blind faith

I spend a good portion of the day researching the difference between vartma-pradarsaka guru, patha pradarsaka guru, and pravartana acharya. I then spend a much longer time thinking about gurus, and faith, and what my next steps in Krishna consciousness will be. My faith took a heavy blow several years ago, and it is only now that I feel ready to move forward, to think about progress instead of mere survival. My wounds aren’t completely healed, but they no longer cause pain.

I talk about it a little with my husband when he comes home from work. The conclusion is that there is plenty I can do right now to help myself, even without the shelter of a physically present guru. I have sastra, I have worthy teachers, and I have my own determination and sincere desire to be a serious devotee; I simply have to act in my own best interest.

I cook dinner, and after we have washed and dried the dishes, we take a walk down the hard-packed gravel driveway to the tree-lined road, Raksa the Doberman following. The sun has set, but there is still some light to see by. My husband turns to me with a big smile. How great it is to be walking together, he says.

Now we do something we did last year, when, while living at the preaching center in Gainesville, our marriage had hit a rough patch and trust was low, at least on my side: we hold hands, and I close my eyes.

We walk, him leading, slowly. The world opens up to the rest of my senses: the breeze flowing over me like river water, the twilight chattering of birds in the trees, the always-astonishing softness of my husband’s hand in mine all become focused, my mind shaken free from its usual pattern. Of all the senses I could stand to lose, I think, this would be the one.

We walk for a while that way, then we turn back toward home. Now my husband closes his eyes, and I lead. He seems a bit nervous, especially as a car comes out of a neighbor’s driveway. Raksa stays close to us, uncharacteristically, like a guide dog.

When it is my turn again, I say: Take me over to the grapefruit tree.

The tree is in bloom, hundreds of blossoms in all states of flower, budding, full-blown, dying, petals dropping. The subtlest notes play hide-and-seek with me on the breeze. I love the scent, similar to that of the orange blossoms which filled the air in Gainesville, when we did this nocturnal ritual of trust and opening to one another’s lead. We called it Blind Date. What it really was, was blind faith.

When I draw near to the grapefruit tree, I open my eyes. I gather a few flowers to take home, but the petals flutter to the ground at my touch.

Walking the arboreal lanes of Gainesville last year, eyes closed and ears alert to every vibration, I sought out this scent almost desperately; citrus blossom is said to comfort the mind, relieving anxiety and depression. In the dark, they are nearly impossible to spot. But a chance breeze would carry a fleeting note, and by tentative steps and missteps, gradually the aroma would grow stronger, leading us to a tree filled with flowers. Finding it, I would inhale as if drinking from a fountain.

To lead and to be led through the darkness, by someone in whom one’s faith has taken a heavy blow, is not a trivial thing. You first have to be willing to take their hand. What you feel is often a reliable guide, though you can’t put all your faith into feelings.

You then have to pay attention, even if you can’t see. Awareness is not the same as a suspicious mindset. Trust does not preclude taking responsibility for trusting in the first place.

Perhaps “blind faith” is not the refuge of the unintelligent, or of those who refuse to think for themselves. It may simply mean that we close our eyes, but open our other senses: to listen more closely, sniff out danger (“where there’s smoke, there’s fire”), feel which way the wind is blowing. Sight isn’t the only sense, and not even the most important.

I have once again taken my husband’s hand. I didn’t have faith when I did so, but I wanted to. That’s always the way it is. Faith is never involuntarily blind. We simply choose to close our eyes. What we close them to determines where we end up.

It is the acceptance of, a kind of selective blindness to, each other’s imperfections, the willingness to stumble along—or stroll peacefully—in the dark together, and not some elusive (and impossible) perfection we might seek elsewhere that helps make marriage a service to guru and Krishna. I once thought it reasonable to notice every one of my husband’s faults. Now I just look within, and notice that what I saw in him was in me all along.

Orange blossoms are difficult to see at night, but by the mercy of the wind, their fragrance draws us directly to them. We often think we’ll know what we’re looking for when we see it, but the real essence of a thing can often be captured only when we close our eyes, and let ourselves be led.

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