They are soon schooled by a charismatic “Goddess,” delving ever deeper into self-realization, conversations with angels, pendulums, candle “Magick,” Reiki, crystal healing, and more. Attend a Hindu Bajan? Sure. Orgasmic Meditation? (Wait, what…?) Maybe not that one. 
Description:What starts as a search for a decorative Buddha statuette leads one woman on a spiritual journey that will change everything.
Marla lives the good life in Los Angeles—house, pool, her own business helping Cupid find love for LA’s most discriminating singles. Her handsome and ardent hubby Adolfo performs at an exclusive steak house in Beverly Hills. He tends to scoff at Marla’s green juice, vegan diet, yoga, and daily affirmations and can be a teensy bit of a control freak.
A discarded Buddha statuette that Adolfo suddenly can’t live without sends Marla searching through New Age boutiques along with her skeptical friend Julie. They are soon schooled by a charismatic “Goddess,” delving ever deeper into self-realization, conversations with angels, pendulums, candle “Magick,” Reiki, crystal healing, and more. Attend a Hindu Bajan? Sure. Orgasmic Meditation? (Wait, what…?) Maybe not that one.
Growing in her spirituality, yet exceedingly frustrated with some of her persnickety clientele—aging men who see themselves as Dorian Grays, worthy of exquisite young women—Marla’s world is shifting. She achieves certifications as an energy healer and encourages Julie to sample the concoction Julie calls “green gunk” and other healthy practices to help her conquer an addiction to unavailable men. Marla deepens her communication with the Beyond while Adolfo, always so practical, asks, “Have you lost your mind? Are you hearing voices? Angels aren’t real, come on!” Matters grow worse when certain psychics warn of “dangerous low-vibrational entities” and rabidly disagree with each other.
Her alternating universes give Marla spiritual whiplash, yet she discovers the LITE way to balance the human carnival with a transformational spiritual journey.
GUEST POST
How to Avoid the Rejection Blues
If you are a human living on planet earth rejection is unavoidable. It’s part of life! I learned about rejection early on when the “cool” kids decided I was more or less a “geek,” therefore, I was always chosen last when picking team mates in gym class, and excluded from parties.
Then as I got older and moved to Hollywood to become an actress, rejection was inevitable. I booked some TV commercials and print modeling, but more often than not, someone else was chosen, leaving my best performances to reciting the evening specials to hungry diners at whatever restaurant I was working at.
But I’ve always been of the mindset, “go ahead and throw your hat in the ring.” I’m just as worthy as anyone else and am entitled to go for my dreams, live my passion and enjoy my life. Hey, “you can’t win if you don’t play!”
And speaking of winning, I don’t feel that necessarily means being awarded an Oscar or becoming a best selling author. Living a creative life and sharing my gifts with others has been the golden ticket to staying in peace with whatever happens.
Author of Eat, Pray, Love, Elizabeth Gilbert literally took a vow at the age of sixteen years old to become a writer. She lit a candle and got down on her knees and swore her fidelity to writing for the rest of her natural life. She didn’t make a promise that she would be a successful writer, because she sensed that success was not under her control, in fact she didn’t put any conditions or restrictions on her writing path at all. Instead, she simply vowed to the universe that she would write forever, regardless of the result. She also promised that she would never ask writing to take care of her financially, but that she would always take care of it, meaning she would always support the two of them by whatever means necessary. She did not ask for any external rewards for her devotion, only that she spend her life as near to writing as possible.
HOW MAGICAL IS THAT?
I will live by her words.
Happy writing my friends!
Love, Marla
EXCERPT
Glad that I wore a cozy sweater on that cold November evening, I walked with Julie down the long driveway. The temple was set up in a garage, carpeted and adorned with altars, statues, paintings of various saints, and candles, transforming it into a Hindu shrine.
We stopped at a sign posted on the wall outside. Women were informed that if they happened to be on their period, they should please sit outside in the driveway whilst partaking in the bhajan.
SERIOUSLY?
Julie and I gave each other a look that conveyed our mutual assessment: this is fucked up.
We seemed to be the first ones to arrive, and a wholesome-looking guy of about forty introduced himself as Ken and invited us to enter the garage/temple.
“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the floor. He and his wife would be leading the bhajan, he explained, adding that they had lived in India for many years, becoming enamored with the Hindu faith. Julie and I selected a spot near the giant statue of Shirdi Sai Baba and sat cross-legged on the floor. “We also lead fire pujas once a week. You must come.”
Ken told us that Shirdi Sai Baba was one of the foremost sadgurus (a true guru) in India and lived in Shirdi, located in the state of Maharashtra, India for sixty years. It is said that though Shirdi Sai Baba is not alive in flesh and blood, he still lives and blesses his devotees wherever they may be. A large black and white framed photograph of the guru, sitting on the ground barefoot intrigued me. His hands, feet, and simple clothing looked filthy, a piece of cloth covered his head and tied in the back. His expression was serious and his eyes penetrating. The photo evoked someone who needed nothing, but had everything. I made a mental note to find out more about this guru.
A few other people finally arrived and took their places on the floor next to us. We chatted with a cute guy who was originally from Bulgaria and was a regular there.
“It’s very powerful to chant and sing with other beautiful souls,” he said. “I come every week.”
Ken and his wife, Lida took their seats in front of us, and passed out some instruments along with sheet music with lyrics so that we could sing along. I chose a tambourine, and Julie selected maraca made out of a gourd. Ken and Lida started the bhajan, Ken on the guitar and Lida on the harmonium, a reed instrument with a sound similar to the accordion. I was surprised at how small the group was, only half a dozen of us. We all chanted and sang in Hindi.
Om Guru Om Guru
Paragpara guru omkara guru tavasharanam
Sukhakarshubakar hey parameshwara
Brahma paraparta vasharanam
Om Guru Om Guru
After an hour, Julie gave me the look. It clearly said, okay, how much longer is this going to go on for?
I glanced at my watch and whispered, “Should be only another half an hour.”
We struggled on for another forty-five minutes as an Indian couple arrived, baby in tow, plates of food in hand. They placed the food at the feet of Shirdi Sai Baba and joined us in the chanting. Ten minutes later, three more Indian people arrived, bearing plates of food and placing them at the altar. Fifteen minutes later, four more with more food. Julie’s stomach growled. We squirmed. My butt was sore, and I longed to stretch. I was not feeling the uplifting love I’d come for. Seated right smack in front of Ken and Lida, Julie and I had to communicate with our eyes, strained looks, and subtle nods. The place was lovely, as well as the people, but this was definitely not our thing.
I finally mouthed to Julie, “I can’t take it anymore.”
Julie stifled a laugh, and rolled her eyes.
Ken shot Julie a look of disapproval.
I felt like I was fourteen again and back in Miss Judy’s dance class. My BFFs, Joni and Tracy, and I had smoked a joint in the parking lot before tap class and couldn’t stop giggling as we shuffled off to Buffalo. All the while a frustrated Miss Judy shot scowls of disapproval.
The memory triggered a giggle, which also set Julie off. Uncontrollable laughter welled up, and we buried our faces in our hands, attempting to stifle the guffaws and giggles. Ken was glaring at us. Some people just don’t get the Laughing Buddha.
I poked Julie in the side, “Come on, let’s go!”
We jumped up and flew out the garage door like Aladdin on his magic carpet.
Still giggling as we sped away towards Ventura Blvd., Julie turned to me, her face flushed. “Okay, Marla, that was painful.”
One more round of laughter burst forth, completely uncensored this time.
“It was truly not our thing, but I really want to go to the fire puja.”
“Are you kidding? We can never show our faces over there again.”
“I suppose not.”
And yet it had proven an excellent modality—the laughter, actually; the meeting, not so much. I felt spiritually juiced, happy, and terrific. I like to think our angels and guides were enjoying themselves with us as well. That bhajan was the epitome of the confusion of spirituality with serious disciplined self-control—even though we were sitting on the floor shaking gourds and singing what to us were mostly nonsense syllables. There should have been all kinds of laughter and light-heartedness at that session. The Buddha loves to laugh.
About the author:
Born in Tacoma, Washington, “The City of Destiny,” Marla was destined to move to Los Angeles where she shoots her arrow of love on a daily basis as a professional matchmaker, helping countless couples connect with their soul mates.
She is the author of three memoirs, Diary of a Beverly Hills Matchmaker, Hearts on the Line and The Buddha Made Me Do It.
Marla has been interviewed on the Today Show, WGN Chicago Morning News, San Diego Living, Urban Rush, CTV Calgary, Better TV, KUSI San Diego Morning Show, and over 100 radio shows including Coast to Coast AM with George Noory.
Her husband Adolfo has asked her, “Marlita, do you want to go to the moon too?” referring to her many interests—a true Gemini. Yet nothing has fascinated her like her profound adventure far beyond the moon and into the vastness of cosmic spirituality.
Thank you for posting
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