When I stayed at an ashram in India, we woke up at 5:30 every morning to sit cross-legged on the floor of a large room for meditation and mantra chanting. And every morning during the Jaya Ganesha chant, the ashram leaders passed out instruments — bells and finger cymbals and wooden blocks — at random.
Every morning I wanted the tambourine. I hungered for it. I wanted it so badly, it became the only thing I’ve ever wanted, and that in itself became part of my meditation. Even though I was chanting as the leaders wandered the temple space, my eyes signaled my wanting. I had to have that tambourine.
FINALLY, on one of my last days, somebody handed it to me. It was like getting a shot of serotonin. My heart exploded with such joy, I played the shit out of that tambourine. I shook it and clapped it and wiggled it, coaxing what I thought was beautiful music from it, so happy to finally let my tambourine light shine.
Then someone from the ashram took it back. HE TOOK IT BACK. He ripped the instrument right out of my hands and shot me a dirty look. I guess I let my tambourine light shine a little too much.
I keep thinking back on that moment now, as I’m living in a vast, strange, empty space waiting for early reviews of my book. It’s an unpleasant limbo state, hoping for the best, bracing myself for the worst. I’m as excited as I am anxious. And I’m not a patient person anyway, so just the waiting part sucks too. I desire so much.
Realistically, I know my book won’t be for everyone. I know I can be too much. Not everyone wants to hear my tambourine.
But I’m going to keep shaking it anyway.