But today I can’t seem to see through the same rose-colored glasses they look through, like someone smudged a handful of mud all over the lenses—Raven maybe, or Bruce Madden. Because every inspirational notion they have seems trite and impossible to embrace.
“Peace comes from within. Do not seek it without.” This time I’m the one to quote Buddha, and I do it in my head then follow it up with a few deep breaths.
It doesn’t help.
I run a hand through my hair. “I’m sorry. I thought it would help to talk about everything, but I think I just need some time alone.”
My mother offers a warm smile. “It will blow over, Boombalee. Meanwhile, alone time is good. Relax and take your mind off of all this bad energy. Do some tai chi and a yoni steam. Just you wait—the universe will give you the answers.”
I know her heart is in the right place, but my heart is all over. I’ve reached my limit. I snap. “Goddammit, Mâmân. No. I don’t want to do a yoni steam or tai chi, or have a Reiki session or a Tarot reading. I don’t want advice from Buddha or Susan B. Anthony or William Faulkner or the universe. I want advice from you!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes and count to ten quietly in Farsi in an attempt to calm myself down. Yek, do, se, char, panj…
My outburst is followed by silence, and when I force myself to glance over at my parents, the expressions on both their faces reflect shock and alarm. Possibly a little hurt, too. That thought breaks me. The last thing I want is to make them feel bad. I love them fiercely, and I’ve just attacked everything that they are, simply because my immature ass can’t handle my shit.
I lean against the wall and slide down to the floor, wishing I could disappear into the den’s lime green shag carpet. Once down there, I decide I might as well go full meltdown. I shift and stretch out fully on the floor. With my arm draped over my eyes, I bite my cheek to keep from crying full out, but I can’t prevent tears from spilling down my cheeks. In just a few minutes, I’m lost to my own misery, so it takes me longer than usual to notice the shift in energy around me.
Lifting my arm slightly, I peek out and find both my mother and my father standing over me. The pain I’d thought I’d seen in their eyes a moment before is still there, but now that they’re closer, I can see that they aren’t hurt because of me—they’re hurt for me.
Whatever resolve I had disappears, and a sob slips out from between my lips.
Mâmân squats down next to me, and like an injured child who desperately needs the embrace of her mother, I sit up and fall into her arms.
“I’ve been The Fool,” I say, like I’m confessing. It’s a reference to the first card of the tarot deck. Or the last card, depending on how you look at it, since every journey ends back where it began. The Fool is exactly like he sounds—foolish. He’s the madman, the jester, the beggar. The majnun. “I’ve been stumbling around, carefree, taking risks without worrying about the consequences. And I don’t know if I’m at the beginning or the end of this particular journey. I just feel lost, without a guide, and I don’t know how long my faith is going to hold out.”
Sometimes, with Logan, I’d convinced myself that I was being an adult, that we had a grown-up relationship. And with the naiveté of a kid, I’d let myself fall blindly in love.
And it had been wonderful.
But now it isn’t anymore. Now I am tangled up and twisted inside. Now I am lost in the dark, afraid to take a step for fear of walking off a mountainside.
“I don’t know what to do.” My words are muffled in the fabric of my mother’s hemp tunic, but somehow I know she gets the gist. “Tell me what to do.”
Mâmân rocks me gently, her hand stroking my hair. “Oh, sweetie. I know it hurts, and I wish I could tell you what—”
I know where this speech goes. I wish I could tell you what to do but I can’t because blah blah blah, personal life journey, growth. All that crap.
But before she can finish, my father, who is still looming above us, cuts her off. “You want our advice, Devi? Let me give you some advice.” He’s firm and there’s enough impatience in his tone to cause my mother to still her sway.
I hold my breath and clutch onto her dress. He has my full attention even though I’m too scared to look at him directly.
“Go back to school. You’re a learner. You have a thinker’s mind. Go to school.”
“But—” I start to deliver all my usual protests—what will I study? What if I don’t choose the right degree?
He seems to read my mind. “Just pick a major, Devi. If it’s the wrong one, you’ll change to another. And if that one’s wrong, you’ll change again. What’s the worst that can happen? Higher student loans? Are you really going to let fear keep you from happiness?”
He says it as though money shouldn’t be a factor in my decision, which is completely unrealistic. Except I can’t really argue with him because, at the same time, do I really want to let my dreams be decided by the current balance of my bank account?
Bâbâ bends down closer to me, and his tone is softer when he speaks again. “You can’t know if your path is the right one until you completely become The Fool. You have to take that blind step to see if you’re walking on solid ground or if you’re falling off a ledge. That’s what you’re supposed to do. You’re supposed to be unsure. You’re supposed to dare, not stand still. You risk. You take chances. You figure out how to live by living.”