Upachāla
Marguerite commits to her retreat in Ireland. An unexpected invitation from the Teacher triggers friction and ruminations on faith.
Hello! You’ve found Faye’s Wing, a series of multimedia scenes about the creative quest for fulfilment beyond a fixed spiritual identity. It comes out every Wednesday, and features music and visuals from contributing artists. If you are new here, I suggest you start at the beginning and read the story sequentially. You can also check out my project overview for more info, or view the list of scenes you might have missed.
“…I thought the Path would make me feel special.
But instead it sang
such deep rich tones
that the voice inside my head
just couldn't help
but sing along.
If you're going to tell yourself a story,
why not tell yourself a story of freedom?”1
* * *
After breakfast on Monday morning, I stop at the post office and send the agreement. When I get home, the Teacher makes an unexpected disclosure.
Teacher: Are you there, Devi2? I'd like to share something with you that will help you make your decision about Ireland, if you haven’t already. It is only relevant because you offered to let us stay with you.
As the keeper of the traditions and practices of our Goddess, I offer inner teachings to a small group of students. If we were to stay with you, your home would hold energies for these practices and for our lineage protectors, as well as for your current ones. You should understand this before making any formal decisions.
This aspect of my life is exceptionally secret, in order to protect the tradition and the sangha, so I ask that you keep this information to yourself.
The common thread is that our Goddess was taken to Tibet and became the main deity of this lineage. Your new home will be very charged.
At last, the Teacher’s occasional question dodging and cryptic answers make sense, as does a subtle “insider” air displayed by her quieter students—all of whom are Kula House dwellers and old-timers. Questions gush into my mind, along with a sense of mild betrayal. I imagine a million conversations and gatherings coexisting in the shadows, so many emotions missed. FOMO collides with the flattery of trust.
Me: Thank you for telling me, for your trust. I am noticing a fluttery feeling inside… Like a crowding of traditions on top of the patchwork of faiths I have inherited, along with my own journey from right-handed Shiva practices to left-handed Goddess practices… Yet I am curious and want to help.
Teacher: It is an old-school practice in wild places and charnel grounds, done with a drum and bell. Your true family is the Kula. Fret not, Devi, fret not.
Charnel grounds, charnier in French—something to do with flesh? I look up the word, spooked to find that it comes from the Latin, carnarium—literally a meat larder. It conjures squealing pigs, the greasy sheen of barbecue fingers. I imagine the sputter of oil, and the butterflies in my stomach go queasy. Turning to the English definition, bones crackle to the hiss of black smoke. I am twenty again. Lost in Varanasi, I stumble past burning ghats and their smouldering corpses. Ash on the breeze, in my lungs. Floating particles of death, the sickly drone of sorrow and prayers, my mind too repulsed to draw conclusions about the smell… The Teacher has spoken of death and rebirth before, but I had not realised that things would become this literal.
Practise in charnel grounds? Surely not—at least, not in Ireland. She must be referring to practising in Bawnbay’s wild landscape. I picture cliffs, stretches of heathland, wind buffeting my prayer shawl, and ease returns. At a recent online gathering, we heard that teachings offered by a true teacher were to be adopted with deep gratitude, no questions asked… I scroll back to the last message I sent before posting the agreement to Sebastian, and am smacked by the irony of my own words, “When life presents gifts, don’t we take the leap?”
Now what? My gut continues to issue flip-flop alerts, but I race forward in time, past travel restrictions and logistics. I see myself greeting the Kula, and the Teacher officiating around a fire pit on the waterfront, all of us united by the beauty of this rugged place. Whether in childhood, extended family situations, or in the close ties of motherhood, throughout moves and friendships, spiritual initiations and apprenticeships with midwives, collaborations with musicians and wordsmiths, my yearning to belong has never fully receded—and here is a fresh chance to join an inner circle.
Despite their best intentions, what resulted from my parents’ union and separation was not a bridging of religions. Instead, I straddled continents, emerging as a transatlantic chameleon. Ever leapfrogging between Paris and New York, I became a precocious jargon juggler. Not so much a hybrid, but an eternal transplant, at once comfortable and untethered wherever I settled. My father pressed Catholicism on us, and even fessed up to secretly baptising us when we were babies. My mother, on the other hand, having rejected her family’s Judaism as a teenager, thought it best to leave our souls well alone. At Dad’s insistence, we attended Catholic schools, but were placed in Peace Education Clubs and the like, instead of catechism classes, like most of our classmates. Now and then, a mitzvah or a wedding brought our scattered French family together, triggering an uncanny mix of effusion and food-centred kinship that clashed with the otherness of muttered rituals.
And so I chose a different way entirely, landing at eighteen in a tradition from the other side of the world. At least my parents agreed that ‘Love is the only religion,’ echoing my maternal grandfather’s deathbed words, ‘Aimez-vous les uns les autres—love each other.’ Death, love, entwined. Perhaps the new teachings would make sense of all this.
Me: Would Bawnbay be an auspicious place for these practices? How may I be of service?
Teacher: Your generosity is profound. Your future home in Ireland has many conditions in support of these practices. However, if you receive them, they must not be put down, as they involve invoking and developing a relationship with beings through our offerings.
Me: That is all I need to know.
Teacher: I will be watching for signs. Please consider things carefully; it is a lifelong commitment. Yet my guess is that you are going to accept this position.
I ought to have told her about having already said yes to Sebastian, but I’m also happy to have taken the decision without the extra considerations—a way of owning the life change almost instinctively, rather than from a habitual place of projected obligations.
Teacher: If you are interested, I can teach you the simple practice we do nightly to protect our practices, teachings, and the students who are with me.
Do know that it involves more than what you may imagine.
Me: It always does! (Laughing).
I feel very blessed; on the verge of big, deep changes.
Teacher: It is time. You are truly entering the path.
Me: I’m touched and grateful that you think I’m ready for this deepening.
Teacher: You are most welcome, dear Devi. Keep going!
That night, sādhanā feels different. Stiller, more poignant. Truer, somehow, with less ‘me’ in the way. The air is silken, the moon dances over umbrella pines and rooftops. I blow out my candles and remain with my head on the cool tiles for a long while, drinking in the blessings, soaking up the lush stillness of night. After I have packed all my ritual items, I check my phone before bed, and see that the Teacher has left me a new message.
Teacher: You just earned a new name...
Me: Ohhhh?!?!
Teacher: Rātri Yoginī
Me: Thank you! Who is She?
Teacher: Rātri = night. The yoginī of the night. Night, of the night, at night, the whole night.
Me: Smiling into the night. May I come to know Her intimately.
Feeling our connection, so happy.
Remembering bits of Sanskrit, and the holiday which introduced me to the Teacher, I ask:
Me: Is She the Rātri in Navarātri? The nine nights and feasts in Her honour?
Teacher: Yes. But it’s not about the feasts. It’s about nights.
It takes me a long while to fall asleep, feeling electrified by my new name.
In the following days, I receive explanations ahead of an introductory gathering, and note that, like before, the new rituals also insist on returning food offerings to the same natural setting every night, immediately after prayers. But in our residential neighbourhood, with balconies that overlook a car park on one side and a street on the other, the only conceivable spot is a stretch of bushes above a beach that is a good 25-minute walk from the flat. The renewed lockdown and 1km boundary will make this even trickier. When I explain that logistics are holding me back from starting in Biarritz, the Teacher’s answer is fiercer than expected.
Teacher: Why not focus on the blessings of the new ways instead of worrying about how to manage things?
'What a moving ritual. I’m delighted that I can make this offering. I trust the way will clear if my intention and devotion deepen. I’m going to start right away, so the blessings stay intact.' These would be appropriate reactions. I am scolding you so that this habit of yours no longer holds you back.
Me: I understand what you are pointing out, but your instructions feel contradictory. I thought you asked me to consider carefully whether I should start now or later.
I want to respect your guidance on privacy, but I don’t live alone in wilderness yet.
A recent conversation with Caroline pops back into my mind. Only half-surprised when she told me that she had spent years in Nepal and hinted at advanced practices with a Rinpoche, I had been eager to find out more. Maybe our paths overlapped, maybe she even knew about the Teacher—I was no stranger to such coincidences. But had she dismissed the conversation with a disapproving wave. Bound by secrecy, I had swallowed my curiosity, regretting the opportunity for a deeper connection.
Me: It’s not that I want to argue, but I’m not following you. And I don’t want to mess things up or be a slacker!
Teacher: Tight spot you got yourself into with that thinking. You might try being a slacker, it would be good for you. Your ego is speaking; there should be humility to know that directions will follow.
Patience. Wonder. Joy. Gratitude. Connection. Devotion. Trust. <—- allow
Best not to try to outsmart me!
I feel like I’ve been slapped, and go to bed fretting about integrating complicated new ways precisely when I am longing to simplify life. Eager as I am to deepen my commitment to existing practices and finally find time for writing, I also can’t face another scolding.
Meanwhile, Sebastian is pleased about my decision and tells me that I will need a car immediately. It’s another worry: importing a left-hand drive car is not an option and Ireland mainly seems to sell manual cars, which I have never driven. There are flights to book, things to ship and sort out. The trauma of our last frantic departure resurfaces, along with the dread of another last-minute race against the clock. I finally muster up enough nerve to own up to the Teacher about my hesitation regarding her invitation.
Me: I am still experiencing resistance... I’m not sure I have enough devotion to start now and feel guilty about not being spontaneously drawn to these ways. I just want to dive into our Goddess tradition more. Shouldn’t I wait for my heart to lead the way?
Teacher: I hear 'that doesn't speak to me' as a warning signal: the ego resisting, attempting to prevent a new opening.
Me: In that case, when will it be time to start offering these practices, how may I prepare?
Teacher: Not yet, not yet. Feeeeeeeeel.
At once annoyed, guilty about my annoyance, and hating my stupid ego, I put the phone down and go boil the kettle. Isn’t that exactly what I’m doing? Feeeeeeeling that I’m not feeling this, saying I’d rather start later, then being told off about being ungrateful? When I come back with my herbal infusion, the Teacher has continued.
Teacher: I’m concerned about your constant intellectualisation, which will hinder the practices.
Me: It feels like you are pushing or testing me, that you are fiercer with me now. I’m trying to surrender to that, to not knowing, to confusion, but it’s difficult.
Sitting at my shrine at night with the Goddess and losing myself there, trusting the practices, softens things. Trusting that my teacher loves me. Remembering that She is in charge, not me, helps me relax.
Teacher: I never lose sight of your true divine nature. Push, pull, poke, love, so your habits have a chance to fall away. That is the Teacher’s job.
As for me, it’s push, pull, elated, confused, I sigh to myself. One moment inspired, the next, disheartened. Must I forever sway between special and rejected?
© From “Upachala ~ The Second Sister” in The First Free Women: Poems of the Early Buddhist Nuns, translated by Matty Weingast, p. 86-7.
“Goddess” in Sanskrit.
Strong emotions here! I can feel Marguerite’s bewilderment and sense of inadequacy - but there is also an undercurrent of questioning and self-belief, which I love. The Teacher seems to be pushing and emotionally manipulating Marguerite into submission - which feels uncomfortable.
Beautifully written, as always
I love the shifting dynamics of the relationship with the Teacher - the way you portray Marguerite starting to question but feeling bad about it is very relatable.