I laughed. I cried. It was better than CATS.
The workshop was grand, thanks. Self-costumed in a “Spiritual Gangster” flashdance outfit (replete with legwarmers, of course) I danced with abandon, loved like a four year old child on a sugar bent, felt an ongoing essence of oneness in the universe and at one point had a good ten minute period where I witnessed: “Holy sh#* I’m totally like Keanu Reeves in “The Matrix” where he’s breathing the world. This is AWESOME.”
There were many more deep, fun, funny, sparkly, crazy things that happened over the course of the workshop, but detailing them doesn’t really suit the practical or philosophical proclivities of this post.
Let’s talk about bile, baby.
We were there for energy, getting it, moving it, giving it, absorbing it, regurgitating it. And although you would think this’d be all easy, hippie, om shanti sunshine and snapdragons, each of us experienced severe physical reactions to what our bodies were processing.
For three days, in a direct juxtaposition to my constantly on-the-go nature and more recent well-rounded relationship with food, I tangoed with fits of narcolepsy and benders rivaling Anthony Bourdain's most adventurous forays into food. Literally all of my free time outside of the workshop was in front of the fridge or on my mattress. An involuntary nap, and then multiple dinners and straight snacking until I passed out.
Outside of the townhouse walls where the workshop was held, there was something in my mouth or in my hand on the way to my mouth, and many times, both, at all times.
I visited the Fairway on the Upper West Side and the Gourmet Garage in the West Village within only a three hour window, vacuuming loads of groceries into my arms at each visit.
My friends suffered through my string of jokes: “I think I’m pregs with mukti.” “Just in time for Easter and Passover… kids, I think I literally may be housing the second coming of Christ.”
When two other slim, sexy girlfriends echoed “Ohmigod, TOTALLY. I CANNOT stop eating—it’s like it’s out of control! I’m so glad it’s not just me!,” I then definitively surmised in dry mock seriousness:
“Guys… It’s ‘cause we’re giving birth to the awakening.”
I was only half kidding.
It seems that the labor pains of life increase profusely when pertaining to pursuits in levels of consciousness.
The day following this workshop, the woman closest to me right now (who would really be more aptly labeled sister than friend,) had to cancel all of her clients and reached out through the course of the day in a play by play of her processing which was coming out of every uncomfortable end.
Another injured her hip to the extent that she was searching for crutches to borrow in Manhattan via Facebook status updates.
There are sacred ceremonies I have participated in, and although I will not detail them here out of respect to the secrecy needed in order to maintain their authenticity, I will say, that one sits down in a room of strangers, you are handed a bucket and a roll of toilet paper and you become intimate with those objects over the course of eight hours.
That stuff is weird.
And it’s gross.
Why do we need to discuss this, Margaret?
Although purging is its own rite of passage and many spiritual traditions will take on these practices as part of ancient rituals still subscribed to, we can manage without detailed accounts of classified religious sacraments or the likes of colon hydrotherapy and panchakarma for now.
What interests me more here, is the way that life overtakes our physical body when we don’t want it to, and how to get past it. It’s not knowingly and consciously undertaking a fast or entering a sweat lodge. It’s the car accident that wakes you up, the broken leg that slows you down just when you’d just hit your invincible speed, or puking your guts out after a weekend workshop.
There is some kind of physical transmutation that coincides with large amounts of change or energy going through the human body. On one hand, it is so impossible to believe that anything mental or “spiritual” could cause these kinds of physical reactions. One could argue, is it not psychosomatic? Well, precisely… what if it is?
What if the association between our brains and our conditioned thought patterns is so linked to our nervous system and physiology that the only way we can release these connections is through a physical dispelling or protection, manifested in various symptoms, whatever they may be.
If a door slams on my hand, I will cry. That is a release. If a guy slams on my heart, I will also cry. The same physical release, although one is an emotional reaction where the other is a physical pain. Is the door slam more valid because matter, velocity and the width of a doorframe can quantify it?
Our bodies and our lives speak to us through these experiences. What that means specifically is an ongoing exploration, but more pressingly, how can we process them? How do we accept where we are with grace when the better part of a rainy Monday is spent with a sweaty forehead dry heaving across the American Standard toilet logo? Or... can eating through four tubs of hummus, two chocolate bars and a pound of organic raw cashews justify as energy needing to ground itself?
Louise Hay’s work is a voyage into these concepts—correlating health and a conversation with our bodies. Her aptly titled “You Can Heal Your Life” is a bible for self-administered mind/body medicine. For example, for the friend/sister sacked with nausea, Hay would list the probable cause as “Fear. Rejecting an idea or experience…” and offers the new thought pattern of “I am safe. I trust that the process of life to bring only good to me.”
My nauseous sistah called me throughout the day yesterday, needing support. She’s so dear to me, I probably spend more time worrying about her than I do myself, the way we needlessly do with those close to us, in some kind of maternal instinct to want to take care of her.
I tried, but it seemed no amount of wisdom or words of solace could comfort her pain. She offered a respectful “I think you need to see that we are processing differently here, I really am not well,” when I think what she really meant was “bitch, I’m on my knees at death’s door, don’t tell me that a massage and a jog by the Hudson made you all dandy.”
What was I doing wrong? How could I help to ease her pain?... because my words weren’t cutting it.
Last night I watched the emotive “Ram Dass: Fierce Grace” documentary. Toward the end of the film he is a counseling woman whose lover had been brutally murdered. Ram Dass was able to be caring, giving her the space to express emotion yet still gently guiding her to experience her pain without wallowing in it. What was most beautiful and enlightening to watch was his reaction to the woman when she told him of her worry that she would not find a love like that again. The deceased boyfriend “visited” her later and told her there was a much larger love in store for her:
“This was small peanuts. And when you find that love, I am part of it.”
Ram Dass responded with an involuntary “Yum yum yum yum” (the bija mantra associated with the heart chakra is ‘yum’, btw) and then he broke out into tears. Tears of beauty; vocal, guttural sobs of empathic pain collocated to the extent that the joy and suffering were at once indistinguishable; a primal yin and yang exposition encompassing both the darkness of despair and a miracle of hope.
This was such a gorgeous lesson for me personally because it so clearly illustrated a twofold process of what we are looking for with comfort. And although he was concerned with grief and a tragic incident this woman was working through, we can use the same concepts in dealing with physical ailments as our bodies process the lessons were are struggling to incorporate into our hearts and minds. The vomit of life comes both in a physical and emotional realm.
We want to be heard/supported in the moment, and we want to be told it will be okay in a larger landscape of the world/life/day.
Faith can provide this for us. A friend may be able to lead us to that faith. If you have Ram Dass handy, it's going to be a pretty spectacularly clear lesson.
However, there are times that no one can offer us relief or consolation. Although it may look like bile, or a fridge and tummy full of too much food, this, even, is a gift from faith itself so that we, in a last vestige of surrender, finally turn to seek that strength within ourselves. If we step up to take responsibility for even our most uncomfortable ailments, we open ourselves to the luster of life.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
the deeksha side of things
Almost six years ago, I walked into the Quad Cinema on 13th street, and exited: changed. My life was perfectly poised for a post apocalyptic rebirth. That particular day’s minefield included sleeping on the couch in a loft I painstakingly designed and called home with a soon-to-be ex in the next room, and a familial situation in Chicago convoluted enough to be dramatically on par with Tracy Letts’ characters in AUGUST: Osage County.
The film was “What the Bleep do We Know” and it blew my mind. Production values and creative flaws aside (which could be designated as: not so great and many, respectively,) it introduced me to the idea of quantum physics and ushered in a subsequent voracious study period in said physics concepts. Immediately, I went home and ordered several books on Amazon regarding the subject, as well as sending duplicates to my friend Logan who was with me. I was disparate that I’d need to wait for delivery, so impassioned was I, and would have given a considerable caboodle for a Kindle on that day.
The idea that there is a connection between all of us, a desk, a tree, the 79th street Subway station, my mom’s nail polish, Clinton’s cigars, what have you, that could be quantified in a quantum field was intriguing to me beyond words. It rang true. This source/power/force as an overriding, inextricable oneness made infinite more sense than: “Jesus Christ died for your sins. Now go tell the old guy in the wooden booth how you’ve been a bad girl this week.”
I liked the language of these explorations, the basics of these connections. Now, of course the scientific community does not see this as a watershed film and it only gives the loosest skimming of some of quantum physics’ tenets, but that was irrelevant in my case on that day, because the film was a doorway to an idea I had never considered. Film as guru: A way to access, study, be inspired by ways of approaching energy.
I have an extremely low tolerance in my life for bullsh#*. (pardon my French) Perhaps a gentler way of saying that is that my go-to place is one of brutal honesty. For those who are compassionately blessed with innate levels of tact, I can be seen as hard. Every once in a while I will still see a friend wince when I haven’t sugar-coated something enough for him/her. Much of my personal development has been geared to softening edges so as not to inadvertently slice into the hearts of those I’d like to keep around me. That being said, in the land of woowoo spiritual ideas, one can come across a lot of bullsh#*. Or at the very least, things that are presented in a manner so holy and gently, they never resonated with my urban disposition.
The idea of working with energy intrigued me, but in my quest I found it all to be dispassionately vague and incoherent. When a best girlfriend during that war-torn time would try to help me out of the surrounding hostility that was my life, providing generous reiki sessions, the effects seemed to be nebulous at best. I’ve already expressed my disdain for all things too “precious” concerning spirituality or energetic resources, and although I’m certain at the time I was more bitter and armored than a dandelion and bullet-proof vest burrito, reiki was not making any noticeable progressive changes in my life. Yoga made me feel better, but I didn’t really know why. My personal experience with tapping into energy was gross at best, and I had a thirst for more.
Cut to: Incredible India. Adriana was a ridiculously stunning woman… A Brazilian who had been living in Hong Kong for five years, and abroad became the older, wiser sister I never had. Only slightly older—so we could still be besties, but every so often I would look to her for wisdom or to receive admonishment. Although she had the kind of beauty and figure that makes one want to curse God for the inequity of the universe, the most spectacular feature about Adriana was her gregariously-open heart. Plus she had that South American mouth, which did not stop running from 3:30am when we awoke until nightfall. She knew everyone, and everyone adored her.
She really was/is my sister, my compatriot. Adriana wore mascara and I knew she came from a world of high heels and bright lights. Daily we got into passionate arguments with the men in our group trying to prove verities in esoteric discourse. We enjoyed raising our voices in heated, heartfelt debate. Ours was a cosmopolitan consciousness.
One day, early into our tenure, she told me very simply—“there’s something that I do, and I think you would like it, do you want me to show you?” That’s all she would really say about it. It was called deeksha and we went to her little flat, she put on some music and I closed my eyes.
As soon as her hands touched my head, I felt it rush through me—THIS was energy. Heat, movement swirling throughout my body, images flashing—or was it lights? Colors? Intangible, unidentifiable activity coursing through my body. I could not get a hold of it, I could not explain it, it was happening and it was undeniable. I had, for the first time, incontrovertible evidence that something was going on.
She had me lie down for a few minutes, and when I stepped squinting into the mid-afternoon sun adjusting my eyes to find her figure, I eagerly demanded: “WHAT WAS THAT?”
It was called deeksha, and she had just come back from a school near Chennai and a 21-day process that prepped her in learning to facilitate it.
Immediately I organized groups to receive it once a week. Adriana had no choice in the matter. Looking back, I’m not even sure if I asked her if it was ok, which is absurdly rude when I think about it now. But I took the reins and ran with it—corralling together yogi friends that became 20-25 a week receiving the deeksha.
We approached it the way it was introduced to us: no extraneous information, no explanations, no promises. Just come sit down and see. It is meant to be experienced. Not discussed. Visceral, not verbose.
I LOVED that there was no bull sh#* surrounding it. When I pursued looking closer into the teachings from the school that birthed the phenom, I found it to be so open and devoid of any religious rhetoric, or any desire to expand, or ask for your money, or need anything at all from you, that it was ridonkulously refreshing. In the milieu of too syrupy God-stuff, it seemed authentic.
A few years later I learned to facilitate the deeksha myself (or oneness blessing as it was now called, although I have always preferred the Indian term, deeksha) and started to inundate my friends with it.
I love the way that it was presented to me, with no attachments or pomposity, and I like to keep it that way—trying to preserve a balance between holding a reverence while still instilling a sense of “it’s no big deal.” It’s not therapy; it’s a dose of grace. It can rock your world, but so what? Holy is as holy does.
In the city, when someone or something gets a little too involved in any kind of discourse about it, it doesn’t suit my taste—I move it along—I suppose it is my tough love approach overlaying the idea that the entire thing should be experiential in nature rather than philosophical.
Yet the experience has absolutely changed me and those around me. My neighbors tell me (without my asking) that I am consistently one of the friendliest people in the building. My facialist’s curmudgeonly Russian husband who I thought never smiled, ever, just gave me a huge tooth-mouthed grin and a large wave when I passed him on my bike.
I could go on about the levels of compassion and generosity of spirit that have unfolded for me in this process, but I’m not really in a la-di-da mood at the moment, so let me just say I am better. More patient. More compassionate. Full of love. Still don’t have a tolerance for bull sh#* so I guess that’s not going to change.
I write this because tonight I’m entering into a workshop for this business and I know I’m going to come out of it different. Possibly more la-di-da. Although I don’t think I’ll be walking on water, I know that Sunday I’ll be shinier than I am today. Perhaps I’m not even spiritual, maybe I’m just vain. In any event, that-- for me-- is worth the effort.
The film was “What the Bleep do We Know” and it blew my mind. Production values and creative flaws aside (which could be designated as: not so great and many, respectively,) it introduced me to the idea of quantum physics and ushered in a subsequent voracious study period in said physics concepts. Immediately, I went home and ordered several books on Amazon regarding the subject, as well as sending duplicates to my friend Logan who was with me. I was disparate that I’d need to wait for delivery, so impassioned was I, and would have given a considerable caboodle for a Kindle on that day.
The idea that there is a connection between all of us, a desk, a tree, the 79th street Subway station, my mom’s nail polish, Clinton’s cigars, what have you, that could be quantified in a quantum field was intriguing to me beyond words. It rang true. This source/power/force as an overriding, inextricable oneness made infinite more sense than: “Jesus Christ died for your sins. Now go tell the old guy in the wooden booth how you’ve been a bad girl this week.”
I liked the language of these explorations, the basics of these connections. Now, of course the scientific community does not see this as a watershed film and it only gives the loosest skimming of some of quantum physics’ tenets, but that was irrelevant in my case on that day, because the film was a doorway to an idea I had never considered. Film as guru: A way to access, study, be inspired by ways of approaching energy.
I have an extremely low tolerance in my life for bullsh#*. (pardon my French) Perhaps a gentler way of saying that is that my go-to place is one of brutal honesty. For those who are compassionately blessed with innate levels of tact, I can be seen as hard. Every once in a while I will still see a friend wince when I haven’t sugar-coated something enough for him/her. Much of my personal development has been geared to softening edges so as not to inadvertently slice into the hearts of those I’d like to keep around me. That being said, in the land of woowoo spiritual ideas, one can come across a lot of bullsh#*. Or at the very least, things that are presented in a manner so holy and gently, they never resonated with my urban disposition.
The idea of working with energy intrigued me, but in my quest I found it all to be dispassionately vague and incoherent. When a best girlfriend during that war-torn time would try to help me out of the surrounding hostility that was my life, providing generous reiki sessions, the effects seemed to be nebulous at best. I’ve already expressed my disdain for all things too “precious” concerning spirituality or energetic resources, and although I’m certain at the time I was more bitter and armored than a dandelion and bullet-proof vest burrito, reiki was not making any noticeable progressive changes in my life. Yoga made me feel better, but I didn’t really know why. My personal experience with tapping into energy was gross at best, and I had a thirst for more.
Cut to: Incredible India. Adriana was a ridiculously stunning woman… A Brazilian who had been living in Hong Kong for five years, and abroad became the older, wiser sister I never had. Only slightly older—so we could still be besties, but every so often I would look to her for wisdom or to receive admonishment. Although she had the kind of beauty and figure that makes one want to curse God for the inequity of the universe, the most spectacular feature about Adriana was her gregariously-open heart. Plus she had that South American mouth, which did not stop running from 3:30am when we awoke until nightfall. She knew everyone, and everyone adored her.
She really was/is my sister, my compatriot. Adriana wore mascara and I knew she came from a world of high heels and bright lights. Daily we got into passionate arguments with the men in our group trying to prove verities in esoteric discourse. We enjoyed raising our voices in heated, heartfelt debate. Ours was a cosmopolitan consciousness.
One day, early into our tenure, she told me very simply—“there’s something that I do, and I think you would like it, do you want me to show you?” That’s all she would really say about it. It was called deeksha and we went to her little flat, she put on some music and I closed my eyes.
As soon as her hands touched my head, I felt it rush through me—THIS was energy. Heat, movement swirling throughout my body, images flashing—or was it lights? Colors? Intangible, unidentifiable activity coursing through my body. I could not get a hold of it, I could not explain it, it was happening and it was undeniable. I had, for the first time, incontrovertible evidence that something was going on.
She had me lie down for a few minutes, and when I stepped squinting into the mid-afternoon sun adjusting my eyes to find her figure, I eagerly demanded: “WHAT WAS THAT?”
It was called deeksha, and she had just come back from a school near Chennai and a 21-day process that prepped her in learning to facilitate it.
Immediately I organized groups to receive it once a week. Adriana had no choice in the matter. Looking back, I’m not even sure if I asked her if it was ok, which is absurdly rude when I think about it now. But I took the reins and ran with it—corralling together yogi friends that became 20-25 a week receiving the deeksha.
We approached it the way it was introduced to us: no extraneous information, no explanations, no promises. Just come sit down and see. It is meant to be experienced. Not discussed. Visceral, not verbose.
I LOVED that there was no bull sh#* surrounding it. When I pursued looking closer into the teachings from the school that birthed the phenom, I found it to be so open and devoid of any religious rhetoric, or any desire to expand, or ask for your money, or need anything at all from you, that it was ridonkulously refreshing. In the milieu of too syrupy God-stuff, it seemed authentic.
A few years later I learned to facilitate the deeksha myself (or oneness blessing as it was now called, although I have always preferred the Indian term, deeksha) and started to inundate my friends with it.
I love the way that it was presented to me, with no attachments or pomposity, and I like to keep it that way—trying to preserve a balance between holding a reverence while still instilling a sense of “it’s no big deal.” It’s not therapy; it’s a dose of grace. It can rock your world, but so what? Holy is as holy does.
In the city, when someone or something gets a little too involved in any kind of discourse about it, it doesn’t suit my taste—I move it along—I suppose it is my tough love approach overlaying the idea that the entire thing should be experiential in nature rather than philosophical.
Yet the experience has absolutely changed me and those around me. My neighbors tell me (without my asking) that I am consistently one of the friendliest people in the building. My facialist’s curmudgeonly Russian husband who I thought never smiled, ever, just gave me a huge tooth-mouthed grin and a large wave when I passed him on my bike.
I could go on about the levels of compassion and generosity of spirit that have unfolded for me in this process, but I’m not really in a la-di-da mood at the moment, so let me just say I am better. More patient. More compassionate. Full of love. Still don’t have a tolerance for bull sh#* so I guess that’s not going to change.
I write this because tonight I’m entering into a workshop for this business and I know I’m going to come out of it different. Possibly more la-di-da. Although I don’t think I’ll be walking on water, I know that Sunday I’ll be shinier than I am today. Perhaps I’m not even spiritual, maybe I’m just vain. In any event, that-- for me-- is worth the effort.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
rockin' and rollin'
This past week I was a wee bit of a rockstar. Eons ago, in college, I was known to be the last girl to leave the party and the first one in ballet class the next morning. I’ve had a couple of doozys in the last few years, and some stellar nightlife periods in the city, but as of late, the connection I have to my body and the world on an ongoing basis is more important to me than “chasing” any surface fun. It’s seldom that I drink two evenings in a row these days, and so to go out every single night in a week is as rare a venture as Courtney Love remaining sober for a year.
I usually do 11 backbends at the end of my yoga practice. As my yoga teacher came to assist this afternoon, she said, “only halfway today, right?” When I nodded yes, she threw out a knowing, “I thought so.” The week was apparently emanating from my cells: spelling out: proceed with caution, Mags in recovery mode.
Needless, to say, I am drinking green juice as I type this, and that will remain my menu until I am back at a sparkly 108%.
What I’d like to say, however, is that I have no guilt or remorse associated with this week whatsoever, due to the spectacular company I kept. It’s not that I wanted to go out every night, it’s just that there were a string of time sensitive events, each at high levels of priority for me: openings, best friends moving to foreign lands, congratulatory cocktails, private excitements and developments…
And as I spent time with these people, over Belvederes, Blue Moons, Bushmills, blessings, bike rides, concerts, dinners, workshops, parties, sunsets that turned to sunrises, I grew more and more overjoyed with the beauty that my life has become; filled with a beaming pride in the incredibly ambitious and creative outputs of peeps close to me, and that those surrounding me are some of the sexiest folks around inside and out.
There’s a sense that we are all on the verge of something huge, both collectively and individually. I witness my friends’ successes unfold as we each hold the levels of sincerity and connection between us as the dearest prize. The success is secondary; it’s always been about being true to ourselves, consistently and blindingly, many times arduously, following that fire of restlessness that doesn’t allow one to settle.
Success is, of course, a matter of opinion and perception. I see my friends as successful because they hold themselves to their own truth and highest integrity. Even in their failures or falling short, there is an overarching idea of wanting to do/be better. In any and every aspect of life. Mediocrity and/or complacency does not exist for these few. And these people range from those in the baby steps of organically and nurturingly growing a private practice, to stars whose fame is such that they are asked for autographs when we are out in the world. And certainly, some have success in one huge pie slice of life, but not others, so that balance may be elusive, but in the areas where they are not content, there's an acceptance, but not a resignation, to something less than.
I think the important thing for us to remember, other than (of course) the idea to live in the present moment and lovingly appreciate where we are right now, is that no one ever sees the end result (of whatever success means to you) at the first step. Almost without exception, these people would have told you that five or ten years ago they could not imagine that it would look the way it did. And also almost without exception, they knew something was coming.
This is the most difficult walnut to crack, isn’t it? Particularly when one is immersed in any sort of spiritual or philosophical discourse about what we want out of life and how to get it: That constant ebb and flow of desire vs. attachment.
And although they were around, I’m not interested here in peeking at the rockstars, CEO’s, insanely talented artists or corporate managing directors... I want to speak about my friend Sean. Many of you know last week I was involved with a global affair to bring awareness regarding the issue of human trafficking in India. Sean spearheaded this entire effort, whose main soiree centered with over 200 people in Mysore, India, and was followed in 20 different countries and 50 different cities worldwide. What he accomplished, and the awareness brought to this cause, is nothing short of extraordinary, and my point is: he never had a plan.
Sean was one of my India besties. There was a quartet of us that caused major hub-bub. We loved humor, debating philosophy and each other, so we always seemed to the most vivacious group anywhere. This was not always perceived to be a positive thing, by those who held a soft-spoken devotion to ascetic yogic practices. Toward the end of my time there, I heard that someone called us the party group, and I was never really sure why—no one “partied.” (I drank more liquor in one night last week than I drank during half a year there.) Being wild was having a glass of wine on your day off. The only time I drank vodka during those six months was on my 30th birthday (although, that day was, indeed a party). At the end of the night Sean held my giggly head in his lap and somehow got my body (doused with vodka, and for the first time in its life, unaccustomed to it) back home, dangling off the end of his scooter, my sari skimming the road.
Sean didn’t arrive in India to practice yoga, but ended up in Mysore and decided to hang out there, casually setting up shop in his apartment offering acupuncture to the traveling yogis. He has an incredibly gentle, easy-going touch and a warmly affable demeanor. There is not an inauthentic bone in his body, so naturally people were drawn to him. Getting involved with Odanadi, the anti-trafficking organization that rescues and rehabilitates women and children, was what kept him interested in hanging about.
Honestly? They weren’t really that psyched about it at first. Lots of yogis travel to Mysore (it made #4 on this year’s NY TIMES list of where to head this year)— hundreds, if not thousands a year, all with altruistic visions of seva (service.) And just as abruptly, many leave—herein lies the rub… no one sticks it out long enough to make any kind of lasting change, or just as soon as they become involved to the point of being helpful, they need to return to lives, on pause, back home.
Sean had infinite levels of patience that I could not fathom. He followed that intuition inside of him to take it slowly, build trust, and show them he wasn’t going anywhere. And slowly, slowly, one child, one hour, one afternoon, one day at a time, they let him in. Three years later, he is spearheading a global effort that will absolutely change the course of these children’s lives. We throw the word ‘amazing’ around so casually these days; I believe this is an instance where its full meaning is well warranted.
Sean did not go to India to change the world. In fact, by most New Yorkers perception, his docile, unassuming ways could be thought of as unambitious, unmotivated. Before I learned the very valuable lesson of never trying to coerce a person out of what they wanted to do, I grew increasingly petulant on many occasions when Sean politely declined joining in any sort of gathering I had set up in India. I was going to the trouble of being a social butterfly, and g*$ d^*# it, my friends would join me if I had anything to say about it.
Sean was zen. And at the time I REALLY didn’t like zen. I mean, how could one possibly be zen when there was so much to DO in the world?! But he had the serenity to not listen to his loud, overdramatic, whiny, New York friend, but instead to some quiet voice within him that continued to whisper: stay—be here one day at a time, trust that it will unfold, or let go and embrace the idea it might not, but at the very least, be here and be real. Three years later, he changes the world. Little ol’ funny sweetie British acupuncturist Sean.
So, I’m speaking to myself as much as I’m speaking to you, because I know the majority of the people reading this are friends who have that same wellspring of enthusiasm for something inside of them that may not, as of yet, be tangible.
Although this time I won’t overdo it, I will raise my glass to you, my inspirations. Here’s cheers to unimpeded faith and choosing to build that bridge where one has yet to exist, rather than trodding the path so seemingly clear to the rest. Na zdrowie. To your health, on every extrordinary level.
I usually do 11 backbends at the end of my yoga practice. As my yoga teacher came to assist this afternoon, she said, “only halfway today, right?” When I nodded yes, she threw out a knowing, “I thought so.” The week was apparently emanating from my cells: spelling out: proceed with caution, Mags in recovery mode.
Needless, to say, I am drinking green juice as I type this, and that will remain my menu until I am back at a sparkly 108%.
What I’d like to say, however, is that I have no guilt or remorse associated with this week whatsoever, due to the spectacular company I kept. It’s not that I wanted to go out every night, it’s just that there were a string of time sensitive events, each at high levels of priority for me: openings, best friends moving to foreign lands, congratulatory cocktails, private excitements and developments…
And as I spent time with these people, over Belvederes, Blue Moons, Bushmills, blessings, bike rides, concerts, dinners, workshops, parties, sunsets that turned to sunrises, I grew more and more overjoyed with the beauty that my life has become; filled with a beaming pride in the incredibly ambitious and creative outputs of peeps close to me, and that those surrounding me are some of the sexiest folks around inside and out.
There’s a sense that we are all on the verge of something huge, both collectively and individually. I witness my friends’ successes unfold as we each hold the levels of sincerity and connection between us as the dearest prize. The success is secondary; it’s always been about being true to ourselves, consistently and blindingly, many times arduously, following that fire of restlessness that doesn’t allow one to settle.
Success is, of course, a matter of opinion and perception. I see my friends as successful because they hold themselves to their own truth and highest integrity. Even in their failures or falling short, there is an overarching idea of wanting to do/be better. In any and every aspect of life. Mediocrity and/or complacency does not exist for these few. And these people range from those in the baby steps of organically and nurturingly growing a private practice, to stars whose fame is such that they are asked for autographs when we are out in the world. And certainly, some have success in one huge pie slice of life, but not others, so that balance may be elusive, but in the areas where they are not content, there's an acceptance, but not a resignation, to something less than.
I think the important thing for us to remember, other than (of course) the idea to live in the present moment and lovingly appreciate where we are right now, is that no one ever sees the end result (of whatever success means to you) at the first step. Almost without exception, these people would have told you that five or ten years ago they could not imagine that it would look the way it did. And also almost without exception, they knew something was coming.
This is the most difficult walnut to crack, isn’t it? Particularly when one is immersed in any sort of spiritual or philosophical discourse about what we want out of life and how to get it: That constant ebb and flow of desire vs. attachment.
And although they were around, I’m not interested here in peeking at the rockstars, CEO’s, insanely talented artists or corporate managing directors... I want to speak about my friend Sean. Many of you know last week I was involved with a global affair to bring awareness regarding the issue of human trafficking in India. Sean spearheaded this entire effort, whose main soiree centered with over 200 people in Mysore, India, and was followed in 20 different countries and 50 different cities worldwide. What he accomplished, and the awareness brought to this cause, is nothing short of extraordinary, and my point is: he never had a plan.
Sean was one of my India besties. There was a quartet of us that caused major hub-bub. We loved humor, debating philosophy and each other, so we always seemed to the most vivacious group anywhere. This was not always perceived to be a positive thing, by those who held a soft-spoken devotion to ascetic yogic practices. Toward the end of my time there, I heard that someone called us the party group, and I was never really sure why—no one “partied.” (I drank more liquor in one night last week than I drank during half a year there.) Being wild was having a glass of wine on your day off. The only time I drank vodka during those six months was on my 30th birthday (although, that day was, indeed a party). At the end of the night Sean held my giggly head in his lap and somehow got my body (doused with vodka, and for the first time in its life, unaccustomed to it) back home, dangling off the end of his scooter, my sari skimming the road.
Sean didn’t arrive in India to practice yoga, but ended up in Mysore and decided to hang out there, casually setting up shop in his apartment offering acupuncture to the traveling yogis. He has an incredibly gentle, easy-going touch and a warmly affable demeanor. There is not an inauthentic bone in his body, so naturally people were drawn to him. Getting involved with Odanadi, the anti-trafficking organization that rescues and rehabilitates women and children, was what kept him interested in hanging about.
Honestly? They weren’t really that psyched about it at first. Lots of yogis travel to Mysore (it made #4 on this year’s NY TIMES list of where to head this year)— hundreds, if not thousands a year, all with altruistic visions of seva (service.) And just as abruptly, many leave—herein lies the rub… no one sticks it out long enough to make any kind of lasting change, or just as soon as they become involved to the point of being helpful, they need to return to lives, on pause, back home.
Sean had infinite levels of patience that I could not fathom. He followed that intuition inside of him to take it slowly, build trust, and show them he wasn’t going anywhere. And slowly, slowly, one child, one hour, one afternoon, one day at a time, they let him in. Three years later, he is spearheading a global effort that will absolutely change the course of these children’s lives. We throw the word ‘amazing’ around so casually these days; I believe this is an instance where its full meaning is well warranted.
Sean did not go to India to change the world. In fact, by most New Yorkers perception, his docile, unassuming ways could be thought of as unambitious, unmotivated. Before I learned the very valuable lesson of never trying to coerce a person out of what they wanted to do, I grew increasingly petulant on many occasions when Sean politely declined joining in any sort of gathering I had set up in India. I was going to the trouble of being a social butterfly, and g*$ d^*# it, my friends would join me if I had anything to say about it.
Sean was zen. And at the time I REALLY didn’t like zen. I mean, how could one possibly be zen when there was so much to DO in the world?! But he had the serenity to not listen to his loud, overdramatic, whiny, New York friend, but instead to some quiet voice within him that continued to whisper: stay—be here one day at a time, trust that it will unfold, or let go and embrace the idea it might not, but at the very least, be here and be real. Three years later, he changes the world. Little ol’ funny sweetie British acupuncturist Sean.
So, I’m speaking to myself as much as I’m speaking to you, because I know the majority of the people reading this are friends who have that same wellspring of enthusiasm for something inside of them that may not, as of yet, be tangible.
Although this time I won’t overdo it, I will raise my glass to you, my inspirations. Here’s cheers to unimpeded faith and choosing to build that bridge where one has yet to exist, rather than trodding the path so seemingly clear to the rest. Na zdrowie. To your health, on every extrordinary level.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
One God, side of lofty rhetoric, to go please
While inundating my neighbors with hours upon hours of Krishna Das and India Arie, in between bouts of bouncing on my trampoline and baking dozens of gluten free, vegan chocolate chip cookies (wow, that really sounds crazy-pants when I write out what I actually did tonight,) I brought to mind a reading concerning integrity I came across this morning.
Tonight I made a playlist for the Yoga Stops Traffick event tomorrow I’m hosting in the city and scrolled through my digital library searching for the liveliest beats trying to choose what I deemed to be the “coolest” songs. In my quest towards understanding or experiencing the inexplicable, I find there’s a whole old school genre of hippie-dom that is almost in essence a barrier from making some of these ideas accessible to a more modern, fast, streamlined generation of people. Yes: peace, stillness, stripping away, all of that must be present as part of any serious investigation, but I find as soon as anything gets too precious, too Laura Ashley, too smelling of Mid-west, too “earnest” as a friend of mine dubs it, faster than the speed of halogen, my interest jettisons. (and yes, I’m working on it.)
So scanning my playlist of hip-hop, down tempo/breakbeat, soulful pop, cheerful mainstream kirtan, I wonder if I am in danger of keeping it too light. If maybe my way of presenting ALL of this is in danger of keeping it too light. My bestie loves my writing and the blog, but flat out told me he thought I was playing to the masses, dumbing myself down. (side note: Ten years ago, I once angrily threw a vodka tonic at a black-tie political fundraiser against the floor in reaction to, and in the presence of, this bestie. That I can now accept criticism from this same person with detachment and grace is as much an advertisement for yoga and meditation as I will ever need.)
There’s an overreaching idea that talking about this stuff in a way that is more modern, casual in style even, may make these ideas more palatable and so I do choose to seem to be flippant or glib. Plus, now that my mom is reading the blog, I want her to be able to understand what’s going on and presumably if I get too deep into esoteric discussion about the niyamas or some such, I think I’ll definitely lose Halina.
Personally, I still sometimes wince at the word “God” depending on the context, and if it’s just a dance in semantics that’s the issue, then why not participate in (potentially, at best) clever repartee? Really, being dry or understated, lobbing around the occasional all caps, it’s writing for humor, isn’t it? (Well, let’s not be so bold now Margaret, let’s say it’s the attempt to write for humor.. and clearly those attempts chose to skip this particular blog post)
And really the question is—can we joke about the divine? The worry perhaps is that these things are not taken seriously enough, whether rocking it out about Hindu Gods via hip hop or jauntily dubbing designer shoes a religion—they are not holding “God” in a sacred or holy ENOUGH space. How light a touch is too light? Naysayers might say anything other than pious, solemn worship is blasphemous.
Yet there are no defenses that can be made to that point, really, are there? I mean no matter how much I or someone else protested their integrity or righteousness, quantifying intention or hours logged of prayer/practice/meditation/kindness/yoga/whatever, that in and of itself is a falsehood, because if you need to protest, already something is lacking.
There's the argument that something more surface, casual, glib, sexy, is going to appeal to certain people or perhaps is a portrayal of one person where they are in their development, and then, is that not indeed perfect and just and “right” in and of itself, because the idea was birthed?
However in the interest of cogitation, there is something to be said for the basics. There are universal Truths, and I purposefully use a capitol T there, shared by almost every major religion/philosophy in some metaphor or another, and these are the basics that I believe must be a foundation of any practice. They are the fabric, per se, and our interpretation and design and expression of them, simply the fashion of the day. Silk is the same substance everywhere; Eileen Fischer and Patricia Field will yield two very different results using the same “basic.”
Commercial self-help superstar Anthony Robbins says to learn a new skill always go to a master. He has the means, of course, to want to learn to play polo, for instance, and seek the top instructor in the world, which is what he did. Obviously something of that nature is not easily accessible to all of us (not the polo, the means for the world’s top instructor, although polo is not exactly making a resurgence in the 21st century either.) There is something important to be said about getting the best information one can, in whatever way that knowledge is accessible to you and from the “purest” resources possible. That is not necessarily the sexiest, most glamorous route; in fact, it most often is not. And as we continue along, we naturally outgrow teachers, sometimes even those close to us. The best teachers understand when it is time for us to move on, that it is part of the process. The beauty of finding a master is that person can seemingly be a teacher for life—in one respect, you will never “catch up” to him/her, so he/she will always be a wellspring of wisdom for lucky you.
My reading this morning was the text from one of my gurus, my master teachers. He said the moment there is inner integrity, your link with God/all that is/the universe/source is established. And that the link is like a telecom line-- it is there, but it needs to be open and that opening happens with being integral. I interpret that to mean, get the basics, get it pure, get the fundamentals, and then you can embellish. Just as the same way you would work the barre in ballet before going through an entire piece, learn to dice an onion before firing a skillet or run drills in whatever sporting events it is that boys do drills in. Do your yoga, your meditation, your deeksha, your conscious efforts in whatever way they unfold for you, right where you are, and then go rock it out with sparkly, loud love.
I suppose this little discourse illustrates just how clearly un-evolved I am to a certain extent because here I am justifying the way I express my interest in these philosophies. Perhaps it is some underlying anxiety about this event I am spearheading tomorrow and either a fear about my lack of being “qualified” to put it together, or that what may come across as fun or funky or downtown or cool is perceived as superficial. Or that it's not really cool at all-- certainly that would be the last thing in the world some might call three hours of barefoot, sober connection on a Saturday afternoon. I suppose at the end of the day, there is nothing to be done about that, because only those who know me have the right to judge me, and the people who I keep close don’t as a rule, judge. Or as someone said it better than I: “Those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.” My integrity is between the universe and I. If I'm out of line, I'm sure she'll knock me on my ass soon enough.
Tonight I made a playlist for the Yoga Stops Traffick event tomorrow I’m hosting in the city and scrolled through my digital library searching for the liveliest beats trying to choose what I deemed to be the “coolest” songs. In my quest towards understanding or experiencing the inexplicable, I find there’s a whole old school genre of hippie-dom that is almost in essence a barrier from making some of these ideas accessible to a more modern, fast, streamlined generation of people. Yes: peace, stillness, stripping away, all of that must be present as part of any serious investigation, but I find as soon as anything gets too precious, too Laura Ashley, too smelling of Mid-west, too “earnest” as a friend of mine dubs it, faster than the speed of halogen, my interest jettisons. (and yes, I’m working on it.)
So scanning my playlist of hip-hop, down tempo/breakbeat, soulful pop, cheerful mainstream kirtan, I wonder if I am in danger of keeping it too light. If maybe my way of presenting ALL of this is in danger of keeping it too light. My bestie loves my writing and the blog, but flat out told me he thought I was playing to the masses, dumbing myself down. (side note: Ten years ago, I once angrily threw a vodka tonic at a black-tie political fundraiser against the floor in reaction to, and in the presence of, this bestie. That I can now accept criticism from this same person with detachment and grace is as much an advertisement for yoga and meditation as I will ever need.)
There’s an overreaching idea that talking about this stuff in a way that is more modern, casual in style even, may make these ideas more palatable and so I do choose to seem to be flippant or glib. Plus, now that my mom is reading the blog, I want her to be able to understand what’s going on and presumably if I get too deep into esoteric discussion about the niyamas or some such, I think I’ll definitely lose Halina.
Personally, I still sometimes wince at the word “God” depending on the context, and if it’s just a dance in semantics that’s the issue, then why not participate in (potentially, at best) clever repartee? Really, being dry or understated, lobbing around the occasional all caps, it’s writing for humor, isn’t it? (Well, let’s not be so bold now Margaret, let’s say it’s the attempt to write for humor.. and clearly those attempts chose to skip this particular blog post)
And really the question is—can we joke about the divine? The worry perhaps is that these things are not taken seriously enough, whether rocking it out about Hindu Gods via hip hop or jauntily dubbing designer shoes a religion—they are not holding “God” in a sacred or holy ENOUGH space. How light a touch is too light? Naysayers might say anything other than pious, solemn worship is blasphemous.
Yet there are no defenses that can be made to that point, really, are there? I mean no matter how much I or someone else protested their integrity or righteousness, quantifying intention or hours logged of prayer/practice/meditation/kindness/yoga/whatever, that in and of itself is a falsehood, because if you need to protest, already something is lacking.
There's the argument that something more surface, casual, glib, sexy, is going to appeal to certain people or perhaps is a portrayal of one person where they are in their development, and then, is that not indeed perfect and just and “right” in and of itself, because the idea was birthed?
However in the interest of cogitation, there is something to be said for the basics. There are universal Truths, and I purposefully use a capitol T there, shared by almost every major religion/philosophy in some metaphor or another, and these are the basics that I believe must be a foundation of any practice. They are the fabric, per se, and our interpretation and design and expression of them, simply the fashion of the day. Silk is the same substance everywhere; Eileen Fischer and Patricia Field will yield two very different results using the same “basic.”
Commercial self-help superstar Anthony Robbins says to learn a new skill always go to a master. He has the means, of course, to want to learn to play polo, for instance, and seek the top instructor in the world, which is what he did. Obviously something of that nature is not easily accessible to all of us (not the polo, the means for the world’s top instructor, although polo is not exactly making a resurgence in the 21st century either.) There is something important to be said about getting the best information one can, in whatever way that knowledge is accessible to you and from the “purest” resources possible. That is not necessarily the sexiest, most glamorous route; in fact, it most often is not. And as we continue along, we naturally outgrow teachers, sometimes even those close to us. The best teachers understand when it is time for us to move on, that it is part of the process. The beauty of finding a master is that person can seemingly be a teacher for life—in one respect, you will never “catch up” to him/her, so he/she will always be a wellspring of wisdom for lucky you.
My reading this morning was the text from one of my gurus, my master teachers. He said the moment there is inner integrity, your link with God/all that is/the universe/source is established. And that the link is like a telecom line-- it is there, but it needs to be open and that opening happens with being integral. I interpret that to mean, get the basics, get it pure, get the fundamentals, and then you can embellish. Just as the same way you would work the barre in ballet before going through an entire piece, learn to dice an onion before firing a skillet or run drills in whatever sporting events it is that boys do drills in. Do your yoga, your meditation, your deeksha, your conscious efforts in whatever way they unfold for you, right where you are, and then go rock it out with sparkly, loud love.
I suppose this little discourse illustrates just how clearly un-evolved I am to a certain extent because here I am justifying the way I express my interest in these philosophies. Perhaps it is some underlying anxiety about this event I am spearheading tomorrow and either a fear about my lack of being “qualified” to put it together, or that what may come across as fun or funky or downtown or cool is perceived as superficial. Or that it's not really cool at all-- certainly that would be the last thing in the world some might call three hours of barefoot, sober connection on a Saturday afternoon. I suppose at the end of the day, there is nothing to be done about that, because only those who know me have the right to judge me, and the people who I keep close don’t as a rule, judge. Or as someone said it better than I: “Those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.” My integrity is between the universe and I. If I'm out of line, I'm sure she'll knock me on my ass soon enough.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Yahweh's seamstress
In 1985 I insisted my mother buy me copious folds of mauve suede at $50 a yard. I had a vision. With no pattern, assistance or sewing skills whatsoever, I shoddily constructed a mauve fringe skirt to match a mauve suede vest that I already owned and adored. The fringe was long: 10-12 inches a strip, sewn over a white tube skirt of my own design. The ensemble was topped off with an unfortunate, uncooperative perm (showcasing hours of bathroom hairdryer Sun-In applications) and pale pink plastic round thick lens-ed glasses, similar to what all the Williamsburg gals are wearing these days. If I am approaching the peak of my levels of attractiveness as a grown woman, this get-up was the opposite end of the spectrum. I thought I looked spectacular. In reality I looked like Punky Brewster, regurgitated by her pink ‘my little pony’ and passed through a shredder.
Creativity was not prized either in my John Hughes suburb or my city of Chicago uniformed Catholic school. When you’re a kid it takes a while to learn to build those walls protecting yourself from the slings and arrows of popular and cruel pre-pubescent opinion. Needless to say, I have countless stories of tragic, unappreciated creative efforts. I will not bore you with more patheric reminiscing; I draw attention to this to point out—it was IN me. I didn’t choose it. I didn’t WANT to have quixotic images of outrageous styles unite with my lack of seamstress abilities and produce fashion debaucles throughout adolescence that would cement my social designation as an untouchable. That’s just the way I was made.
I bring this up to discuss because clearly I still so very much love fashion. And it’s not so much fashion as style. Fashion (particularly in New York) can be seen as elitist nonsense. Style can be born on a budget. I have both shoes that cost more than my monthly mortgage, and a Salvation Army leopard print coat that I hung on to for 15 years, THRILLED that I could pull it out again this winter because it was again (finally) a la mode. If I have a moment of hesitancy towards the long-awaited spring weather, it is due to the fact that I may need to retire said leopard coat for another decade and a half.
I used to feel guilty about this. As though I was spiritually subpar because I have an ardor for eyeliner and so love to express myself creatively through clothing. Monks wore ugly brown tunics. Nuns even uglier black ones. Being spiritual meant being bland, fitting in, melting in to the background.
When I went to India (and please forgive me bringing it up so often, because I see it does come up quite a bit here—that’s the apparent dividing line before old and new me, so to speak) my girlfriend and I were going to an ashram for two weeks where we had to wear their robes. I literally brought the clothes on my back and a yoga mat. I didn’t even bring my iPod. After she departed and I decided to ride out my 6-month visa and head South, I had iPod and laptop and a pair of Diesels Fed Exed and went about acquiring a wardrobe.
At every step, I tried to do as little as possible, blend in, let go, keep it simple. The more I let go, the more the most unique expression of myself came forth. I WANTED to be boring, and life wouldn’t let me. Toward the end of my trip someone called me the fashion queen of Mysore. This was not intentional (although I’m not going to lie I enjoyed the compliment, I mean please, I AM a woman after all.) In a community of quiet yogis, I was bright, loud and stylin’. And for perhaps the first time in my life I felt ABSOLUTELY at ease with that—with my Self. I was not making myself smaller to make other people more comfortable.
So here is what interests me. I totally get the value of asceticism and understand and welcome it as a practice. I don’t think I’d have been able to get comfortable with the extent of my fabulousness without stripping away all of the b.s. Paring everything down to the minimum, whether that’s a robe, a straw mat, a bowl of rice, a day of silence, cuts down the noise and shows one what’s real and what is extraneous nonsense. Sadhus who wander in India with barely a loincloth are in an exercise of a connection that is so beautifully internal or other-wordly, garments are not necessary for their path. (Loincloth is not my best look… Stuart Weitzman? : sacrosanct.)
I have found that many people take this asceticism to heart and body. At first in the yoga world I felt out of place if I wanted to wear make up, or God forbid, blow-dry my hair. (And I didn’t blow dry my hair for six months—you might not call that a holy practice but believe you me, it taught me a couple of things.) I really wanted to come out of India’s other end being a braless contemplative, in braids and Birkenstocks… that didn’t happen.
So, here’s the conundrum. Other than the whole Jesus born in a manger thing (and they still brought him gold, people, let’s not forget that) the humanized aspects of God are doused with bling in every major religion. The high priests, Gurus and popes are elaborately adorned. Or if the leaders don’t choose to subscribe to lavish fashion, fantastically designed temples of spectacular proportions are erected the world over in the name of devotion.
The Hindu religion is the most proficient in their zeal for all things vivid and holy. The cacophony of colors adorning any one of the Hindu Gods during worship contrast Crayola’s best efforts as unadventurous. Ornate pujas with their fire, incense, flowers and celebrations of creative progresses make Lady Gaga performances look banal.
The consensus is clear: Yay God—all things fabulous for you.
Yet are we not God? Are we not each aspects of the divine, swimming in a sea of oneness, enmeshed in the quantum fabric of the secret source of everything, whether we know it, whether we want to be or not?
And then is fashion, when chosen not for a label or to fit in, nothing but an expression of the highest essence of your self? A way to adorn this body that was leant to us and say, I appreciate you, you are beautiful, and what’s more, I am going to share your gorgeousness with the world, because you are FIERCE, Miss Thang. And you know why? Because you were put here TO be—you are an offspring of the Universe and you are supposed to shine in whatever bedazzled, fakakta way pleases you.
And if so… yay ME. Yay YOU. Yay to my purple toenails and the sideways bun I sport while writing this lounging on my chaise. Yay to your Brioni tie that stuns with its richly colored and luxuriously texturized weave. Yay to the woman for whom organic hemp allows a physical connection to the earth with its raw naturalness embracing her skin. Yay to the man who has four pairs of tapered JCrew chinos because he likes the way his ass looks in them.
So let’s go be comfy, be daring, be provocative and conservative, be naked. If we want, we can be all at once—just know that none of those things are you. We can play dress up as long as we like, with the knowing that there is something more beautiful than anything we could ever wear, and that divine sparkle is what makes the outfit.
Creativity was not prized either in my John Hughes suburb or my city of Chicago uniformed Catholic school. When you’re a kid it takes a while to learn to build those walls protecting yourself from the slings and arrows of popular and cruel pre-pubescent opinion. Needless to say, I have countless stories of tragic, unappreciated creative efforts. I will not bore you with more patheric reminiscing; I draw attention to this to point out—it was IN me. I didn’t choose it. I didn’t WANT to have quixotic images of outrageous styles unite with my lack of seamstress abilities and produce fashion debaucles throughout adolescence that would cement my social designation as an untouchable. That’s just the way I was made.
I bring this up to discuss because clearly I still so very much love fashion. And it’s not so much fashion as style. Fashion (particularly in New York) can be seen as elitist nonsense. Style can be born on a budget. I have both shoes that cost more than my monthly mortgage, and a Salvation Army leopard print coat that I hung on to for 15 years, THRILLED that I could pull it out again this winter because it was again (finally) a la mode. If I have a moment of hesitancy towards the long-awaited spring weather, it is due to the fact that I may need to retire said leopard coat for another decade and a half.
I used to feel guilty about this. As though I was spiritually subpar because I have an ardor for eyeliner and so love to express myself creatively through clothing. Monks wore ugly brown tunics. Nuns even uglier black ones. Being spiritual meant being bland, fitting in, melting in to the background.
When I went to India (and please forgive me bringing it up so often, because I see it does come up quite a bit here—that’s the apparent dividing line before old and new me, so to speak) my girlfriend and I were going to an ashram for two weeks where we had to wear their robes. I literally brought the clothes on my back and a yoga mat. I didn’t even bring my iPod. After she departed and I decided to ride out my 6-month visa and head South, I had iPod and laptop and a pair of Diesels Fed Exed and went about acquiring a wardrobe.
At every step, I tried to do as little as possible, blend in, let go, keep it simple. The more I let go, the more the most unique expression of myself came forth. I WANTED to be boring, and life wouldn’t let me. Toward the end of my trip someone called me the fashion queen of Mysore. This was not intentional (although I’m not going to lie I enjoyed the compliment, I mean please, I AM a woman after all.) In a community of quiet yogis, I was bright, loud and stylin’. And for perhaps the first time in my life I felt ABSOLUTELY at ease with that—with my Self. I was not making myself smaller to make other people more comfortable.
So here is what interests me. I totally get the value of asceticism and understand and welcome it as a practice. I don’t think I’d have been able to get comfortable with the extent of my fabulousness without stripping away all of the b.s. Paring everything down to the minimum, whether that’s a robe, a straw mat, a bowl of rice, a day of silence, cuts down the noise and shows one what’s real and what is extraneous nonsense. Sadhus who wander in India with barely a loincloth are in an exercise of a connection that is so beautifully internal or other-wordly, garments are not necessary for their path. (Loincloth is not my best look… Stuart Weitzman? : sacrosanct.)
I have found that many people take this asceticism to heart and body. At first in the yoga world I felt out of place if I wanted to wear make up, or God forbid, blow-dry my hair. (And I didn’t blow dry my hair for six months—you might not call that a holy practice but believe you me, it taught me a couple of things.) I really wanted to come out of India’s other end being a braless contemplative, in braids and Birkenstocks… that didn’t happen.
So, here’s the conundrum. Other than the whole Jesus born in a manger thing (and they still brought him gold, people, let’s not forget that) the humanized aspects of God are doused with bling in every major religion. The high priests, Gurus and popes are elaborately adorned. Or if the leaders don’t choose to subscribe to lavish fashion, fantastically designed temples of spectacular proportions are erected the world over in the name of devotion.
The Hindu religion is the most proficient in their zeal for all things vivid and holy. The cacophony of colors adorning any one of the Hindu Gods during worship contrast Crayola’s best efforts as unadventurous. Ornate pujas with their fire, incense, flowers and celebrations of creative progresses make Lady Gaga performances look banal.
The consensus is clear: Yay God—all things fabulous for you.
Yet are we not God? Are we not each aspects of the divine, swimming in a sea of oneness, enmeshed in the quantum fabric of the secret source of everything, whether we know it, whether we want to be or not?
And then is fashion, when chosen not for a label or to fit in, nothing but an expression of the highest essence of your self? A way to adorn this body that was leant to us and say, I appreciate you, you are beautiful, and what’s more, I am going to share your gorgeousness with the world, because you are FIERCE, Miss Thang. And you know why? Because you were put here TO be—you are an offspring of the Universe and you are supposed to shine in whatever bedazzled, fakakta way pleases you.
And if so… yay ME. Yay YOU. Yay to my purple toenails and the sideways bun I sport while writing this lounging on my chaise. Yay to your Brioni tie that stuns with its richly colored and luxuriously texturized weave. Yay to the woman for whom organic hemp allows a physical connection to the earth with its raw naturalness embracing her skin. Yay to the man who has four pairs of tapered JCrew chinos because he likes the way his ass looks in them.
So let’s go be comfy, be daring, be provocative and conservative, be naked. If we want, we can be all at once—just know that none of those things are you. We can play dress up as long as we like, with the knowing that there is something more beautiful than anything we could ever wear, and that divine sparkle is what makes the outfit.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Bhagavan Brouhaha
It was a spiritual pilgrimage and I was ready. I was thoroughly hydrated. I preventative potty-ed. My person carried a well-worn copy of David Sedaris, explicit Hop Stop directions printed in color (with a back-up digital copy on my Blackberry,) lipgloss, iPod, a whole pack of Trident and the mindset for a marathon. Had I not known there would be a buffet at the destination, I might have carbo loaded. I told them I was going to go, and oh, I was going to go. I am a woman of my word.
It was one of my teacher’s (one of my gurus, if you will) birthdays, and although he resides in India, there was a celebration for him in New York. (That’s what happens when you reach Guru status; global hooplah is the norm…) The event was in Queens. An hour and ten minutes out into Queens. Past BOTH New York City airports. On THE LAST STOP of the E train.
If you don’t know me well enough and haven’t already realized it, I have a slight co-dependence issue with my neighborhood.
As my two girlfriends and I walked to the subway, I believed I was acting quite noble, valiant even, selfless. But apparently I have a much higher opinion of my self-sacrificing poker face than others because a bestie traveling with me poked, half jokingly, half admonishingly—“Margaret, you’re such a snob.”
I’m sorry, is this new information? Did I ever claim that I wasn’t? Although “snob” sounds sooooo Upper East Side. I prefer princess—that’s so much prettier.
It’s not that I think Manhattan is the best place in the universe (although, well, I do) – it’s more that I don’t like to be far away from my bed. In any circumstance. If I were hiking in the Himalayas, anxiety would come not because I was far away from the West Village but because my tent was out of my sightline. I am not one of these people that can plop down and just sleep anywhere. I always marvel at my friends who have the ability to be the proverbial sack of potatoes. People who stay out late and say “oh, it was 3am so I just slept over on the couch.” …What?... I cannot do that. I need to be home, in my space, at the end of the night. Sit anywhere? Be comfortable anywhere? Make friends anywhere? Yes, absolutely. But sleeping is snobby, private time. I feel perfectly fine with that. I’ve done the whole deprivation for spiritual realization thing many times, in many countries, and I’m grateful for those experiences and look forward to more. Pratyahara is a valuable practice. But if I can have comfort in my day to day, why should I choose otherwise? It’s not like I had a say in the matter; God built this bod for tempur-pedic. I am at peace with that realization.
My reticence towards our adventure also had a bit to do with overcoming a touch of past conditioning. You see, we were going to a traditional Indian party, celebration, satsang. I love a good satsang as much as the next gal, but Indians REALLY love satsang. Many festivals and rituals in India go on not for hours, but days and days on end. I remember the first Ganesh festival I went to in Goa with some new international buddies... Whereas at first I was ecstatically pulled into people parade (do-si-doing with the village children, raising the roof to the large plastic Ganesh) and everything was rich, colorful magic, by hour nine of day one, my enthusiasm had somewhat waned. And that was only day one.
Although I’m sure I’d have infinite patience if I were Oprah, this is more of a cultural difference. Indians are just super into their festivals and devotion in a way (and for lengths of time) that Americans are not accustomed to. (And this doesn’t just go for Hindu festivals. On a completely separate trip to Goa I dragged all of my friends to a packed Catholic midnight mass for Christmas. Their equanimity expired at hour three and the church hadn’t even gotten to the mass portion yet. Needless to say, even on Christmas, the friends were hard pressed to keep me in their good will for that less-than-genius spontaneity.) In the Hindu tradition, there is a meaning, an intention, significance for every mantra, every puja item and there are quite literally thousands of them. Since I don't formally follow Hinduism myself, my attention tends to wander after a couple of hours of this, if not sooner.
So we get to this hall on the outskirts of Queens, and it is pretty much as I expected it. A big poster board cutout of the Guru is in the middle of the room, surrounded by garlands and elaborate puja accoutrements festooning the spread. Fire, countless baskets of fruit, rose petals everywhere. 75 or so Indian people, 80% of the women in saris. Bhajans (devotional songs) are being sung. The majority of people sit cross-legged on the floor. I anticipated this and wore my leggings but my girlfriends are in jeans, so we opt for chairs.
I sit down and close my eyes to tune in. It’s like taking an energetic thermometer of the room. Hard to describe, but it’s high, it’s beautiful and light. Something’s going on for sure. I do this for about half an hour. Every so often my girlfriend taps me to ask what’s going on and I explain what very little I know.
Soon the bhajans start to grate. Perhaps it has something to do with the quantity of people and noise to overcome in their native land, but Indian people also like things loud. Like, really loud. So there is a gigantic speaker the size of my front door blaring super high-pitched singing across the hall and it’s unnecessarily fortissimo. I forgot to mention I’ve been flirting with a cold for a couple of days and I rarely, if ever, get sick, so what might normally be mildly uncomfortable is now projected to ear-splittingly piercing. We intended to stay three hours and after 30 minutes I’m negotiating how long is an appropriate appearance re: time investment taking the train out here.
There’s a swami of course. He’s like, the dad. We take a break from the bhajans for him to speak and I really vibe with his discourse so that’s a bit of a respite. When they start back up again, it’s a little easier to find that tuning in, loveliness space. We are here to celebrate our Guru’s birthday, after all, and it’s like a big family. The swami here is the dad for this particular family, where the Guru is the overriding Dad for all of us. And this group of people are our loud, colorful, foreign, distant relatives. We don’t get out to see them much, cause, ya know (I mentioned it was the last stop on the E train, right?,) but we love them all the same.
I see a woman going around with a bowl of rose water taken from the makeshift altar and she is dripping the liquid on top of people’s heads. I think back to when priests used to splay us with holy water midst-mass. In Hindu pujas, I have sipped water offered to my hands, but never had the sprinkler effect. It is supposed to purify our souls.
I head back to meditation and so when I feel the sudden wetness on my cranium and subsequent rogue cheek river, I am not surprised. I say a silent thanks and then ten seconds later, inexplicably my mind is blown.
The best description I could possibly give, while still trying to understate it, is that I enter into a wormhole and then for a solid five minutes I am in a parallel universe. I’ve had out-of-body (or perhaps inner body) experiences like this before. Alone, for brief flashes, when guided with a group and shamans in the mix, there have been transportive experiences that have literally altered the way I view reality. But I have never felt something so fast, so deep, so outrageously gorgeous, and certainly not from a couple of droplets of rosewater on my head. The beauty is so vast it brings instantaneous tears to my eyes. I shy away from detailing these sorts of experiences because it’s akin to describing sex to someone who has never tried it before—it is not something to be talked about. It deals in a realm that we have no vocabulary for on this earth. Words are too confining for the magnificence that it is. And it shows you that if THIS exists, there’s a whole lot more going in life than a petite persnickety village princess who gets cranky outside of her zip code. It is, simply put, an expression of divine grace. And although it’s not what I expected, on some level it is what I came for.
The rest of the evening feels effortless and warm. We get a ride back as far in as the Bedford stop in Williamsburg so that makes the return trek much more bearable (thank you birthday boy.) Although I’m not priming to get the most value from my metrocard anytime again soon, it just goes to show that when the effort is put forth, grace will come to meet you. Even without my unexpected wormhole benediction, beautiful friends and generous, welcoming extended family make for a splendid Saturday evening. Nice to know that even a little princess can get her holy on… and yet still crawl back into her own bed.
It was one of my teacher’s (one of my gurus, if you will) birthdays, and although he resides in India, there was a celebration for him in New York. (That’s what happens when you reach Guru status; global hooplah is the norm…) The event was in Queens. An hour and ten minutes out into Queens. Past BOTH New York City airports. On THE LAST STOP of the E train.
If you don’t know me well enough and haven’t already realized it, I have a slight co-dependence issue with my neighborhood.
As my two girlfriends and I walked to the subway, I believed I was acting quite noble, valiant even, selfless. But apparently I have a much higher opinion of my self-sacrificing poker face than others because a bestie traveling with me poked, half jokingly, half admonishingly—“Margaret, you’re such a snob.”
I’m sorry, is this new information? Did I ever claim that I wasn’t? Although “snob” sounds sooooo Upper East Side. I prefer princess—that’s so much prettier.
It’s not that I think Manhattan is the best place in the universe (although, well, I do) – it’s more that I don’t like to be far away from my bed. In any circumstance. If I were hiking in the Himalayas, anxiety would come not because I was far away from the West Village but because my tent was out of my sightline. I am not one of these people that can plop down and just sleep anywhere. I always marvel at my friends who have the ability to be the proverbial sack of potatoes. People who stay out late and say “oh, it was 3am so I just slept over on the couch.” …What?... I cannot do that. I need to be home, in my space, at the end of the night. Sit anywhere? Be comfortable anywhere? Make friends anywhere? Yes, absolutely. But sleeping is snobby, private time. I feel perfectly fine with that. I’ve done the whole deprivation for spiritual realization thing many times, in many countries, and I’m grateful for those experiences and look forward to more. Pratyahara is a valuable practice. But if I can have comfort in my day to day, why should I choose otherwise? It’s not like I had a say in the matter; God built this bod for tempur-pedic. I am at peace with that realization.
My reticence towards our adventure also had a bit to do with overcoming a touch of past conditioning. You see, we were going to a traditional Indian party, celebration, satsang. I love a good satsang as much as the next gal, but Indians REALLY love satsang. Many festivals and rituals in India go on not for hours, but days and days on end. I remember the first Ganesh festival I went to in Goa with some new international buddies... Whereas at first I was ecstatically pulled into people parade (do-si-doing with the village children, raising the roof to the large plastic Ganesh) and everything was rich, colorful magic, by hour nine of day one, my enthusiasm had somewhat waned. And that was only day one.
Although I’m sure I’d have infinite patience if I were Oprah, this is more of a cultural difference. Indians are just super into their festivals and devotion in a way (and for lengths of time) that Americans are not accustomed to. (And this doesn’t just go for Hindu festivals. On a completely separate trip to Goa I dragged all of my friends to a packed Catholic midnight mass for Christmas. Their equanimity expired at hour three and the church hadn’t even gotten to the mass portion yet. Needless to say, even on Christmas, the friends were hard pressed to keep me in their good will for that less-than-genius spontaneity.) In the Hindu tradition, there is a meaning, an intention, significance for every mantra, every puja item and there are quite literally thousands of them. Since I don't formally follow Hinduism myself, my attention tends to wander after a couple of hours of this, if not sooner.
So we get to this hall on the outskirts of Queens, and it is pretty much as I expected it. A big poster board cutout of the Guru is in the middle of the room, surrounded by garlands and elaborate puja accoutrements festooning the spread. Fire, countless baskets of fruit, rose petals everywhere. 75 or so Indian people, 80% of the women in saris. Bhajans (devotional songs) are being sung. The majority of people sit cross-legged on the floor. I anticipated this and wore my leggings but my girlfriends are in jeans, so we opt for chairs.
I sit down and close my eyes to tune in. It’s like taking an energetic thermometer of the room. Hard to describe, but it’s high, it’s beautiful and light. Something’s going on for sure. I do this for about half an hour. Every so often my girlfriend taps me to ask what’s going on and I explain what very little I know.
Soon the bhajans start to grate. Perhaps it has something to do with the quantity of people and noise to overcome in their native land, but Indian people also like things loud. Like, really loud. So there is a gigantic speaker the size of my front door blaring super high-pitched singing across the hall and it’s unnecessarily fortissimo. I forgot to mention I’ve been flirting with a cold for a couple of days and I rarely, if ever, get sick, so what might normally be mildly uncomfortable is now projected to ear-splittingly piercing. We intended to stay three hours and after 30 minutes I’m negotiating how long is an appropriate appearance re: time investment taking the train out here.
There’s a swami of course. He’s like, the dad. We take a break from the bhajans for him to speak and I really vibe with his discourse so that’s a bit of a respite. When they start back up again, it’s a little easier to find that tuning in, loveliness space. We are here to celebrate our Guru’s birthday, after all, and it’s like a big family. The swami here is the dad for this particular family, where the Guru is the overriding Dad for all of us. And this group of people are our loud, colorful, foreign, distant relatives. We don’t get out to see them much, cause, ya know (I mentioned it was the last stop on the E train, right?,) but we love them all the same.
I see a woman going around with a bowl of rose water taken from the makeshift altar and she is dripping the liquid on top of people’s heads. I think back to when priests used to splay us with holy water midst-mass. In Hindu pujas, I have sipped water offered to my hands, but never had the sprinkler effect. It is supposed to purify our souls.
I head back to meditation and so when I feel the sudden wetness on my cranium and subsequent rogue cheek river, I am not surprised. I say a silent thanks and then ten seconds later, inexplicably my mind is blown.
The best description I could possibly give, while still trying to understate it, is that I enter into a wormhole and then for a solid five minutes I am in a parallel universe. I’ve had out-of-body (or perhaps inner body) experiences like this before. Alone, for brief flashes, when guided with a group and shamans in the mix, there have been transportive experiences that have literally altered the way I view reality. But I have never felt something so fast, so deep, so outrageously gorgeous, and certainly not from a couple of droplets of rosewater on my head. The beauty is so vast it brings instantaneous tears to my eyes. I shy away from detailing these sorts of experiences because it’s akin to describing sex to someone who has never tried it before—it is not something to be talked about. It deals in a realm that we have no vocabulary for on this earth. Words are too confining for the magnificence that it is. And it shows you that if THIS exists, there’s a whole lot more going in life than a petite persnickety village princess who gets cranky outside of her zip code. It is, simply put, an expression of divine grace. And although it’s not what I expected, on some level it is what I came for.
The rest of the evening feels effortless and warm. We get a ride back as far in as the Bedford stop in Williamsburg so that makes the return trek much more bearable (thank you birthday boy.) Although I’m not priming to get the most value from my metrocard anytime again soon, it just goes to show that when the effort is put forth, grace will come to meet you. Even without my unexpected wormhole benediction, beautiful friends and generous, welcoming extended family make for a splendid Saturday evening. Nice to know that even a little princess can get her holy on… and yet still crawl back into her own bed.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
post Hanuman wrap-up
The “three Huge things” meltdown (see last blog) and subsequent Hanuman save leads me to want to dip my toe into rumination regarding that murky, ubiquitous swampland that is universal law.
Before I do, I would just like to regurgitate the simple facts.
1. Meltdown happened.
2. Surrendered/let go/gave up into Grace/Hanuman/to something (anything) larger than this 5’2 ¾” body of Polish downtown NYC energy known as Mags.
3. (new information here) Within 24 hours of this procession of events, bigger/greater/more beautiful things happened in each of the “three Huge thing” arenas.
The space was filled when I was empty. Only when I was empty. I bring this up, because the turnaround was so dramatically swift and so distinctly paralleled, it could absolutely not be ignored. It’s not necessary to get into intimate specifics, but there’s a way that I thought that things would work out, and when I gave up control that I knew best, the things that appeared in that vacuum were much more of a picture of the woman I want to be than the woman I was trying to hold on to. And believe you me, the new picture was pretty darn smokin’, if I do say so myself.
There’s been a fervor in the recent past surrounding books/films defining “The Secret” and the law of attraction. Others delve a little deeper and speak more specifically to ‘the law of correspondence.’ That idea being, it’s not that you attract what you want, you attract what you ARE. These are not new ideas, it’s just that their popularity has pinnacled as of late. “Law of Attraction” has been the prom queen incumbent for several years running, in so called ‘spiritual’ circles.
The circumstances of one’s life are due to our conditioning, our thoughts, actions, whether conscious or unconscious. Some even say we are living out karmas or samskaras (impressions, seeds of past action) from lives before this one. If that is the case, not having had any life experience (that I am yet aware of) outside of this one, I cannot personally vouch to the verity of those philosophies. However, since having been made aware of the law of correspondence, I have to say it seems pretty damn spot on in the little life I’m walking through right about now.
So what’s the skinny with affirmations and law of attraction and all of that? Can I just say over and over again: “I want 10 million dollars, no, make that: 20 million dollars, 20 million dollars, 20 million dollars, 20 million dollars” or “Bradley Cooper, Bradley Cooper, Bradley Cooper, Bradley Cooper” and it/he will show up? The formula as a whole is a Catch 22; we have to align with it, all the while intensely desiring it, and then also be able to casually release our attachment from the outcome. SO totally easier said than done.
A bestie and I always mirror back approval of awesomeness/fabulousness in daily dealings because “why would God have given us such piquant taste if we were not supposed to relish and prosper with the yummier things of this earth?” The Universe wouldn’t provide a palate being able to designate between wild and farmed salmon or 300 and 600 thread count sheets and yet not also bestow the ability to partake in Life’s more discerning treats. “Hey look, see this luciousness?! Awesome, right?!... oh yeah, sorry babe, that’s just not for you.” The world wouldn’t do that. That would just be mean. And the world isn’t mean.
I’m speaking of a personal designation concerning quality. And I don’t even mean quality as in “bad” vs. “good.” I mean finding the quality of life that speaks to you and rockin it out. That has nothing to do with material excess. We are each drawn to things intrinsically that make our heart sing. A locally sourced or free-trade, handmade, raw, gluten free, exotically spiced 74% cacao chocolate processed by renewable energy is divinity in my mouth, where for others, Hershey’s will do. One of my best friends doesn’t give a hoot for chocolate but eating sheets of nori makes her head spin. For some it’s the solitude of a morning of fly-fishing. Others the freedom of zooming down Bleecker bike lanes with an iPod blasting Metallica and even others for whom a week long Caribbean Carnival cruise is the double-stuff dreams are made of. I truly believe that which we want in our deepest heart of hearts is present for us. Otherwise we would not have been given whatever level of capacity or sophistication or simplicity we vibe with in order to desire it.
Ernest Holmes in the 1926 new thought treatise “Science of Mind” writes: “There is nothing wrong in the desire for self expression. God is more completely expressed through that man who lives largely than through the one who lives meagerly.” SOM also tells us that subjective Mind (the universe) knows only completion, knows no time or process but only the answer. Another way of stating this is, all we want, we have already; we just need to get out of our own way.
My friends know me to be an avid researcher. Some might say anal, know-it-all, bossy boots; I prefer to look at it as being thorough. When I had an opportunity to grill some monks I was studying with in Fiji, I came prepared with oodles of notes and endless rounds of questions. My monk laughed gaily at the serious ardor of my type-A approach, but he gently answered my inquisition on all fronts. It ranged from how significantly was Starbucks really affecting my levels of consciousness to wanting details on my next boyfriend.
And I asked a big one—the concept I could not wrap my head around—the fish I could not fry— the question that caused (still causes) countless hours of debate amidst my tribe: “Is it all pre-determined or do we have free will?” He thought carefully, trying to find words to explain something inexplicable that would at least somewhat mollify my petulant, unenlightened desire for an immediate answer.
“We are here to learn certain lessons. That is set for us. We can choose how quickly or slowly we want to learn them, but they will always be the same lessons.”
So, we have the choice to speed our evolutionary processes or keep repeating the same patterns until we get the picture.
If that’s the right idea, and my and others’ theory is correct that we each have our desires (whether they be for chocolate or Carnival cruises) set out in a direction (even if by no other compass than mere preference,) one could interpret the law of attraction by saying when we wish for something, it's not that we are making it happen, it's that we are allowing that which already exists to come through and manifest into the physical realm. We are not changing the world, we are changing ourselves.
“The ultimate effect is already potential in its cause… to him who can perfectly practice inaction, all things are possible.”
And it seems from my experience, how quickly we can let go of something also seems to parallel how quickly the next thing enters our lives. What was so wild about the whole Hanuman thing was that I took the express train to let go, and then the stuffs arrived immediately—within 24 hours. Not for one thing. For THREE Huge things.
So we release our attachment to it, and it arrives. Meditation, unshakable faith, affirmations (or even any kind of letting go that has nothing to do with defining itself solely as a “spiritual” experience,) attunes us to that level of having it, because in knowing we have it, we have no need for attachment.
Isn’t it true that when your romantic life gets going again suddenly everyone pops out of the woodwork at once? Ya know that phrase, when it rains, it pours?
Theoretically that should work just as easily for bringing a used Honda into your life or a West Village townhouse. But the trick seems to be to attract it, we have to BE it. That’s where the correspondence comes in, in case you thought just sitting around dreaming about Hondas was going to rain them from the heavens. That explains the work. And we also have to be flexible, because many times it doesn’t look the way we thought it would.
The three Huge things were (well, um, HUGE) aspects of life that are important to me. Lettting go of the drama or emotions regarding the “failures” in those areas, I cleared the space for the laws to bring me something that I still wanted—but in the new and improved way. The upgraded version that the ‘smaller’ me would never have gotten had I been calling each and every friend to bitch about the disasters that’d befallen me.
I ended up getting what I deserved (the law of correspondence,) and what I wanted (the law of attraction,) and in much more promising packaging (what up, Grace?)-- but it only came when I let go of my intended results.
Before I do, I would just like to regurgitate the simple facts.
1. Meltdown happened.
2. Surrendered/let go/gave up into Grace/Hanuman/to something (anything) larger than this 5’2 ¾” body of Polish downtown NYC energy known as Mags.
3. (new information here) Within 24 hours of this procession of events, bigger/greater/more beautiful things happened in each of the “three Huge thing” arenas.
The space was filled when I was empty. Only when I was empty. I bring this up, because the turnaround was so dramatically swift and so distinctly paralleled, it could absolutely not be ignored. It’s not necessary to get into intimate specifics, but there’s a way that I thought that things would work out, and when I gave up control that I knew best, the things that appeared in that vacuum were much more of a picture of the woman I want to be than the woman I was trying to hold on to. And believe you me, the new picture was pretty darn smokin’, if I do say so myself.
There’s been a fervor in the recent past surrounding books/films defining “The Secret” and the law of attraction. Others delve a little deeper and speak more specifically to ‘the law of correspondence.’ That idea being, it’s not that you attract what you want, you attract what you ARE. These are not new ideas, it’s just that their popularity has pinnacled as of late. “Law of Attraction” has been the prom queen incumbent for several years running, in so called ‘spiritual’ circles.
The circumstances of one’s life are due to our conditioning, our thoughts, actions, whether conscious or unconscious. Some even say we are living out karmas or samskaras (impressions, seeds of past action) from lives before this one. If that is the case, not having had any life experience (that I am yet aware of) outside of this one, I cannot personally vouch to the verity of those philosophies. However, since having been made aware of the law of correspondence, I have to say it seems pretty damn spot on in the little life I’m walking through right about now.
So what’s the skinny with affirmations and law of attraction and all of that? Can I just say over and over again: “I want 10 million dollars, no, make that: 20 million dollars, 20 million dollars, 20 million dollars, 20 million dollars” or “Bradley Cooper, Bradley Cooper, Bradley Cooper, Bradley Cooper” and it/he will show up? The formula as a whole is a Catch 22; we have to align with it, all the while intensely desiring it, and then also be able to casually release our attachment from the outcome. SO totally easier said than done.
A bestie and I always mirror back approval of awesomeness/fabulousness in daily dealings because “why would God have given us such piquant taste if we were not supposed to relish and prosper with the yummier things of this earth?” The Universe wouldn’t provide a palate being able to designate between wild and farmed salmon or 300 and 600 thread count sheets and yet not also bestow the ability to partake in Life’s more discerning treats. “Hey look, see this luciousness?! Awesome, right?!... oh yeah, sorry babe, that’s just not for you.” The world wouldn’t do that. That would just be mean. And the world isn’t mean.
I’m speaking of a personal designation concerning quality. And I don’t even mean quality as in “bad” vs. “good.” I mean finding the quality of life that speaks to you and rockin it out. That has nothing to do with material excess. We are each drawn to things intrinsically that make our heart sing. A locally sourced or free-trade, handmade, raw, gluten free, exotically spiced 74% cacao chocolate processed by renewable energy is divinity in my mouth, where for others, Hershey’s will do. One of my best friends doesn’t give a hoot for chocolate but eating sheets of nori makes her head spin. For some it’s the solitude of a morning of fly-fishing. Others the freedom of zooming down Bleecker bike lanes with an iPod blasting Metallica and even others for whom a week long Caribbean Carnival cruise is the double-stuff dreams are made of. I truly believe that which we want in our deepest heart of hearts is present for us. Otherwise we would not have been given whatever level of capacity or sophistication or simplicity we vibe with in order to desire it.
Ernest Holmes in the 1926 new thought treatise “Science of Mind” writes: “There is nothing wrong in the desire for self expression. God is more completely expressed through that man who lives largely than through the one who lives meagerly.” SOM also tells us that subjective Mind (the universe) knows only completion, knows no time or process but only the answer. Another way of stating this is, all we want, we have already; we just need to get out of our own way.
My friends know me to be an avid researcher. Some might say anal, know-it-all, bossy boots; I prefer to look at it as being thorough. When I had an opportunity to grill some monks I was studying with in Fiji, I came prepared with oodles of notes and endless rounds of questions. My monk laughed gaily at the serious ardor of my type-A approach, but he gently answered my inquisition on all fronts. It ranged from how significantly was Starbucks really affecting my levels of consciousness to wanting details on my next boyfriend.
And I asked a big one—the concept I could not wrap my head around—the fish I could not fry— the question that caused (still causes) countless hours of debate amidst my tribe: “Is it all pre-determined or do we have free will?” He thought carefully, trying to find words to explain something inexplicable that would at least somewhat mollify my petulant, unenlightened desire for an immediate answer.
“We are here to learn certain lessons. That is set for us. We can choose how quickly or slowly we want to learn them, but they will always be the same lessons.”
So, we have the choice to speed our evolutionary processes or keep repeating the same patterns until we get the picture.
If that’s the right idea, and my and others’ theory is correct that we each have our desires (whether they be for chocolate or Carnival cruises) set out in a direction (even if by no other compass than mere preference,) one could interpret the law of attraction by saying when we wish for something, it's not that we are making it happen, it's that we are allowing that which already exists to come through and manifest into the physical realm. We are not changing the world, we are changing ourselves.
“The ultimate effect is already potential in its cause… to him who can perfectly practice inaction, all things are possible.”
And it seems from my experience, how quickly we can let go of something also seems to parallel how quickly the next thing enters our lives. What was so wild about the whole Hanuman thing was that I took the express train to let go, and then the stuffs arrived immediately—within 24 hours. Not for one thing. For THREE Huge things.
So we release our attachment to it, and it arrives. Meditation, unshakable faith, affirmations (or even any kind of letting go that has nothing to do with defining itself solely as a “spiritual” experience,) attunes us to that level of having it, because in knowing we have it, we have no need for attachment.
Isn’t it true that when your romantic life gets going again suddenly everyone pops out of the woodwork at once? Ya know that phrase, when it rains, it pours?
Theoretically that should work just as easily for bringing a used Honda into your life or a West Village townhouse. But the trick seems to be to attract it, we have to BE it. That’s where the correspondence comes in, in case you thought just sitting around dreaming about Hondas was going to rain them from the heavens. That explains the work. And we also have to be flexible, because many times it doesn’t look the way we thought it would.
The three Huge things were (well, um, HUGE) aspects of life that are important to me. Lettting go of the drama or emotions regarding the “failures” in those areas, I cleared the space for the laws to bring me something that I still wanted—but in the new and improved way. The upgraded version that the ‘smaller’ me would never have gotten had I been calling each and every friend to bitch about the disasters that’d befallen me.
I ended up getting what I deserved (the law of correspondence,) and what I wanted (the law of attraction,) and in much more promising packaging (what up, Grace?)-- but it only came when I let go of my intended results.
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