Dallas Texas, where I was born, remains in my mind an eclectic city, with room for everyone. You could be 'queer' \, you just didn't talk about it. You didn't have to speak English, or go to Dr. Criswell's First Baptist Church Downtown. Perhaps this sophistication is due to Neiman Marcus and the annual 'fortnight' which showcased a different country. And maybe that is how the Hare Krishna's were accepted.
Kalachandji's was my idea of a really cool place to go for dinner. It was just off the lobby of the Dallas Temple. Yes! I couldn't tell you were a synagogue was: still can't. The place was just the essence of magical. I can still conjure up the smells of incense, the life sized wax figure on the altar, and the healthy delicious food.
Jump ahead to last Wednesday, when I met my writing and yoga and brainstorm in slacks teacher at brand new but utilitarian settings for Golden Bridge Yoga, where Sting goes when in town. We didn't sample the food: I was in Whirling Dervish mode from finances. Like any good guru I guess, my teacher listened, asked questions and gave me, besides a new chant, she restored hope. Because when I'd parked outside, I was accosted by a beggar...no other word will do, and I found myself screaming. My safe little world with the yellow convertible was collapsing amid bad economic times and what I fear will become civil unrest.
I meditated on the words, I put the chant my iPhone. By the weekend I was so worried I stopped eating and just tried to sleep. While I can say goodbye the apartment with the unpaid rent, not as easy dumping the car that served another version of my life, I don't know that walking away from it 'all' is correct.
Back to meditation.
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