Soulmates by Jessica Grose Page A

making a break from everyone I knew and loved?
    Amaya could sense my evasiveness; it was like she saw the chaos in my soul from afar. She cornered me in the break room on a Friday. I was reaching into the fridge for a Coke—one of the few perks of our fluorescent nighttime prison was free beverages. I was usually able to resist them because of my commitment to clean eating, but that night my spiritual mess drew me to all that sugar. Amaya caught me and poked me in the ribs.“Indulging in a little high-fructose corn syrup? Not very Zen,” she said, smiling at me.
    â€œWell, we all have our vices,” I said, guilty. “How are you?”
    â€œFine. Missing you at the ashram. Yoni keeps asking where you are.”
    â€œI’ve been busy, seeing old friends.” I was trying to resist my new transformation, even though the deepest parts of me wanted to change. I was like a seedling struggling to burst through the chaos of tilled soil.
    â€œWell, your new friends miss you,” Amaya said. “Actually, Yoni wanted me to invite you to a special vernal equinox ceremony he holds every year on March twentieth.”
    â€œI’m not sure I can go,” I said automatically. What a fool I was.
    â€œI haven’t even told you when it is. I don’t think you understand the importance of this invite. Lama Yoni only asks one new person every year to this ceremony. It is a marker of acceptance at the ashram. Hundreds of students vie for this invite every year, and he’s bestowing it on you.”
    â€œWow,” I said. I didn’t think I had made that much of an impact on Lama Yoni. I felt like we’d had a serious connection through our eye contact earlier in the year, but I figured he had those sorts of connections with a lot of people. He’s so open—it’s like chemical bonds are at play, drawing others to him.
    â€œSo you’ll come?” Amaya asked, looking me in the eye. “I’ll write down the address.” She took a pen off the counter, grabbed my hand, and scribbled an address on my palm.
    â€œHerkimer Place? Where’s that?”
    â€œIt’s in Brooklyn. Arrive promptly at sunset. You can check the almanac for the time. Don’t worry, you won’t regret it.”
    Over the weekend, I convinced myself not to go. Dana was being really lovey and sweet. She agreed to watch Samsara, a documentary shot in twenty-five different countries that a fellow at the ashram said would really further my meditation practice. I told Dana I wanted to see it because I wanted to indulge my travel bug. Usually Dana is dismissive about this kind of thing, and with a flick of her hand would have said, “I hate that kind of shit.” But that Saturday she said, “Whatever makes you happy, hon,” and snuggled into my side as we watched it on my laptop in bed.
    But as Wednesday rolled around I found myself checking when the sun was supposed to set that day, and looking up just exactly where Herkimer Place was, and plotting how I would get there, and somehow, almost outside my own volition, I was dialing my boss’s number on my phone and affecting a throaty nasal growl to convince her I was sick and needed the night off. I knew I couldn’t miss this opportunity for spiritual growth—it was so much more important than any of my capitalist commitments.
    I left my apartment around six, knowing that the sunset was shortly after seven and not wanting to be late. On the A train out to Nostrand Avenue, I felt so many conflicting feelings about heading to an unknown—to me—corner of Bed-Stuy. The guilt of gentrification, the fear of danger, and the excitement of transgressing were all tumbling about in one anxious stew.
    I got off the subway with a crowd, since it was the middle of rush hour, but as I neared Herkimer Place on Nostrand Avenue the group thinned. When I turned onto the street, it had a bleak, postapocalyptic feel. The