Austrian, and though only a few years older than me, she felt like an elder sister or a young aunt, brimming with humor and wisdom. Her light brown, wildly askew, curly hair, framing a round visage, always seemed about to blow her away. When she smiled, her green eyes sparkled.

In contrast to this vivacity that enveloped her like a colorful cloak, she always wore old-fashioned flowered dresses. She was a witch in the best sense of the word, and I loved to imagine she wore the dresses as a disguise. Hannah had arrived at BP at the same time as I had and would leave in June. Some of the core staff didn’t entirely trust her (I would find out these same staff had similar feelings toward me.) Both then and now, I believe that her otherworldliness was off-putting to them.

One afternoon, Hannah and I were sitting on pillows on the wooden floor of my room, chatting away. The afternoon sun spilled across the windowsill, casting a bright glow into the room. Suddenly our chatter halted mid-sentence as if a cone of silence was muffling words before they could leave our lips. The two of us sat unmoving as a presence descended. Witches of spirit, we felt a vibration spread throughout our bodies. My ears buzzed as the room faded away. Our eyes grew wide staring at each other, our breathing softened, and my eyes closed. A silent force that held time and space in abeyance stopped the world, and I hung suspended in a wonderous misty emptiness.

How long It held us, I don’t know, but as It receded, I longed to keep my eyes closed and be held forever in the enveloping space. Eventually, my eyes opened on their own and I gazed into Hannah’s. Slowly the room took shape. I looked around, baffled and curious and even a little nervous. I broke the silence, Did you feel that?

Yes, yes, of course, she replied softly, reverence in her voice. We didn’t say much more, simply hugged, thankful that together we had induced this descent of spirit. After Hannah returned to her room, I sat in awe to have had the kind of spiritual experience I’d imagined awaited me at the Krishnamurti Center. Later, I would reflect on the irony that it was Hannah who didn’t fit the mold of a true believer and wasn’t welcome as staff, with whom I’d had this sublime encounter so reminiscent of K’s experiences of the vastness.

Rumblings

Some thirty-seven years later, as I look back at the year and some months at BP, I see all of us swimming in a chaotic soup, sometimes clear, more often muddy. The undercurrents of grief, joy, acrimony, lucidity, and awe I felt during that time were undoubtedly colored by my hopes and expectations of a future at Brockwood Park. As I swirl around in that soup, I search for clarity.

When I’d written to Dorothy in the summer of 1983 to confirm my arrival, I’d received a letter from a school administrator with the news that Dorothy was recovering from a heart attack. Nevertheless, the letter continued, I should come as planned. Whew, I breathed a sigh of relief and wondered what I would find. I would learn that when Dorothy had her heart attack, Krishnaji had installed a committee of four - Ingrid and three men, S., H., and T. - to run the school. Ingrid would technically be in charge, thus her need for an assistant and her own office. The three men would consult with her. They came to be unofficially referred to as the big four. By the time I arrived at BP, Dorothy was nominally back as principal. However, the committee remained in place. There would be iterations and reshufflings of this administrative group, most hidden from view but felt by students as they sensed the underlying instability of the school’s leadership. Transitions seldom move in a straightforward manner, and the monumental change of leadership at Brockwood Park during 1984-85 was no exception. The consequent upheaval would be the background noise of most of my time there.

Ensuant to Dorothy’s heart attack, underground factions surfaced, gossip was rampant, and staff and students were choosing sides between what I saw as the ambitions of the three men, S., H., and T., aligned against Dorothy. However, even today, I can’t guess at all the background minutiae that were transpiring after Dorothy’s heart attack and Krishnaji’s recognition that he needed to put all his energies into helping define the future of Brockwood Park. What I do remember is one day sitting in a particularly rancorous staff meeting during those dark days, when Krishnaji took Dorothy’s hand, looked at her and around the circle, and said, I am married to this woman. She is my wife. We all understood the metaphorical meaning of his declaration and the deep commitment they had to each other and BP. Many of us surreptitiously brushed away tears, and the manor house itself breathed a sigh of relief. None could argue that Dorothy was the heart and soul of Brockwood Park. Krishnamurti himself largely attributed BP’s success to Dorothy’s leadership. (In 1969, when BP was incepted, she had been a sculptor and worked with her husband, Montague, in education, particularly of troubled youth. She had put aside both occupations to take the helm of Brockwood Park.)

With the staff preoccupied with the intricate machinations of the power struggle and consequent coalitions, Krishnaji met privately with students, no staff allowed, to address their concerns. They were bold with their complaints that teachers and counselors weren’t available to talk with them, that they felt abandoned, that some classes were strained and uninspiring and that they didn’t feel the adults were modeling what they, the students, were at BP to learn. Later, in another meeting with staff and students, Krishnaji bluntly admonished staff and was uncompromising in his insistence we must do better – that the school wasn’t about our petty day-to-day concerns but existed … to bring about a new generation of human beings who are free from self-centered action. He hinted that he would not be part of the school if the turmoil continued.

Friedrich Grohe, who in 1983 became a close confidant and financial resource for Krishnamurti, wrote in his book, The Beauty of the Mountain, of this period at Brockwood Park. Grohe talked of the great difficulties around the school’s direction and noted the conflict within the staff that resulted in many people leaving. He wrote of the several talks K had with staff and reiterated that K had insisted he would never enter the school again if staff couldn’t change. None of us escaped the discord and animosity floating around the school during this time.

Though I appreciated and was even glad to know many details of the background rumblings, I was sometimes in tears from the stress and sorrow of what was happening. So it was with unmitigated relief, on a