Eat Pray Love Made Me Do It (3 page)

—

Peter Richmond

F
or most of my life, I didn't know what to believe in, Big-Meaning-wise, as in: “What're we here for?” Was there an ultimate, original Creator? Or was the explanation for the universe to be found in the realm of physics and particles, with Everything reducible to the Talking Heads lyric, “It's scientific!”?

I wasn't satisfied by either pole. Although baptized and confirmed in an organized religion, from the start I thought the stories in the Bible made for great fiction. Nor was I ever willing to buy entirely into a pure-science paradigm, because, face it: string theory might make scientific sense, and might even be backed by empirical data, but any answer to a question about Being that doesn't address the “Why?” in the equation ain't much of an answer.

To be honest, though, I didn't delve that deeply into trying to find The Truth About Existence. Most of the time, I was too
busy trying to make things work out here on earth. By the time I reached the age of fifty, I'd resigned myself to the certainty that we simply weren't equipped with intellects that could even accurately phrase The Question, let alone answer it.

And then, a decade ago, my search for The Answer grew slightly more serious. I'd joined the faculty of a private school, where I taught ninth-graders in an ancient civilization survey class. It was a role that required a diminishment of ego—and a working knowledge of the gods of Egypt, Greece and Rome. In that first year, as the students and I explored the significance of the deities of each civilization, it was hard not to come a little more face-to-face with the eternal conundrum of the meaning of life. And while the thousands of gods who commanded the worship of ancient peoples struck the students and me as engaging cartoon characters (I loved my cat, but, unlike the ancient Egyptians, I didn't worship her), one thing struck me as it never had before: the need for civilizations to invent gods suggested that wanting to find answers was part of our DNA.

The more we studied each civilization's fanciful notions of “the universe,” the more I found myself looking, for the first time in a long time, for just a single certainty about existence—a single notion I could wrap my head around.

And then, just before my third year of teaching, during my fifty-fifth year of life, I came across a passage in
Eat Pray Love
and immediately closed the book. Something had finally clicked. Something that made instant, instinctive sense. I was no longer at sea. I was finally, in some measure at least, grounded—well, as much as you can be grounded in the infinite.

Gilbert was describing an experience she'd had in India. She'd been meditating for weeks, waiting for the moment when
that meditation would open the door to some sort of enlightenment, though hardly expecting it to. But it did—whereupon she was “pulled through the wormhole of the Absolute, and in that rush I suddenly understood the workings of the universe completely. I left my body, I left the room, I left the planet, I stepped through time and I entered the void. I was inside the void, but I also
was
the void and I was looking at the void, all at the same time. The void was a place of peace and wisdom. The void was conscious and it was intelligent. . . . It was neither dark nor light, neither big nor small. Nor was it a place, nor was I technically standing there, nor was I exactly ‘I' anymore.”

The void was conscious and it was intelligent.

Instantly, I knew that Gilbert had described the true nature of being. Maybe it was the “intelligent” part. As the author of more than a half-dozen nonfiction books, I've experienced some of my greatest joys in moments—and weeks, months and years—of learning and discovery.

And so, perhaps it was the notion that after my death I would not lose my intelligence—rather, it would be amplified beyond quantification as it melded with the greater Intelligence—that gave me that moment of surety, clarity and even purpose.

Gilbert gives the void a name: God. I'd prefer, I think, that this collective consciousness that knows no time or space be known as We. But godly or not, my belief in its existence carries some comfort in my remaining days.

The postscript? That third fall semester in ancient civ was a very different class from the two that had preceded it. As the study of Egypt began—as Isis, Osiris, Ra, Horus and Bastet introduced themselves in our textbooks—I read that passage of
Eat Pray Love
to the class. The notion of an infinite, borderless,
intelligent collective consciousness was, of course, quite new to them. And they dug it.

In the ensuing months, we spent far less time on the stale and boring (to fifteen-year-olds) details of the crop cycles of the Nile or the governance of the Greek city-states, and a whole lot more on how each culture viewed its gods. I'd come to see that teaching students the nature of a culture or civilization through its views of its gods—and, with the appearance of Yahweh in the lores of the kingdom of Israel, its god (singular)—was a far more compelling way of bringing ancient civilizations alive than learning the names of kings, dynasties and battles.

I knew now that the search for a higher meaning in the metaphoric “heavens” is a universal trait. And that taking that path can eventually bring one closer—if one is lucky enough to know of Gilbert's own quest—to, if not enlightenment, a place of comfort.

—

April Schmidt

A
few years ago, I was blessed to meet Liz at a book signing in Nashville. I asked her to write the words, “You're welcome,” in my worn, tagged, highlighted, cherished copy of
Eat Pray Love
. “You're welcome?” she asked, a bit confused. “Yes,” I answered. “Thank you for giving me the courage to change the course of my life.”

•   •   •

I
always tell people that divorce is really, REALLY hard, but the most difficult part is actually the two years leading up to the divorce, when you go through the gut-wrenching, soul-sucking process of trying to decide whether to hold on or let go. If you have children, as I do, the process becomes more devastating still.

It was during this time that my mother, who is not at all an avid reader, looked at me, full of sadness, and recommended the book. I ignored her—it's what daughters do. A few months later,
I was strolling through Costco of all places, and picked it up on a whim. I devoured “Eat.” I clung to every word. I flagged and folded pages; read paragraphs over and over again. Liz got me. Liz
was
me. I wasn't allowed to get a divorce! In fact, I had no right to even be unhappy! This marriage was what I wanted. I had created this life. And to be honest, my husband is a really great guy, so WHAT ON EARTH IS WRONG WITH ME? My own mother even asked me, “Who do you think you are that you deserve more?” I didn't know how to answer that question at the time. But
Eat Pray Love
made me want to find out.

Then I got to “Pray,” and decided I was wrong—
Eat Pray Love
was actually the most disappointing book of all time. It started strong, but it lost me. It was difficult to wade through the talk of prayer, chanting, life in an ashram. Devoting days upon days, month after month to meditation, silence, self-discipline, the endless pursuit of God and quest for inner peace—these were concepts I couldn't yet wrap my head around. I put the book on the shelf.

At this point my divorce was well under way, and I had met a man I suspected might be my David (he wasn't my David). I was now fully in the throes of a very deep depression. My mother looked at me once again with even more sadness and suggested I skip to the end, the “Love” part, because I needed to read about something happy. I listened to her, and read “Love” with great fervor. Hope was once again restored. Then, I decided to go back and read “Pray.” And again I asked myself, “What is up with this book with the terrible middle?”

Well, of course I didn't like “Pray.” “Pray” is the hard part.

I thought getting a divorce was going to cure me of all that made me unhappy. I thought starting over on my own, just my
two beautiful boys and me, was the answer. It turns out the joke was on me. It doesn't matter where I live, who I sleep next to, where I work or what I'm doing if I don't feel at peace with myself.
I
was the key to my own happiness.

So I packed my bags, and I went on a journey. In those bags I packed my expectations, my failures, my successes, my losses, my neuroses, my obsessive-compulsive disorder, my anxiety, my anger, my broken heart, my laughter and my love. I marched, bags in hand, right to a therapist's office. On my first visit, the therapist asked if I was truly ready to do this. I told her that I wasn't “ready”—I don't think one is ever truly “ready” to look in the mirror and face the demons staring back at you. But I had no choice. I was going to have to slay those demons and claw my way out of the hole of my depression one grain of sand at a time, or I was going to suffocate and die. It was as simple as that.

I started to read a lot of self-help books. I went back to church after a twenty-year absence. I began to pray. I found God again. In finding God, I learned to let go. In letting go, I learned to breathe. In learning to breathe, I learned to be present. I started to feel lighter. I started a yoga practice. In that practice I found stillness. In that stillness I have grown closer to God, but perhaps more important, I have grown closer to myself.

During this time, I began a relationship with the man I believed to be my Felipe. He turned out to be my David. In many ways, that loss was more painful than my divorce. It seems impossible that a two-year relationship could carry more weight than a fifteen-year marriage, but the truth is, I had attached so much hope and expectation to my David that when it ended, I voluntarily jumped right back into the hole of my depression and had absolutely no intention of ever coming out.

But I reached for my copy of
Eat Pray Love
, complete with its flags and highlights, and I found a friend again. It was as though I could hear Liz's voice calling me from the shelf. Richard from Texas was right! Groceries could love the whole world—or at the very least speak to it. And I was finally ready to listen. I was reminded why I started this journey to begin with. And when I got to “Pray,” this time I was ready for it. Not only could I appreciate the work Liz was doing, but I could understand and absorb it, all the blood, sweat and tears. I could do that because I had been through it myself.

My work looked different than Liz's. I wasn't at an ashram in India—I was hiding under my blankets in my bed, refusing to shower and hoping my children were able to get all of their nutritional requirements from ramen noodles. My prayers were different. But I still began to pray, and I never stopped. I learned to meditate. I learned to accept my “monkey mind” because I knew I would never be able to quiet it fully. I found forgiveness and peace.

It's impossible to recount in such a brief space all the things that
Eat Pray Love
“Made Me Do.”

But I can say this: it made me take the greatest journey of my life. For many years, my favorite word was
believe
. When I was suffering through that deepest, darkest time of my life, I stopped believing. In love, in hope, in the future, in people and, mostly, in myself.
Eat Pray Love
made me believe again.

Many years ago, I started a blog about life as an autism mom. Thanks to
Eat Pray Love
, I realized I had a lot left to say. I titled my revamped blog, “April's Doorway.”
Doorway
, one of my new favorite words. Constantly in movement. Open, shut, swinging, slamming, a window, a peephole, a latch, a lock. A beginning.

—

Tina Donvito

W
hy in the world did I think I could do this? I thought to myself as I stared up the steep incline in the middle of the jungle.

Taking an adventure vacation was the latest punishment I'd decided to give my body. I'd read
Eat Pray Love
as I was beginning infertility treatments. Although my goal in life was the complete opposite of Elizabeth Gilbert's (I wanted a baby, she didn't), I found myself dreaming of a life-altering journey like hers that could help me climb out of the black hole of my childlessness. After several years of infertility treatment, shots, surgeries, in vitro fertilization and miscarriages, my husband and I were at a crossroads. There were other things we could try—donor eggs, adoption—but we were never going to have a child that was part me, part him. That possibility was over, and I felt it was my body's fault.

So my husband and I set out for the remote and rugged,
little-touristed Caribbean island of Dominica. This wasn't going to be a lie-on-the-beach-and-drink-all-day kind of getaway. I planned to embark on a physical challenge that would prove my body was capable of accomplishing something. I hoped it was, because this journey wasn't eating or praying or loving (although it involved all three). It was hiking.

Every day, we would be doing challenging treks through the jungle. Although I had enjoyed the occasional jaunt before, I was not a regular-exercise kind of girl. I booked the trip with only a couple of weeks to spare, so I spent what little time I had to train on the stationary bike in our bedroom. But I knew I was woefully unprepared.

I noticed that the local people walked slowly but surely up the steep inclines of the countryside, miles from any town. How could they make hiking look so easy? Still, the first hike I'd planned was a seven-hour round-trip trek to Boiling Lake, the second-largest flooded fumarole in the world and the crown jewel of all of Dominica's hikes. But when I told Nancy, a yoga instructor at our eco-resort, she grew concerned. Visitors to the island shouldn't attempt it on their first day, she said; it was meant to be the hike you worked up to. I started feeling a little scared, but I was determined to stick to my itinerary.

At seven thirty a.m. I was already drenched in sweat. Our local guide, Brother, was missing several teeth and wore thin, worn leather sandals. Our small hiking party of tourists climbed into a pickup truck fitted with eight seats in its bed for the hour-and-a-half drive to Morne Trois Pitons National Park. Mist covered the tops of the craggy peaks, like something out of
King Kong
. The road wound higher and higher into them, until finally
we reached the starting point: the pool at the mouth of Titou Gorge.

The first part of the trail was a gentle incline up into the forest. Then the stairs began, a harbinger of the real climbing ahead. But what did I expect of an island with no flat land? I pushed on determinedly, encouraged by my more athletic husband. We descended to Breakfast River, so named because hikers usually stopped here for the first meal of the day. But being already well-fed, we only paused briefly before crossing the stream and beginning a more difficult ascent, all the way to the top of Morne Nicholls.

Short of the peak, a young couple from Guadalupe decided to turn back. If they couldn't make it, how would I? But eventually, huffing and puffing, I reached the summit with the others. Brother presented us with slices of pineapple, which we ate right off the rind. The view across the mountains was lush and green, more like the South Pacific than the Caribbean. I did it! I thought to myself. I climbed a mountain! Except that there was still a long way to go back down.

We made our way down into the Valley of Desolation, where steam rose through vents in the earth, mud bubbled and streams of warm water flowed through a landscape of yellow and orange rocks. We scrambled up over the rocks, staying close to Brother, who knew where it was safe to step, until we emerged above the sunken lake. Sheer cliffs around the rim plunged down to the water, heated to boiling by volcanic cracks in the earth below. Marveling at the sight, I suddenly forgot everything that had happened to me. Although my husband stood next to me, this moment was mine alone. The thought came to me that this lake,
like me, was a freak of nature. I had the same bubbling turmoil inside myself, and I was seething with everything that was unfair about my infertility. It was as though I had come face-to-face with my insides.

And then, as if I had drawn strength from this dangerous, beautiful water, I forced my tired legs to work again, with a renewed sense of power. As we made our way back, I remembered what Mount Everest climbers know, that the return journey is the hardest part.

We stopped at a hot spring, where we stripped down to our swimsuits and soaked in a Jacuzzi-like pool. My husband put his arm around me while a gentle waterfall ran over us, as if we were on a romantic vacation instead of in the middle of a grueling physical endeavor. It felt so good, but if we stayed too long our muscles would loosen up too much, so we dried off as best we could with our sweaty clothes and continued on. Now the adrenaline that had propelled me to the lake began to wear off. As we scrambled up and out of the Valley of Desolation, exhaustion began to set in. Brother told me, Every step you take brings you closer. I repeated the phrase like a mantra as I slowly made my way back up the mountain. I had to carry on, I told myself. This was one time when I had control. Finally, I made it to the top.

Now there was just the final descent. I let my walking stick bear my weight with every step down, my legs turning to jelly. When we reached Breakfast River, Brother pulled out a concoction from his pack and rubbed it on my tired muscles. He told me that once, a hiker sprained her ankle and he had to carry her on his back for the whole return trek. Determined not to let that happen to me, I mustered the strength to finish the last part of the hike.

Squeals of delight reached my ears. Local people were swimming in the gorge below. When I reached the pool of Titou Gorge, I tore off my clothes again and plunged into the cool, crystalline water. At the far side of the pool, an opening in the rock led to the gorge. I swam into it alone. Above me, sheer walls of slippery stone wound toward a small, powerful waterfall. The water was clear and deep. I floated on my back and stared up through the trees, the current from the waterfall propelling me back out of the gorge. A sense of calm and peace came over me.

And although the next day I could barely walk, the feeling was still there. I'd done it. I'd made my body accomplish something.