Eat Pray Love Made Me Do It (14 page)

—

Amanda Whitten

W
hen I was eight years old and obsessed with
The Baby-Sitters Club
,
Nancy Drew
—anything, really, that smelled of paper and was composed of chapters—I wrote my own stories. A series called Friends Forever, the beginnings of a murder mystery novel, melodramatic poems, songs I had no business “singing.” I wrote. I told people I wanted to be an author when I grew up.

Every Saturday I wrote in the backseat of my family's '84 Chevy Blazer while we made the predawn fifty-mile trek from Bakersfield to an even sleepier central California town to help my grandpa, where he rented a busy corner spot at the Porterville swap meet. After a sweaty morning selling wicker furniture, stuffed animals, candy bars and books, hustling for every penny, Grandpa would pull out his lunch, sit in his truck and ask me to read him my latest story.

Somewhere between childhood and womanhood I stopped
writing my own words and just started adopting the stories others told. I could say I got too busy. That “life” got too busy. First there was college, part-time jobs, the collapse of my parents' marriage and the pieces my dad left for us to pick up like an incomplete jigsaw puzzle you'd find at a neighborhood yard sale. Then my own mismatched marriage, the all-consuming nature of law school, career and a series of thoughtless choices that landed me in increasingly regrettable situations. But the truth was, I had just lost the courage to write. There is something about growing up that can destroy us. Something about building a life that can tear down a soul.

For a time I had even stopped reading. Reality television and
Us Weekly
were the most culture any of my days held.

But then I left my marriage, my house and my five-year plan. Life doesn't always give us second chances, so I took the chance to find myself again, and I'm not even embarrassed by the cliché of it. I guess you could say
Eat Pray Love
made me do it.

I drove myself across Ireland on the wrong side of the road and brought home a long-distance love affair, the only souvenir that's ever broken my heart. I climbed an active volcano in Quito, Ecuador. I found the gelato shop in Florence where Elizabeth Gilbert discovered the frozen rice pudding that made her proclaim she wouldn't go to heaven if it wasn't there. I dragged my mom on a road trip to bear witness to nine innings of baseball in seven of the major league stadiums from Boston to Chicago. I bought a condo, sight unseen, and remodeled it with my own two hands (and a good deal of stupid questions to Home Depot employees). I crossed the finish line of an Ironman triathlon after fourteen hours and twenty-three minutes of consecutive exercise. I adopted two cats and embraced the
stigma that comes with being an unmarried lady of marrying age with cats.

But first, I put down the television remote and picked up a book. Any book. Fifty-two of them a year to be exact, because I'm big on goals. I remembered that I loved escaping into words. I found writers whose words comforted me. Elizabeth Gilbert. Cheryl Strayed. Ann Patchett. Other women who had left marriages when they were too young to explain it away with a midlife crisis. Other women who had to admit “defeat” and then reclaim it as their awakening. I adopted their words. Their stories were so similar to mine.

•   •   •

I
s that one of the stories you wrote, Mandy?” Once again, it was my grandpa asking. But I wasn't a child, and we weren't in California anymore. We were somewhere between Albuquerque, New Mexico, and the worst Mexican restaurant ever to land in a travel guide. We were taking Grandpa, now two weeks shy of eighty and battling Alzheimer's, on a road trip to Enid, Oklahoma, to see his baby sister for the first time in at least fifteen years and, though we didn't know it at the time, the last. And it wasn't one of my stories I was reading, though I was certainly enjoying it. The words resonated with me. But they still weren't mine.

These are.

Just a few months later, my grandfather died. We buried him under an old oak tree on a warm July day. But out on that desert highway, despite the confusions of Alzheimer's, my grandpa had remembered that I was a writer. And suddenly, so had I.

—

Billy Rosa

I
t's broken.” Those words from the X-ray technician changed everything. What I heard him say was
, Your career is over. You will never dance again. You're worthless
. An hour before this, two friends had carried me out of a Broadway audition after a loud snap of my hip rendered me unable to stand, let alone walk. The choreographer had asked if I could jump into a split midair and then land into one on the ground. Sure! I had just done this for three months, seventeen times per week, as a chorus dancer for the Radio City Christmas Spectacular. Little did I know, my final bow as a dancer would be crawling on a New York City sidewalk from a yellow cab to the entrance of the emergency room.

I had been a professional dancer for years; I owned and breathed it. It informed every moment of my life, and the truth was, I knew nothing else. By the young age of twenty-three, I
had used dancing to define every aspect of who I was. I was my high kicks and multiple turns; I was my splits and backbends; I was what I could do for you onstage. I was fully identified with my body, craft and ego. Lying in that hospital bed with a fractured hip, I no longer knew who I was. I couldn't even stand my own company.

It was during this period of loneliness and self-loathing that a friend suggested I read
Eat Pray Love.
Liz's story changed the way I saw and experienced myself. In a moment when my heart felt as cracked as my body, Liz ushered in a new possibility. There was love and excitement, of course, but dancing had also allowed me to avoid life and remain transfixed on the image in the mirror. As long as the music kept playing, I never had to take responsibility for being a whole, fully functioning human being in the world. I had become a machine. Now, I had a choice to make. I could stay on this path and settle for the self-created limitations I'd always known, or I could start over and reengage life as someone new.

Eat Pray Love
encouraged and guided me to my decision. Liz's determination to open and heal her heart taught me that not only am I the hero of my own life, but I better get about living it. So, I learned to meditate and practiced being with myself. I sat in silence and wrote and repeated affirmations. I realized I was so much more than my body. I stopped obsessing over what I was supposed to be and started trying on a different way of being.

I became a student of change, of boldness, of healing. If I could heal my own body, I wondered, how could I help others to heal theirs? I went to massage therapy school and
rediscovered the wonder of the human body. Then I enrolled in nursing school, inspired by the client outcomes I witnessed as a massage therapist. I spent four years as a critical care nurse at the bedside, caring for patients who have honored my life with the humble privilege of knowing them. I held the hand of many as they transitioned at end of life and witnessed the tremendous courage and fierce determination of the human spirit. My work as a nurse has been a service to others but also a soulful healing for me. As Ram Dass says, “We're all just walking each other home.” Human caring and compassionate loving-kindness are the most life-giving offerings we can make at the feet of another.

I've spent the last few years doing all of the things that “Billy doesn't do.” I've received my master's degree in nursing and am planning to pursue doctoral studies in public health. I've trekked to the source of the holy Ganges River at Gomukh Glacier in the Himalayas. I've studied with Shipibo shaman healers in the jungles of the Amazon. I've sat and drunk tea in the home of a gracious mother in an undertraveled province of northern Vietnam. These days, I work and teach in Rwanda, supporting nurses to realize their own healing potential and purpose.

It wasn't
Eat Pray Love
that made me do all this; it was Liz. Liz's words have returned me to myself, showing me how to transform a fracturing experience into a life of wholeness and authentic expression. Her vulnerability has helped recalibrate my cells so I can be a conduit for my inner hero. Her courage has elevated my very being, and her sense of adventure has awakened me to more fully embrace the possibilities of my becoming. I've learned that, no matter how bruised and shaken we may
feel, we are never truly broken. We are simply being presented with the experiences we need to realize our greatest Self.

I once met Liz at a book signing and said, “Liz, my name is Billy Rosa, and I don't think I could ever explain to you how your words have changed my life.” She held my hands, shared my tears for a brief moment and said, “You just did.”

—

Theresa Thornton

I
n September 2008, when I was forty-seven years old, I sang in front of an audience for the first time in my life.

That summer, my son was learning to play the guitar. He was a sweet, shy boy with a real affinity for music. He was also about to start high school, and I was afraid his timidity would keep his talent hidden. I told my son he had a gift; he was too skilled to be playing music alone in his room. He had to find his tribe in high school—he needed to share himself with the world.

After that talk, I thought about my own life. Who was I? What was my passion? I was a divorced, single mom. The most courageous thing I'd ever done was admit I wasn't happy in my marriage (I left it in the late '90s). But I didn't do much to feed my soul. Post-divorce, consumed with financial and time-management struggles, my life consisted of my two children and my office job. Still, I knew there was more out there—I heard the whisper.

My lifelong fantasy was to be a singer. In grammar school, everyone had a favorite Beatle. I wanted to
be
a Beatle. Sure, I sang in the car alone, but the thought of singing in front of someone, anyone, was terrifying. My dream was so private and closely guarded that no one had ever heard me.

I'd read
Eat Pray Love
two years before encouraging my son to follow his musical passion, and I was inspired. I'd absorbed every drop of Elizabeth Gilbert's life-changing personal journey like she was a friend, talking to me in confidence. As I watched my son follow his artistic ambitions, I knew it was time for me to pursue my own.

I had heard of a daylong workshop at a place in New York City called New York Open Center. The workshop was taught by a successful vocal coach and geared toward finding your voice. I scraped the money together and went on a Saturday morning. I didn't tell a single soul. I figured, if it went badly, no one had to know.

There were about twenty-five people in this workshop, and we all came prepared to sing one song of our choice. As we settled in, we were all given index cards and told to write down why we were there and what we were hoping to gain from the class. I wrote down my goal: I was there to get over my fear of singing in public. Then we did exercises designed to reduce self-consciousness. For example, in pairs, we stared into each other's eyes while making faces and singing. Some found it very difficult and started crying. Staring at another person, at length, makes it impossible to hide your emotions; you feel very exposed and vulnerable.

After lunch, it was time. We all, one by one, had to get up in
front of the entire group and sing. The vocal coach pulled from our index cards randomly to determine who would go next, and read each person's goal aloud. Some were singers who had given it up, some were working vocalists who had lost their spark—we all had different reasons for being there. When my name was called, I felt surprisingly calm as I walked to the front of the room. The instructor read: “Theresa wants to get over the fear of singing in public.” He asked if I had sheet music or a CD to sing to, and I said no.

With that, I sang—a cappella—the Gladys Knight and the Pips hit “I've Got to Use My Imagination.” My voice didn't crack or quiver. It rang out in the room. For a second, I couldn't believe it was me. I was out of my body, watching myself. When the song was over, I looked around the room to astonished faces and open mouths. The vocal coach smiled. He didn't tell me to take vocal lessons—he told me to find a band and get out there.

I was high. I had never felt such singular elation. After the workshop, people came up to congratulate me. One quiet, awkward man who'd sung an almost painful version of “Love Me Tender” told me I was the best thing about his day. He told me I was wonderful, and I felt wonderful.

I had officially begun my journey.

That workshop was just the first step. I took some vocal lessons to get comfortable with singing. Then I met some musicians. I joined my first band. Then another band. And another. My voice has gotten better, stronger. I take more risks. Some work out, some don't. I've had delightfully transcendent moments singing, along with tough patches where I've questioned
myself. I've hit some obstacles and criticism that temporarily slowed me down but did not discourage me. I'm fifty-four years old, and I know I'm not going to be the next Etta James. But it's not about that. Singing fills my soul and makes me happy. I sing for me.

—

Cara Bradshaw

W
hen Superstorm Sandy hit New Jersey, I was in the midst of a major life transition. I had decided to make a career change and leave my job as a local newspaper reporter for a fund-raising position at my alma mater. And, as Sandy bore down on us, I also decided to jump ship from my marriage. My husband didn't hit me. He didn't cheat. But I felt like I was suffocating. Between covering stories about a couple killed by a fallen tree and locals hunting for nonperishables in dark grocery store aisles, I camped out on the floor of a hotel lobby, lived out of my car and told myself I was making the right choice.

A year into our marriage my husband had admitted he didn't like my latest choice of pleasure reading:
Eat Pray Love.
“You'll read this and think you need to ‘go find yourself.'” I laughed. I was twenty-three and had just quit my job at UNICEF so he could take a yearlong rotation in Arizona. I had agreed to the
move—it seemed like a good opportunity. But I had also spent my first year as a newlywed frequently alone because of his travel schedule and was hopeful that this next year in a new place would be different. It wasn't. He worked long hours. I got sick and suffered from debilitating anxiety. I craved intimacy and emotional trust. My now ex-husband is a lovely person, but we never cemented the relationship in those first crucial years. We didn't have a fighting chance.

Getting married just months after college graduation didn't seem like the craziest thing I could do. My parents divorced when I was a teen, and I moved with my mother and sisters to low-income housing in a neighborhood once known for addiction and violence. I bounced between my parents' places. My father, a well-respected pastor, took a desk job in IT. My mother, a strong woman who hadn't completed college and stayed home with us, drove a school bus and worked as a teaching assistant. We worried about money. I longed for stability and a sense of “home” again. My fearless self wanted to join the Peace Corps; the scared girl in me needed shelter and security. I chose the latter.

By the time I was in my mid-twenties, I had most of the things I thought I wanted and needed. But at my core I was unsettled and lonesome. When my husband and I moved back to New Jersey from Arizona, I enrolled in graduate school. By the second year of my program, we had become platonic housemates. I needed to believe there could be more. I moved out and rented a room to work on my thesis about post-conflict Nepal. I started seeing someone else. I told my husband I couldn't stay in the marriage. He grew despondent. The few people who knew what was going on told me I was making a huge mistake if I chose to
leave my husband and that they wouldn't support me if I did. Plagued with guilt and feeling a responsibility to “stick it out,” I moved back in and kept my desires hidden. Not wanting our marriage to be seen as a failure, my husband and I acted as if everything was fine. We lived in limbo for years. We bought a house. It didn't fix a thing. Three marriage counselors couldn't unwind the mess. And no one—despite their ability or inability to love you the way you need to be loved—deserves that kind of torture. I realize now that the feeling of choking that spurred me out of the house years later on that stormy October night was the noose I'd tied around my own neck.

Just when I thought I should do my “Liz Gilbert,” as I called it, and pack it up for the other side of the world (Nepal, maybe), my grandmother's health began to decline. A Montanan who studied Russian literature at Stanford and took a train alone to Manhattan to start her career, she was my life inspiration. While my husband and I were separated, I lived in a month-to-month apartment near her, within walking distance to her church where we sat in a pew in the back of the sanctuary each Sunday. Tears rolled down her cheeks when we sang about mercy. I pinched the soft patches of skin beneath my wrists and closed my eyes. She had been through more hardship than anyone I'd ever known, yet she greeted the world with grace and openness. We shared our secrets and our trust.

She started to complain about pain. She lost weight. She couldn't sleep. I received frantic middle-of-the-night calls. The doctors assured us she'd be fine. I knew she wasn't. I threw myself into care for her, grew exhausted and frustrated, and sank deep into myself. She was diagnosed with cancer. I curled up against her weak frame and squirted morphine past her
trembling lips as she begged for more. She died within the week. Just days after her memorial service, I appeared in court to finalize my divorce. To say I was numb to the finality of what was happening is a gross understatement. I didn't have the energy to fight for much of anything and blamed myself for much of what happened. I decided I'd just start over. I was thirty years old, and I had lost everything.

I attempted to salvage the relationship from years before but still felt I needed to keep it hidden, and so became distant from my family and many of my longtime friends. It eventually fell apart. I gave up on the idea of being truly seen by the people in my life—flaws and all—and still finding love and acceptance. I stopped trusting my decisions—and myself.

I ached for conversations with my grandmother, who seemed to be the only person who understood me. A woman ahead of her time, she told me from a young age that all I do in life is based on choice. I could choose my life partner—someone who shared my interests and passions and who would support me fully in charting my own course. I had a choice about children; it wasn't a given. And most of all, my career options were limitless. In an essay about the day I was born, my grandmother wrote: “She might drive a ten-wheeler, argue before the Supreme Court, and even sit on the bench herself.” It took losing her for that hope she held for me to really sink in.

About a year after she died, my heartache began to ease. I started writing again, emerging from a period of numb silence. I spent more time volunteering. I trained for a triathlon. I practiced contemplative prayer. I made a bold move at work and took an interim role running an entire division's fund-raising efforts. Through this move, I met a man who had been in my world for
years but whose path had never crossed mine. Like me, he loved stories, biking, mountains and water. One of my friends affectionately nicknamed him “Dean Mountain Man.” He brought out my best creative energy and met each admission about my past with warmth and understanding. But fear and self-doubt kicked in. I listened to the little voices that told me I didn't deserve anything good and that I should focus on career before love. I told him I couldn't pursue a relationship.

One frozen winter morning, questioning my choices and feeling more alone than ever, I dragged myself out of bed and picked up a book on spiritual growth. I read the words: “Pay attention to the small things today that could mean something big for tomorrow.” Hours later, two women whose work in Nepal I've admired for years posted on Facebook that Elizabeth Gilbert had challenged her fans to raise $10,000 for their organization, BlinkNow. If they did, she would perform karaoke at a nightclub in Times Square.

In four days, her fans raised over $110,000. Challenge met, that Wednesday I joined several women from BlinkNow at Queen of the Night and watched Liz sing an impassioned rendition of “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” Standing by my side, smiling because he understood how completely important this display of bravery was to me, was my Dean Mountain Man.

Months later, he cheered me on as I competed in my first triathlon, which also supported the work of BlinkNow in Nepal. On my bike in a grand thunderstorm (not Sandy-scale but enough to end the race early), I felt an overwhelming calm. I realized I did deserve big love and great things. It was my moment to harness my fear and to let go of the doubts that had governed my life. As Liz would say,
Attraversiamo
! Let's cross over.