As I've blog about before, I'm reading Eat, Pray and Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. Before I started reading I was offered the review, "I loved Italy and the rest was okay." And as expected, I loved Italy: the language, the food, and friendships. But when the book transitions to India for Pray, my reading pace came to a screeching crawl. I found myself reading, re-reading, chewing and digesting each word as if Ms. Gilbert had written this section for me, and only me. And now that the book is moving on to Love and Bali, I realize that I'm not ready to leave the ashram. I need more time with the wisdom she has imparted and I'm seriously toying with the idea of re-reading Pray, with a notebook and pen nearby.
It's strange but I don't care if I finish the book at all. Could it be that I've found love and contentment in my own life? And I don't really care about reading another's love story. I confess I did skip ahead a bit, and found the story interesting, and at times comical. But the ashram, and the seach for divinity so touch me that I keep looking back. I must go back to the ashram.