Starr Mirabai - The Interior Castle

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Table of Contents

RIVERHEAD BOOKS

New York

To my mother, Susanna Starr, with all my love

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To the circle of family and friends who created a sanctuary for me to write this translation in the wake of the sudden death of my beloved daughter, Jenny, I offer my boundless gratitude. The refuge of this work saved me.

Thanks to Susanna Starr, for knowing from experience what it is to lose a child and for preparing a warm and comfortable writing retreat for me in the valley and quietly feeding me on every level so I could work. Thanks to Amy Starr and Roy Starr, for guiding and protecting me on our odyssey through the wilderness of New York City as I encountered the publishing world. Thanks to Daniela Starr Whitehorse, who has flowered into the quintessential devoted daughter and a beautiful young mother in her own right. Thanks to Bette Little, for being a living example of a strong, independent woman with vast heart.

I am deeply grateful to my womens writing group, which has held me so tenderly through my grieving and my writing: Elaine Sutton; Susan Berman; Linda Fair; Adair Ferdon; Lorie Levison; Tania Casselle; Diane Chase; Jean Kenin. Heartfelt thanks to Ted and Marcella Wiard at the Golden Willow Retreat. Thank you, Fr. Bill McNichols, for your continued faith in the divine rightness of this Hindu/Buddhist/Jew translating the Catholic saints.

Special thanks to Bobbi Shapiro, who read every word of the manuscript as it unfolded and offered the most helpful feedback of all: how the teachings of a sixteenth-century Spanish nun apply to those of us on a spiritual path today; to Cathleen Medwick, whose expertise in Teresian studies is extraordinary, exceeded only by her heartfulness and generosity; and to Sharon Salzberg, for mentoring me in the business of spiritual literature and the cultivation of bright faith, against all odds.

Thanks to my agent, Peter Rubie, for his wise advice and sense of humor; to my editor at Riverhead, Amy Hertz, for her gentle touch and flashing insight; and to Amys superhero assistant, Marc Haeringer, for his unwavering kindness, startling intelligence, and skillful handling of impossible details; and to Timothy Luke Meyer, copyeditor at Riverhead, for his breadth of knowledge and depth of caring.

I offer humble thanks to my spiritual mentors: Saint Teresa of Avila, Saint John of the Cross, Neem Karoli Baba, and Jenny Starr, whose guidance throughout this writing has been continuously tangible.

Finally, my deepest appreciation goes to Ganga Das (Jeff Little), who married me in the middle of all this and constantly reminds me that all will be well and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well.

INTRODUCTION

The Calling

There is a secret place. A radiant sanctuary. As real as your own kitchen. More real than that. Constructed of the purest elements. Overflowing with the ten thousand beautiful things. Worlds within worlds. Forests, rivers. Velvet coverlets thrown over featherbeds, fountains bubbling beneath a canopy of stars. Bountiful forests, universal libraries. A wine cellar offering an intoxication so sweet you will never be sober again. A clarity so complete you will never again forget.

This magnificent refuge is inside you. Enter. Shatter the darkness that shrouds the doorway. Step around the poisonous vipers that slither at your feet, attempting to throw you off your course. Be bold. Be humble. Put away the incense and forget the incantations they taught you. Ask no permission from the authorities. Slip away. Close your eyes and follow your breath to the still place that leads to the invisible path that leads you home.

Listen. Softly, the One you love is calling. Listen. At first, you will only hear traces of his voice. Love letters he drops for you in hiding places. In the sound of your baby laughing, in your boyfriend telling you a dream, in a book about loving-kindness, in the sun dipping down below the horizon and a peacocks tail of purple and orange clouds unfolding behind it, in the nameless sorrow that fills your heart when you wake in the night and remember that the world has gone to war and you are powerless to break up the fight. Let the idle chatter between friends drop down to what matters. Listen. Later his voice will come closer. A whisper youre almost sure is meant for you fading in and out of the cacophony of thoughts, clearer in the silent space between them. Listen. His call is flute music, far away. Coming closer.

Be brave and walk through the country of your own wild heart. Be gentle and know that you know nothing. Be mindful and remember that every moment can be a prayer. Melting butter, scrambling eggs, lifting fork to mouth, praising God. Typing your daughters first short story, praising God. Losing your temper and your dignity with someone you love, praising God. Balancing ecstasy with clear thinking, self-control with self-abandon. Be still. Listen. Keep walking.

What a spectacular kingdom you have entered! Befriending the guards and taming the lions at the gates. Sliding through a crack in the doorway on your prayer rug. Crossing the moat between this world and that, walking on water if you have to, because this is your rightful place. That is your Beloved reclining in the innermost chamber, waiting for you, offering wine from a bottle with your crest on the label. Explore. Rest if you have to, but dont go to sleep. Head straight for his arms.

And when you have dismissed the serpents of vanity and greed, conquered the lizards of self-importance, and lulled the monkey mind to sleep, your steps will be lighter. When you have given up everything to make a friend a cup of tea and tend her broken heart, stood up against the violation of innocent children and their fathers and mothers, made conscious choices to live simply and honor the earth, your steps will be lighter. When you have grown still on purpose while everything around you is asking for your chaos, you will find the doors between every room of this interior castle thrown open, the path home to your true love unobstructed after all.

No one else controls access to this perfect place. Give yourself your own unconditional permission to go there. Absolve yourself of missing the mark again and again. Believe the incredible truth that the Beloved has chosen for his dwelling place the core of your own being because that is the single most beautiful place in all of creation. Waste no time. Enter the center of your soul.

An Epic Life

In her Prelude to Middlemarch, the nineteenth-century feminist writer George Eliot invokes Saint Teresa as a perfect example of a woman who stumbled upon the rare grace to actually live out the exalted calling of her spirit. Teresas passionate, ideal nature, writes Eliot, demanded an epic life.

It is now common knowledge that Teresa of Jesus, born Teresa de Ahumada y Cepeda in 1515, came from a family with hidden Jewish roots. Recoiling from the Inquisition of fifteenth-century Spain, Teresas wealthy Jewish grandfather, Juan Sanchez, purchased the status of hidalgo, a titled gentleman, to buy his children access to the noble classes so that they could marry well. But this was only after Juan Sanchez had discovered that he and his family were under suspicion by the Inquisition for secretly practicing Judaism in their home. Many

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