An earlier journal entry ended by saying my children froze in fear when I told them I’d started meditating again. That wasn’t entirely accurate. What actually happened was that I could feel the hairs rising on the backs of their necks and their stomach muscles tightening. My daughter remained silent until she could bring herself to say something appeasing but it wasn’t convincing. My son went straight to the point and asked if I was going to start attending SRF services again. For him, this was not like asking if I was going back to temple on Friday nights. This was like asking a recovering alcoholic if they’d started drinking again. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with the worldwide organization known as Self Realization Fellowship. Its aim is to unite all religions of the world in a common quest to become one with divine spirit, or maybe find a way to blend Hinduism into Western culture in a Hippy Geist sort of meld. I used to like sitting in the pews among other people who were trying to stop wondering if they remembered to turn off the oven and start trying to empty their brains so the Universe could enlighten them. The problem was not with the teachings; it was with interpretations. Isn’t that just the way with all religions? I’m not referring to all of the devotees. I’m referring to the one I married; the one who told the Army he was Jewish and then came home from the Vietnam War looking for an alternative to 24/7 weed smoking. It’s easy for me to understand why people donate their life savings to self-proclaimed healers and follow them into the woods. Living through the SRF years was sort of like that. I blame myself for the damage this caused my children. What I should have done was pack up at the first sign of trouble, move to a hovel in Echo Park, and left them alone to be latch-key kids. Wait! I did do that, except it was Temple City and the schools were better. The problem was I had become brow-beaten. I’d been trained by my mother, who was trained by her mother, that a good wife did what the husband said. That stupid notion probably took root in the days when women had to do what the husband said or starve. In addition, I truly believed that everyone was entitled to their own religious beliefs and it was a sin to speak out against them. My children’s father took my belief for granted. I’d lost all ability to stand up for myself early in our marriage when he insisted I pick out his clothes. A little background is needed here. My father was profoundly color blind. To avoid embarrassment, my mother picked out his shirts and ties and socks, laying them on the bed. Otherwise, there was no telling what mufti-colored ensemble he would trot out in. Fast forward to 1964 or thereabouts when the newly married couple are establishing their routines and the husband tells the wife to lay out his clothes. After a few weeks, the wife asks herself why she has to do this and says, “Why should I pick out your clothes? Why can’t you do it for yourself?” The husband turns to her and says with simple conviction, “Because your mother picks out your father’s clothes.” Who could argue with that? Not me. And so the law was established. We did what the husband said to do. Unfortunately, the husband later suffered from PTSD, only we didn’t have a name for that condition after the Vietnam War. What happened was that one husband left and a different husband came back in his place. The different husband found solace in meditation and SRF teachings. However, in his Nam damaged brain he couldn’t tolerate the notion that any other religion had a grain of truth. If he did admit that, his whole house of cards would come tumbling down and he would be swallowed up into the earth to writhe in some hideous hell. So it was his way or no way. At first, I was encouraging. Then when I refused to join him, saying I have my own religion thank you very much, he would follow me around the house, yammering in my ears day and night about why his religion was right and my religion was wrong. He quit that after I burst into tears and told him he was making me crazy. It genuinely surprised him. He didn’t want to drive me crazy. He just wanted to drive me to SRF. By this time, I was a traumatized mute. You want to turn the guest house into a meditation room that seats four? Fine. Your want to order your own harmonium from India and sit chanting in your meditation room? Fine. You want to take our daughter to Sunday school? Fine. You want me to go with? No. Nope. No way. Nada. Not going. Then 3-year old daughter asks why Mommy doesn’t go to Church with us and mommy’s goose is cooked. My solution was to help out in the Sunday school room, where I could supervise macaroni necklaces and paper plate note holders shaped like mandalas. Suddenly our social circle consisted of other SRF couples with children learning to say Ohm Shanti Ohm. Lovely people, all of them. One or two even continued talking to me after I divorced the husband. Meanwhile, a son is born. He also is dragged to SRF Sunday school. He was such an active child that a woman who used to run a daycare center baby sat him for a week and said he was the busiest boy she’d ever seen, as she closed the door and never came back. You can only imagine what torture it was for him to be told to sit quietly, legs crossed, practicing Krya Yoga breathing techniques during what was supposed to be a fun summer camp. It should come as no surprise that he chose to not return as a Junior Camp Counselor. You can only imagine my poor little asthmatic daughter being told to go outside, lay on the damp grass that gave her allergies, open her mouth wide and let the sun shine on her tonsils, because that’s what the SRF founder did once. (I was not there at the time or I would have rescued her.) At some point, I did pack up and return to civilization and beef roast. Before the Vietnam War ruined our lives, I used to like sitting in a candle-lit room, meditating. My children had no way of knowing about this. If I’d mentioned it, the husband would have said I was doing it wrong. So maybe I should have expected a certain lack of enthusiasm when I mentioned my return to meditation. I think I won’t tell them when I order my own harmonium from India.