Living in a converted farmhouse – part of it once a log cabin – flanked by birch forest in rural Pennsylvania was a picture-perfect ideal for Christmas, especially when the snow fell.
There were complications, though. We were yogis, following Hinduism to some extent. And we’d mostly come from Jewish, Roman Catholic, and Protestant backgrounds. Oh, and we were vegetarian, hardly the traditional holiday repast in America.
The open spirit of cheer many feel this time of year was something we were trying to live out daily through all the seasons. It wasn’t easy, requiring personal purification and sometimes confrontational encounters to break through our usual egos and self-centered outlooks.
These are all important lessons and memories, as I relate in my novel.
In the past several years, thanks to the Internet, I’ve been able to reconnect with some of the remarkable individuals who were part of my yoga experience.
What I’ve heard from them, and a few other fleeting encounters over the years, makes me glad I chose to limit the novel’s scope to a single day and the events leading up to it. Extraordinary things happened, indeed, at least for some of us in the circle.
But, as I’m seeing, there’s a whole other history to be told, in time. For now, let’s sit watching the snow cover the stone wall leading to the barn. Inhale, exhale. Chant Om.
For my novel, click here.