THE TRIQUETRA OF LIFE: Wisdom, Wealth, and Wellness

An Excerpt from Chapter 43

Path Perilous: My Search for God and the Miraculous

John, whom I met at Joan’s ashram in Connecticut and later at Rio Caliente Health Spa in 1969, visited me in San Marcos. This fellow didn’t have to work because he and his brother Larry had each inherited $250,000. At the Richland House commune, he saw me in frayed garments and sandals, with a beard and shaggy hair, living in a ramshackle old barn. He was sharply dressed and groomed. I was not the image of a successful financier, so why did he ask me for advice on investments? My penniless pilgrimage across the continent hardly qualified me.

“You must have some idea what I can invest in,” he said, watching me pluck green horned caterpillars from my tomato plants. He grimaced with each.

I lifted another leaf, its surface warm and slightly tacky, and checked the underside. One clung there, chewing through the edge. I pinched it loose, felt it resist, then dropped it into a jar with the others. The glass gave a dull click.

“John, I have to tell you, spiritual wisdom doesn’t apply to high finance.”

He glanced at my soiled hands, then turned to the western horizon.

He was the same spoiled young man who could not humble himself to take out the kitchen garbage. He had a good-natured heart but was stillborn by wealth. Often, children insulated by doting servants from the drudgery and scullery of common folk are unable to cope with life’s messy moments and crucial decisions.

“John, consider buying real estate. Land is a safe investment. I have a hunch that sleepy San Marcos during the next 50 years will see huge growth.”

Another leaf. I bent and checked beneath it. Dust pressed into my fingertips, dry and fine, settling into the creases.

“So, should I buy houses, mobile homes, or commercial property?”

I shrugged. “The particulars are up to you, but you can’t go wrong buying real estate here. You’ll profit for years to come.”

“I wish you’d help me decide what to buy. I won’t be able to do this on my own.”

I pulled another caterpillar free and dropped it into the jar with the others.

“Retain a financial advisor and consult with a real estate property manager.”

The stock market was tumbling, so it was not an option, while gold and silver were iffy as long-term investments, and I told him so. I didn’t think it wise to suggest what type of real estate he should buy.

“How about you and I make that pilgrimage to India we talked about before?” John asked. “I’ll pay all expenses.” With a wide flourish of his arm, he said, “Why waste your life in this junkyard? The world beckons us to much greater things.”

He had suggested the same trip two years before at Joan’s ashram. I must confess his offer still tempted me. Was I making a mistake in not traveling to India? In prayer I affirmed that my best course was inward bound, dedicating my life to Christ as my sole guru.

“The main reason that John Lennon left India so quickly was his disillusionment with the Maharishi. He’d heard reports of him hitting on Mia Farrow and other females there.”

“Maybe Mia exaggerated,” he said, shaking his head.

“Where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire. Look, the Maharishi’s a mortal man like you and me, subject to sexual temptation. He’s not a god. Why travel to far-off India seeking a guru suspected of being a philandering hypocrite?”

Like many of the Jewish youth that I had met in my travels, John had abandoned his ancestral religious absolutes in favor of the fashionable New-Age philosophy that promoted moral relativity.

“Then where shall I find a genuine guru?” he asked.

I lifted another leaf. It was clean. I let it fall back.

“We each must inwardly struggle to find that true Master, but it requires clean hands and a pure heart. If we faithfully heed that heroic quest, God won’t long hide from us.”

“What do you mean by ‘clean hands and a pure heart’?” he asked, looking askance.

He seemed disappointed and saddened when I said nothing more.

That Old Testament quote seemed beyond his depth. Since he had not fathomed its meaning, no interpretive explanation would have helped.

After visiting two days, he wished me well and went his way, sadly.

We never met again.

From the memoir-in-progress, nearing publication:
Path Perilous: My Search for God and the Miraculous
—a spiritual epic for truth-seekers, contemplative mystics, and all who long for God.

Visit www.RMDellOrfanoAuthor.com and pass it forward.