Sumangal Morhall - Auspicious Good Fortune: One womans inspirational journey from Western disillusionment to Eastern spiritual fulfilment

Sumangali Morhall studied meditation with Indian spiritual Master, Sri Chinmoy, from 1997 until his passing in 2007. English-born, she currently lives in York, UK, where she practices meditation daily, and regularly offers free meditation courses to the public. The name Sumangali (Shoo-mon-go-lee) was given to her by Sri Chinmoy, and means auspicious good fortune.

Websites: www.sumangali.org, www.srichinmoy.org

Each human life abides
Between the cheerful question of life,
'Who am I?'
And the powerful answer of death,
1 am all.'
Sri Chinmoy

Sun blared from a mass of windows and metal roofs. We stared forward in three lanes, hands on the wheel in the hope of a sudden advance, but it did not come. The swallows sliced through empty sky, almost too high to see, taunting us with their freedom. I sniffed through my window for a hint of breeze, but the air was as motionless as the clod of traffic to which I added. Children pressed themselves into gargoyles against other half-closed windows, or fought red-faced with one another. Adults gradually abandoned their cars to squint into the warped heat, or to lie out on the verges. Although some were happier in air-conditioning, we all shared the discomfort of not knowing how long our wait would be. There must have been an accident, so impatience seemed inappropriate. Road accidents made me especially pensive. I reflected on a question whose answer had as yet evaded me: Who am I?

I had dabbled in meditation for eight years, and felt sure I would never be truly happy, or truly me, unless I practised it more sincerely. Silence, stillness and solitude frightened me more than anything though. I suspected any sort of spiritual commitment would be like a colourless concrete cell, leaving me just my failings for company. I was not ready to be thus caged, and yet did not treasure life's liberty either. The cruelties and complexities of the world bewildered me such that I only sought to escape them or numb myself to them by then, thinking mine was too small a strength to stretch beyond. I travelled through that world like a television channel hopper, impulsively flicking the remote, never finding anything worth my attention, growing only more indolent and disillusioned, baffled and bored by things that seemed to be enough for most people. I was as though half alive: sufficient to function, but no longer to feel.

I could well have spent my time wondering Who is God? That seemed a question at once easier and more complex than the one I had chosen. While I was uncomfortable with the name and preferred not to speak it aloud, it was a tidy label for the definition I had honed in the privacy of my thoughts: ultimate love, limitless power, endless time, boundless creativity; a kindly and terrible force that I had always trusted, yet felt uncertain I could ever know or comprehend. Although God was always a He only because an It would have been impolite and a She never crossed my mind I did not subscribe to any specific image: old perhaps, but not necessarily bearded.

I assumed the only way God could wake me from my state of inner inertia would be through a serious car accident. I cannot qualify or explain that further it was just something I carried with me from the future; the same way a scar records an event from the past. As a last resort I was sure He would take away all signs of outer beauty, and perhaps the use of my limbs, so as to soften my mischief and wastefulness. Then, I promised Him, He would have my full attention. Until then, I would hunt for shallow pleasures, instead of diving deep to where my real happiness hid.

Eventually we inched forward, sun-dazed and dozy from sitting so long on the open griddle of the road. I passed the site of the crash with more than a natural fascination or reverence. Half spectator, half spectre, I surveyed my own potential future. One day that might be me splayed on the hot asphalt, or cut out from metal twisted up like a ball of paper, finally strapped to a stretcher in a whirr of blue lights and sirens. The sticky tyre marks, the shattered glass, the shattered limbs, would then be mine.

I knew only one prayer by heart The Lord's Prayer so I always offered it silently and superstitiously at such a scene. It was my way of telling God I still knew who was boss, that I was merely His wayward child, that no tiny will of mine could defy His at least not indefinitely. Any time He chose, I knew He could mould me, steer me, or obliterate me, blow me like a leaf from here to Kingdom Come...

...Thy Will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven...

That was as far as I got before my own turn came. I was in the middle lane, about to overtake a slower driver, when his indicator winked towards me. I assumed he would wait for me to pass, since there was barely half a car's length between us. Probably dizzy from the heat and the chaos of children in the back seat, he failed to check his blind spot and pulled in front. As I was moving faster, the gap between us shrank to little more than a hand span. I braked and flashed a glance outwards to find the fast lane clear. Yanking my car into it and fighting hard to straighten the curve, I missed the intruder and the central reservation by inches. He drove on oblivious.

My servant of a vehicle was suddenly a hulking weapon with its own agenda, and I its hapless captive. In a far corner of memory I found that I should take my foot off the brake and steer into the swerve to regain control. I had nothing to lose and no time to question. Puffing hard, I wrenched myself from the clutch of natural instinct and shared my will with that of the machine. The traffic emptied around me, but three lanes still gave too narrow a space. The back end writhed like a fish on a hook, and the car's strength at last outbid my own.

Other cars had stopped in a straight line, like a drive-in theatre audience. I was centre-stage, turning a perfect pirouette on four wheels, seemingly in slow motion. I have not seen anything similar before or since, and I cannot say I saw it with my physical eyes even then: an ethereal body of light floating before the audience, a bright screen beyond which nobody could pass. Its form was hazy, but the light seemed people-shaped several figures holding hands, like the paper-chain figures I used to cut out in kindergarten. They mingled with the sun's force: more powerful, more beautiful than earthly light, yet almost completely imperceptible. I had glimpsed another world that I had only hoped existed until that day. Like the flash of a deer's tail or a kingfisher's wing, it disappeared again into its own secret realm, leaving its trace only in memory.

Though I probably turned just three or four times, those tiny seconds were hours to me. I had thought until then that it was a Hollywood invention, but my life did rush before me in that blink of time. Twenty-five years of snapshots flipped in front of my mind like a film on fast-forward. Family and forgotten people, shames and errors, brilliance and victory, fond places and old belongings came tumbling as if from some giant scrapbook.

In case it was the last time we would be together, I peered down at my arms and hands redundantly holding the wheel, my legs and feet poised above the useless pedals, and thanked them for their service. Goodbye hands: pale hands, small fingers that learned to brush a steady line on canvas, that wrote letters of love and curious songs, that sowed dry seeds in the fragrant earth. Goodbye feet: little feet that loved bare sands and shady grasses, stubby toes and narrow fans of bone that bore me out of infancy and danced me into many dawns.