“The most powerful time to pray or meditate,” Satya tells me, “is between three and five a.m.” She leans back in the peacock chair. On her lap is a cat with the oddest markings, black and white splotches more like a cow than a cat. The dog, Belle, sits at Satya’s feet. It licks her toes with long, tender strokes.
“That must tickle,” I think, but Satya seems not to notice.
“That’s when the higher spirits are most accessible,” Satya adds.
“Like archangels?” I ask.
“Mmm. Uriel and Gabriel, mostly. Michael and Raphael are busy with the dead and dying.”
Am I really having this conversation? Satya’s patio is overhung with sprays of maple leaves turning red at the edges.
“I’m a morning person,” I say, “but that’s even a bit early for me. I like the quiet before the household wakes up.” Today I hold a mug of Satya’s homemade chai, a mixture of black tea, milk, turmeric, ginger and honey. It’s golden, warm in my hands and in my center.
Satya smiles with her wide pansy-blue eyes. “I’m usually up by three. The spirits wake me. I can feel their energy. It’s a lovely time of day, so new, unspoiled. So soft.”
“What do you do at three a.m.?” Sometimes I feel like I’m in the presence of a saint, like Mirabai or Teresa of Avila. And sometimes I think maybe they were right to commit her. But Satya does no harm to anyone.
“Oh, I take a shower. Make up some chai and sit with the animals a bit. Then I align my energy field for the day. And I meditate, of course. And pray. Do some visioning. Nothing special.”
I think of my morning, starting at about six a.m., when the sudden shrill of the alarm clock frightens me out of some odd, rambling dream. After my heart stops pounding, I get up, start the coffee, and make the kids’ lunches. Go back upstairs, give my husband a poke in the ribs and hustle into the bathroom before the kids take over.
What if angels woke me at three a.m.?
Nothing special, Satya says. Nothing special.