CHAPTER 1

KCT 17

"My life is unfolding in perfect divine order."

My name is Seema Trivedi Chandarana. At least, nowit is. And likely it will always be. You see, like manyother middle-aged women who have left a marriagebehind, I have had two last names, but what makes me unique is that Ihave also had three middle names. This is where my story begins.

At my birth, I was given the name Seema Kantilal Chandarana.When I was growing up in a mostly white neighborhood, the nameSeema was a blessing since it was easy to pronounce and phonetic inspelling. My brother, Anand, converted his name to Andy, while mymother, Paragini, used the pseudonym Peggy, and my father, Kantilal,took on the identity of Ken, although he was the furthest thing froma male Barbie doll. My mom tried to call me Sam or Samantha onoccasion, to make me "fit in" with my own family, but it never took, asthe name Seema (or Seems or Seemers to those closest to me) took to mereally well. It even turned out that when calling to order Chinese foodfor takeout, Dad would shorten our last name to Chan, as though weought to have been cooking Chinese food at home. So much wrappedup in a name. It's no wonder I've changed it twice and have received atleast six different permutations of it in my junk mail.

Now, if you've got an eye for details you'll notice that my middlename was the same as my father's first name. It's not because he adoredme more than anything else in the world. You see, my brother's nameis Anand Kantilal Chandarana, my mother's name is Paragini KantilalChandarana, and we even joked that if our dog had a birth certificate,it would have read Sparky Kantilal Chandarana. The Hindu traditionis very patriarchal by nature, and between each first and middle name,I can hear a little whisper of the word "of"—Seema "of" KantilalChandarana, Paragini "of" Kantilal Chandarana, Anand "of" KantilalChandarana, in case you ever forget to whom you belong, as though wewere all property of my father. As a young girl, I simply hated having aboy's name as my middle name. Every girl I knew had some sweet, easymiddle name like Beth, Lynn, or Grace. As a woman, I realize now thatthis name given to me at birth lit the first little flame under my innerfeminist's pants.

So, when I got married, I could hardly wait to dump my middlename. Problem was, according to tradition, my middle name wouldbe replaced from my father's first name to my husband's first name.When hell froze over! Now, my husband-to-be had a last name only oneletter shy of the number of letters in Chandarana, and the thought ofa hyphenated last name containing twenty characters was more than Icould bear. It seemed that the right way to maintain my sense of identitywhen entering this joint merger was to replace my middle name withmy last name. Finally, there would be no gap between the Seema andthe Chandarana.

Fast-forward eight years to the dissolution of my marriage, andso much of the foundation of my life, and you'll see a young womansearching yet again for a name that fit all that she had become. Nearly ayear had passed, and I still found myself signing my married name. Ona long weekend in Madrid visiting a friend, I paid the credit card billafter tapas one evening, and on the walk home, my friend opened thediscussion of my name. "I don't understand you Americans, changingyour name when you get married. We are given a name at birth and wekeep it until death. It's who you are, and who you are doesn't change,so why should your name?"

That conversation, and my romanticism for all things Spanish,led me to contemplate the perfect nature of the naming system in thisculture. Your mother and father choose a beautiful first and middlename for you (only they're not so much like Beth, Lynn, or Grace butmore like Isabel, Mercedes, or Graciela), and then you are awarded bothyour father's surname and your mother's surname. What a beautifulway to honor both parents equally (this pleases my inner feminist verymuch)! Another added benefit of this naming system is that it allows aperson to trace back a family tree as far and as widely as possible, lettingthat person know each generation's paternal and maternal heritage.Even better, every form you fill out in your life time has a space forall four of your names! Our culture has not managed to be quite soaccommodating yet.

Our conversation stayed with me all the way back to the States, andit stewed in my heart for a few more months until it finished cookingduring a weekend I drove out to Iowa. I was on my way to the Raj formy first panchakarma cleanse. The Raj is an amazing Ayurveda retreatcenter in Fairfield, Iowa, where the Maharishi set up camp. You know,the one that The Beatles studied with, the one George flew to India tosee and came back all enlightened and such. Yes, the Maharishi wasquite a sage, a genius devoted to the science of being, and a masterat the art of living. His legacy has left us with a completely sattviccommunity (in the middle of corn rows) where all the buildings faceeast to welcome the morning sun, and the entire community stops tomeditate twice daily. This was the place for me to learn how to live mybest life, and I felt at home surrounded by a community of yogis versedin both Sanskrit and the ancient teachings of India.

As it came to pass, the lady behind the reception desk commentedon my last name, Chandarana, with wonder and delight. "Goddess ofthe Moon! What a great name." This might have been the first timein my life I had not translated my name for a fellow American—thesepeople got it right away. Ha! I decided to have a little fun with that andtold the gal that my mom's maiden name was "Trivedi." Then, I sawit happen, what my favorite masi, my mom's sister, had been tellingme about for so long. A certain air of reverence and respect came overthe receptionist, and as her demeanor changed, so did mine. You see,Trivedi stands for three (tri) Vedas, as in Ayur-Veda. My mother's,and hence my own heritage is Brahmin, a priestly caste of people whoare well versed in the ancient sacred teachings. The name Trivedi wasawarded after having mastered the first three Vedas, thus deeming theperson with it liable for teaching the public these Vedas' contents. Theway the people there looked at me and treated me was unlike anythingI had known before. The respect that I saw reflected back in themawakened a dormant part of who I was at my core. And on my drivehome, my name finally came to me as a mix of my wannabe Spanishroots and my actual Indian roots: Seema Trivedi Chandarana.

But that's not where the story ends. Shortly after my name changewas legal and officially on my driver's license, I was driving with a friendwho innocently asked, "Seema, what's your middle name?" She thenheard the whole crazy story straight from my own lips. I was laughingas I told it, amused that anyone could go through so many derivationson the same few words. Still, I didn't piece it all together until it allcame together one night in a dream. I dreamed of my license plate,which reads KCT 17. Friends had asked me for years what it meant, asthough it were a vanity plate I had requested when buying my minivan.It seemed as though it could be. After all, the numbers and letters looklike initials followed by a favorite number. But they weren't my initials,at least not at the time, nor are they now. What they are, however, areeach of my middle initials, in the order in which I received them. Thatlicense plate was issued to me, and in so many ways I believe as wellthat my stories were too.

What then is the meaning of the 17, you wonder? I wonderedfor years too, until I realized that all I had to do was ask. So I putthe question out there and settled on the idea that when the answercame, this collection of stories would be complete. The book you holdin your hands is the evidence that we are always answered, so keepreading ... everything is unfolding perfectly for you!

CHAPTER 2

When in Doubt, Take a Taxi

"I am always in the right place, at the righttime, doing the right thing."

The title of this chapter appears on a long list of "Things ILearned" while spending a semester studying abroad. It's astory that takes place in Florence, Italy, but starts back inChampaign, Illinois. A sorority sister of mine had applied to study artin Newcastle upon Tyne, England. It made sense; she was an art major.To me, studying abroad sounded exotic, exciting, exuberant! I wanteda little piece of that, but I was enrolled as a mathematics major then. Infact, I graduated as a mathematics major. So it didn't seem I had muchbusiness in the study abroad office, except I've already mentioned mylove of all things Spanish, haven't I?

My friend, Sandy, had left sometime in late August, to go abroadfor the entire school year. Mind you, this was back before the days ofcell phones and reliable and readily accessible internet. E-mail was justemerging, and after registering at the university, I shamefully trashedthe notice regarding my e-mail account with other seemingly uselesspapers. It required some investigation to activate my idle account, but Ihad a great desire to keep connected to my friend. Once my account wasestablished, I voraciously read about her escapades, living vicariouslythrough her novel adventures, and she drew upon the familiarity of mytales of barhopping to stave off any homesickness that might have creptin. As the days grew colder and darker, I grew more and more ready tohop on a plane to the "Florida of Europe," and when I finally landed,I seemed so close to where my friend was that I immediately set intomotion plans to meet up with her.

At that time, the Universidad de Granada had three computers forall of the students to use, and I remember waiting in line for up to anhour sometimes just for a few moments to check my account. Despitethe technological obstructions, Sandy and I finally made plans to seeeach other. It just so happened that the week I would have a break fromclasses was the same week her class would be on a field trip to studyart in Florence, Italy. The timing was perfect! And although we didn'thave many (or any) of the details worked out, she did send the addressof the hostel her school had booked and the date they planned to arrive.I guess we figured we'd just take it from there.

As I emerged from the airport in Florence, I sat down on my suitcaseto get my bearings. I noticed a bright orange bus (it was kind of hardnot to notice it, actually) and drew upon old memories of having visitedItaly with my parents back in grade school. Dad was a fan of learning thepublic transport systems when we traveled. It saved money and helpedus blend in with the locals, or whatever. My Spanish was improvingafter six weeks immersed in the culture, and Italian is also a romanticlanguage. Perhaps I could figure out where the bus was headed, wherethe hostel was in town, and how close I could get to there, I thought. Inearly had it all put together, and in the same moment, that bus pulledaway. Of course, I was still sitting on my suitcase, and when I came outof my head long enough to notice the bus had left, I decided to take ataxi instead.

I handed the taxi driver a printout of the email Sandy had sentme, and he nodded, zipping away through the traffic. Were we headednorth? South? Into the city? In circles? At this point, all my faith,and my fare, were in his hands. He delivered me to a nine-foot solidwood door, and when no one answered the ring of the bell, I mademy way inside. A portly old Italian woman greeted me, and that'swhen I figured out all the Spanish I learned in textbooks at home andduring my weeks in Granada wasn't going to get me very far in Italy.So I thanked her kindly as she motioned me over to the couch in thewaiting room. Although she too had seen the e-mail I had printedout, I still searched for a business card or letterhead or something toconfirm that I was truly in the right place, on the right day, at the righttime ... and that's when two men, speaking very broken Italian, camein to check in with the signora. I hesitantly approached them asking,"Do you speak English?" I was delighted by their response of, "Are youlooking for Sandy?"

They led me down to the street where a great big charter bus waswaiting, and out rushed my friend with open arms and a little squealof joy. Oh to see a familiar face of a good friend in a foreign land! Shethen began to tell her tales of woe: an alarm clock that failed, a missedbus, a phone call to America in panic, and her determined mother whosaid, and I quote, "Sandy, you do what you have to. Seema will be therewaiting for you." (Th ank you, Mrs. J!) She had taken a train to race thebus to the English Channel to catch up with her group and pulled intothe ferry dock just moments before it sailed away.

Our reunion played out like a scene in a movie, and if there wereever a moment in my life to define the word "glee," this was it. It wasas though all of the forces in this time-space reality had conspired tobring the perfect alignment of details together so I could be standingon that sidewalk in Florence hugging my dear friend at just the momentwe both needed it most. I really didn't think it could get any better thanthat, until it did.

When we decided to meet there on that day, we still hadn't ironedout where I would stay. You see, Sandy was there on an excursion withher school group. The charter bus and accommodations were all part ofthe package deal. Me, I was more like a stowaway, happy to tag alongand take up as little floor space as possible for the night, or on the moreluxurious side of things, hoping to rent an extra room at the same hostelfor the duration. As it turned out, the day before the group set off, one ofthe girls had come down with mononucleosis. Of course, she was unableto travel, and as it turned out, she was also slotted to bunk in Sandy'sroom. So there it was, an open, prepaid bed waiting just for me.

I think this was the first time I noticed the forces greater than me atwork. It wasn't our e-mails or our intentions to meet up that made everydetail of our coming together happen so seamlessly. It was a conspiringfor the greatest good of everyone involved that orchestrated a perfectunfolding of events, and it seemed that was just the tip of the iceberg.

Thank you, Universe!

CHAPTER 3

Three is the Magic Number

"Every hand that touches me is a healing hand."—Louise Hay, Heart Thoughts

My belly had finally "popped," and using a rubber bandto hold my jeans together gave way to maternityjeans. In the sixteenth week of my first pregnancy,I could no longer hide the evident bulge of my expanding bump. Itseemed that as quickly as the excitement over showcasing my conditionin cutely tailored fashions designed just for that purpose had comeover me, it rapidly washed away. The rubber band on the jeans wasreplaced by the tight sensation of a rubber band stretching behind mynavel—my abdominal muscles, to be specific. And it itched! Only noamount of scratching on the outside would relieve the discomfort inside.Weekly updates on my baby's growth comparing it to the size of a fruiteach time—an olive by week eight, a lemon by week twelve, a mangoby week sixteen—left me 1) hungry and 2) with a heavy feeling, asthough my pelvic bowl were more like a fruit bowl. But the final strawwas the tightness in my chest as my ribs held tight to their mission ofprotecting such soft and vulnerable organs, failing to release enough toaccommodate our new resident.

That's when I decided that massage no longer fit the category ofluxury; rather, it became a necessity. I asked for a reference from theone person I trusted to know about the body, my yoga teacher, andshe gave me two. The first of the referrals offered what I interpreted asstandard body massage, and the other promoted craniosacral therapy,which I knew nothing about at the time. So I phoned a friend who hadrecently graduated from massage school for her opinion. Her responsestill fills me with laughter today: "I hate those people! I can never figureout how they do what they do, and it's so amazing!" The envy in mystudied and trusted friend was enough for me to consider the option,but truly, I'm not certain why I deliberated for so long. I could hardlyignore the divine pushes toward this work as the gal who offered thecraniosacral therapy lived on the next block from me!

That winter I donned my warm woolies and walked through thesnow down the street for six weekly, consecutive sessions. Birds chirped,squirrels scurried about, and the quiet of Sunday afternoons preparedme for what would come next. I remember being in tears when I toldher why I had sought her out, that with five more months of pregnancyremaining, I could barely imagine making any more room in my bodyfor my baby to grow. She set the intention to allow more space andfocused her mind and energy on accomplishing this goal as we set off todo the work on her table. I also remember remaining fully clothed whileher hands simply hovered over my body. I understood my friend's strongreaction to this type of work and could hear skeptical thoughts passthrough my mind, but it was easy to dismiss them, focusing instead onthe beautiful blue of her massage room, staying open to possibilities. Theperfect conditions for sprouting a miracle were set, and that's exactlywhat happened.

Exhaling slowly, I felt each vertebrae in my spine extend. Itseemed that I had grown an inch taller! I didn't have a moment tomarvel in the sensation before she said aloud, "Good, just like that,"and I thought, "Just like what? How does she know what I'm feelingwhen her hands aren't even touching me?" It didn't matter though.The shift had already happened, and her work for that session wascomplete. When I expressed my concern that coming off the tableand standing vertically might compress my vertebrae back to theiroriginal form, she lovingly assured me that it would not happen,today or ever. And she was right.

In subsequent sessions, I experienced the same synchronicity offeeling relief coordinated with her verbal expression of praise. Once,she laid her hands over me and helped to open up my pelvic cavity.The next day I felt lighter, and all day long people commented on howround my belly seemed, as I could feel that the baby now lay cradledlower in my pelvis, which now felt more like a snuggly bassinet than afruit bowl! In another session we worked on my rib cage, and I kid younot—I could not fasten my bra in the morning! Luckily, I discoveredI could purchase a little bra extender to add two more inches around,and I still marvel at how quickly the work took effect.