the processing princess

Today I cried.
And cried.
And cried.

And I am not, never have been, a crier. I’ve almost always been envious of criers. Even lying on a yoga mat, going through meditations dispelling grievances, I listened to a bestie’s unmistakable avalanches of tears in the nearby front row, admiring, “wow, she really lets herself go there… kinda jealous.”

Several of us participated in a weekend workshop whose main premise was to remove the barriers and charges that we construct in our lifetimes of conditioning via media and society, in turn releasing patterns of hurt from relationships and images of what we think things are supposed to look like. Awakening into a daily practice and journey of living a life of integrity and true authenticity. Geez louise, that sounds so blahbitty blah. I almost just fell asleep myself re-reading that just now.

It’s about being real.

Real in a society that prizes dramatic camera angle shifts and theatrical underscoring in game shows. Real when “have a nice day” can often be a rote response devoid of eye contact.

All this processing was not easy, but necessary. Beautiful, but sticky and unglamorous.

Thank God for two urban upscale chic twin sisters out from Cali who kept it all on the level and led us through it all, b.s. flowery spiritual pretension aside. Shout out to Catherine and Elizabeth, um, you rock beyond belief.

After a very long and gorgeously arduous Day One of our workshop, I rousted from leggings and blankie, quick-changed to designer jeans with a sweep of shadow from my Mac palette, and out the door to meet the person who is a new great joy of my life. Who I hope will continue to be the great joy in my life...

Instead of finding a sweet respite my (ugh, HATED this word at this moment) my f’ing PROCESSING brought up a state of irritability usually completely foreign to me these days. Grouchiness, disconnection, poutiness, exhaustion—all in the middle of what was supposed to be my awakening, enlightening, om shanti weekend. I was meant to be walking on water, bestowing virtual rose petals to those around me, blessing people with my angelic presence by having them waft through my wake, and instead I was stomping my feet on Houston like a sorority girl just shy of her daily minimum iced-venti-skinny-sugar-free-vanilla latte requirement.

The universe was telling me, sorry sweetheart—no comfort here, you’re going to have to process this one on your own.

And I did, at 4:30am sleeplessly and restlessly pacing in my kitchen, owning my own aggravations, taking responsibility for my reactions, and in that magic transmutation of accepting and letting go of our charges, awoke to a blackberry blinking with words of forgiveness, acceptance from the aforementioned person I would like to keep around in my life. I owned my own bull-sh*% and everything else worked out.

And today after another ridiculous day of intense exercises and meditations, of people moaning, wailing, growling, laughing unabashedly (so much so an outside observer might doubt the laughter’s verity,) I sat relatively calmly in a Neo state of observing, holding space. A slight nausea, a quickening of cell fluctuation and a determined quest during the break for a person holding chocolate to share, were my greatest outbursts.

Until the end of the day, when each of my friends, and several were present, went up to experience something known as mukti deeksha, which is not to be explained or fruitlessly detailed other than to say it is profound and sacred.

My ex and bestie got up and as I held my hands palm to palm, whispering silently to whomever was listening for his highest good, I broke out into rivers of tears. Maybelline Great Lash in Very Very Black waterproof (hardly) mascara staining my cheeks.

Vocal sobs. Not of pain. The emotion of the moment was too overwhelming to barrier behind tear ducts, too visceral to contain inside any subdued or appropriate behavior. (This was a safe space, this would not show up on YouTube, so you know, why not go there?) A moment of almost maternal pride, of honor, of deeply humble appreciation. As each of my peeps went up and the tears ebbed and flowed, it was as though watching family, the connection so strong, and like witnessing a sacrament, the experience so, for lack of a better word (or perhaps it is precisely the right one) holy.

Almost a decade ago, I threw vicious, stiletto-like puncturing wounds of words at the ex and bestie, on a more than regular basis, and wouldn’t be surprised it he reminded me that there was an actual shoe lobbed in the mix at any one of countless raging battles.

Twenty years ago, I stabbed my sister in her shoulder with a pencil. She has a small blue tattooed dot where the lead now lives, that she will still shuffle out in a show and tell of that obnoxious incident.

Whatever the reason, I used to be not nice and very very angry. As we all collectively went through layers and layers this weekend, excavating tombs of fury and resentment, I found that on all fronts familial and familiar, there was nothing left to unearth.

I had worked through it.

There are varying levels of “success” I’ve had in the dozen years since graduating college. Peaks from an outsider’s perspective could include stage door scenes of people lining up for photos or autographs during a successful run, awards, being able to walk into Louis Vuitton and drop thousands of dollars without the blink of an eye, personal triumphs that, not to mention, led to association at times with celebrities, political notables from Mayors to Presidents, first class plane tickets, invites to exclusive international clubs, stints in exquisite rooms at Four Seasons, Mandarin Orientals, Ritz Carltons the world over. These have not been the course of my daily life, but those peaks have been present and abundant.

Without a doubt my proudest moments have nothing to do with anything that might impress anyone else.

I had a strong reaction this past week when someone new in the picture pressed me to define what I was “doing” with my life. This person did not want to see my talents wasted, and it was a challenge to my ego, for shizzle. What I have been doing is unquantifiable and even I can’t take credit for it because it’s out of my hands. At best, I could point toward a room of sweaty, wrought people with a sparkle in their eye and say, “well, I kinda held a sign that pointed them here.” Not exactly press-clipping worthy.

My most significant triumphs have been private.

Non reactive behavior. A cessation of anger. Someone flicking me off or screaming at me and not having defenses flare up, but instead cocking my head quizzically and silently blessing them instead. A peace that has developed within me that is deep enough to withstand terrific earthquakes, and when they come, they are low on the rictor scale and disperse quickly.

Am I en route to saintliness?
Shall I never sin again?

Has anger or resentment taken a permanent vacation from the emotive contexts of my actions? Absolutely not. I don’t have the desire (or the wherewithal, let’s be honest) to be so virginally, crystal clear because I enjoy the grittiness of life too much. I like vodka. I love being passionate. I am innately feisty. What’s the point of existence if there’s no room for naughty?

But if my major weekend processing was about getting through a marginal princess moment, I think I’m all right.

If my biggest conflict was resolving misaligned communication with someone I care for, although unwelcome, uncomfortable and momentarily heart-wrenching, if we could turn that around in a matter of hours, I will warmly and eagerly accept a brief discomfort in the greater trade off toward authenticity. A wave of pain is so inconsequential when kept in perspective of a life that used to be an ocean of ungrounded grasping. That this was my largest disturbance in a world that used to be full of violence, selfishness, petty acting out and anger, is my most exceptional success.

This afternoon I went up for my own mukti experience, and as I stepped to what could best be described as a makeshift altar, I found myself again, overwhelmed by tears. To be humbled by grace, to feel for others more than I do myself, to know that all of that can only be present when I take care of myself first? Fountains of tears of gratitude for all that is, that I am a part of it, and it is a part of me.