From Mira Prabhu, the yogini, mystic, and insightful writer currently residing at Arunachala.
1992 for me was a time of great personal darkness—sparkly on the outside, rotten on the inside. Stuck in a difficult marriage, I asked a friend at work if I could unload my troubles on her.
Karen was an opera singer at the start of her career; like me, she supported herself by freelancing in Manhattan law firms and on Wall Street. I admired her creativity, courage and higher values. Often after work we’d walk across Manhattan to my apartment and chat while I cooked us dinner.
“Let’s go to Central Park tomorrow,” she suggested. “We can talk freely there.” So next day we strolled through that gorgeous park and I told her, tears streaming down my face, that the husband I once believed I’d love and respect to my dying day had turned into a materialistic stranger.
“Why are you so scared to leave him then?” she asked in her direct fashion. “Sounds…
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