Sunday is my day for sinning

Sunday is my day for sinning. First, I have to be good and clean my house and teach my yoga class. But after that the day is all mine. After I walk the dogs and hang upside down, my inner sloth takes over. I reheat some brown rice, gently fry some free-range chicken eggs, mix it all up with some soy sauce and gomacio, slice in a ripe avocado or add some vegan spread, divvy it up with the begging dogs, crash on my mattress with a dozen books, magazines and a journal that I pretend I’m going to write in. In this respect my Life has changed little since I was twelve-years old. When I die and my Life Review whizzes by, one of the most memorable Sundays will be the time I found myself at a bed & breakfast in San Diego with a movie star handsome doctor who offered me a tiny tab of Ecstacy before it was illegal. At first the nun in me said, “No, I don’t do drugs….” but somehow while waiting for breakfast to arrive I drank some juice and swallowed it. Pretty soon I felt like I was moving up a cosmic elevator, like in that biblical passage, “In my father’s house are many mansions. . . ” and the room, my whole body and consciousness entered the most heavenly place. That morning I shed my Pentecostal inhibitions and floated in a different kind of church. But above all else the thing that strikes me now as I do these Life Reviews while still alive, is that our consciousness is capable of inventing every imaginable illusion whether by mind-altering substances or all the subtle forms of indoctrination. . . .

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