Satya lives in this house, but it is not her home. Right now her home is two continents away, in a dusty village, with him. He’s probably eating his evening meal of rose-flavored yoghurt and a mango. Wherever her teacher resides, Satya’s home is in that place, at his feet.
It is not yet dawn in the Hudson Valley. While her daughter, Devi, her heart’s delight, dreams gently in the bedroom across the hall, Satya lets her soul fly home, to the hut beside the temple, and there he is.
He feels the presence of her spirit and greets her with a wide smile, even though his eyes are closed. The evening meal is over. Others have come to sit in the presence of this man. The silence is alive with his energy. Satya allows her astral body to rest in the love pulsing from her teacher.
His white hair seems incandescent; his high cheekbones rise above the full beard. He is wrapped in a blue shawl, sitting on a folded white wool blanket.
When her dogs begin to bark, Satya’s soul sails back through the dark and light of half a day, back into her body of muscle and bone. It feels at first like she has put on a suit of armor, cold and unyielding. She cannot move her fingers; she must consciously tell her heart to beat faster. The dogs lick her hands; their warm tongues and worry have her eyelids opening. Satya stares up at the pale blue ceiling. Tears trickle from the outer edges of her eyes. The longing is always the worst of the pain.
“Here I am again,” she thinks. “Still such a long, long way from home.”
My first brush with the practice of Ho’oponopono occurred in 2015, at the Cayce Association for Research and Enlightenment (A.R.E.) in Virginia Beach. One of the workshop presenters, an Energy Medicine practitioner, mentioned it. I suppose I stored the seed away in my mind somewhere, and now it has begun to grow.
Recently, the reverend and practitioners in Agapeeast.org (part of Agape International Spiritual Center), whose classes and services I attend online, spoke of the power and usefulness of the short Ho’oponopono prayer (I’m sorry—Please forgive me—Thank you—I love you).
For quite a while I had been feeling flat during meditation, with no recognizable sense of Spirit. Reverend Victoria of Agapeeast taught the Ho’oponopono prayer. Several students in the class mentioned that it was their “go-to” prayer when their upset was too great to focus on any other method of prayer.
The continued stress of the COVID threat added to family troubles led me to try Ho’oponopono. What an experience! I found focus, ease, and peace in repeating the prayer. It’s been about a week since I’ve used the prayer instead of my traditional mantra. Now I look forward to each meditation session, extending it to forty minutes if the daily schedule permits. It’s like sinking into a scented, warm, cleansing bath. I recommend giving Ho’oponopono a try.
The prayer comes from Hawaiian tradition. Morrnah Nalamaku Simeona, a Hawaiian Kahuna (the one who guards the secret), adapted the practice for anyone to master and apply.
To learn more about her, the history of Ho’oponopono, and the technique, go to:
“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.
When Satya told me her mother and sister had her committed, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The questions popped into my head at the weirdest times, like when I was eating a crème filled chocolate doughnut on my coffee break, or brushing my teeth before bed.
Satya and I were on the Arts Council, and she was preparing to do a yoga demonstration for a Health and Wellness Fair in our town. Her daughter, Devi, and I worked as ticket-takers on the Saturday of the fair.
Toward the afternoon, the stream of visitors slowed to a trickle. The two of us sat together at the long table sipping lemonade. It was one of those terrible humid days that make me wonder why I ever left Arizona.
“Your mom is brave, doing yoga in this heat.”
“She’ll be wiped out tonight,” Devi agreed.
“How long has she been doing yoga, anyway?”
“She started in the psych hospital, I think,” Devi said. “I was little, maybe four or five.”
“And you were living with your grandma then?”
“For a little while. And then with my father. But that turned out bad.”
“You don’t have to answer this,” I said, “but I’m curious why your mother was in a hospital.”
“Oh, it’s no secret,” Devi said. “Gosh, it’s hot.” She lifted her curly hair off the back of her neck. “Mom was talking to the archangels. Which wouldn’t have been a problem—she still does—it’s just that she told the wrong people about it, like my grandma, the super WASP.” Devi gave a dry chuckle. “Ha, and worse yet, she told my grandma what the angels said about her.”
“Not good, I gather,” I was probing, but Devi didn’t seem to mind.
“Not good,” she confirmed. “So my grandma and my aunt Delia got my mom committed. Mom could have lied about her visions, but she wouldn’t deny the angels.”
“You said she still talks to the archangels?”
“Oh, yeah, but not as often now, what with the yoga classes and me to look after.”
“What’s it like, having Satya for a mom?” I asked. I thought of my own three kids, how the two teens are so easily embarrassed, like when I sing in the supermarket.
Devi turned to look at me directly. Her face was still and her usually wide, relaxed lips were drawn into a line. “What do you mean?”
I drew in a breath; aware I’d gone too far. “Well, uh, like she’s not what people would consider…”
Devi pushed her chair back and stood up. “I have to check in with her now,” she said, and walked away, her lemonade cup in one hand, and running the other hand through her curls.
Tangled Magic 