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This morning, I overslept. Which is to say—sloth that I am, I dozed until the ungodly hour of 4:15 AM. I woke up only minutes before the Gurugita was to begin, motivated myself reluctantly to get out of bed, splashed some water on my face, dressed and—feeling so crusty and cranky and resentful—went to leave my room in the predawn pitch-black . . . only to find that my roommate had left the room before me and had locked me in.
今早，我睡過頭。也就是說——懶惰如我，打盹打到清晨四點十五分。我在古魯梵歌即將開始前幾分鐘才醒來，勉強激勵自己起床，往臉上潑水，更衣，然后——覺得生氣、古怪、懊喪——在黑沉沉的黎明前離開房間……卻發現我的室友已先我一步離開房間，把我鎖在里面。
This was a really difficult thing for her to have done. It's not that big a room and it's hard not to notice that your roommate is still sleeping in the next bed. And she's a really responsible, practical woman—a mother of five from Australia. This is not her style. But she did it. She literally padlocked me in the room.
對她而言，這可不是一件容易會做出來的事。房間并不大，不難留意到室友仍睡在隔壁床上。她是個相當負責、腳踏實地的女人——五個孩子的母親，來自澳洲。這不是她的作風，但她竟做了出來。她真的是用掛鎖把我鎖在房間里了。
My first thought, was: If there were ever a good excuse not to go to the Gurugita, this would be it. My second thought, though? Well—it wasn't even a thought. It was an action.
我的第一個想法是：“假如能找到一個好借口，不去唱古魯梵歌，這就是了。”第二個想法呢？這個嘛——根本沒有想法，而是行動。
I jumped out the window.
我從窗戶跳出去。
To be specific, I crawled outside over the railing, gripping it with my sweaty palms and dangling there from two stories up over the darkness for a moment, only then asking myself the reasonable question, "Why are you jumping out of this building?" My reply came with a fierce, impersonal determination: I have to get to the Gurugita. Then I let go and dropped backward maybe twelve or fifteen feet through the dark air to the concrete sidewalk below, hitting something on the way down that peeled a long strip of skin off my right shin, but I didn't care. I picked myself up and ran barefoot, my pulse slamming in my ears, all the way to the temple, found a seat, opened up my prayer book just as the chant was beginning and—bleeding down my leg the whole while—I started to sing the Gurugita.
具體來說，我爬出欄桿外，發汗的手抓住欄桿，懸吊在兩層樓高的黑暗中，然后問了自己一個合理的問題：“你何必從這棟樓跳下去？”我的回答帶著某種猛烈、客觀的決心：“我得去唱古魯梵歌。”而后我放開手，往后倒，四米或五米，穿越陰暗的空氣，跌在底下的水泥人行道上，途中還撞上東西，剝去我右小腿一條細長的皮，可是我不在乎。我站起身，赤足奔跑，脈搏在我耳際鳴響，一路跑去寺院，找到一個座位，打開祈禱書，詠唱開始——我的腿從頭到尾流著血——我開始唱古魯梵歌。
It was only after a few verses that I caught my breath and was able to think my normal, instinctive morning thought: I don't want to be here. After which I heard Swamiji burst out laughing in my head, saying: That's funny—you sure act like somebody who wants to be here.
唱了幾節后，我屏住呼吸，陷入正常本能的清晨思維：“我不想來這里。”之后我聽見思瓦米吉在我腦子里大笑，說：“太有趣了——你做得就好像真想來這里呀。”
And I replied to him, OK, then. You win.
我回答他：“好吧，你贏了。”
I sat there, singing and bleeding and thinking that it was maybe time for me to change my relationship with this particular spiritual practice. The Gurugita is meant to be a hymn of pure love, but something had been stopping me short from offering up that love in sincerity. So as I chanted each verse I realized that I needed to find something—or somebody—to whom I could devote this hymn, in order to find a place of pure love within me. By Verse Twenty, I had it: Nick.
我坐在那兒唱著歌、流著血，心想或許我該去改變和這種靈修之間的關系。古魯梵歌本為歌頌純粹之愛，但不知什么東西阻止我獻上真誠的愛。因此在我吟唱每一節的同時，我意識到自己得找個什么東西——或什么人——讓我獻上這首頌歌，以便找到盤踞我心的純粹之愛。來到二十節的時候，我找到了——尼克。
