During my ashram and Hollywood years, my family and I
had more or less lost contact. I
visited them twice during my ten years of ashram life, and once during my time
in Hollywood. It seemed strange
for me to be with these strangers who were unknown and somewhat familiar at the same time. Being with them wasn't very pleasant for a peace-loving person such as myself. They sometimes behaved in irrational ways. Even during the friendly times, my mother and stepfather had elevated
arguing to an entertainment form. As we drove together in the car or ate
together in a restaurant, peaceful moments were rare, although they did have an intriguing ability
to bounce back to laughing after one bout or another as though arguing was
their entertainment, something to do in otherwise boring Southfield,
Michigan. My feelings toward my
family were similar to how I would feel toward anyone I might meet while walking down the street, which was to feel that we were are all family in a bigger, more essential way. Although to be honest, I wouldn't have wanted to spend more than a small amount of time with any of my family, whether or not we were related or known to one another. I'd been born again and again over the years, and surely my
family had all had their own transformational circumstances. I didn't like or dislike them, and
didn't think about whether I had any hidden resentments toward them.
But then I became angry. Getting angry is not something I do very often — usually it takes
a big build up of letting things go for a long time before saying, "enough." I'd let many things go during my childhood and youth, and apparently
some of those packed away thoughts and feelings had not been fully burnt in my
spiritual practice and evolution. With me just beginning to write the first
edition of my memoir, it seemed to be time to unpack these feelings and come to
some conclusion or resolution about what place my biological family members
should have in my spiritual life journey.
At this time, my mother and I were both active on the
internet. She was into online
gambling — she and my stepfather loved going to casinos and told my sister not to
expect any inheritance because they were planning to gamble it away. So as you see, they weren't too big on
the “lets all be attached to each other with all of our expectations” type of
family scenario.
I had recently left Hollywood and moved to Cardiff by the Sea, and
was trying to follow the inner command to “share what you've learned.” I'd
written the first attempt to fulfill this instruction — the
philosophical-style CONSCIOUS EVOLUTION (currently titled Breakthrough Consciousness and available to read online) – but this was in the mid-1990's
before the yoga proliferation, The Secret, Eckhart Tolle, and all the other spiritual revolutions
of the late 1990's and 2000's. It
seemed that my book was too obtuse for the climate of that time.
So I polished up my selfless service renunciation of the fruits of
action monastic mindset, and let go of all the work I'd just done. I put Conscious Evolution on a shelf and started
writing a brand new book that would share what I'd learned in the form of a
memoir.
An acquaintance who worked in the book publishing business had heard some
of my life journey stories, and suggested that people would love to read about
them as a memoir. So there I was
writing my life story – who knew? Over the years a few people had said I should write my life story, but I
had never for a moment thought of actually doing it, until now.
I showed the book in progress to Jeff, whose Blue Dove Press was
going to publish it. He thought
the book was coming along great, but noticed one small detail that I had
somehow missed through one of those emotional blind spots that keep us from
seeing what we don't want to see.
My story went from age 1 ½ to age 7, and then jumped to age
17. The missing years of
Kumuda? I thought it was funny
that I'd skipped ten years without even quite noticing -- I was very focused
on the creative process of writing, and would sometimes miss the forest for the
trees.
I'm one of those artists who tends to become deeply
immersed in a project. Soon after
I delved into oil painting as a teenager, I found out that Van Gogh used to eat
his paints, and was actually able to somewhat understand his touch of artistic
madness, that rapture of creativity that sweeps us up and out of ourselves as
we dance in the great dance of creation.
My high school film teacher showed my friend and me a short film
she'd made to Don McLean's song Vincent – I guess you could say it was an
early version of music videos, since the launch of MTV was still about five
years away.
When Jeff looked at my memoir-in-progress and informed me that I'd
left out more than 25% of my life, I recognized my resistance to writing about
my childhood. For one thing, I
knew that if I were to be honest, my folks wouldn't come off looking so great
in terms of their parenting skills and fairly wild lifestyle. I didn't want to
reflect badly on anyone unnecessarily. Also, I'd locked those youthful years
away deep in my psyche long ago, and wasn't so eager to blow the dust off those
old memories and unpack them all in some kind of writing-guided
emotion-triggering psychotherapeutic blitz.
I already had been going through quite a few sources of anxiety. I'd just quit my successful Hollywood
career due to long-term illness, which was still affecting my well-being. The rumors Suze Orman and her henchmen had spread about me throughout our mutual spiritual path were growing and solidifying more and more year after
year, and I was feeling the effects in how fellow devotees on the path would
ignore or shun me. I was also in the beginning stages of many years of
earning under the poverty line.
In spite of these challenges, I was feeling generally peaceful and
contented, and creatively abundant and flowing as I learned this new artistic
skill of book writing. As Jeff pointed out the "missing years of Kumuda," I had to wonder if I really wanted to open up pandora's boxes that could disrupt my equanimity and uplevel my anxiety by revealing, releasing, and rehashing all
the old traumas of my youth.
In the midst of this quandary came an email from someone I didn't
even know.
It was from a fellow who had met my mother in an internet casino
gambling room. He was currently
working at Hard Copy, whose executive producer I was just about to contact to
see if they had any work for me to do. As much as I loved Cardiff by the Sea, I'd discovered that the video
editing scene in San Diego was surprisingly sparse, and thought the responsible
thing to do would be to at least test the karmic waters by contacting a few
shows to see if they would want to hire me. From that, I could decide whether I wanted to move back to
L.A.
I was in the midst of preparing resumes to send out to a few
places, including Hard Copy, when this man wrote to say that he was currently
working at Hard Copy and that he'd just met my mother in this casino room. Then he asked, “Your mother says you're
in a cult?”
Well, that was the little straw that broke open a lifetime of
unspoken thoughts, emotions, and words. I had never really challenged or argued with my mother — it just
wasn't done in our family. Life
was easier if you just acquiesced with her royal will. My mother had done some good things for
me over the years — she'd sacrificed her own happiness to stay married to
our father for many years, in part for the sake of my sister and me. And she'd given us fairly abundant
childhoods in terms of having money and things, if not always affection or
parental interest.
But our mother also had a cruel side and some significant personality
aberrations. We went out to eat in
restaurants a lot, and it was very rare that we would make it through a meal
without our mother making a big scene about some imperfect element of the
service or cooking. She would
complain over and over again and often call the manager over, behavior that was
not in harmony with my somewhat shy and usually forgiving nature!
Many times we'd end up having to walk out of a restaurant without
finishing our meal because something was overcooked or because the waitress
didn't bow her head low enough to the ground (okay, that's a tiny bit of
exaggeration, but you get the idea). Once we had to go to three different restaurants in a row until one
could get it at least close enough to acceptable for her highness's tastes. Although our mother did have some good qualities
in terms of being very intelligent and occasionally generous to someone or another, she also had an element
of sadism that seemed to get directed toward service personnel, and sometimes
toward family members.
During all these years, I had never expressed to my mother or anyone
else — perhaps not even to myself — how much anger was packed away
with my images of her. With this little email from someone I didn't even know,
which arrived just as I was already contemplating writing about my childhood,
that door was opened. I would
write about those missing ten years.
I wrote an email telling my mother what I thought about how she'd
behaved in the past and how lousy it was for her to now try to ruin my
reputation in Hollywood by spreading rumors that I was in a cult to this fellow
who worked in the very place where I was planning to apply for a job.
It wasn't a horribly monstrous letter — just an honest and angry-toned list of some of what she'd done in the past. But it was rare for me to communicate in this way. In fact, it was so rare that when I did call someone on their actions, even if it was done in a friendly and anger-free way, the contrast with my usual way would make the person more upset than if I'd yelled at them in anger. This is to some degree what had happened with Suze when I just barely mentioned the fact that she'd been abusive to me, and she took a vow to never speak to me again. We each have our patterns of karmas to deal with. Perhaps because I'm not meant to get too attached to individual people, the universe responds in kind.
In my rare angry letter to my mother, I also mentioned that my publisher had
been wanting me to write about my childhood in the memoir, and that I'd told
him I didn't want to include those years, but that now I was going to
include them.
Well, I sent that email and all hell broke loose. My stepfather phoned the next day with
one of his angry furies. Marty and
I were actually friends, and had shared many good philosophical and artistic
conversations during my youth. He
was a smart guy who was a whiz at certain scientific theories, and also a
casual but good artist, musician, and singer — a very nice guy. But he
had been trained over the years by “the queen” to be a loyal defender.
CLICK HERE to listen a singing session
Marty and I recorded during my last visit to their home
During a telephone conversation a few years earlier, my mother had overheard me referring to her by her name “Eva” during a phone conversation I was having with Marty. He didn't notice anything wrong during our conversation, but was told to read me the riot act for what the queen considered as an almost unforgivable infraction. Throughout our childhood, our mother would freak out over minor infractions and reveal her mental health problems. Once we drove many hours to visit a factory for their tour, and because my sister, father and I had made a joke about her letting off very smelly bombs throughout the closed-window drive, she became paranoid and furious, yelling and crying, and refused to get out of the car.
The exaggerated response to my calling Eva by her name was also somewhat ridiculous. We were anything but a close
family. We were lucky any
of us were calling each other anything. But in this case they were doing what many families do in their own ways
— placing inappropriate expectations on one another.
As I become persona non grata
in the family again for calling Eva by name, I thought that it was actually fine to be out of their
picture. I was happy to let my sister -- who lived just a few miles form our folks -- be be the
good one and have them all to herself from now on.
A couple months later, my sister invited me to meet her in Las Vegas for my birthday. We hadn't seen each other in a long time, and really had very little in common aside from a few personality traits and old memories. I had found her to be quite mentally unstable at times, flying off into hysterical rages over minor infractions (and we can guess where she learned that from). Nevertheless, I agreed to meet her in Las Vegas and thought we might have a good time together.
I arrived at the Excaliber hotel, and my sister and I went down to
the restaurant for lunch. After we
ordered, she turned to me with a very serious face and said, “We have to
talk.” She continued to speak with
an ominous tone, “You cannot write this book. Marty is planning to murder you.”
As my jaw dropped, she continued. “He has talked about it every night for weeks. He's going to shoot you if you write
about your childhood. I told him not
to do it because he would end up in jail, but he doesn't care.”
I finally got my voice and asked, “Is that the only reason you
could think of that he shouldn't shoot me?” It was a small attempt at humor, since one would have
expected that she might have told him not to shoot me because I was her sister
whom she loved and cared for. But then again, our family wasn't like that.
For my sister, this was just one more of our family's usual
dramas, but for me it was bizarre and unfamiliar, although it also reminded me
of how crazy our childhood had been.
Then Linda smiled and said, “Anyway just don't write the book. But
lets not dwell on such negative things. We're in Las Vegas to have fun. Let's finish lunch and go to the MGM!”
I decided to forego the Las Vegas fun, flew back home, and filed a
police report so that if anything happened to me, there would be some clue of
who might have arranged it.
Although this was a shocking experience, I was able to refocus my
attention on the important task at hand, fulfilling this command to “share what
you've learned” so I could complete my obligations and leave this world. I didn't have feelings of hatred for
any of my family members since I knew they just did the best they could with
what they had, but I also didn't mind ceasing communications with them.
To close the door more tightly, my stepfather also sent a message
that he and my mother would not speak to me ever again until and unless I
apologized for writing the angry letter. With this event, I felt freed from
personal karmic responsibility for maintaining the illusion of a family
relationship. Once someone has made a death threat against you, that pretty
much absolves you of any future relations with them.
Of course, humor is a great friend even and especially in the
midst of major challenges. After
this death threat experience, I would say, “Well, now if I can't get on Oprah,
at least I'll be able to get on Jerry Springer!”
Even though these events had been tumultuous, the outcome was a
sense of peaceful and rightness. For decades, most of my attention had been focused beyond the
entanglements of this world. In my
psyche, the sense of genetic family ties had dissolved into a more universal
experience of kinship and soul connection with the family of this entire
creation. I didn't hate or even dislike my birth family, even though I wasn't
drawn to jump through any hoops to see them. I had become more and more of a lover of solitude in recent
years, and wasn't really seeing or talking with many people.
Of course this sense of nonattachment toward family is a part of my individual and personal situation. For many people, family and social interactions can also be very wonderful and helpful for their journey. Personally, I relished being free from the ties of this world, and felt gratitude that my somewhat dysfunctional family was just letting me go so I could follow my inner guidance without their trying to impose their interference or expectations.
To make it easy, the message I received from my stepfather after all this took place was that they would never speak to me again unless I apologized for writing the accusing letter to my mother that had sparked these death threats. As the brahmin priests say when they toss clarified butter into the sacrificial yajna fire, Swaa Haa, I release, offer, and let go.
There comes a time on one's spiritual journey, when the identification becomes more strongly connected with the universal presence, mother, father, and friend than the worldly-based shadows of the spiritual depths. It can be fortunate on one's journey to spiritual enlightenment to have a deep longing for spiritual freedom coupled with outer circumstances that allow for that freedom to be achieved and expressed -- such as having a family that more or less leaves you alone (aside from a little death threat here or there).
SWAA HAA!
Even with the Las Vegas death threat, I proceeded to include stories in the memoir about my childhood. I wrote the events honestly but kindly, and
not with an intention of causing harm to anyone.
was published by Jeff's small Blue Dove Press and released
to positive critical acclaim and very small sales.
I had thought that fulfilling the command to “share what you've
learned,” by writing this book would free me to leave this world, but I was still
here. My health had improved a bit, but was still not great, and on top of that, my savings were used up, with very few paying jobs coming my way. As this status quo
continued, I considered that perhaps I hadn't yet fulfilled the command. I had written
what I'd learned and offered what I'd learned, but had not found a way to place
it in a position to be read and "shared" with the world at large.
It's not like I was “dying” to leave this world -- it was just something I'd assumed might happen based on the events and health experiences of the previous years. I was happy to stay and happy to go, and now that I'd
discovered my mission, I was also enthusiastically focused on continuing to
fulfill it as best as I could.
CLICK HERE to watch a video clip where I share this story during a lecture, after a participant asked how my atheist parents felt about my spiritual journey and books. The flavor of this clip helps to show that even with the intense events I describe in some of these chapters, comes a feeling of acceptance and a sense of humor about life in general.
Get realplayer here 
On to Chapter Forty-Four
Back to The Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Awakening
Chapter 2: Never to Return
Chapter 3: I Chose This?
Chapter 4: Through the Years
Chapter 5: Exploring the Unconscious
Chapter 6: Faith-Healer
Chapter 7: Hidden Persuaders
Chapter 8: The Threshold of Life
Chapter 9: When the Student is Ready
Chapter 10: Magical Meeting
Chapter 11: Toward the One
Chapter 12: Who is Shiva?
Chapter 13: Destiny Calls
Chapter 14: Winter Wonderland
Chapter 15: The Happy Pauper
Chapter 16: This Karmic Dance
Chapter 17: Stoking the Inner Fire
Chapter 18: The Fruits of Surrender
Chapter 19: That Gracious Glance
Chapter 20: How Could He Be Gone?
Chapter 21: From Heart to Heart
Chapter 22: Get a Job
Chapter 23: Smash the Idol
Chapter 24: Clothed in Devotion
Chapter 25: Nemesis
Chapter 26: Who Are You Calling Jad?
Chapter 27: A Perfect Mistake
Chapter 28: She Still Thinks She Did It!
Chapter 29: Taming the Beast
Chapter 30: Undo What You Have Done
Chapter 31: The Great Guiding Force
Chapter 32: The Wish Fulfilling Tree
Chapter 33: Where is the Key?
Chapter 34: The Hollywood Chronicles
Chapter 35: A Funny Thing Happened on My Way to Nirvana
Chapter 36: Love, Betrayal, and the Unseen Hand of God
Chapter 37: An Inner Command
Chapter 38: Cardiff by the Sea
Chapter 39: Miracles and Great Beings
Chapter 40: Shiva's Fiery Dance
Chapter 41: A Shifting Path
Chapter 42: Cheering up Nine Swamis
Chapter 43: Death Threat
Chapter 44: Spirituality For Dummies
Chapter 45: A Real Angel
Chapter 46: Send in the Clowns
Chapter 47: Dispassion and Death's Door
Enjoy Additional Works by Sharon Janis as part of the
Night Lotus Offering of Multimedia Spiritual Resources
Click on a book or CD cover to enjoy it online
(All but Spirituality For Dummies are available to enjoy online in their entirety):
Watch a short video about Sharon and Spirituality For Dummies
