There’s a little blond boy crying at the bottom of the slide. Red lip out, chubby cheeks blotchy. Hair shimmering like a screaming cherub, trapped on the vinyl mat when really all he wants to do is fly. And his mother, tired, solid, pregnant belly under a fuchsia dress, breathes deeply and tries to find the inspiration for this moment. The insight that will keep her sane and poised instead of screaming and blotchy like the creature beside her. Because mothers long to be holy, sacred, strong. But the constant tugging on the mind and the skirt hem and the conversation, always with grubby, prying fingers, is enough to crumble the best of intentions. There’s only so much a guru can take. Which is why of course most gurus escape to the ashram and impose strict rules on the fingers around them- no tugging, no hitting, no talking most of the time. And they are proud of their enlightenment. But I say, who wouldn’t be enlightened under those circumstances? Anyone can achieve equanimity when their world is still and lovely and filled with rhythmic chanting and Indian breezes. Show me the spiritual master who is cooking supper and nursing and changing diapers and listening to the screaming of a two year old with a fever. That is the guru I want to follow, the kind of enlightenment I could respect and relate to. I’ll leave the ashram version to the faint of heart.