Finally We Realize That There Is No Path, No Way, No Solution; Because From The Beginning Our Nature Is The Path, Right Here And Right Now. Because There Is No Path Our Practice Is To Follow This No-Path EndlesslyâAnd For No Reward.
(Charlotte J. Beck)
Monica Kaye was a beautiful woman. Six foot one with long, wavy, naturally blonde hair and skin the color of Nivea Cream-she stood out in a crowd. Her large, almond-hazel eyes were alive with life and her general energy levels were expansive, even explosive. Most of the time an endearing smile lit up her whole face and she laughed frequentlyâa deep laugh coming directly from her heart. Her figure turned men's heads everywhere she went. An overly large bosom tapered into a tiny waist and the sleek hips below it led to athletic calves and narrow ankles. No doubt about it, she was stunning to look at-like a playboy model.
She lived in Burnaby, BC, on a suburban cul-de-sac near the oldest part of the city. Her home had a Tudor exterior and its yard was full of leafy oak trees, colorful rhododendrons and sea-green, lush ferns that all grew up on the outer perimeter of a well-clipped, emerald lawn. It was bordered by a fence with freshly painted brown pickets, each one of which was over six feet tall. The property had a mystical charm: well-kept but full of colorful gardens, stately oaks and plenty of runaway plants beyond that manicured lawn.
At twenty-eight, Monica was married to a successful electrician employed by Suncor. Currently, he worked in the Alberta oil sands ten days straight before flying home twice a month for a five-day weekend. His name was George Herbert Kaye and he loved his wife. He made good money and didn't drink or do dope while away working.
The couple wanted to start a family and had been trying to conceive a baby for over a year. Monica felt that having a baby would draw her closer to her husband and focus her abilities to be a loyal, loving wife. Her career as a self-employed web developer allowed her to work from home and created an ideal context for motherhood. She could keep working and also succeed as a mother and a wife.
Monica was a devout Buddhist and had spent time in two monasteriesâone in Sri Lanka and one in New Mexico. Her quest was always to uncover the truth about life, its purpose, her purpose. At the end of her wild hippie days, she got frustrated. "It's been fun," she thought, "but my life's going nowhere. I'm getting older with nothing to show for what I've done so far." It was then that she decided to get married and settle for conventional living. George was a handsome, hard-working guy she met in a bar soon after that. But her passion for life had not been quelled and her being was always open to urgings from the heart. Adventure was in her blood.
Her husband was not so adventurous. He'd gone straight out of high school into a vocational college and starting working right after graduation. His career goal was simple:-make enough money to buy the things he wanted, which wereâa well-built house, a Buick convertible and a Harley Davidson. He was not a Buddhist and actually had absolutely no interest in anything religious or spiritual.
On Tuesday, August 5
th
, 1998, Monica's doorbell rang out sharply at exactly 10:12 am.
"Well hello, Sally," she said, opening the front door. "What brings you around so early?"
"Just made some fresh cranberry muffins and thought I'd bring a couple over. They're still hot. Is coffee on?"
"Why yes it is, I've got lots left over from breakfast. Come on inâyou're such a good neighbor," she said as she bit her lip, while thinking, "Why does she come over so much?"
Sally was a short, stocky woman with a greasy pony tail, who lived next door in a slightly seedy duplex with a completely flat roof. Her house was well-constructed and a prime piece of real estate, but it needed a paint job and new gutters and there was too much moss on the roof. Sally didn't cut her grass or prune the ivy growing around her trees and thick blackberry bushes were spreading out over what used to be a well-maintained lawn. It got so bad that some of her neighbors complained to the city about the state of Sally's yard. Monica felt she was always too intrusive and got irritated at the way she constantly grilled her with silly questions. "Her questions are always so superficialâI like her friendliness but something about her gets on my nerves," she thought.
"When does George get home?"
"He'll be here tomorrow so I'm taking the day off work so we can get caught up on our marriage."
"I guess that means you'll be spending the day in bed," laughed Sally.
Monica smiled mischievously and replied, "I sure hope so."
"I'm jealous," said Sally. She'd been recently divorced and lived as a single woman now with two teenaged children. "I haven't had sex in over a year."
Sally was a traditional wife and had puritanical morals, as is typical for an evangelical Christian. Her values were predictable for a white, middle-class Canadian who watched televangelists much too often. She didn't smoke, swear, or go to dances and she attended church three times a week. She never thought outside the box and tended to be a bit noseyâoften showing up at Monica's place at the wrong times. She was critical of anyone who ventured outside traditional norms. However, as of late, she'd started drinking too much rum; she was gaining weight and getting very critical of others. "She's not a very happy person," thought her neighbor.
Monica was a good citizen as well, but had been wild, even rebellious, in her youth. She'd left home at sixteen and travelled around Europe and Asia for years before enrolling in a public college in California to study philosophy. Now that she'd settled down, her life had become routine, even predictable. More than anything she wanted to be happy in marriage, but for her it was going to be difficult. There were darker parts of her nature that she suppressed well but sometimes these parts created powerful compulsions that were extremely difficult for her to control.
What very few people knew about her was that she had a voracious appetite for sex. Despite the fact that she apparently adored her husband, who was a virile man and an adequate lover, she never felt fully satisfied by him in a physical way. They made love at least every other day when he was homeâbut it just wasn't enough for her. George was physically fit and knew what he was doing in bed, but often he moved too quickly and seemed more intent on gratifying himself than satisfying his passionate wife. Real orgasms were rare for her although she usually acted as though he was really turning her on.
But she never flirted with other men, or pursued any kind of unusual behavior-by herself or with others, and her frustrations were kept a secret. She always appeared to be a happy, well-adjusted person to the whole world. And in most ways, she was. No one but her could feel the sense of emptiness and meaninglessness that rose up inside her at times. Or the hot passion that threatened to erupt periodically. She was a sex addict and hated that part of her nature. Every time she even glanced at a handsome man she imagined making love to him, imagined being naked in his arms, open, surrendering to the rawness of his maleness. Her day dreams were usually forbidden fantasies with inappropriate men. One of her favorites was fantasizing about making love to young men, such as her weight-lifting and very muscular nephew Garnett, who was only nineteen years old. She visualized him giving her multiple climaxes and sometimes blushed in his actual presence.
"I don't want to be like this," she thought every time that part of her personality came up. "I just want to love my husband and be totally faithful to him in mind, body and spirit." But if you knew about her fantasies, you'd wonder how much she
really
loved him.
George arrived from Alberta on schedule and his dutiful wife was at the Vancouver International Airport in plenty of time to meet him.
"Hello, darling," he yelled out as soon as he passed through the Arrivals door.
"Hi, honey," so good to see you. I've missed you so much this month." She meant those words but spoke in a monotone. Despite her best intentions she sounded inauthentic.
"Me, too," he muttered as he smiled affectionatelyâhe'd really missed her and it showed. George was definitely crazy about his wife. She attracted him sexually and he loved her conversation, her sense of humor and her outrageous femininity. He loved her scent, which was always like a fresh orchid.
"You look absolutely exhausted, dear."
"I am. I've had to work all night for the past two days due to a plant emergency. The whole Suncor power grid failed and it took us forty-eight hours to fix it-and I think I'm coming down with a cold."
"Oh, no," she winced.
As soon as they pulled into their driveway at 2107 Maple Grove, George stopped the car and quickly jumped out.
"Darling, can you bring my duffel bag in? I'm going to crash for a few minutes?"
"Of course, dear," she replied.
Little did she know then that George was not destined to stay home very long on that weekend. He slept deeply all that evening and into Saturday morning. George worked hard when he was away and tended to get very lazy when he was home. Sometimes he just didn't read his wife's needs all that well.
