Meditative

I have been savoring a novel called The Mistress of Spices, by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni (Anchor, 1997), set in San Francisco, about an immortal woman whose mystical calling is to serve the spices in their magical aid to humans--for comfort, or harmony, or peace, etc., whatever the customers of her shop need.

It is, of course, a book about placing the spiritual needs of others above the physical desires of the self, and, in her attempt to help others, Tilo finds that she must not cut herself off from the world, though her calling requires her not to interfere in others' lives, just serve as the handmaiden of the spices to do their will.

And of course, the more involved in the outside world she becomes--for instance, she feels an attraction, perhaps even love, for the American--the less the spices speak to her. And I find that the more she is drawn away from her path, the less I want to read this book. I do not know if she will sacrifice her powers for earthly love, but I fear she might. And somehow, despite the richness and beauty of the book that I have read so far, I do not want Tilo to be yet another woman who must give up her dream, her soul, her being, her career for the fickle love of a man.

Perhaps, because there is a part of me who fears that very thing happening in my own life.