In the first session of our memoir writing course, we were asked to spend a few moments writing down what we imagined we were going to write about. Here’s my run-on rundown:

This story is about my time with Osho, from the first whisper of words that cracked my heart to the final return from India to the west. It’s about the hope the commune ignited in me, the solace of the ashram, about falling in love, both the big kind and the human kind, about having my heart broken, about the call to India, despite me never wanting to go there, to learn the trade that has sustained me for twenty-three years… It’s about the search for truth; the longing to have the wax coating, that has always kept me from hearing and seeing, melt away. It’s about community, great sex, big joy, silence and love, dancing through the night, cuckoos, peacocks and cockatiels, about illness and healing, headaches in the air conditioning, about manipulation and what I was willing and not willing to do or give to stay. It’s about great hope and great loss, about learning to touch and be touched,  and it’s about the poison of jealousy. This is the story about almost almost almost hearing what the real question was.