Kumari Ellis

Kumari is a Mullumbimby based author. Her novel about her mystical experiences in India is an absorbing and enlightening tale. Join her on a great adventure into one of the world’s most exotic and intricate spiritual cultures.

“I have always loved to write and it was six years ago that I first sat down to write this story of my time in India. Initially I had two days every week when I was released for a few hours of mothering duty, and in that time I would brew chai, and sit down to write. It was surprisingly easy for me to slip back to the days of India and I found great solace in doing so. It has been a lengthy process and I believe with this first manuscript I have learnt so much about the writing process. Indeed about myself as it took me beyond the edge of comfort at times with revealing more about myself than I ever set out to share. It is a story that wants to be shared and I found that the more I could get out of my own way and simply be present, to show up to the empty page, the more it revealed.”

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In three weeks time I leave for a short trip to India. I am going on a pilgrimage, part of a group taking the ashes of a dear friend to the Ganga. It will be six years, almost to the day, since I last visited this land that holds so much sacred for me. That last visit was fuelled by a strong pull to see Babaji.
The previous summer I had made an Indian lunch feast for friends. It was a refreshingly Indian gathering as we shared stories, spoke a little hindi and ate dhal chapatti and subze. As I was brewing chai a phone call took me completely by surprise: a deeply familiar voice that I had not heard in fourteen years. “Kumari, Prem Kumari?’ I knew immediately who it was. Over the next months we spoke often: the age of technology and Babaji had a mobile phone! In a mix of Hindi and English he told me what was growing in the ashram garden and who was staying there. He always asked what did I eat and how was my health. Did I grow my own vegetables? He quoted from the Bhagavad Gita, his favourite scripture, reminding me that all is the mind. Only God is real. Everything looking is God. Our phone calls invoked vivid memories of ashram life, sitting by his dhuni, smoking a beedi, his quietly spoken ways, the nod of his head, the way his dark eyes glistened. His often spoken words: all for God Kumari-ji, all for God. The dance of his hands as he made chapattis’, sacred fire, murmured mantras. It pulled at my heart that was often challenged by domesticity, motherhood and the routines required. I found myself all too easily drawn to his ashram nestled in the hills, snow peaks above and eagles wheeling free against the blue. Caught between two worlds I started to leave longer gaps before returning unanswered calls.
Then one night I dreamt vividly of him. He had come to visit me and we were walking up to the lighthouse. He wore his faded orange lunghi and russet red woollen waistcoat. He carried his kamandal as he always did when walking in the hills. As we stood gazing out to the infinite blue of ocean and sky I asked: ‘Babaji how long can you stay?’ He turned to me with those eyes full of light. ‘I have never been apart from you. I am never leaving you.’
I knew I had to answer the strong pull to visit him. My kids were five and just turned eight, and had already been three times to India, to the holy mountain Arunachala and the ashram of Sri Ramana Maharshi.
November in the foothills of the Himalayas is already cold. Skies clear and blue as we wound our way up the zig-zag road to Macloed Ganj. Of course the place had changed in the fourteen years since I last visited. The hillside visibly groaned with the extent of development. Maruti vans whizzed dangerously along the crowded narrow streets, and the increase in middle class Indian tourism was obvious. Monkeys swung from the wires strung across the street, and the familiar sight of Tibetan nuns and monks filled my heart.
The forest was quiet and still. Deodar pines leaked their fragrance. The bridge over the small river new and wide and the gate too had been replaced and the entrance more defined. The ashram extended with a double story building behind the temple, the fluttering flag and the low rooved buildings of my era. A straggle of red dahlias tied up with string. Red geraniums spilt from rusty tins.
He is in the small kitchen in the new area of the ashraam. ‘Ho ho’ he calls, as he sees us. And then he holds my head for a moment with his wide brown hands and I can smell his fragrance of juniper wood and incense and beedis. His hair grey now and beard too, resting half way down his chest. Our foreheads touch for a moment before he pulls back. ‘Tickhe kumari ji? Tickhe? He asks, just as he did all those years ago when our lives entwined.
We stayed a month in the ashram, my kids and I. It was a time I will treasure always. If you have not read Tracing the Moon here is an excerpt from the early days after I first met Babaji, so many moons ago now. I hope you enjoy. Hari Om.

He has remained in the attic of my mind but now steps clearly into my thoughts. I smile as I cross the wooden bridge. The stream is full with snowmelt, and the gate creaks as it opens. The silence of the deodar forest whispers a blessing. The garden beds are bare and I pause at the temple, fold my palms to the lingam. A smudge of incense still burns and an oil lamp flickers. The gentle sense of belonging as my soul knows this imprint.
Smoke curls from the roof just as it did six months before. ‘Namaste!’ I call and I pause just a moment before looking around the doorway. Babaji sits by the fire. His face remains curt, then in a moment smiles wide. ‘Ho, ho! Namaste!’
I realise how much I have wanted this welcome, his recognition.
‘Behtou, behtou!’ [Sit, sit!] He tells me, gesturing with his hand.
The fire is neat, a small glow of flame under the pot. The tridents have fresh orange marigolds strung around them and the silvery ash is smooth. Babaji wears thick socks and a cream blanket around his shoulders. His beard seems longer and his hair is tied in a neat knot as if recently oiled.
‘When you come?’
‘Last week, Babaji.’
‘Accha.’ He is silent again and I am quick to fill the space.
‘What are you cooking, Babaji?’ The aroma is like the forest - dank,
mysterious and fecund.
‘This medicine. Leaf boiling, tea coming. Good for body
when cold time.’
‘Winter time must be very cold. You have much snow?’
‘Winter time is winter time.’ He holds my gaze. ‘Everything resting,
much time for looking God, inside.’ He places his hand over his heart. ‘Much snow coming. Beautiful looking.’

‘You learning some English, Babaji?’
He laughs his light laugh, flashing white teeth. ‘One Israeli boy stay, speaking some Hindi. Me little English learning.’
I lean back against the whitewashed wall and tuck my legs beside me. The burlap sack curtain at the doorway lets the cold wind seep in and I pull my shawl tight.
Babaji takes a small pot from the shelf and throws in a handful of tea from a jar. He unwraps a cloth bundle and empties cardamom pods into his hand. He breaks the tight pods open, crushes the black seeds between his fingers then tips the lot into the pot. Then pours water from the fire-blackened kettle and rests the pot on the fire.
‘Chai piou?’ [Tea drink?]
He pours milk from the kamandal by his side and watches the brew rise as it boils then pours the chai into two stainless steel cups.
The chai is sweet and creamy and the cardamom is rich. Babaji slurps noisily and lights a beedi. He passes the packet to me and I take one. These little rolled up bits of tobacco leaf are hard to keep alight and after relighting it a couple of times I give up.
Babaji laughs. ‘This Indian smoke. Sometimes smoking, sometimes no smoking.’
I let my unease vanish with the smoke. This is too good to be distracted by my inner chatter. It is six months since I sat on this earth floor. There have been so many images, experiences and emotions – stories grand and dismal. Yet here I am, in surroundings unchanged. Even the cat sits in her place on the window ledge. I’m invited in too – to sit within myself in that place of rest. To notice the chill as the breeze moves through, to hear the layer of sound as nature sings her song, a profound quiet that fits like a glove.
I rinse my cup then sit for a while longer. Time has no hold. No idle chit-chat, just sitting. Babaji sits with his eyes mostly on the fire. Every now and again he looks up.
‘Tikhai, sub tikhai?’[Everything okay?] ‘Sub tikhai,’ I repeat. [All good.]

I have no idea how long we sit but the cat awakens and stretches before disappearing out through the sack door.
‘Your country going?’ he asks.
‘No, I went to Thailand to make new visa for India.’
‘Accha, Calcutta going?’
‘Calcutta very big city! I saw many Kali shrines.’
‘Ah Calcutta is Kali’s place. You go Ramakrishna temple?’
‘No. No I didn’t.’
‘Ah, very strong place. Ramakrishna number one Indian saint.’ He
nods and falls again to silence. I don’t want to overstay my welcome for this first visit and decide to take my leave.
As I stand and arrange my shawl he looks up. ‘Going?’ ‘Yes, Babaji, going.’
‘Namaste, Babaji.’
He nods briefly. ‘You come sometime, eating time, afternoon time.’ My first official invitation – and as I walk back through the forest I wonder why I left so soon.
The very next afternoon I visit again. A cold rain falls and stings my warm cheeks. I hurry up the path through the garden.
‘You no umbrella taking?’ He tuts as I arrive with wet hair and my shawl too damp to wear. He fetches another. It smells of him: incense and wood smoke. The room is cosy with the burlap sack down and the fire burning free.
‘Tikhai, Babaji, tikhai.’ I settle cross-legged. Babaji sits as he always does, smoking a beedi, glancing at me. A pot sits to the side of the fire and the aroma of cumin seeps unseen.
‘You eating?’
‘Thank you, Babaji.’
From the storeroom he fetches a bowl of flour then squats again. He pours water from the kettle then kneads the mixture with hands that are sure and strong. He breaks the dough into little balls, places a chapatti plate on the fire to heat, and rolls the dough on the wooden board, thick perfect circles. He puts one on the hot plate and rakes glowing embers from the fire for the half cooked chapatti to rest against. After a moment the chapatti puffs and browns. His hands dance as they work, intent on his task until a pile of wrapped chapattis sit on the lid of the pot by the fire. He replaces the kettle, tidies the fire, takes the flour bowl to the tap and disappears outside.
Watching his routine soothes me. It is like watching an artist who has perfected their craft; the simplicity of his actions reassures me that all is in order. All is well. Ritual gives definition to the sacred. I hear the temple bell ring. Babaji returns with a stick of incense, sits again then waves it around the fire, murmuring, ‘Om, Om, Om,’ with his hand on his heart. Every action is precise. He breaks a piece of chapatti, spreads it with ghee and places it in the fire, then carefully throws a handful of sugar into the flames with a few more ‘Om’s’. The sugar flashes blue in the fire. With his palms together and eyes closed he prays, softly, as if the gods are near enough to hear. ‘Hari Om,’ he finishes.
If there is such a place as heaven, this will do it for me. Sitting by a dhuni – a sacred fire – with a sadhu about to serve me food, food offered to the gods first. I savour each mouthful – kidgeree, rice and dhal cooked together with cumin, turmeric and ginger. A spoonful of ghee on top melts to a pool and thick chapattis scoop the food into my mouth. Sitting here by his fire, I feel something of what I am searching for.
Babaji eats quickly.
‘Chapatti more? Rice more?’ he asks.
‘Bas, Babaji, bas.’ I finish up and take my plate to the tap. With a
scoop of ash I clean the plate and lean it against the wall to drain. I take my place again as he puts the black kettle back on the flame.
‘You like this sitting is better,’ he tells me as I cross my legs. He sits on his heels, with his legs folded beneath him, his back straight as a rod. He nods as I do the same. ‘This way sitting better for food stomach going.’
I smile. ‘Babaji, you much English learning.’
‘Accha?’ He looks at the fire then adds: ‘All for time pass. This doing, that doing, all for time pass.’ His eyes again fall to the flicker of flame. After a moment he adds, ‘Only for God looking. God looking, then no problem.’
Silence settles all around. The kettle boiled, he again piles the fire with wood and the flames surge and sway in the cold breeze that comes through the small opening of window.
Day is losing its light to a moonless evening. ‘Night soon coming,’ I say. Time to go before dark descends. ‘Thank you, Babaji, namaste.’
‘Hari Om, Hari Om. Sometime you coming, no problem.’
I climb back up the path through the deodar pines, the wind cold and the night descending. It suits me, I note, this climate, the freshness of the air and the smell of fires from the village below drifting in the trees. I reach Rishi Bhawan and unlock my door. A moment of fear rises in my throat as I realise my vulnerability at staying here alone. No doubt the other rooms will fill fast once the days warm. I light the fire, and sit watching the flames before turning in early for sleep.
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2 months ago

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I hope you will visit Ramana's it will be so wonderful to see you after all these years and show you what your hands planted the seedlings for that is now flowering here on Mother Ganga's holy banks.

Thank you for sharing this intimacy Kumariji. I feel very strongly the connection you have with Babaji. I feel it because of the intimate way you have of sharing this love. It pierces and warms my heart. I am very happy you get to go to see Babaji again. Blessings and heart are warm with this reading.

❤️ I just arrived in Delhi last night! Here for a few days before going up to Bhutan with Gail. Back in Delhi just for one night 1-2 November. Wishing you a blessed time here 🙏🏼

Lovely to read, Kumari, very evocative… Sometimes I miss the simplicity of my sadhu years too… ❤️

Boas tardes também. Amém

Tenha uma linda viajem!!!

Boas tardes também. Amém

Vais seguir a jornada da Ellis?

Travel safe my friend xoxo😎

Na sua volta se possível gostaria de estar com vc bjs



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Spring is subtle in these semi tropical surrounds. First the peach blossoms, deep magenta and the gentle hum of bees delighting in their spoils. The sun creeps south, and trees begin to flower. She-oaks erupt in copper and the landscape is parched. It’s been many weeks since rain spilled from above. It’s all blue skies and golden light. New growth shimmers and shines, and the red cedar dresses’ herself with delicate lacy leaves. The evening air is heady with jasmine. The season of rebirth and daily miracles as over some hours I watch a rose unfurl her peachy petals. The garden is a feast of colour. The creeper, run amok through the bottle-brush tree, fills with mauve flowers; petunias and phlox, velvet-red roses all in celebration. Love is in the air as a top-notch dove coos and curtsies, his tail fanned out, feathers plumped up.
The clients I work with are in the winter of their days, the twilight hours. Loss is a dominant theme of their sharing. Loss of friends, siblings, a generation of family connections, loss of mobility, loss of independence, loss of control, and very often loss of their life partner as theirs is a generation where divorce was seldom. ‘I have no one to talk to when I go to bed’, Elva tells me with a tear rolling down her face. She cannot stand fully upright and reminds me of a bird.
Old age brings loss of voice, of being heard, of being seen as a person - with a tapestry of experiences woven to make the thread worn person they now are. Old age is not pretty. Wrinkles serve as road maps and bodies soften and sag. Lonely souls left alone to pass the time, and time slows right down when your independence is restricted to the basic requirements.
Last week a client told me she is ready for death: ‘waiting for the lord to call me home. Its been a hard life and I have had enough’. I cannot disagree. Not all feel this way. Norma is 93 and negates the challenge of old age. ‘It’s up to you darling’, she tells me, ‘It is what you make it’. Norma wears red lipstick and once a week goes to the club for a drink with her friends. Not many left now, but enough to sit around a table and share a yarn. ‘I don’t expect to do what I did when I was sixty’, she tells me with a smile. ‘No, if the crystal glasses need dusting well to hell with it. It can wait’. And she laughs. Her husband was one of the few survivors of a Japanese prison of war camp.
Sylvia Boorstein, the well-known meditation teacher, reflects on her life: ‘Life at 80: well, everything becomes precious’ and it seems that we need these reminders at whatever age we are. It is so easy to feel that old age and death are some far off markers in a distant horizon. After all it was sickness and death that watered the seed of awakening in the young Gautama.
Four years ago I was diagnosed with an aggressive breast cancer. It was not a tidy cancer. Two tumours in my breast, a large one close to the chest wall, and already spread to the lymph where another tumour had formed. A year of treatment and the anxiety easily associated with such a diagnosis lingered. In that first year not many days would pass without the thought of what if it comes back? It faded with time, as all things tend to. Recently the dormant seed of fear at the possible reoccurrence stirred. At work a case study scenario of a diagnosis not unlike mine own, then recurred some years later in lungs and bones, the client now palliative. It undid the knot of the unknown enough to feel the tremble. My heart is now left exposed. No soft roundness of breast to cover, just a thin white scar across my heart.
And at the end of the day it is our conversation with our self that peace of mind depends on. We don’t know what life will bring, when sickness might visit, when death will knock on our own door, or that of a loved one. As Thich Nhat Hanh says: the present moment is our greatest teacher.
Hari Om Tat Sat
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3 months ago

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I'm sensing a new book coming from you young Lady <3

Thank you for this Kumari.


Such precious sharing - thank you for your stark courage x

Thank you Kumari your writing is profound - keep on sharing this with world ❤️🙏❤️

Lindo texto!!!


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here is a recent review: Thank you Lin for taking the time to write.......
I recently read Tracing the Moon and found it riveting! So enthralled was I, that I cancelled my weekend to dive deeply into an amazing depiction of an adventurous woman's powerful experiences in India. Kumari took me into a deep inner journey of profound connection as she so honestly shared herself, and those she encountered. It lasted with me for days after. I can't wait for the sequel and would love to see a movie made! Lin Bell
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3 months ago

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it would be an awesome movie for sure!

Tonight a night sky etched with silvers and steel...a gathering of ethereal cloud around the moon in a feathered lacy display. As if drawn in charcoal. The moon growing, groaning with the weight of light. the red cedar a silhouette of fingers pointing upwards. Fingers pointing at the moon.
It’s all ups and downs, sharp edges and softer openings. These moments of painted landscapes creations of glory, given freely. The landscapes we move within, traverse and travail. Daily. The Pysisiphrous legend alive in our own lives. Pushing boulders up hill, only to roll back down ready to begin all over again. it is these landscapes that offer us the resting.
Provide building blocks to strengthen the container of our heart. The space where stories do not reach and expansion can occur. Hari Om Tat Sat
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3 months ago

As long as name and form is there there is a dream.

And before the dream, there was no name and no form,
means sleep state.

Wake up!

If you wake up from this dream, you will not sleep at all.
And not dream at all.

How to wake up? Question, "Who am I?"

You will wake up to That.
You will wake up to Awakening!
You will wake up to Awareness.

And you will never fall asleep again, any time again.

Samsara will end.
Karma will cease to function.

This is called waking, this is called waking state.

- Om Sadguru Dev -
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5 months ago

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youtu.be/Y2zPV42dnJU this is really special....if you can take time out in the day and watch, do so...... so important to slow down and take time out of the incessant business many of us feel. Hari Om901230, a Sunday, the part before the Q&A. The video is archive video from 1945-1949. If Robert was 18 when he arrived at Ramanashram, he should have been th... ... See MoreSee Less

6 months ago

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Wonderful ... thank you

Over this last week death laid a place at my table and sat down to join me. Like a friend or relation living overseas and seldom seen, even though their existence is not doubted their presence is little felt in day to day living. On the 15th march it was 8 years since my father died. I was surprised and awed to find easy tears, aches in my body, thoughts of him and the deep sadness of loss. My relationship with my father had many complexities and so too is the grief. It was the day the rains finally came. During the previous night the long anticipated release of pent up greys, black dense clouds looming over the horizon, the air thick and panting. Flood rains and the school evacuated. I drove around the shire visiting clients with wild winds and rain throwing itself at the windscreen. That evening as I sat for agnihotra the flame would not take hold. The dampness seeped inside everything. I gave up as the patties glowed red for only moments, recited mantras and offered ghee and rice to a smouldering billowing smoke. A thick grey smoke that curled and danced around me. I offered it all to the ancestry of my father, remembered again so clearly the phone calls sharing his sudden demise. Not so sudden I would learn after I flew to the UK a few days later. His stoic denial of the extent of the disease left a legacy in itself.
I sat until only a pile of ash remained. No sunset colours that night. The sky awash with grey,falling rain and not even the hill line of the western horizon visible.
Agni Hotra has many benefits for healing, purification and harmonizing the environment on an emotional physical and etheric plane. An ancient vedic practise performed in Indian villages still. The simple act of making a small fire, laying cow dung in a brass vessel, spreading ghee, lighting the flame. Watching it slowly take hold, build up, singing mantras softly as kids jump on a trampoline and neighbourhood dinners mingle with the fragrance of ghee and cow dung. A fragrance that invokes visceral memories of India and the longing can be held to the side, as mantras slip from my tongue. the dying down, the reduction of it all to ash.
The following day the rains lifted and cloud forms created artworks in the heavens. Mists hung in the valleys. Swollen muddy rivers rushed on their way, fields lay awash. A client had particularly difficult wounds. As I attended her needs her old dog, companion of 16 years was brought in on a lead - definitely no purebred, with patchy brown fur and a growing tumour visible on her side. I witnessed the goodbye. The dog gently wagging its tail as she trustingly ambled out, on her way to the vet to be put down. Tears streamed down her face, my own too, and when I finally finished my job packed up my things and said goodbye she was sitting outside on the porch and her sobs were loud and heartbreaking.
Over the weekend I read ‘when breath becomes air.’ A poignant, beautiful memoir of a neurosurgeon’s demise with aggressive cancer. It touched on my own memories, although of course our journey with this shared diagnosis have ended very differently. It is almost 4 years now since I was diagnosed. A couple of weeks ago I did see the surgeon. The fact that my surgeon was a woman I feel always grateful. If anyone was to be the last person to touch and hold my left breast I cannot be displeased that it was her.
Another reminder to live life with gratitude, to take each day not for granted but the extraordinary opportunities presented to see beyond the hallucination of separation. To be vigilant, mindful, to slow down and rest in the pause whenever that vigilance allows; a compassionate witness to the endless this and that’s, yes and no’s, contraction and expansions of the heart. Take time to sit each day, to remember and nurture that which sustains it all. Remain in gratitude for it all.
Hari Om Tat Sat.
Vulnerable. ….St Catherine of Siena
Vulnerable we are, like an infant.
We need each other’s care
Or we will

Everything I see, hear, touch, feel, taste,
Speak, think,
Is completing a perfect circle
God has drawn.

Meister Eckhart
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9 months ago

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You have heart of empathy, compassion and love that was seen through this elegant writing

TQ <3 ... wow... touching - moving - beautifully written. Blessings. xoxo

So beautifully Expressed Dear Friend. I wrap my arms around you even if it is from afar. One heart...

Thank you darling for sharing 💚 Beautifully written

Thank- you for sharing this❣


Beautiful yes thank you <3

How beautifully you communicate. ❤️



The rain falling over the ocean of water, will it continue to desire that notion to be a drop of rain even when melting. This reality of falling doesnt even occur for the water as the air is already humide. It is then a notion for the rain, a momentum in time and space of the mind. Not even 'falling into', we are Beingness eternal and full consciousness-joy. I can retain past meetings, who I was then is that I Am now, no more no less. Body is just a image.

Excellent Kumariji If you had a blog this would sit regally in it xx

Ah..thank you Kumari beautifully touching

Beautiful! Heartfelt thanks for sharing this.🌸💚🌸

Hari om <3 <3 <3 namaste dear Kumari <3 <3 <3

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A film by: Neal Howland - Facebook.com/Neal.Howland.3 Editing, Grading & Sound Design: Neal Howland Music: Speak, We're Listening - Ryan Taubert (MusicBed.com) Words:… ... See MoreSee Less

10 months ago

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I LOVED this, thank you Kumariji!

Loved this video

a beautiful film of Ramana Maharshi..the sage of Arunachala.......and his teachings of self inquiry"Seek for the source of the doubter and you will find that he is really non-existent." "Doubter ceasing, Doubts will Cease." ~Peace&Love~Subscribe~Share a sm... ... See MoreSee Less

10 months ago

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this is the latest review of Tracing the Moon on Amazon... by Gina Bloom A modern woman's odyssey.

Kumari Ellis is a wonderful writer, insightful, clear and poetic. Her memoir is a well-constructed and engaging read. The nearest comparison is Eat Pray Love, but Tracing the Moon takes the art of memoir to a completely different level.

Where Tracing the Moon has a similar exotic appeal, and range to Eat Pray Love, and certainly at least as much psychological depth, it is probably better-written in its descriptive richness. As a travelogue alone it is a brilliant and informative window into the experience of a Western seeker at a time when many Westerners started experiencing India's attractions. Kumar's clarity of expression is Hemingway-like in its spareness. Her descriptive capacities, whether turned to the subject of the English countryside in Spring or the grandeur of light changing over the high Himalayas recall Lawrence Durrell at his very best.

However Tracing the Moon is much more than either memoir or travelogue. Kumari's depth of experience, and the wisdom she has acquired along the way is the work of a true spiritual teacher. Often I experienced a quality of satsang reading Tracing the Moon. The writing communicates a felt-sense of the transmission and transcendence of spiritual experience, sacredness , peace and profundity.

And for all this richness and depth, Tracing the Moon is also the story of a survivor, and presents a candid, though exquisitely and sensitively unfolded, story of the impacts of insidious childhood trauma that will be familiar to many of Kumari's readers.

And on top of this there are wonderful portraits of both Kumari's spiritual and psychological progression and of the many friends and mentors that accompanied her on this modern hero's journey.

Tracing the Moon would make an engaging (and probably highly successful) movie!

I lent my copy to a friend, who lent it to a friend and its still doing the rounds of my friendship circles. No-one is able to put it down!
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11 months ago

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wow, couldn't have said it better... I had a profoundly expansive experience reading Tracing the Moon, and going to read it again soon. <3

Congratulations on this fantastic and highly deserved review xxx

Was/ is a wonderful journey that i am so happy i participated in by reading. Kumari weaves a wonderful web and hoping that a sequel in in the making. It would make a great movie xox

Thanks for sharing, I will read the book.

I loved this book

I read it twice

Your Most Wonderful Book! 💚💚💜💚💚

Well done Kumari ! Maha blessings. Xxx

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