Hello lovely, please come visit me now here: http://margaretnichols.com/
It's fancier.
x
mags
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
rude awakenings: trading the small for the All
If there’s anyone out there that doesn’t want to believe things are a changin’, they are in for a bit of a rude awakening. Well, for all of us awakening may turn out to be a bit rude, because to paraphrase modern brillz sage Adyashanti: we don’t want awakening, we want our version of awakening. Rude, is therefore perhaps, inherent.
And although those who are actively seeking, or at least actively considering a clumsy tango with this potential beloved (those, such as yourselves) are awake enough to see that it is unfolding whether we want it to or not—although we may seem to choose it, it is becoming increasingly apparent that this is dropping (Snoop Dog) “like it’s hot”—our mom, our boss, our neighbor is going to begin to lose it too. We’re waking up.
Again Adyashanti offers in “The End of Your World” :
“’Oh, yes, let me sign up! I’m willing to lose my whole world.’ But when your world starts to crumble, and you start to emerge from unimaginably deep states of denial, it is something altogether different. It is something altogether more real and gritty. It’s something that some people sign up for and some people don’t.”
That sounds pretty sh**y right? Mags, why would I want that? Um, I’m ready to have wintry meditative hibernation scootch over-- Yankees spring training has already started, lady.
Sorry sweets, I’m telling you, it’s gonna happen. It’s happening.
Not just in my circles—other friends who are spiritual visionaries in their own right, on paths and teachings I’m not associated with, have been espousing higher versions of themselves recently.
My fave button-pushing, rogue, self-dubbed “cybernetic yogi” Everett Bogue checked in via twitter and between cities. We both agreed, we’ve “upgraded.”
“The new me is not fitting into old forms...” was posted on Facebook by a dearest, a longtime student and teacher of the Self. He is not sitting barefoot, in white, on a floor in India. He is a New York Senior Vice President in a global public relations firm.
The time it is taking for me to organize, vision, support and care within my own community has become all encompassing. Without my choosing it, it is suddenly: “ok, I guess I’m doing this all the time now.”
I don’t need to tell you. You know. Otherwise you wouldn’t be reading this.
What I want to talk about is one tricky aspect of this transition. There can be a sense of loneliness as this awakening starts to, for reals, sweep over our lives. What we’re doing is letting go of any attachments to what we think we are, and in turn, the Source of all that is fantabulous takes over instead.
Now, we’re always going to be the same “person.” I’m not going to awaken and become a unicorn walking around; that would super weird, make it difficult to get restaurant reservations and it'd just be a horrible waste of a spectacular wardrobe.
But, instead I become not defined by said wardrobe, or for that matter, by anything in my world. Whether positive or negative, nothing sticks. And in a way, this can come coupled with a type of mourning, because we are not our family, our lover, our job, the life we thought we so carefully constructed. Those shapes no longer provide us with comfort. They can present great joy, love, happiness, but it passes by in a warm flourish; they are not carried with us to buoy when a crap day rolls around.
Lonely is not the appropriate word for it. I think of a Polish word, smutný, which technically translates as sad, but for me has almost had a bit of a bittersweet meaning. If there were a positive word for lonely, that would be what it is, and perhaps we need to invent one. I bet the French have a word for it; they always vibe with those black and white, emotive juxtapositions.
As definition drops away, in tandem, things are taken away from us so that at times life “forces” this process of letting go, and that can (depending on where we are in terms of our ascent) be a painful and an outwardly seeming: totally unfair.
We lose ownership of anything in our lives, replaced instead by the Presence of experiencing it fully in the moment. I described it in an email to a girlfriend as “giving up the small for the All.”
This can be incredibly discombobulating, even frightening, which is why the process for most of us is a slowly unfurling organic flowering towards That Huge Understanding, rather than one big, dramatic, trumpeted BANG. If we woke up one day, just suddenly able to experience EVERYTHING, absolutement, it could be too much, on a very basic physiological level.
Because that’s what it is, experiencing EVERYTHING. Every cell pulsates with the present. To be anywhere other than exactly where you are would seem preposterous. No, that’s too strong a word—because the idea to be anywhere else, would simply never cross your mind.
In the courtship with our Awakening, we have it and we lose it. Over and again. And much like avoiding our suffering, if we have it and we lost it, we naturally reach to have it again. We reach for the love + comfort, because, obvi, we want it, always.
So life keeps things out of our reach so that we can experience uber-uncomfortability. It gets edgy out on the outside, so that we keep digging or wood-shedding or opening to that place of the main Truth that is our core.
Two of my closest friends, who I happened to marry about six months ago, are apart for the first year of their marriage because the gorgeous wife is on a Broadway tour. Theirs is one of the greatest loves I’ve seen. One could list any number of reasons, excuses, choices for their separation… she’s living her dream, after all.
I think the world has bigger plans for them.
There’s a depth and a solitude that needed to take place for their spiritual growth that wouldn’t have been able to happen in the newlywed year of marital bliss. Life has a larger Bliss in mind.
Although they are outwardly hottie pattotie rockstar creatives not to mention incredibly generous and loving and ridonkulously fun individuals, they are also serious students of this trot to Awakening. Life is saying, sorry, you can’t just spend all day Saturday practicing bringing the next little awesome version of you to this world—there’s more.
This is the overlying truth for everything. Life is this spontaneous unfolding that we are a part of, but we do not have control of-- a very tricky thing for our minds to wrap around, because for us to “understand” it, we need to be out of the mind.
Once we experience Reality, the moments of disconnect can be extraordinarily painful and, as I said earlier, lonely, as we settle into a new way of being and the old forms, relationships, comforts, identities no longer make the grade. It might for some moments feel like a disconnect, but what happens eventually and paradoxically is the ultimate *connect* because we feel more sensation, yet no possession of our bodies while in turn, connected to everything else.
It’s tricky because it’s not a choice—it just happens.
And there are actually two aspects of the loneliness I’m speaking to here.
1- loneliness in the process
2- (insert the positive version of loneliness) upon seeing
Loneliness in the process is the disconnect.
"Loneliness" upon seeing, is having it all, and knowing you didn’t do any of it.
Your business? Not yours.
Your partner? Not yours.
Compliments, praise, gratitude? Like eating a spoonful of New York Super Fudge Chunk, pleasant at the moment and then it dissipates into the past—it does not inform you, build you up or make you more than.
...not yours.
The contradiction that coexists is that there is more of all of it: you just don’t get to “have” it.
We, the world, will continue to unfold and extend until we are in that place permanently. The awesome thing is-- when we’re in that place of Being, and we see what it is, and we’re not scared of it, it IS the ultimate flow.
It is having everything we want, being provided for entirely and fully encompassed by purpose and love. Whether you're an executive vice-president, a Broadway dancer or a barefoot hippie.
No one can do this for us, so we may have to, for a time, learn to be lonely. It’s then and only then that we reach for the nourishment that really fuels our fire. And when we get there? Well, we’re going to have to find that new, positive definition for loneliness, because how can you possibly be lonely when you have it ALL?
And although those who are actively seeking, or at least actively considering a clumsy tango with this potential beloved (those, such as yourselves) are awake enough to see that it is unfolding whether we want it to or not—although we may seem to choose it, it is becoming increasingly apparent that this is dropping (Snoop Dog) “like it’s hot”—our mom, our boss, our neighbor is going to begin to lose it too. We’re waking up.
Again Adyashanti offers in “The End of Your World” :
“’Oh, yes, let me sign up! I’m willing to lose my whole world.’ But when your world starts to crumble, and you start to emerge from unimaginably deep states of denial, it is something altogether different. It is something altogether more real and gritty. It’s something that some people sign up for and some people don’t.”
That sounds pretty sh**y right? Mags, why would I want that? Um, I’m ready to have wintry meditative hibernation scootch over-- Yankees spring training has already started, lady.
Sorry sweets, I’m telling you, it’s gonna happen. It’s happening.
Not just in my circles—other friends who are spiritual visionaries in their own right, on paths and teachings I’m not associated with, have been espousing higher versions of themselves recently.
My fave button-pushing, rogue, self-dubbed “cybernetic yogi” Everett Bogue checked in via twitter and between cities. We both agreed, we’ve “upgraded.”
“The new me is not fitting into old forms...” was posted on Facebook by a dearest, a longtime student and teacher of the Self. He is not sitting barefoot, in white, on a floor in India. He is a New York Senior Vice President in a global public relations firm.
The time it is taking for me to organize, vision, support and care within my own community has become all encompassing. Without my choosing it, it is suddenly: “ok, I guess I’m doing this all the time now.”
I don’t need to tell you. You know. Otherwise you wouldn’t be reading this.
What I want to talk about is one tricky aspect of this transition. There can be a sense of loneliness as this awakening starts to, for reals, sweep over our lives. What we’re doing is letting go of any attachments to what we think we are, and in turn, the Source of all that is fantabulous takes over instead.
Now, we’re always going to be the same “person.” I’m not going to awaken and become a unicorn walking around; that would super weird, make it difficult to get restaurant reservations and it'd just be a horrible waste of a spectacular wardrobe.
But, instead I become not defined by said wardrobe, or for that matter, by anything in my world. Whether positive or negative, nothing sticks. And in a way, this can come coupled with a type of mourning, because we are not our family, our lover, our job, the life we thought we so carefully constructed. Those shapes no longer provide us with comfort. They can present great joy, love, happiness, but it passes by in a warm flourish; they are not carried with us to buoy when a crap day rolls around.
Lonely is not the appropriate word for it. I think of a Polish word, smutný, which technically translates as sad, but for me has almost had a bit of a bittersweet meaning. If there were a positive word for lonely, that would be what it is, and perhaps we need to invent one. I bet the French have a word for it; they always vibe with those black and white, emotive juxtapositions.
As definition drops away, in tandem, things are taken away from us so that at times life “forces” this process of letting go, and that can (depending on where we are in terms of our ascent) be a painful and an outwardly seeming: totally unfair.
We lose ownership of anything in our lives, replaced instead by the Presence of experiencing it fully in the moment. I described it in an email to a girlfriend as “giving up the small for the All.”
This can be incredibly discombobulating, even frightening, which is why the process for most of us is a slowly unfurling organic flowering towards That Huge Understanding, rather than one big, dramatic, trumpeted BANG. If we woke up one day, just suddenly able to experience EVERYTHING, absolutement, it could be too much, on a very basic physiological level.
Because that’s what it is, experiencing EVERYTHING. Every cell pulsates with the present. To be anywhere other than exactly where you are would seem preposterous. No, that’s too strong a word—because the idea to be anywhere else, would simply never cross your mind.
In the courtship with our Awakening, we have it and we lose it. Over and again. And much like avoiding our suffering, if we have it and we lost it, we naturally reach to have it again. We reach for the love + comfort, because, obvi, we want it, always.
So life keeps things out of our reach so that we can experience uber-uncomfortability. It gets edgy out on the outside, so that we keep digging or wood-shedding or opening to that place of the main Truth that is our core.
Two of my closest friends, who I happened to marry about six months ago, are apart for the first year of their marriage because the gorgeous wife is on a Broadway tour. Theirs is one of the greatest loves I’ve seen. One could list any number of reasons, excuses, choices for their separation… she’s living her dream, after all.
I think the world has bigger plans for them.
There’s a depth and a solitude that needed to take place for their spiritual growth that wouldn’t have been able to happen in the newlywed year of marital bliss. Life has a larger Bliss in mind.
Although they are outwardly hottie pattotie rockstar creatives not to mention incredibly generous and loving and ridonkulously fun individuals, they are also serious students of this trot to Awakening. Life is saying, sorry, you can’t just spend all day Saturday practicing bringing the next little awesome version of you to this world—there’s more.
This is the overlying truth for everything. Life is this spontaneous unfolding that we are a part of, but we do not have control of-- a very tricky thing for our minds to wrap around, because for us to “understand” it, we need to be out of the mind.
Once we experience Reality, the moments of disconnect can be extraordinarily painful and, as I said earlier, lonely, as we settle into a new way of being and the old forms, relationships, comforts, identities no longer make the grade. It might for some moments feel like a disconnect, but what happens eventually and paradoxically is the ultimate *connect* because we feel more sensation, yet no possession of our bodies while in turn, connected to everything else.
It’s tricky because it’s not a choice—it just happens.
And there are actually two aspects of the loneliness I’m speaking to here.
1- loneliness in the process
2- (insert the positive version of loneliness) upon seeing
Loneliness in the process is the disconnect.
"Loneliness" upon seeing, is having it all, and knowing you didn’t do any of it.
Your business? Not yours.
Your partner? Not yours.
Compliments, praise, gratitude? Like eating a spoonful of New York Super Fudge Chunk, pleasant at the moment and then it dissipates into the past—it does not inform you, build you up or make you more than.
...not yours.
The contradiction that coexists is that there is more of all of it: you just don’t get to “have” it.
We, the world, will continue to unfold and extend until we are in that place permanently. The awesome thing is-- when we’re in that place of Being, and we see what it is, and we’re not scared of it, it IS the ultimate flow.
It is having everything we want, being provided for entirely and fully encompassed by purpose and love. Whether you're an executive vice-president, a Broadway dancer or a barefoot hippie.
No one can do this for us, so we may have to, for a time, learn to be lonely. It’s then and only then that we reach for the nourishment that really fuels our fire. And when we get there? Well, we’re going to have to find that new, positive definition for loneliness, because how can you possibly be lonely when you have it ALL?
Monday, February 21, 2011
Ultimate Love: keeping the crazy in our pants
I’m gonna talk about love. And not a “take my hand,” “pinch my behind,” “flowers on Valentine’s,” “hold my hair back when I have the flu” kind of love. I’m talking about the highest love. Ultimate Love. Infinite love, and why living from the place of trying to hold that truth can be a treacherous, tricky and sometimes bogus business.
This morning Marianne Williamson offered up via Twitter:
“Love is a Divine creation. It is Who We Really Are. Everything else is a mortal hallucination, and will fall away as we remember who we are.”
It irked me. If you saw that tweet feed, pre-coffee, post fight with your boyfriend, or waking up with a crink in your neck, it might irk you too.
I love me some MW and went through a huge phase of her sassafrass, gorgeous depth about six years ago. She was one of my first chosen woo gurus and I inhaled her audio recordings and books on daily stretches of six-mile walks one summer in Vermont when my world was in a very different place.
MW teaches on “A Course in Miracles” which is super-long text laid out in teachings of a one-year course, slowly crowbar-ing our eyes open to the highest Truth. Although MW was raised Jewish, the course comes from a Christic perspective. I’ve studied it, but never got through the whole thing.
It so very rightly postulates that there are only two things in this world, love and fear. Our consciousness, as over-arching Brahman, in the perfection of every moment as it is, is only love. But we don’t see that. That’s our “misperception.” Our ‘original sin’ as a species, if you will.
The course leads you through this realization delicately, but others I find cheerlead to always look for the love. Look for the LOVE (exclamation point, smiley face, heart emoticon) which is Nettly McNettlesom to hear if: a) you don’t feel like lookin’ for the love, or b) you can’t find it.
People cheerlead for love because it’s more marketable. Happiness, peace, money, sex!!! Comeandgetit!! If I titled lectures, courses, as “come join me and be with your suffering” that would be uber-depressing.
Things have been evolving ridiculously quickly in the last few months; both in my personal life, and if I can be so bold to speak for others—as a human race. Outrageous things happening and with those things people and events come in tow, which I lovingly (and sometimes not so lovingly) refer to as: crazypants.
I use this word so often, that my closest friends and I use the abbreviation: CP—this makes texting efficient, and a possibility to reference crazypants in perhaps a public setting where the word might not be the most generous to lob out.
CP refers many times to zesty people or events that I can’t yet, for instance, reference to my mom. And it’s not necessarily negative. I have TOTALLY been CP myself; I would happily wear a t-shirt labeling myself “Miss CP 2011” especially if that designation came with a ribbon and a tiara.
Particularly when we are on this path we will have glimpses, stretches into this Ultimate Love, into seeing the world as it truly is, and naturally we want to express and embrace that moment as it happens. Bring it on.
However, when we're not there... over-enthusiasm can be annoying. There was a moment when I was last in India, futzing with something on my laptop in the “dorm” room, when a woman who I adore came in, brimming with the light a high state, arms outstretched, stopping dramatically in the middle, proclaiming “ohmigosh—do you FEEL this?? There is SO much LOooooooVE in this room.” I didn’t roll my eyes. That would be rude. I internally rolled them.
I wasn’t in that space, and so I wasn’t feeling it. I certainly don’t want to squish anyone’s self expression and I absolutely value spreading love, 100%, spread it everywhere, tattoo it on your wrists, point it out when you see it. I only want to mention that we are not always living in the state of the highest Ultimate Love, so we’re not collectively ready to make that our parking spot.
People come to me with heart-wrenching stories of suffering, heartbreak, loss, confusion, that are very very real to them in their present moment. If I were to say, “oh just feel the Ultimate Love” pat them on their head and send them away in crisis, that would be not only irresponsible as a teacher, but as a human being.
It goes the same for any of the highest teachings. At the top tier nondual level, none of this exists. You don’t hear me talking about that so much, because how practical is that to us at this moment? Um, it’s not. Friends of mine have found enlightened Advaita masters and then gone into self-proclaimed six-month couch potato periods… what’s the point if it doesn’t exist?
The access to the love is through the present moment. I’m telling you. Don’t reach for love. Don’t waste your time. Don’t waste your efforts. Be where you are. It comes.
The Ultimate Love, and all other juicy phenomena such as compassion, right action, bliss are naturally and organically present when we have glimpses of, experiences with, and (one day soon) collectively reside in a permanently awakened state. When in this state, there is absolutely no need to reach because it is all that there is.
There could never be anything else and so in a way, it doesn’t have to be a celebration, because it is so vast and all-encompassing if we celebrated every moment that it happened there wouldn’t be cakes enough in the world to underline its sweetness.
The love I’m speaking of is a merging, the oneness with anything in front of you. It is a devotion, attention and care you would give to a slammed left elbow combined with a simultaneous marvel that the elbow exists in the first place. However the “Tao that can be named is not the Tao.” These words fall so hopelessly short of this Reality.
Something happened to me last night for the first time ever, so I’m going to round off with a short crazypants example. I first had glimpses of this about five years ago but now they are coming more and more regularly, without any reaching on my part, so I share this experience with you.
There’s a way that we can communicate with each other, without words. (This is total sci-fi movie stuff and I wouldn't have believed it until it started happening to me, so please bear with me...)
It is a kind of telepathic understanding and my experience has been thus far that it’s not through the mind, its highway is the heart. We merge with someone and we see who they are, what their thoughts or feelings are, their experience becomes yours, you know them.
It’s like what making love can be at its most intimate, but you don’t have to be naked, sweaty or even know the person. It doesn’t need to be preceded by a fancy dinner, four-inch heels and flirty SMS.
So last night I’m at an old stomping ground. One of my fave Italian spots in the city, at the foot of a downtown hipster New York hotel. I’m with someone I know and love very well (someone definitively not *spiritual*) and myself having been in hibernation, whom I had not seen for some time. We’re having a lovely long meal and at one point, I’m sitting across the table and give over some news about a person very close to us both.
His face is absolutely self- posessed, seeming even, to not register what I said. In the same instant, I, across the table, suddenly feel a punch in my solar plexus and it churns, deeply. It rips open with an ache of loss, hurt.
I am taken aback. Huh? What is this? This is not my emotion. I had/have no attachment/charge with the news… where is this coming from? The reaction is not mine. “Mags” is not feeling this. What the CP-ness is this?
His face is placid, but a moment later he tells me:
“That’s the worst news I’ve ever heard.”
A great businessman, his pokerface did not betray his emotion. I, across the table, experienced what was happening inside of him.
It was not an empathy, because I had no idea of his mental reaction until he told me. I did not at any preceding moment know I was going to share this news or anticipate what he might feel. I could never have expected he would be so hurt by it— frankly, I wasn’t aware that he cared that much. Ours was a registering, an understanding, a communication of the heart. I did not chose to feel it, it arose spontaneously. I could not lay claim to it—it was not mine.
This was a form of the Ultimate Love. Because even in experiencing its pain, that was the raw truth of the moment, and the connection, the oneness it provided, however “unpleasant,” was real. It was authentic and that made it beyond beautiful—that made it the ultimate beauty: life.
Why do we want this? Why do we want to get to this place? Because it’s f*ing awesome. Any rah rah ‘live your best life’ rhetoric you’ve heard? Bleached Benjamin James china white by comparison. It’s not even the same ballpark, much less the same sport as this Ultimate Love.
Love in every moment, no matter what it looks like. In angst, in grittiness. This is why I adore New York with its dark corners and debilitated sidewalks. Its millions, its masses, all with the greatest potential for that infinite love. How far experience can soar between our dark lounges and dramatic skyscrapers—how thrilling the latent probability of an impending Ultimate Love in its dirt.
Love is being where you are. We might not see it as that in the moment, but it will reveal itself… one day soon that will merge for us all. Bliss isn’t only shiny, it’s dirty. Let’s open our eyes to the possibility of not knowing what that will look like. That is truly opening ourselves to love and all its crazypants.
This morning Marianne Williamson offered up via Twitter:
“Love is a Divine creation. It is Who We Really Are. Everything else is a mortal hallucination, and will fall away as we remember who we are.”
It irked me. If you saw that tweet feed, pre-coffee, post fight with your boyfriend, or waking up with a crink in your neck, it might irk you too.
I love me some MW and went through a huge phase of her sassafrass, gorgeous depth about six years ago. She was one of my first chosen woo gurus and I inhaled her audio recordings and books on daily stretches of six-mile walks one summer in Vermont when my world was in a very different place.
MW teaches on “A Course in Miracles” which is super-long text laid out in teachings of a one-year course, slowly crowbar-ing our eyes open to the highest Truth. Although MW was raised Jewish, the course comes from a Christic perspective. I’ve studied it, but never got through the whole thing.
It so very rightly postulates that there are only two things in this world, love and fear. Our consciousness, as over-arching Brahman, in the perfection of every moment as it is, is only love. But we don’t see that. That’s our “misperception.” Our ‘original sin’ as a species, if you will.
The course leads you through this realization delicately, but others I find cheerlead to always look for the love. Look for the LOVE (exclamation point, smiley face, heart emoticon) which is Nettly McNettlesom to hear if: a) you don’t feel like lookin’ for the love, or b) you can’t find it.
People cheerlead for love because it’s more marketable. Happiness, peace, money, sex!!! Comeandgetit!! If I titled lectures, courses, as “come join me and be with your suffering” that would be uber-depressing.
Things have been evolving ridiculously quickly in the last few months; both in my personal life, and if I can be so bold to speak for others—as a human race. Outrageous things happening and with those things people and events come in tow, which I lovingly (and sometimes not so lovingly) refer to as: crazypants.
I use this word so often, that my closest friends and I use the abbreviation: CP—this makes texting efficient, and a possibility to reference crazypants in perhaps a public setting where the word might not be the most generous to lob out.
CP refers many times to zesty people or events that I can’t yet, for instance, reference to my mom. And it’s not necessarily negative. I have TOTALLY been CP myself; I would happily wear a t-shirt labeling myself “Miss CP 2011” especially if that designation came with a ribbon and a tiara.
Particularly when we are on this path we will have glimpses, stretches into this Ultimate Love, into seeing the world as it truly is, and naturally we want to express and embrace that moment as it happens. Bring it on.
However, when we're not there... over-enthusiasm can be annoying. There was a moment when I was last in India, futzing with something on my laptop in the “dorm” room, when a woman who I adore came in, brimming with the light a high state, arms outstretched, stopping dramatically in the middle, proclaiming “ohmigosh—do you FEEL this?? There is SO much LOooooooVE in this room.” I didn’t roll my eyes. That would be rude. I internally rolled them.
I wasn’t in that space, and so I wasn’t feeling it. I certainly don’t want to squish anyone’s self expression and I absolutely value spreading love, 100%, spread it everywhere, tattoo it on your wrists, point it out when you see it. I only want to mention that we are not always living in the state of the highest Ultimate Love, so we’re not collectively ready to make that our parking spot.
People come to me with heart-wrenching stories of suffering, heartbreak, loss, confusion, that are very very real to them in their present moment. If I were to say, “oh just feel the Ultimate Love” pat them on their head and send them away in crisis, that would be not only irresponsible as a teacher, but as a human being.
It goes the same for any of the highest teachings. At the top tier nondual level, none of this exists. You don’t hear me talking about that so much, because how practical is that to us at this moment? Um, it’s not. Friends of mine have found enlightened Advaita masters and then gone into self-proclaimed six-month couch potato periods… what’s the point if it doesn’t exist?
The access to the love is through the present moment. I’m telling you. Don’t reach for love. Don’t waste your time. Don’t waste your efforts. Be where you are. It comes.
The Ultimate Love, and all other juicy phenomena such as compassion, right action, bliss are naturally and organically present when we have glimpses of, experiences with, and (one day soon) collectively reside in a permanently awakened state. When in this state, there is absolutely no need to reach because it is all that there is.
There could never be anything else and so in a way, it doesn’t have to be a celebration, because it is so vast and all-encompassing if we celebrated every moment that it happened there wouldn’t be cakes enough in the world to underline its sweetness.
The love I’m speaking of is a merging, the oneness with anything in front of you. It is a devotion, attention and care you would give to a slammed left elbow combined with a simultaneous marvel that the elbow exists in the first place. However the “Tao that can be named is not the Tao.” These words fall so hopelessly short of this Reality.
Something happened to me last night for the first time ever, so I’m going to round off with a short crazypants example. I first had glimpses of this about five years ago but now they are coming more and more regularly, without any reaching on my part, so I share this experience with you.
There’s a way that we can communicate with each other, without words. (This is total sci-fi movie stuff and I wouldn't have believed it until it started happening to me, so please bear with me...)
It is a kind of telepathic understanding and my experience has been thus far that it’s not through the mind, its highway is the heart. We merge with someone and we see who they are, what their thoughts or feelings are, their experience becomes yours, you know them.
It’s like what making love can be at its most intimate, but you don’t have to be naked, sweaty or even know the person. It doesn’t need to be preceded by a fancy dinner, four-inch heels and flirty SMS.
So last night I’m at an old stomping ground. One of my fave Italian spots in the city, at the foot of a downtown hipster New York hotel. I’m with someone I know and love very well (someone definitively not *spiritual*) and myself having been in hibernation, whom I had not seen for some time. We’re having a lovely long meal and at one point, I’m sitting across the table and give over some news about a person very close to us both.
His face is absolutely self- posessed, seeming even, to not register what I said. In the same instant, I, across the table, suddenly feel a punch in my solar plexus and it churns, deeply. It rips open with an ache of loss, hurt.
I am taken aback. Huh? What is this? This is not my emotion. I had/have no attachment/charge with the news… where is this coming from? The reaction is not mine. “Mags” is not feeling this. What the CP-ness is this?
His face is placid, but a moment later he tells me:
“That’s the worst news I’ve ever heard.”
A great businessman, his pokerface did not betray his emotion. I, across the table, experienced what was happening inside of him.
It was not an empathy, because I had no idea of his mental reaction until he told me. I did not at any preceding moment know I was going to share this news or anticipate what he might feel. I could never have expected he would be so hurt by it— frankly, I wasn’t aware that he cared that much. Ours was a registering, an understanding, a communication of the heart. I did not chose to feel it, it arose spontaneously. I could not lay claim to it—it was not mine.
This was a form of the Ultimate Love. Because even in experiencing its pain, that was the raw truth of the moment, and the connection, the oneness it provided, however “unpleasant,” was real. It was authentic and that made it beyond beautiful—that made it the ultimate beauty: life.
Why do we want this? Why do we want to get to this place? Because it’s f*ing awesome. Any rah rah ‘live your best life’ rhetoric you’ve heard? Bleached Benjamin James china white by comparison. It’s not even the same ballpark, much less the same sport as this Ultimate Love.
Love in every moment, no matter what it looks like. In angst, in grittiness. This is why I adore New York with its dark corners and debilitated sidewalks. Its millions, its masses, all with the greatest potential for that infinite love. How far experience can soar between our dark lounges and dramatic skyscrapers—how thrilling the latent probability of an impending Ultimate Love in its dirt.
Love is being where you are. We might not see it as that in the moment, but it will reveal itself… one day soon that will merge for us all. Bliss isn’t only shiny, it’s dirty. Let’s open our eyes to the possibility of not knowing what that will look like. That is truly opening ourselves to love and all its crazypants.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
authentic listening=the more direct urbandaddy
My dad caught me on either end of my LA conference. Going in, an 8am phone call as I was crawling the side streets of only marginally familiar Venice Beach, peeking for parking. I was distracted, annoyed, in my rental compact.
Why is he calling me so early? He never calls me in the morning. Is there anywhere to park longer than an hour?.. What a racket.
Simultaneously squinting to discern small letters on parking signage, while maneuvering questions about my pre-breakfast general well-being, didn’t make for a friendly, focused, familial exchange.
In a huff, I told him I’d call him back. I was pressed for time. In two hours I had to register at a weekend conference as an “advanced spiritual teacher.” Ha.
I learned innumerable things that weekend. My mind emptied, my heart was bedazzled and it was a fast and furious explosion of awareness that I’ve already written about here. But I’m going to take the woo down a notch and speak about a simple lesson that showed up beautifully and (as a city girl, I always appreciate this efficiency) immediately.
It was about true listening and here’s the teaching:
“When listening to the other, you are paying attention to what is happening within you without judgment.
As you are listening, you will feel a want or need, this is what the other person is wanting or needing.
True compassion naturally arises from doing this because you experience yourself as the other, their need is now your need.”
So, fast forward, book-ending the weekend, in some kind of innate father sonar hone-in that could only be chalked up to grace, my dad called me as I was driving from the conference to elsewhere in LA. He called on the way in, and he called on the way out. He didn’t call in between. And I was in LA, so of course both times he called, I was in a car.
“So what are you going to be doing there with the rest of your time?”
“You know Dad, just seeing some friends out here, keeping it low key.”
He told me about the Hollywood walk of fame and insisted I must see it. "Marlene Dietrich has a star there, you know." I assured him I have previously been there.
He listed one or two other hopelessly touristy jaunts, forgetting apparently that I lived in this city for six months a decade ago.
“Have you been to the Roosevelt Hotel?”
“No Dad, I have not been to the Roosevelt hotel.” I sighed, what after all, could my father, not having been to LA for a solid 25 years have to teach me (well-informed New Yorker, 2nd lala trip in a month) about all things cosmopolitan in LA?
“Promise me you’ll go.”
“Ok Dad…” I laughed, dismissingly.
He was insistent. “Promise me.”
Then, twixt a pause and a blessed breath, popped forth the aforementioned listening teaching. Here I was, being a total a**hole with my dad, and not even realizing it.
What need or want did he have? He wanted to feel a part of the scene, to be in the know, to have a sophisticated understanding and comfortable connection with one of the world’s glitziest cities. He wanted to be able to show/teach something to his daughter, the intrinsically magniloquent Mags. He wanted to be my Dad.
“Promise me you’ll go.”
Something shifted in me when I saw myself truly listening, and I found my lips replying, in complete resolve: “Ok Dad, I promise.”
I had an over-booked 36 hours left in LA, plans for both evenings elsewhere and I told only three people I would be in town because I knew I just did not have the minutes to spare… One of my dearest friends in the universe didn’t get facetime. The soul sistah I was meeting in Venice beach on the way in to the conference? That ended up being a two-minute drive-by on the edge of said boardwark. The Roosevelt hotel? Why did I promise that? Notgonnahappen.
The next night it was midnight after a spectacular set of music with some wickedly talented, genius even, successful besties. If you think I use any of those words casually, please be advised, I don’t.
We all conglomerated after in the restaurant adjoining the dark venue, brainstorming on where to traipse for the post-show cool down. Our sights were set on a lounge with which I was familiar when one of my friends lobbed out: "How about the Roosevelt Hotel?"
“Wait... what did you say?”
“The Roosevelt Hotel.”
(Everyone reading is well aware, I'm assuming, that LA is a city of millions of people and that there are, let's say at least thousands of opportunities for various places to eat, drink, be merry... so, tossing out the Roosevelt hotel? C'mon. More than a coinkidink.)
“YES. We’re going there.” My tone made it clear to the others that was the only current option. Was it open? Quick group iPhone check and yes: It was open 24/7—yes, we were going there.
Less than an hour later we were ensconced by a swank diner; its gut reno retro rendition and dark design landscape ubiquitous with late night Hollywood. There was a huge party in the adjoining club which looked my worst nightmare, but in a chocolate vinyl (pleather?/leather?) oversized banquette were some of the people I love most on this earth, a new face or two and someone who fancied me… (never a bad thing for a gal to have adjoining her when sitting late night in a Hollywood booth.)
I drank the only alcohol I’ve had in the last six weeks: pinot noir served in a Riedel tumbler. We ordered milkshakes and onion rings. Others had the best burgers in LA. Mine was veggie; it was the size of my face and it was phenomenal.
The performers and artists were tired. It was a calm late-night feast and we all ordered too much. Even in its sleepy simplicity it was one of the loveliest evenings I’ve had. Great friends, good food, the perfect ambiance.
And I never. ever. would have gone had I not taken the time to truly listen to my Dad. To tap into what he was needing. To let go of any view I had of the world and what it was supposed to look like and what I thought I did or didn’t know. To allow an open and authentic, fresh exchange even with someone I have not known life without. To allow him and myself the possibility that I had not outgrown his wisdom.
It’s been a month and ironically, enough other things have happened that there hasn’t been a moment for me to tell my father that I actually went, living up to my promise. But somewhere, on some plane of the woo that is so mysterious and holy in its elusive tango away from a cognizant understanding, on that lowest three-levels-in an “Inception”esque subconscious working, there was a kind of healing. I don’t know yet whether it was for him or for me. Seeing as we’re inter-connected, I expect it was for both, as well as for us all. Listening to my Dad: my most hipster healing yet.
Why is he calling me so early? He never calls me in the morning. Is there anywhere to park longer than an hour?.. What a racket.
Simultaneously squinting to discern small letters on parking signage, while maneuvering questions about my pre-breakfast general well-being, didn’t make for a friendly, focused, familial exchange.
In a huff, I told him I’d call him back. I was pressed for time. In two hours I had to register at a weekend conference as an “advanced spiritual teacher.” Ha.
I learned innumerable things that weekend. My mind emptied, my heart was bedazzled and it was a fast and furious explosion of awareness that I’ve already written about here. But I’m going to take the woo down a notch and speak about a simple lesson that showed up beautifully and (as a city girl, I always appreciate this efficiency) immediately.
It was about true listening and here’s the teaching:
“When listening to the other, you are paying attention to what is happening within you without judgment.
As you are listening, you will feel a want or need, this is what the other person is wanting or needing.
True compassion naturally arises from doing this because you experience yourself as the other, their need is now your need.”
So, fast forward, book-ending the weekend, in some kind of innate father sonar hone-in that could only be chalked up to grace, my dad called me as I was driving from the conference to elsewhere in LA. He called on the way in, and he called on the way out. He didn’t call in between. And I was in LA, so of course both times he called, I was in a car.
“So what are you going to be doing there with the rest of your time?”
“You know Dad, just seeing some friends out here, keeping it low key.”
He told me about the Hollywood walk of fame and insisted I must see it. "Marlene Dietrich has a star there, you know." I assured him I have previously been there.
He listed one or two other hopelessly touristy jaunts, forgetting apparently that I lived in this city for six months a decade ago.
“Have you been to the Roosevelt Hotel?”
“No Dad, I have not been to the Roosevelt hotel.” I sighed, what after all, could my father, not having been to LA for a solid 25 years have to teach me (well-informed New Yorker, 2nd lala trip in a month) about all things cosmopolitan in LA?
“Promise me you’ll go.”
“Ok Dad…” I laughed, dismissingly.
He was insistent. “Promise me.”
Then, twixt a pause and a blessed breath, popped forth the aforementioned listening teaching. Here I was, being a total a**hole with my dad, and not even realizing it.
What need or want did he have? He wanted to feel a part of the scene, to be in the know, to have a sophisticated understanding and comfortable connection with one of the world’s glitziest cities. He wanted to be able to show/teach something to his daughter, the intrinsically magniloquent Mags. He wanted to be my Dad.
“Promise me you’ll go.”
Something shifted in me when I saw myself truly listening, and I found my lips replying, in complete resolve: “Ok Dad, I promise.”
I had an over-booked 36 hours left in LA, plans for both evenings elsewhere and I told only three people I would be in town because I knew I just did not have the minutes to spare… One of my dearest friends in the universe didn’t get facetime. The soul sistah I was meeting in Venice beach on the way in to the conference? That ended up being a two-minute drive-by on the edge of said boardwark. The Roosevelt hotel? Why did I promise that? Notgonnahappen.
The next night it was midnight after a spectacular set of music with some wickedly talented, genius even, successful besties. If you think I use any of those words casually, please be advised, I don’t.
We all conglomerated after in the restaurant adjoining the dark venue, brainstorming on where to traipse for the post-show cool down. Our sights were set on a lounge with which I was familiar when one of my friends lobbed out: "How about the Roosevelt Hotel?"
“Wait... what did you say?”
“The Roosevelt Hotel.”
(Everyone reading is well aware, I'm assuming, that LA is a city of millions of people and that there are, let's say at least thousands of opportunities for various places to eat, drink, be merry... so, tossing out the Roosevelt hotel? C'mon. More than a coinkidink.)
“YES. We’re going there.” My tone made it clear to the others that was the only current option. Was it open? Quick group iPhone check and yes: It was open 24/7—yes, we were going there.
Less than an hour later we were ensconced by a swank diner; its gut reno retro rendition and dark design landscape ubiquitous with late night Hollywood. There was a huge party in the adjoining club which looked my worst nightmare, but in a chocolate vinyl (pleather?/leather?) oversized banquette were some of the people I love most on this earth, a new face or two and someone who fancied me… (never a bad thing for a gal to have adjoining her when sitting late night in a Hollywood booth.)
I drank the only alcohol I’ve had in the last six weeks: pinot noir served in a Riedel tumbler. We ordered milkshakes and onion rings. Others had the best burgers in LA. Mine was veggie; it was the size of my face and it was phenomenal.
The performers and artists were tired. It was a calm late-night feast and we all ordered too much. Even in its sleepy simplicity it was one of the loveliest evenings I’ve had. Great friends, good food, the perfect ambiance.
And I never. ever. would have gone had I not taken the time to truly listen to my Dad. To tap into what he was needing. To let go of any view I had of the world and what it was supposed to look like and what I thought I did or didn’t know. To allow an open and authentic, fresh exchange even with someone I have not known life without. To allow him and myself the possibility that I had not outgrown his wisdom.
It’s been a month and ironically, enough other things have happened that there hasn’t been a moment for me to tell my father that I actually went, living up to my promise. But somewhere, on some plane of the woo that is so mysterious and holy in its elusive tango away from a cognizant understanding, on that lowest three-levels-in an “Inception”esque subconscious working, there was a kind of healing. I don’t know yet whether it was for him or for me. Seeing as we’re inter-connected, I expect it was for both, as well as for us all. Listening to my Dad: my most hipster healing yet.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
a tale of the world’s most spectacular cookie
“I want the one with the raspberry middle and the sprinkles.”
My fingers poked to the bottom of the white baker’s box
reaching for the aforementioned suspect.
“Oh you found the good one, it has both,”
an enlightened person replied to me,
as half a dozen of us stood
casually snacking around a Midtown West kitchen table.
Going in, the cookie was average.
At first bite, something shifted.
“Oh my God, this cookie is amazing.”
The cookie was not amazing.
The cookie was white flour and processed food coloring.
Give me a decent chocolate soufflé and I’ll write you a sonata about it.
Crème brûlée gets a cantana.
This kind of cookie was not musical inspiration.
And yet,
this was the most marvelous cookie I had ever seen.
The taste was (Katy Perry rendition) fireworks in my mouth.
More fascinatedly, its constitution was remarkable.
Small multi-colored sprinkle dots- magnificent!
A gooey, thick, marma-laden raspberry button center—genius!
The juxtaposition of the crumble as it cascaded my tongue,
licking my lips and lingering there like a lovers lazy morning,
embedded in my lip gloss... groan. yum.
This little bod’s a foodie and a snob about it.
Much to my family’s chagrin,
I cannot help that a discerning palate was bequeathed to this tongue.
The cookie was not good due to its sophisticated merging of ingredients.
Despite being hauled from the lauded Veniero's,
it was in fact, a simple Italian sugar cookie.
Here, it was spectacular because of its mere existence.
Most spec.ta.cul.lar.
Giggles came.
They would not stop.
Which looks crazypants when everyone else is standing around
having normal conversation over falafel and aloe water
and you are against the wall,
eyeball pressed to a cookie, giggling.
I stepped into the other room, trying to sequester my giggles.
They kept coming.
I noticed people were now staring at me bemused,
but really there was nothing to be done.
Obama could have been present
and the giggles would not stop.
All at once heat blasted my body.
I looked around as though the answer to its sudden appearance
would be found in the air around me.
“I’m schvitzing.” I announced. To no one in particular.
“I’m schvitzing!!”
I took the cookie, now only perhaps 37% eaten, with me into the kitchen.
I had never eaten anything more slowly in my life.
It was impossible to ingest the cookie at a more rapid tempo.
and
it was very very VERY important to not lose the cookie.
I knew what a toddler felt like clutching a biscuit.
The cookie was everything.
A decade ago I had considerable experience with MDMA,
otherwise known as the drug ecstasy.
This was what this felt like.
This was what this EXACTLY felt like.
I shuffled to the kitchen and
stuck my head in the freezer.
Sweat bundled to break through on my lower back and the cold felt:
winterfresh.
Look! Frozen peas!
I grabbed them.
(This was not my home. I grabbed my friend’s peas.
The thought to ask did not cross my mind. The pea package was just so pretty, and I?...)
“Oh gosh, so hot.”
It felt perfectly reasonable to hold the frozen peas against the back of my neck
and reach for the sink greedily refilling a too-small Dixie cup of water,
precariously balancing these items
all the while being extraordinarily careful that I did. Not. Drop. That. Cookie.
I cooled down.
The kitchen counters became parallel bars.
This was a spontaneously brilliant idea as I set a hand on each side to lift myself up.
Did I mention that this was an entire home full of people and I was not alone?
The cookie was carefully set on the black granite countertop to the left.
My legs swung to and fro.
“This is so fun! I wish I had this in my apartment!
You could, like,
wake up and have a morning workout
like an Olympian on the parallel bars.”
With knowing raised eyebrows,
two dearest near me let me be,
as they talked and I interjected in conversation
while I played on the countertops.
Blah blah blah blah, “iPhone, Verizon, next week!”
Blah blah blah blah, “rememember how they used to make us do one pull up in gym class as a measure of fitness? I still can’t do that.”
Now, there was nationwide conference call with our spiritual community,
so gingerly we were ushered to gather in the living room.
I sat on a couch I’ve sat on a dozen times.
I picked up the silk striped pillow I have seen 50 times.
“It’s so soft! Look how beautiful it is. Has the pillow always been this beautiful?”
I asked my hostess, knowing full well as the words came out of my mouth
that the pillow had, in fact, remained the same.
Uh oh. Momentary panic.
Where is the cookie?
There it is, 3/5th’s eaten. It’s right there on the arm of the couch where I just set it.
Phew.
For reals. PH-ew.
Look at my fingertips.
They were stained from clutching the cookie,
its sprinkles leaving rainbow kaleidoscope hickey dots
like seven different ballpoint pens
made out with my fingerprints.
Naturally, I ran to show my hostess in delight.
“Look! Looklooklooklooklook. The sprinkles stained my tips!”
She gently assured me that soap and water have magical powers of cleaning.
Settling in to an hour-long call,
out came a flurry of hiccupped burps and giggles.
I made an "oopsies!" face.
They eventually subsided.
When there was a pause in the call,
I happily finished the last 1/6th of the cookie.
Afterwards, in the foyer,
as I was trying to balance putting on my snow boots
and someone gave me a chair to sit down so that I didn’t fall over,
my hostess asked:
“Are you going to be ok to get home?”
I assured her. “I remember what’s it’s like navigating the city on drugs… I can handle this.”
This was my experience after an hour with four awakened people.
I’m off with these peeps to a whole weekend of this.
We, collectively, are on the brink of this, as life, but with balance.
As reality.
As a new world.
This seeing.
This wonderment.
World...
Man your bakeries.
*************************
"If you only knew what the future holds
After a hurricane comes a rainbow
Maybe you're reason why all the doors are closed
So you can open one that leads you to the perfect road
Like a lightning bolt, your heart will blow
And when it's time, you'll know
Cause baby you're a firework."
(yes, I went there)
"Firework" 2011, as sung by Katy Perry,
and written by the Stargate team
My fingers poked to the bottom of the white baker’s box
reaching for the aforementioned suspect.
“Oh you found the good one, it has both,”
an enlightened person replied to me,
as half a dozen of us stood
casually snacking around a Midtown West kitchen table.
Going in, the cookie was average.
At first bite, something shifted.
“Oh my God, this cookie is amazing.”
The cookie was not amazing.
The cookie was white flour and processed food coloring.
Give me a decent chocolate soufflé and I’ll write you a sonata about it.
Crème brûlée gets a cantana.
This kind of cookie was not musical inspiration.
And yet,
this was the most marvelous cookie I had ever seen.
The taste was (Katy Perry rendition) fireworks in my mouth.
More fascinatedly, its constitution was remarkable.
Small multi-colored sprinkle dots- magnificent!
A gooey, thick, marma-laden raspberry button center—genius!
The juxtaposition of the crumble as it cascaded my tongue,
licking my lips and lingering there like a lovers lazy morning,
embedded in my lip gloss... groan. yum.
This little bod’s a foodie and a snob about it.
Much to my family’s chagrin,
I cannot help that a discerning palate was bequeathed to this tongue.
The cookie was not good due to its sophisticated merging of ingredients.
Despite being hauled from the lauded Veniero's,
it was in fact, a simple Italian sugar cookie.
Here, it was spectacular because of its mere existence.
Most spec.ta.cul.lar.
Giggles came.
They would not stop.
Which looks crazypants when everyone else is standing around
having normal conversation over falafel and aloe water
and you are against the wall,
eyeball pressed to a cookie, giggling.
I stepped into the other room, trying to sequester my giggles.
They kept coming.
I noticed people were now staring at me bemused,
but really there was nothing to be done.
Obama could have been present
and the giggles would not stop.
All at once heat blasted my body.
I looked around as though the answer to its sudden appearance
would be found in the air around me.
“I’m schvitzing.” I announced. To no one in particular.
“I’m schvitzing!!”
I took the cookie, now only perhaps 37% eaten, with me into the kitchen.
I had never eaten anything more slowly in my life.
It was impossible to ingest the cookie at a more rapid tempo.
and
it was very very VERY important to not lose the cookie.
I knew what a toddler felt like clutching a biscuit.
The cookie was everything.
A decade ago I had considerable experience with MDMA,
otherwise known as the drug ecstasy.
This was what this felt like.
This was what this EXACTLY felt like.
I shuffled to the kitchen and
stuck my head in the freezer.
Sweat bundled to break through on my lower back and the cold felt:
winterfresh.
Look! Frozen peas!
I grabbed them.
(This was not my home. I grabbed my friend’s peas.
The thought to ask did not cross my mind. The pea package was just so pretty, and I?...)
“Oh gosh, so hot.”
It felt perfectly reasonable to hold the frozen peas against the back of my neck
and reach for the sink greedily refilling a too-small Dixie cup of water,
precariously balancing these items
all the while being extraordinarily careful that I did. Not. Drop. That. Cookie.
I cooled down.
The kitchen counters became parallel bars.
This was a spontaneously brilliant idea as I set a hand on each side to lift myself up.
Did I mention that this was an entire home full of people and I was not alone?
The cookie was carefully set on the black granite countertop to the left.
My legs swung to and fro.
“This is so fun! I wish I had this in my apartment!
You could, like,
wake up and have a morning workout
like an Olympian on the parallel bars.”
With knowing raised eyebrows,
two dearest near me let me be,
as they talked and I interjected in conversation
while I played on the countertops.
Blah blah blah blah, “iPhone, Verizon, next week!”
Blah blah blah blah, “rememember how they used to make us do one pull up in gym class as a measure of fitness? I still can’t do that.”
Now, there was nationwide conference call with our spiritual community,
so gingerly we were ushered to gather in the living room.
I sat on a couch I’ve sat on a dozen times.
I picked up the silk striped pillow I have seen 50 times.
“It’s so soft! Look how beautiful it is. Has the pillow always been this beautiful?”
I asked my hostess, knowing full well as the words came out of my mouth
that the pillow had, in fact, remained the same.
Uh oh. Momentary panic.
Where is the cookie?
There it is, 3/5th’s eaten. It’s right there on the arm of the couch where I just set it.
Phew.
For reals. PH-ew.
Look at my fingertips.
They were stained from clutching the cookie,
its sprinkles leaving rainbow kaleidoscope hickey dots
like seven different ballpoint pens
made out with my fingerprints.
Naturally, I ran to show my hostess in delight.
“Look! Looklooklooklooklook. The sprinkles stained my tips!”
She gently assured me that soap and water have magical powers of cleaning.
Settling in to an hour-long call,
out came a flurry of hiccupped burps and giggles.
I made an "oopsies!" face.
They eventually subsided.
When there was a pause in the call,
I happily finished the last 1/6th of the cookie.
Afterwards, in the foyer,
as I was trying to balance putting on my snow boots
and someone gave me a chair to sit down so that I didn’t fall over,
my hostess asked:
“Are you going to be ok to get home?”
I assured her. “I remember what’s it’s like navigating the city on drugs… I can handle this.”
This was my experience after an hour with four awakened people.
I’m off with these peeps to a whole weekend of this.
We, collectively, are on the brink of this, as life, but with balance.
As reality.
As a new world.
This seeing.
This wonderment.
World...
Man your bakeries.
*************************
"If you only knew what the future holds
After a hurricane comes a rainbow
Maybe you're reason why all the doors are closed
So you can open one that leads you to the perfect road
Like a lightning bolt, your heart will blow
And when it's time, you'll know
Cause baby you're a firework."
(yes, I went there)
"Firework" 2011, as sung by Katy Perry,
and written by the Stargate team
Monday, January 31, 2011
detoxing my mom: the juice between crazy and sexy
My mother twirled (she is 62, had two breast cancer surgeries this past year, I couldn’t remember the last time I saw her twirl… wait, have I ever seen her twirl?) round in a super cute, black, wooly Paddington bear-style duffle coat that looked new to me. It was six degrees outside, she was damn well gonna need it.
“Where’d you get that mom? It’s super cute!”
Still: twirling, in our marble foyer, which has floor-to-ceiling mirrors in its entrance and an angular modern chandelier. (My parents bought that house in the 80’s—I’m not sure that “subtle” existed as an interior design choice at the time.)
“Do you know, Margaret, I haven’t worn this coat for years?? I used to wear it just open—I can’t remember the last time I was able to button it up!” Her eyes were delightedly fixed on herself and her twirl.
We were the first day out of what was supposed to be a three-day cleanse that stretched itself to ten. My mother was admiringly reaping the benefits of her own dedication, and I could not be more proud of her.
The plan was to lead them through, mom and sis. I arrived in Chicago in early December and straight to Bed, Bath and Beyond to buy a juicer and two grocery carts full of organic greens, maca, spirulina, cacao, coconut oil, etc. that were diligently replenished via Whole Foods to our fridge.
Mom went in full force, but sis showed up the night we were supposed to start, stoned, and made plans to be out with her man the following evening. She was welcome to join us, but it’d be sort of like showing up to church drunk, or to Six Flags with the flu—you could get through it, but kinda beside the point…
So when mom was feeling (totally surprisingly, totally amazingly) awesome after three days, and I was not quite back to my pre-birthday (two coasts, two weeks, three cities, copious amounts of celebrating) svelte self, we decided to juice onwards and let sis catch up.
I mentioned my mother had cancer, she also recently left behind anti-depressants and we spoke of how they “dulled” everything in her life. She didn’t feel sad, but she didn’t feel joy either. There was a level, consistent “kinda okay” feeling. Mom said all she wanted to do was to be able to cry, and six months ago, finding out about the cancer, having to undergo multiple surgeries, not a tear was shed.
I gave them a thorough warning: it’s all going to come up. Cleanses will bring to the surface buried emotions so that we can experience them. They’re perfect to do in a transition period, or when we need to get back to ourselves. These days when something throws me for a loop, I cleanse, so I know I can remain grounded, stay true to the moment and veer away from self-pity and martinis.
I knew that my mom processing her emotions was an important part of her healing, and the moment that I was able to watch her stand, in her pajamas, mid-cleanse in our living room, with tears streaming down her face, blissfully crying out, “Margaret what are you doing to me?” was magic. Just magic.
My sister, a gorgeous young thing that is (damnit) taller than me, with a long torso I’ve always coveted, and a Mira Sorvino meets Brooke Shields vibe happening, has had her toughest year to date. Turning 30 brought a sh** storm with it. The first weekend I was in Chicago, she was also in tears, thankful that I was there—I provided some kind of safety for her, some version of love that has been missing. It was so the kale.
Of course I was the bossy boots in the midst of it all, lecturing them, telling them what to do, what to drink, why to drink it, why they shouldn’t complain about it, but at the same time, I was strangely distanced. I wasn’t doing it. There was some other force moving me and I was along for the ride. Even the compliments, their tears of gratitude, were pleasant to see, but they were just that: pleasant. They did not fill me with any kind of pride; it was just loveliness and I was there witnessing it. Like a documentary. Over 10 days I made hundreds of juices; for the month, I cooked each and every meal. Move over cancer. We'll take it from here.
But I was also cleansing—and we were extending. The sh** was going to hit the fan… it always does.
The blow up between my mother and I, sure ‘nuff, came.
There were other times that she was irritable and I was such a good little Buddha… waves of nonsense and insults flowing by me, I, so unperturbed. So zen. So much so that I arrogantly texted my best friend, comedically, yet seriously: “I think I might have Jesus Christ consciousness right now. Later I’m going to try to turn tap water into Chateau Lafite.”
This time? It was so my fault. I felt it coming. Like a tidal wave you see approaching and have no control of stopping.
It involved the shoe section of Neiman Marcus, after a 3-hour shopping trek that began at Nordstrom Rack.
We had not eaten solid food in a week. We had already been to FIVE different shoe stores.
I feel I gave her ample warning. “Ok mom, let’s go, I’m starting to lose steam here.”
“I can feel the irritability setting in.”
In ended up being too late. The irritation swept over me like a inconsolable tide of bitchdom. An older version of me showed up, that I thought I had upgraded past. Nope—she was still there. That sure was a fun, melodramatic explosion to surf. Yelling, apologies, tip-toeing back to even keel: all part of the detox.
Anyone who is used to cleansing might say that I was beyond sado-masochistic to choose to cleanse with my mother, no matter how much love I hold for her in my heart. My daily fare these days would be a cleanse for most people in America, but for someone a touch less experienced with green juices and superfoods, it’s just like any other consciousness raising endeavor: yoga, meditation. You gotta see the ugly, embrace the pain. If you’re Polish and have been eating primarily ham and vodka for 50 years, plus you have six weeks worth of radiation sitting in your body that’s just desperate to get out, well, you can do the math… getting out the gook is not going to always be an attractive picture.
Kris Carr’s instant bestseller “Crazy Sexy Diet” shot to #6 on the New York Times list in its first week last week. I’d been waiting for this book to come out for months; Kris’ documentary was on the itinerary as the ‘entertainment” portion of our cleanse in Chicago. Although I have yet to own it because Amazon sold out in the first day and I am in full-on hibernation mode, a breeze through the table of contents reads like the lecturing I gave my mom and sis. Green juice, probiotics, dry-brushing, veganism (don’t get all up in arms, it’s just a conversation), even trampolines. Every entrepreneurial, sexy and spiritual woman I admire on the web is friends with, and has interviewed Kris. Just sayin’. She's everything I look for in a spectacular woman: smart, sassy, sexy. I sent my mom a copy and mine is enroute.
There’s a prana, a life force, coursing through our bodies at all times. Yogis are intimately attuned to moving this business about but most can’t feel it every day. There are times when I’ll have a touch too much New York City, and a day of green juice taps me back into the force. Once you get involved in subtler energetic realms, you can feel different foods affecting and raising or lowering your vibration. Pretty trippy stuff.
And I’ll be dead honest—before all those delish energetically discerned side effects started happening, my motivation was absolute vanity. I looked around, saw who looked amazing at 40, 50, 60, 80 years old, and who was doing it naturally, and then said: I am going to do that. I want to look hot and feel amazing 30 years from now. Fork over the green juice.
Synchronistically, my mother had doctor’s appointments bookend our cleanse. Her glucose level dropped from dangerously borderline diabetic to a normal range in ten days. Her doctor was shocked. “What did you do?” He asked.
My sister did end up cleansing with us for the 2nd weekend. She looked brighter, she dropped a couple of pounds and I noticed her singing around the house again. I asked her for a blurb to describe what she was feeling:
“It really helps you focus with everything… I don’t know, it gives you a clearer sense of direction, you know?”
I’m paraphrasing a fortune cookie I have framed in my New York apartment: “When the mind is clear, there is no fear.” (Wow, that was a bad paraphrase; its much more zen and elegant, ironically enough, on the fortune cookie paper.) When we clear away the gunk, positive thought and action arise naturally. Just another tool for getting out of our own way. And the side effect of the marvelous ass that I will still have at 40, 50, beyond? Yeah, well let’s just say, green juice, my future husband thanks you.
“Where’d you get that mom? It’s super cute!”
Still: twirling, in our marble foyer, which has floor-to-ceiling mirrors in its entrance and an angular modern chandelier. (My parents bought that house in the 80’s—I’m not sure that “subtle” existed as an interior design choice at the time.)
“Do you know, Margaret, I haven’t worn this coat for years?? I used to wear it just open—I can’t remember the last time I was able to button it up!” Her eyes were delightedly fixed on herself and her twirl.
We were the first day out of what was supposed to be a three-day cleanse that stretched itself to ten. My mother was admiringly reaping the benefits of her own dedication, and I could not be more proud of her.
The plan was to lead them through, mom and sis. I arrived in Chicago in early December and straight to Bed, Bath and Beyond to buy a juicer and two grocery carts full of organic greens, maca, spirulina, cacao, coconut oil, etc. that were diligently replenished via Whole Foods to our fridge.
Mom went in full force, but sis showed up the night we were supposed to start, stoned, and made plans to be out with her man the following evening. She was welcome to join us, but it’d be sort of like showing up to church drunk, or to Six Flags with the flu—you could get through it, but kinda beside the point…
So when mom was feeling (totally surprisingly, totally amazingly) awesome after three days, and I was not quite back to my pre-birthday (two coasts, two weeks, three cities, copious amounts of celebrating) svelte self, we decided to juice onwards and let sis catch up.
I mentioned my mother had cancer, she also recently left behind anti-depressants and we spoke of how they “dulled” everything in her life. She didn’t feel sad, but she didn’t feel joy either. There was a level, consistent “kinda okay” feeling. Mom said all she wanted to do was to be able to cry, and six months ago, finding out about the cancer, having to undergo multiple surgeries, not a tear was shed.
I gave them a thorough warning: it’s all going to come up. Cleanses will bring to the surface buried emotions so that we can experience them. They’re perfect to do in a transition period, or when we need to get back to ourselves. These days when something throws me for a loop, I cleanse, so I know I can remain grounded, stay true to the moment and veer away from self-pity and martinis.
I knew that my mom processing her emotions was an important part of her healing, and the moment that I was able to watch her stand, in her pajamas, mid-cleanse in our living room, with tears streaming down her face, blissfully crying out, “Margaret what are you doing to me?” was magic. Just magic.
My sister, a gorgeous young thing that is (damnit) taller than me, with a long torso I’ve always coveted, and a Mira Sorvino meets Brooke Shields vibe happening, has had her toughest year to date. Turning 30 brought a sh** storm with it. The first weekend I was in Chicago, she was also in tears, thankful that I was there—I provided some kind of safety for her, some version of love that has been missing. It was so the kale.
Of course I was the bossy boots in the midst of it all, lecturing them, telling them what to do, what to drink, why to drink it, why they shouldn’t complain about it, but at the same time, I was strangely distanced. I wasn’t doing it. There was some other force moving me and I was along for the ride. Even the compliments, their tears of gratitude, were pleasant to see, but they were just that: pleasant. They did not fill me with any kind of pride; it was just loveliness and I was there witnessing it. Like a documentary. Over 10 days I made hundreds of juices; for the month, I cooked each and every meal. Move over cancer. We'll take it from here.
But I was also cleansing—and we were extending. The sh** was going to hit the fan… it always does.
The blow up between my mother and I, sure ‘nuff, came.
There were other times that she was irritable and I was such a good little Buddha… waves of nonsense and insults flowing by me, I, so unperturbed. So zen. So much so that I arrogantly texted my best friend, comedically, yet seriously: “I think I might have Jesus Christ consciousness right now. Later I’m going to try to turn tap water into Chateau Lafite.”
This time? It was so my fault. I felt it coming. Like a tidal wave you see approaching and have no control of stopping.
It involved the shoe section of Neiman Marcus, after a 3-hour shopping trek that began at Nordstrom Rack.
We had not eaten solid food in a week. We had already been to FIVE different shoe stores.
I feel I gave her ample warning. “Ok mom, let’s go, I’m starting to lose steam here.”
“I can feel the irritability setting in.”
In ended up being too late. The irritation swept over me like a inconsolable tide of bitchdom. An older version of me showed up, that I thought I had upgraded past. Nope—she was still there. That sure was a fun, melodramatic explosion to surf. Yelling, apologies, tip-toeing back to even keel: all part of the detox.
Anyone who is used to cleansing might say that I was beyond sado-masochistic to choose to cleanse with my mother, no matter how much love I hold for her in my heart. My daily fare these days would be a cleanse for most people in America, but for someone a touch less experienced with green juices and superfoods, it’s just like any other consciousness raising endeavor: yoga, meditation. You gotta see the ugly, embrace the pain. If you’re Polish and have been eating primarily ham and vodka for 50 years, plus you have six weeks worth of radiation sitting in your body that’s just desperate to get out, well, you can do the math… getting out the gook is not going to always be an attractive picture.
Kris Carr’s instant bestseller “Crazy Sexy Diet” shot to #6 on the New York Times list in its first week last week. I’d been waiting for this book to come out for months; Kris’ documentary was on the itinerary as the ‘entertainment” portion of our cleanse in Chicago. Although I have yet to own it because Amazon sold out in the first day and I am in full-on hibernation mode, a breeze through the table of contents reads like the lecturing I gave my mom and sis. Green juice, probiotics, dry-brushing, veganism (don’t get all up in arms, it’s just a conversation), even trampolines. Every entrepreneurial, sexy and spiritual woman I admire on the web is friends with, and has interviewed Kris. Just sayin’. She's everything I look for in a spectacular woman: smart, sassy, sexy. I sent my mom a copy and mine is enroute.
There’s a prana, a life force, coursing through our bodies at all times. Yogis are intimately attuned to moving this business about but most can’t feel it every day. There are times when I’ll have a touch too much New York City, and a day of green juice taps me back into the force. Once you get involved in subtler energetic realms, you can feel different foods affecting and raising or lowering your vibration. Pretty trippy stuff.
And I’ll be dead honest—before all those delish energetically discerned side effects started happening, my motivation was absolute vanity. I looked around, saw who looked amazing at 40, 50, 60, 80 years old, and who was doing it naturally, and then said: I am going to do that. I want to look hot and feel amazing 30 years from now. Fork over the green juice.
Synchronistically, my mother had doctor’s appointments bookend our cleanse. Her glucose level dropped from dangerously borderline diabetic to a normal range in ten days. Her doctor was shocked. “What did you do?” He asked.
My sister did end up cleansing with us for the 2nd weekend. She looked brighter, she dropped a couple of pounds and I noticed her singing around the house again. I asked her for a blurb to describe what she was feeling:
“It really helps you focus with everything… I don’t know, it gives you a clearer sense of direction, you know?”
I’m paraphrasing a fortune cookie I have framed in my New York apartment: “When the mind is clear, there is no fear.” (Wow, that was a bad paraphrase; its much more zen and elegant, ironically enough, on the fortune cookie paper.) When we clear away the gunk, positive thought and action arise naturally. Just another tool for getting out of our own way. And the side effect of the marvelous ass that I will still have at 40, 50, beyond? Yeah, well let’s just say, green juice, my future husband thanks you.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
holy sh** i’m going to be enlightened
I realized this today. I. Am. Going. To. Be. Enlightened. Like, in this life. Like, soon. Holy shit. And for those of you that think that comment is blasphemous, well it’s not. Because everything’s holy. Including sh**.
This took me by surprise, because you may find this hard to believe, but this was never a goal. I have not been doing all of these things, to get to THAT place. The trips, teaching, yoga, stillness, ecstatic insanity, green juice, loving with abandon has all just been kinda fox-trotting me along automatically. Feeling better and better and better, and fabulous, and unstoppable and totally stress free… and knowing my body? I don’t want to get too brag-y, so, anyway, you get my point… why stop? If you’re happy and you know it—keep following the happy.
I say this here not because enlightenment is some huge amazing thing for me, quite the opposite in fact, as it stands “me” will no longer exist, but it is a HUGE amazing thing for all of us, because if this snarky, bossy, prissy, fruitcake of a tiny firecracker known as “mags” can become enlightened, then you, my fine friend, you who (trust me) has probably not seen or gotten into a fraction of the shenannigins I have tangoed with in this short life, well then you are so most definitely on that choo choo train as well.
One morning this week I woke up, my visage swollen painfully shut with goo. 12 hours later, then the next day, then three days later, the goo still oozed, its pain throbbing through my swollen glands of red poof, hereto previously known as eyelids. I haven't seen “Black Swan” because I'm too much of a baby, but right now I feel like that creepy part in the preview where Natalie Portman has blood red eyeballs and pulls a black feather out of her back. If this is transformation, my swan damn well better be white. Or purple. And I’d like a pond please. This is what it feels like, like some sticky, painful slime of cocooning and rebirth.
Here's the thing-- it's not pink eye, it's awakening into enlightenment, into oneness with all that is.
Hear me out.
The same exact thing happened last month in Chicago after a super powerful meditative process that was on the night of the full moon eclipse and the winter solstice. (Those are each, in their own right, weird energetic thingamabobs, and together, well they make for madcap woo bedfellows.) During the meditation I went into some pretty awesome states previously unknown to me without help of outside substances and shamans or college boyfriends close at hand. The next morning I awoke eye swollen shut. Like Rocky Balboa, post fight. For reals.
I instinctually thought it had something to do with processing energy, but it hurt like crazy and I wondered if it might be an allergic reaction, so I went to the doctor with my mom. (Um, thank goodness I was at her house. Going to find an eye doctor blindly in Manhattan lookin’ all totes McGross may have been too painful to bear. Seeing as though I’m not enlightened yet, my ego may have in fact prevented such a healing endeavor.)
Chi-city doctor told me: not pink eye. Something viral. All I could do is warm compresses and Advil for pain. I don’t get sick. Something else was up.
The current week’s malady happened also the day after full moon, also after a weekend of woo extreme. Coincidence? You know I don’t believe in that word.
Here's the thing-- in the last six months I've had eye irritation come up with any kind of higher consciousness processing juju stuff. Whether I was learning or teaching, in India, in the Flatiron district, my eye would start to get all wonk-sters and there was the instinctual knowing—this is not dust, or a saggy eyelash, this is processing. Up until last month they were small little irritations, redness, enough to make me chuck the pair of contacts I was wearing. This, though, this elephant-man-like swollen scariness, was new business.
“You Can Heal Your Life” Louise Hay’s classic, find-the-root-cause-of your-symptom bible is a go-to text for my any and every health ailment. Hay looks at the human body from a whole perspective and postulates (as many do) that negative emotions can generate disease. She designates eye problems as: not wanting to see something in your own life.
I also lost, not one, but three pairs of very (OUCH) expensive sunglasses, that I have had for years, all in the last month. Two in Chicago. One in LA. No one can find them. Clearly the world wants to squeegee the gunk away, lifting Maya’s veil of illusion from my eyes, once and for all.
I’ve spoken before about how infiltrating our little nervous systems with onslaughts of energy can bring an unfamiliar recalibration process. I have the eye thing. A girlfriend of mine can’t hold anything down. Others are overcome with narcolepsy or insomnia.
I don’t want to frighten you. Obviously these side-effects are for the hard core. My point in bringing this up is that more important than the Rocky Balboa gross-ness that kept me confined to my West Village studio for a solid five days, I got a knowing: this is happening. This is really happening.
That’s really great Margaret, so super happy for you, but seriously what the frick does that have to do with me and my enlightenment?
Ok, everything is picking up. It’s getting faster. There are quantum leaps happening and this can be disorienting. Jobs, relationships, physical ailments/changes, are all part of it. I have yet to meet one person who tells me that 2010 was smooth as molasses.
You may be dubious because you’re not feeling it yet. It’s coming. Was there a shift in your life between November of last year and now? Look back at those months and think on it. I know there was for mine.
The next shift is February 11th of this year through October 27th. Then it’s rockin’ until December 2012 time.
During this time we are going to see average people awakening into enlightenment. I can say this because I see it happening around me. This is not some weird, woo, far off thing. This is happening NOW.
Hold the phone: Within 20 years, all of humanity will be living in an awakened state.
And this is not a state of other-worldliness-- it is a place where our eyes are collectively opened to the true reality of the present moment. We are getting out of our own way, for good.
Sounds nice right? Do you have any idea how f***ing fortunate we are to be living right now!?
But what about the birds in Arkansas and the markets and Sarah Palin and “Jersey Shore??”
What about my business and my husband and my career and my sick mom?
What if all of this isn’t true and nothing happens and a spotlight is shined on the wack-job-i-ness that you are?
1- I can’t speak to every topical reference in one blog post
2- I’m not saying there isn’t work to get to that place, but I will say, it’s gonna happen anyway, and you aren’t gonna have to go all Rocky Balboa, so don’t worry
3- Well, maybe I am a wackjob. We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?
So what does this all mean? It means a declutching of the ropes of conditioning from our minds so that we have TOTAL FREEDOM. We don’t lose our minds, we lose attachments to all of those things that are holding us back from optimal use of them. You know that oft-mentioned 90% of the mind we never use? We’re gonna start using it.
It means effortless ease, always.
It means worry no longer happens. Imagine that—NO MORE STRESS, ever… what?
It means things like fighting, wars, cease to exist. Personal responsibility, from our finances to our feelings, takes a front seat. Power gets a facelift as our global societal values undergo a gut renovation to an interconnected eco-luxe status: quality, simple, elegant, soulful, collaborative. Gut renovations can be messy, but the finished product always looks fab.
Peace, love, compassion: welcome.
People have been talking about this coming right now for thousands of years; it’s not breaking news. But since it’s like, ya know, the most miraculous incredible thing to happen to humanity ever, I thought I’d give you my current experience of it.
Um, Mags, I hate to break it to you… you’re not turning into Buddha, you have the flu. Let’s rewind on the crackpot Pollyanna a coupla chapters and instill some rationale back into you. Please leave your apartment and go out into the city streets so that you can get a dose of cold, hard, urban reality.
Ok, you can be all curmudgeon-y and whatevs. I’m not asking you to believe me. I’m asking you to check it out. To open to the possibility. Let’s pay attention. The closer we look, the sooner it happens. 2012: the apocalypse or the rebirth? Your choice. YOU get to choose how to look at it. And the closer we look, the less likelihood that the world is gonna yank those Jimmy Choo sunglasses away from us. The less likely we'll get punched in the face by awakening. We can choose to be on board with the worldwide gut reno. Are you ready for your makeover?
This took me by surprise, because you may find this hard to believe, but this was never a goal. I have not been doing all of these things, to get to THAT place. The trips, teaching, yoga, stillness, ecstatic insanity, green juice, loving with abandon has all just been kinda fox-trotting me along automatically. Feeling better and better and better, and fabulous, and unstoppable and totally stress free… and knowing my body? I don’t want to get too brag-y, so, anyway, you get my point… why stop? If you’re happy and you know it—keep following the happy.
I say this here not because enlightenment is some huge amazing thing for me, quite the opposite in fact, as it stands “me” will no longer exist, but it is a HUGE amazing thing for all of us, because if this snarky, bossy, prissy, fruitcake of a tiny firecracker known as “mags” can become enlightened, then you, my fine friend, you who (trust me) has probably not seen or gotten into a fraction of the shenannigins I have tangoed with in this short life, well then you are so most definitely on that choo choo train as well.
One morning this week I woke up, my visage swollen painfully shut with goo. 12 hours later, then the next day, then three days later, the goo still oozed, its pain throbbing through my swollen glands of red poof, hereto previously known as eyelids. I haven't seen “Black Swan” because I'm too much of a baby, but right now I feel like that creepy part in the preview where Natalie Portman has blood red eyeballs and pulls a black feather out of her back. If this is transformation, my swan damn well better be white. Or purple. And I’d like a pond please. This is what it feels like, like some sticky, painful slime of cocooning and rebirth.
Here's the thing-- it's not pink eye, it's awakening into enlightenment, into oneness with all that is.
Hear me out.
The same exact thing happened last month in Chicago after a super powerful meditative process that was on the night of the full moon eclipse and the winter solstice. (Those are each, in their own right, weird energetic thingamabobs, and together, well they make for madcap woo bedfellows.) During the meditation I went into some pretty awesome states previously unknown to me without help of outside substances and shamans or college boyfriends close at hand. The next morning I awoke eye swollen shut. Like Rocky Balboa, post fight. For reals.
I instinctually thought it had something to do with processing energy, but it hurt like crazy and I wondered if it might be an allergic reaction, so I went to the doctor with my mom. (Um, thank goodness I was at her house. Going to find an eye doctor blindly in Manhattan lookin’ all totes McGross may have been too painful to bear. Seeing as though I’m not enlightened yet, my ego may have in fact prevented such a healing endeavor.)
Chi-city doctor told me: not pink eye. Something viral. All I could do is warm compresses and Advil for pain. I don’t get sick. Something else was up.
The current week’s malady happened also the day after full moon, also after a weekend of woo extreme. Coincidence? You know I don’t believe in that word.
Here's the thing-- in the last six months I've had eye irritation come up with any kind of higher consciousness processing juju stuff. Whether I was learning or teaching, in India, in the Flatiron district, my eye would start to get all wonk-sters and there was the instinctual knowing—this is not dust, or a saggy eyelash, this is processing. Up until last month they were small little irritations, redness, enough to make me chuck the pair of contacts I was wearing. This, though, this elephant-man-like swollen scariness, was new business.
“You Can Heal Your Life” Louise Hay’s classic, find-the-root-cause-of your-symptom bible is a go-to text for my any and every health ailment. Hay looks at the human body from a whole perspective and postulates (as many do) that negative emotions can generate disease. She designates eye problems as: not wanting to see something in your own life.
I also lost, not one, but three pairs of very (OUCH) expensive sunglasses, that I have had for years, all in the last month. Two in Chicago. One in LA. No one can find them. Clearly the world wants to squeegee the gunk away, lifting Maya’s veil of illusion from my eyes, once and for all.
I’ve spoken before about how infiltrating our little nervous systems with onslaughts of energy can bring an unfamiliar recalibration process. I have the eye thing. A girlfriend of mine can’t hold anything down. Others are overcome with narcolepsy or insomnia.
I don’t want to frighten you. Obviously these side-effects are for the hard core. My point in bringing this up is that more important than the Rocky Balboa gross-ness that kept me confined to my West Village studio for a solid five days, I got a knowing: this is happening. This is really happening.
That’s really great Margaret, so super happy for you, but seriously what the frick does that have to do with me and my enlightenment?
Ok, everything is picking up. It’s getting faster. There are quantum leaps happening and this can be disorienting. Jobs, relationships, physical ailments/changes, are all part of it. I have yet to meet one person who tells me that 2010 was smooth as molasses.
You may be dubious because you’re not feeling it yet. It’s coming. Was there a shift in your life between November of last year and now? Look back at those months and think on it. I know there was for mine.
The next shift is February 11th of this year through October 27th. Then it’s rockin’ until December 2012 time.
During this time we are going to see average people awakening into enlightenment. I can say this because I see it happening around me. This is not some weird, woo, far off thing. This is happening NOW.
Hold the phone: Within 20 years, all of humanity will be living in an awakened state.
And this is not a state of other-worldliness-- it is a place where our eyes are collectively opened to the true reality of the present moment. We are getting out of our own way, for good.
Sounds nice right? Do you have any idea how f***ing fortunate we are to be living right now!?
But what about the birds in Arkansas and the markets and Sarah Palin and “Jersey Shore??”
What about my business and my husband and my career and my sick mom?
What if all of this isn’t true and nothing happens and a spotlight is shined on the wack-job-i-ness that you are?
1- I can’t speak to every topical reference in one blog post
2- I’m not saying there isn’t work to get to that place, but I will say, it’s gonna happen anyway, and you aren’t gonna have to go all Rocky Balboa, so don’t worry
3- Well, maybe I am a wackjob. We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?
So what does this all mean? It means a declutching of the ropes of conditioning from our minds so that we have TOTAL FREEDOM. We don’t lose our minds, we lose attachments to all of those things that are holding us back from optimal use of them. You know that oft-mentioned 90% of the mind we never use? We’re gonna start using it.
It means effortless ease, always.
It means worry no longer happens. Imagine that—NO MORE STRESS, ever… what?
It means things like fighting, wars, cease to exist. Personal responsibility, from our finances to our feelings, takes a front seat. Power gets a facelift as our global societal values undergo a gut renovation to an interconnected eco-luxe status: quality, simple, elegant, soulful, collaborative. Gut renovations can be messy, but the finished product always looks fab.
Peace, love, compassion: welcome.
People have been talking about this coming right now for thousands of years; it’s not breaking news. But since it’s like, ya know, the most miraculous incredible thing to happen to humanity ever, I thought I’d give you my current experience of it.
Um, Mags, I hate to break it to you… you’re not turning into Buddha, you have the flu. Let’s rewind on the crackpot Pollyanna a coupla chapters and instill some rationale back into you. Please leave your apartment and go out into the city streets so that you can get a dose of cold, hard, urban reality.
Ok, you can be all curmudgeon-y and whatevs. I’m not asking you to believe me. I’m asking you to check it out. To open to the possibility. Let’s pay attention. The closer we look, the sooner it happens. 2012: the apocalypse or the rebirth? Your choice. YOU get to choose how to look at it. And the closer we look, the less likelihood that the world is gonna yank those Jimmy Choo sunglasses away from us. The less likely we'll get punched in the face by awakening. We can choose to be on board with the worldwide gut reno. Are you ready for your makeover?
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
the weekend of woo extreme: my modern day Gethsemane
I have been so energetic and happy for the last two months, I think for sure there’ve been times that I uber-annoyed my facebook friend list with too too exclamation-y posts. My body has been walking around vibrating like a thousand trapped butterflies within the sheath of my skin, fluttering to be free. 5 ½ hours sleep has been the regular nightly average and I’ve had maybe one of my most productive stretches of time, ever. I assume this is what crack feels like, without the negative side effects.
People that talk about “feeling the energy” surrounding them, used to irk me to no end. And now, look ma. Here I am.
In the stuff that I teach, there were two approaching milestones, a big trainers conference in LA (the first of its kind) and the approaching date of February 11th 2011, a day that the final energetic switch is supposed to happen to propel us to the highest states of consciousness of all time. (Don't even bother the seatbelt or airbag prep for this one-- you're gonna have to completely let go to get there.) I literally could feel them coming, in my body—it was resonating with the approaching greatness, in all its butterfly crack-i-ness.
These are the big guns. Move over small peanuts: peace of mind, healed relationships, just a little more joy, we are talking huge quantum leaps these days. This is another dimension. We are talking about, and seeing, enlightenment, full God-realization, normal people going in and out of Samadhi. Urban moms, dads in jeans and gym shoes, regular people: FULLY AWAKE.
I meet these people. They are totally normal. You’d never know. The higher the state, the less affected they are. Their reason is grounded, their outlook gorgeous in its simplicity and practicality.
The LA conference was mysteriously looming, and out came a couple of grey thought clouds circling. In hushed whispers of guilty apprehension, we spoke in tinges of worry going in. There was a new process to be revealed. It was our job to spread this learning. It was kinda being kept top-secret and rumored to have the gurus at the forefront, when oneness has always been about—hey, bring whatever feels good to you here.
And so my thousand batting butterflies and I get to LA, and they go into overdrive inside of me. Joy joy joy, the excitement is palpable. The sunshine, the people, the vibe is dazzling.
As we get into the weekend and into the new processes, I am thrilled, beside myself with giddy. There are more traditional Indian practices being intertwined, practices that are already a regular part of my daily life, pujas, aarti, kirtan—it’s like my two worlds of spirituality are meeting in marriage. We’re given information for practices I’ve been doing for years and it feels like coming home.
Then we come to the first big process. The first step for what we are supposed to bring home with us to our communities. Our monk tells us how powerful it’s going to be. That it will knock some of us off our feet.
Hours past chanting, meditating, clearing, centering, we get to the thick. And sure enough, people are falling over. Literally. Fainting, screaming, going into fits of shaking. Knocked out, and troops of volunteers have to carry a substantial portion of people away to lie in another corner of the room, because they are OUT cold. It’s like a scene from the Arthur Miller play THE CRUCIBLE. People are going wackjob.
And there’s the inside voice that comes up. “What the f**k is happening here???... OMG… this has gotten SO weird.” Apprehension. Worry. Can I see my friends in on this? Will New York ride this weird train of woo? I see the thoughts. I let ‘em hang.
I woke up at 5:30 that morning. Still on New York time. We started at 8am, it was about 11pm at this point. I was on my last legs. It was my turn to go up. I stepped forward, wanting it, and…. Nothing. Nothing at all. I waited. Nothing.
I went to savasana in a corner of the giant conference room with my pillow, maybe thinking something would seize me as I lay down, but nope, nothing. I was bored. Irritated. I looked around after a bit, I wanted to hold space of support for the people who had yet to go, but I could no longer muster it; it was past midnight and I thought, dude, I need to go to bed. We were starting at 7am tomorrow. I needed some sleep or I would bite someone’s face off.
I was feeling tired, disgruntled, slightly confused. Disappointed. Arriving to my room well after midnight, my roommate emerged from the shower, towel drying her long hair. I was relieved to see she hadn’t held out to the bitter end either, and watched an “utterly jealous” reaction float by that she had washed her hair—I was desperate to find time to do mine.
We broke our mauna (silence) of two days, both exasperated, unsure.
“I don’t know if I can get on board with this…” we echoed. The screaming, crying people. The fits. The shaking. The overall total weirdness of it. It brought up every judgment and conditioning. I was in ecstasy when all the processes looked the way I liked them to. When it got uncomfortable? I wanted out.
As I lay down to sleep, it hit me. All told, it probably took about two minutes, but the greatest fear and desperation of my life came rushing at me like a tsunami. I cried out to my guru, in anger, total helplessness.
I was paralyzed with fear unlike any I had experienced.
My. Life. Is. Nothing. This is a fraud. Everything I believe, hold dear, my world, my soul: vanished, annihilated, missing, a lie. Everything.
“How dare you? How dare you come into my heart and take me over and betray me? How dare you leave me behind, alone without you?” The fear, no the abject TERROR seized my body, and I went to the now automatic place of summoning the guru to witness it, and I could not. I could not even form the words of the mantra in my mind—I was furious, abandoned. Utterly alone.
This was my Gethsemane. Without a doubt. In the bible the Gospel of Luke quotes “Jesus' anguish in Gethsemane was so deep that ‘his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.’” Mine was sandwiched in between too big, too soft Sheraton pillows. Damn Sheraton pillows, why didn’t I bring my travel tempurpedic? I was bitter, barren. One of the greatest songs in musical theatre history is a five and a half minute epic “Gethsemane” in JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR. My experience was more desolate, dissonant, shorter than this show-stopping rock ballad. There were no lozenges in my green room to soothe.
“Screw you. Screw this. I can’t believe I dedicated so much of myself to this, to you, and now what? What is anything anymore?” This was my LIFE. This was my everything. Not just the most important thing, THE thing. And now this? This weirdness? This mania? This nutbag assortment of absolute bizarre insanity? Where is my mac daddy Bhagavan who fills me with the sparkly shiny awesomeness? He was gone. I couldn’t even see his face. I was pissed. Desperate. My foremost thought was, “Why have you forsaken me?!?”
It was the most acute emotion I have EVER experienced. It lasted a short total of two minutes, and I dropped to sleep, sucked into a vortex of calmed darkness.
The next morning I awoke at 6am tired, spent, neutral. We had a morning chakra meditation and were to connect with the guru afterwards and I sobbed. Sobbed. Sobbed. I wanted them back. Please, I begged. I need you. I need your love. This HAS to be real. You must be what I have seen you to be. Please come back to me. Show me, show up. It’s you. It’s all you. Take over.
You must show me. I cannot go back to New York and stand behind this and bring this to people who trust my discerning opinion and real, gritty outlook, without the goods. I cannot, I will not, go forth blindly in faith with this. You MUST show me something. I need to know. I need to know RIGHT NOW.
I had time to shower before the afternoon session. Just this, felt so incredibly comforting. Pujas of devotion followed and I saw my love was back, vast and devoted, but my negotiation firm. I needed to see the money.
We sat in preparation and the handsome man next to me, some years my senior, leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Some ride, huh?”
His eyes twinkled, almost wickedly in his knowing.
Our gaze locked and we had the silent acknowledgment of people who had been through it, who had found groundedness, only to be thrust into the unknown again. He introduced himself as Bill. He was not some wackjob off somewhere, he was right here. I was so grateful for this exchange. For his teasing, for his generous smile.
And the process went on. This was it. This was the one they called the bulldozer, and today was only just the preview, the real money was supposed to rain after the February 11th date.
When it was my turn to go up and take a blessing from the Sri Murthi, which is a picture, but actually carries the living presence of the guru within it, the terms had been set. I knelt, it was go time, I placed my hands on the feet of the gurus in the image and then… got… lost… completely.
Involuntary bawling. Blubbering. Snotty, not pretty, blubbering. I wore a lot of mascara today. That was not a good idea. Sobs so great my chest heaved, I, almost hyperventilating. There was no emotion, no thought preceding this. It was waves of energy, coming from the Sri Murthi—a kind I had not felt before, gentle like an incoming Caribbean tide, as warm and as slowly deliberate. My palms were sweating; moisture wicked from them to the glass over the image. This was not something I was doing. I had not worked myself into this state—I had absolutely no control over it. I heard myself sobbing and I had not made those noises before. After some time, I stood, cautiously, a little wobbly, but on my own two feet and went to lie in savasana.
Relief. Hope. Gratitude. Grace. I was lost and I was found.
Later I realized, I would not have been one of those convulsing people. I always want the real, the practical, why would the paranormal “the Crucible” version take me over? It wouldn’t because I didn’t expect it. I wouldn’t have been knocked flat because I didn’t want to be.
Which of course now has me rethinking that entire supposition, um, kinda WANT to be knocked over, so will need to reframe that in my mind. Or have a good old convo with the holy ‘rents. Next time? I’ll bring my tempurpedic pillow to lie on; knock me flat—I’m light, I’ll be easy to carry.
But this time, I had seen exactly what I needed to see. All had been perfect. Not pretty, but perfect.
Our monk said “if someone told me that standing on my head against the wall spelling backwards from Z-A would bring me enlightenment, I would do it. I would do anything, provided that it works.”
I started this whole journey not ever thinking I would be where I am. The rest of the conference, I floated. That night I had thai food and went to bed early. The next, I donned four inch heels and watched some of my dearest friends rock out in their superstardom at a hot venue in LA, we wrapped up the night with two in the morning veggie burgers at the Roosevelt hotel.
I giggle more. Only joy meets me. Things are effortless.
There’s nothing but love here. And if a few hours of conference room weirdness, a few hours of taming and letting go and surpassing the mind, of letting go of anything I hold dear so that all I hold dear is brought to me in brighter, vibrant waves of experience and passionate process that is life? If that’s all it takes? A brief shot of pain, confrontation, surrender for endless amounts of bliss? Even if it looks ridonkulously bizarro? That’s it? Ok, I’m in.
People that talk about “feeling the energy” surrounding them, used to irk me to no end. And now, look ma. Here I am.
In the stuff that I teach, there were two approaching milestones, a big trainers conference in LA (the first of its kind) and the approaching date of February 11th 2011, a day that the final energetic switch is supposed to happen to propel us to the highest states of consciousness of all time. (Don't even bother the seatbelt or airbag prep for this one-- you're gonna have to completely let go to get there.) I literally could feel them coming, in my body—it was resonating with the approaching greatness, in all its butterfly crack-i-ness.
These are the big guns. Move over small peanuts: peace of mind, healed relationships, just a little more joy, we are talking huge quantum leaps these days. This is another dimension. We are talking about, and seeing, enlightenment, full God-realization, normal people going in and out of Samadhi. Urban moms, dads in jeans and gym shoes, regular people: FULLY AWAKE.
I meet these people. They are totally normal. You’d never know. The higher the state, the less affected they are. Their reason is grounded, their outlook gorgeous in its simplicity and practicality.
The LA conference was mysteriously looming, and out came a couple of grey thought clouds circling. In hushed whispers of guilty apprehension, we spoke in tinges of worry going in. There was a new process to be revealed. It was our job to spread this learning. It was kinda being kept top-secret and rumored to have the gurus at the forefront, when oneness has always been about—hey, bring whatever feels good to you here.
And so my thousand batting butterflies and I get to LA, and they go into overdrive inside of me. Joy joy joy, the excitement is palpable. The sunshine, the people, the vibe is dazzling.
As we get into the weekend and into the new processes, I am thrilled, beside myself with giddy. There are more traditional Indian practices being intertwined, practices that are already a regular part of my daily life, pujas, aarti, kirtan—it’s like my two worlds of spirituality are meeting in marriage. We’re given information for practices I’ve been doing for years and it feels like coming home.
Then we come to the first big process. The first step for what we are supposed to bring home with us to our communities. Our monk tells us how powerful it’s going to be. That it will knock some of us off our feet.
Hours past chanting, meditating, clearing, centering, we get to the thick. And sure enough, people are falling over. Literally. Fainting, screaming, going into fits of shaking. Knocked out, and troops of volunteers have to carry a substantial portion of people away to lie in another corner of the room, because they are OUT cold. It’s like a scene from the Arthur Miller play THE CRUCIBLE. People are going wackjob.
And there’s the inside voice that comes up. “What the f**k is happening here???... OMG… this has gotten SO weird.” Apprehension. Worry. Can I see my friends in on this? Will New York ride this weird train of woo? I see the thoughts. I let ‘em hang.
I woke up at 5:30 that morning. Still on New York time. We started at 8am, it was about 11pm at this point. I was on my last legs. It was my turn to go up. I stepped forward, wanting it, and…. Nothing. Nothing at all. I waited. Nothing.
I went to savasana in a corner of the giant conference room with my pillow, maybe thinking something would seize me as I lay down, but nope, nothing. I was bored. Irritated. I looked around after a bit, I wanted to hold space of support for the people who had yet to go, but I could no longer muster it; it was past midnight and I thought, dude, I need to go to bed. We were starting at 7am tomorrow. I needed some sleep or I would bite someone’s face off.
I was feeling tired, disgruntled, slightly confused. Disappointed. Arriving to my room well after midnight, my roommate emerged from the shower, towel drying her long hair. I was relieved to see she hadn’t held out to the bitter end either, and watched an “utterly jealous” reaction float by that she had washed her hair—I was desperate to find time to do mine.
We broke our mauna (silence) of two days, both exasperated, unsure.
“I don’t know if I can get on board with this…” we echoed. The screaming, crying people. The fits. The shaking. The overall total weirdness of it. It brought up every judgment and conditioning. I was in ecstasy when all the processes looked the way I liked them to. When it got uncomfortable? I wanted out.
As I lay down to sleep, it hit me. All told, it probably took about two minutes, but the greatest fear and desperation of my life came rushing at me like a tsunami. I cried out to my guru, in anger, total helplessness.
I was paralyzed with fear unlike any I had experienced.
My. Life. Is. Nothing. This is a fraud. Everything I believe, hold dear, my world, my soul: vanished, annihilated, missing, a lie. Everything.
“How dare you? How dare you come into my heart and take me over and betray me? How dare you leave me behind, alone without you?” The fear, no the abject TERROR seized my body, and I went to the now automatic place of summoning the guru to witness it, and I could not. I could not even form the words of the mantra in my mind—I was furious, abandoned. Utterly alone.
This was my Gethsemane. Without a doubt. In the bible the Gospel of Luke quotes “Jesus' anguish in Gethsemane was so deep that ‘his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.’” Mine was sandwiched in between too big, too soft Sheraton pillows. Damn Sheraton pillows, why didn’t I bring my travel tempurpedic? I was bitter, barren. One of the greatest songs in musical theatre history is a five and a half minute epic “Gethsemane” in JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR. My experience was more desolate, dissonant, shorter than this show-stopping rock ballad. There were no lozenges in my green room to soothe.
“Screw you. Screw this. I can’t believe I dedicated so much of myself to this, to you, and now what? What is anything anymore?” This was my LIFE. This was my everything. Not just the most important thing, THE thing. And now this? This weirdness? This mania? This nutbag assortment of absolute bizarre insanity? Where is my mac daddy Bhagavan who fills me with the sparkly shiny awesomeness? He was gone. I couldn’t even see his face. I was pissed. Desperate. My foremost thought was, “Why have you forsaken me?!?”
It was the most acute emotion I have EVER experienced. It lasted a short total of two minutes, and I dropped to sleep, sucked into a vortex of calmed darkness.
The next morning I awoke at 6am tired, spent, neutral. We had a morning chakra meditation and were to connect with the guru afterwards and I sobbed. Sobbed. Sobbed. I wanted them back. Please, I begged. I need you. I need your love. This HAS to be real. You must be what I have seen you to be. Please come back to me. Show me, show up. It’s you. It’s all you. Take over.
You must show me. I cannot go back to New York and stand behind this and bring this to people who trust my discerning opinion and real, gritty outlook, without the goods. I cannot, I will not, go forth blindly in faith with this. You MUST show me something. I need to know. I need to know RIGHT NOW.
I had time to shower before the afternoon session. Just this, felt so incredibly comforting. Pujas of devotion followed and I saw my love was back, vast and devoted, but my negotiation firm. I needed to see the money.
We sat in preparation and the handsome man next to me, some years my senior, leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Some ride, huh?”
His eyes twinkled, almost wickedly in his knowing.
Our gaze locked and we had the silent acknowledgment of people who had been through it, who had found groundedness, only to be thrust into the unknown again. He introduced himself as Bill. He was not some wackjob off somewhere, he was right here. I was so grateful for this exchange. For his teasing, for his generous smile.
And the process went on. This was it. This was the one they called the bulldozer, and today was only just the preview, the real money was supposed to rain after the February 11th date.
When it was my turn to go up and take a blessing from the Sri Murthi, which is a picture, but actually carries the living presence of the guru within it, the terms had been set. I knelt, it was go time, I placed my hands on the feet of the gurus in the image and then… got… lost… completely.
Involuntary bawling. Blubbering. Snotty, not pretty, blubbering. I wore a lot of mascara today. That was not a good idea. Sobs so great my chest heaved, I, almost hyperventilating. There was no emotion, no thought preceding this. It was waves of energy, coming from the Sri Murthi—a kind I had not felt before, gentle like an incoming Caribbean tide, as warm and as slowly deliberate. My palms were sweating; moisture wicked from them to the glass over the image. This was not something I was doing. I had not worked myself into this state—I had absolutely no control over it. I heard myself sobbing and I had not made those noises before. After some time, I stood, cautiously, a little wobbly, but on my own two feet and went to lie in savasana.
Relief. Hope. Gratitude. Grace. I was lost and I was found.
Later I realized, I would not have been one of those convulsing people. I always want the real, the practical, why would the paranormal “the Crucible” version take me over? It wouldn’t because I didn’t expect it. I wouldn’t have been knocked flat because I didn’t want to be.
Which of course now has me rethinking that entire supposition, um, kinda WANT to be knocked over, so will need to reframe that in my mind. Or have a good old convo with the holy ‘rents. Next time? I’ll bring my tempurpedic pillow to lie on; knock me flat—I’m light, I’ll be easy to carry.
But this time, I had seen exactly what I needed to see. All had been perfect. Not pretty, but perfect.
Our monk said “if someone told me that standing on my head against the wall spelling backwards from Z-A would bring me enlightenment, I would do it. I would do anything, provided that it works.”
I started this whole journey not ever thinking I would be where I am. The rest of the conference, I floated. That night I had thai food and went to bed early. The next, I donned four inch heels and watched some of my dearest friends rock out in their superstardom at a hot venue in LA, we wrapped up the night with two in the morning veggie burgers at the Roosevelt hotel.
I giggle more. Only joy meets me. Things are effortless.
There’s nothing but love here. And if a few hours of conference room weirdness, a few hours of taming and letting go and surpassing the mind, of letting go of anything I hold dear so that all I hold dear is brought to me in brighter, vibrant waves of experience and passionate process that is life? If that’s all it takes? A brief shot of pain, confrontation, surrender for endless amounts of bliss? Even if it looks ridonkulously bizarro? That’s it? Ok, I’m in.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
the step by step guide to finding your guru
Step #1: Wait.
That’s it. That’s the guide. Just the one step.
Makes for an efficient, although not very enlightening blogpost, so let me expand on that idea.
I had a most delicious synchronicity this past week. In the awesomeness that is facebook, (I know some people pooh pooh the ol’ FB but man I love it. I’m just a facebook chippy, precisely for things like this,) in its awesomeness, surfaced the first guy I dated in college via a thread of a mutual friend’s newborn baby pictures.
We dated for a month. A couple of months? I have a picture of him from Easter at our house in Chicago where I am wearing a hot pink linen Ann Taylor blazer that I still (although absolutely unsuitable for New York) own. That summer we whisked away to Vegas for an epic three days of concerts with Dave Matthews opening for the Grateful Dead; my best girlfriend and her own fraternity boy leading the way. If I recall correctly, I was a freshman, he was a senior and it had an expiration date stamped on it from the get go; we, not having too much in common other than chemistry. And I don’t mean a science class.
Doing the FB “hm, I wonder what he’s been doing for the last 15 years” drive-by, I see we like the same books. Some of them woo. His posts are meaningful, smart. Was he this smart then? I didn’t remember that. I’m happy to see he is married and thriving elsewhere. My belly gets all toasty to see people well.
A week after we friend each other, he posts a quiz to his friends on FB. Its answer being, the sanskrit mantra that I call mine. These are the words that I say more often than possibly anything else, and there he is on FB, all, asking people if they know what it means.
Out of all the mantras in the world.
The one I use, from my peeps, my guru, if you will, which was injected into me by some divine physician, similar to a little kid who gets a shot in the ass when his mom is distracting him to look the other way in the doctor’s office at the kitty poster. Haven’t seen this guy, or perhaps even thought of him in a decade in a half, a week after we “friend,” he posts that? Odds please? I mean, c’mon people.
And although that synchronicity was indeed lovely, that’s not the point of this story. The point is the mantra. The way that mantra, that guru, snuck into my little life and implanted itself forever in there, was so surreptitious, so patient, so in-for-the-long-haul and confidant of its own organic process, that I didn’t even know it happened.
Guru means someone who spreads the light. So, anyone can be your guru or teacher. In fact, ironically enough, the more advanced we get, the more we see everything and everyone as a guru until that moment when it all merges and we have no need… but I’m getting ahead of myself.
Traditionally, a guru is the mac daddy of all teachers. The master. Usually an enlightened person, because the thing about an enlightened person or master is, you can’t ever get ahead of them. They are an unending resource of wisdom and grace, so although we can go through dozen of other teachers along the way, to find a mac daddy (or mac mommy I suppose) is a one shot deal. The umbrella teacher: you don’t have to go elsewhere, so in a way, to find this person is like the most efficient thing that can happen when desiring a focus for a spiritual path. You found someone you vibe with? Good, now listen to ‘im.
It helps if they are alive, because then there’s a flow, an influx of information. I had/have nothing against the Virgin Mary, for instance, I just find that, for me, she didn’t make a very good conversationalist. But if you can go in your heart and talk to Mary today as your personal savior, well, God bless you sistah, all the power to you.
But really, you don’t have a choice. You don’t find the teacher. He/she finds you. The zen saying is: “when the student is ready the teacher appears.” Think “Karate Kid.” Think “Dirty Dancing.”
Mine totally snuck up on me. I think He knew that I wouldn’t be receptive to guru-dom and any kind of devotion that would entail. (A then Type A controlling New Yorker? I was ripe, but not willing.)
First, he introduced himself to me via a total Brazilian hottie. I mean, I don’t care who or what you are into, a Brazilian hottie is just, across the board, damn good marketing on the part of the divine.
After the initial intro, for years there was this mantra in my life and I was following this weird instinctual pull to organize, participate, but it wasn’t until I was in Australia and someone asked the Brazilian hottie at a yogi party how we know each other, and I heard her answer: “We have the same guru…,” that it hit me. I have a guru? Huh, I guess I do. And that Guy brought she and I together. I hadn’t seen that. She had.
But what's most marvelous was that just around that time, He started to show up. I would get pockets of information in an instantaneous download. Like, a whole slew of knowledge, that I didn’t have one moment, would suddenly be there the next, as though it just uploaded in the computer of my mind. I didn’t have to learn it, I didn’t have to go figure it out or research it, it was just there, this knowing. And I immediately equated it with him; I intrinsically knew that’s where it came from.
It wasn’t a conversation the way we'd think of one. It was literally an instantaneous knowledge. I wondered if that’s what people meant when they said “Jesus spoke to me.” This was not an intuition, a gut feeling, a leaning. This was: this is DONE. I was surer of that info than anything else in my life. I didn’t choose to be sure, that’s how it presented itself: as fact.
And although this was pretty f**ing miraculous, I didn’t get all “saved” and start going nutso over this guy. I played hard to get. I wanted to keep my options open. What, you want a lifelong commitment from a couple spectacular experiences? Dude, you’re going to have to work a little harder than that.
To make things more complicated, there was another guru that led me to this guru. I feel like they tag teamed me. Getting me to India. Getting me onto a yoga mat. Introducing me to the Brazillian hottie.
When I was practicing yoga abroad, I was so very way out of my league, next to some of the most advanced teachers and practitioners in the world, dedicated but absolutely lower-than-remedial compared to the people around me. I had a deep respect and admiration for, but didn’t feel any specific personal connection to the yoga guruji. It was only when he passed away three years later that I realized how much he lived in my heart.
When I heard of his passing, the most profound grief I have ever experienced seized me. Its intensity shocked me. Nothing had ever come close to this loss, this deep a pain and sorrow. It only took hold of me for a day, but it was inconsolable and at the same time, outrageously gorgeous in its depth of feeling. (I have the capacity to feel this? Oh my, marvelous.) In that day, I saw lineage, tradition, why people held such devotion and respect for their teachers in the world of woo. I watched my own teacher grieve his master, his father. Such love for someone who has shown you how to live a life worth having.
I’m not really sure if everyone has a guru. I’d assume they do. I mean it wouldn’t really be fair otherwise, right? “Oh Margaret- well she was good four lives ago, so yes, give her a guru, but Hank? Oh Hank’s been a total ass for eons. Let’s let him suffer though some karma payback. He’s just shit outta luck this go around.” Mm, no. That doesn’t seem fair.
But on the other hand, things are accelerating so quickly these days, in a very short while, if not already, the mystical middleman may no longer be necessary.
In the Indian tradition the antaryamin, the indweller or inner witness is the consciousness inside you. And there are all different levels of what a guru can be, so they don't have to be a small Indian person or a divine inside you, it can be sports, your children, your art.
Our gurus are each other; eventually they are ourselves. I must caution though, that most of us can’t just jump straight to ourselves. Until we get to a place where we’ve sussed it all out, let it all go, “wood-shed” and shined a light on the structures of our mind, healed our hurts or identified our conditioning and attachments, anything we think may be intuition guiding us might actually be the ego. So it's not just "wait." It's work while you wait.
The self-as-guru is not a one-stop shop. I don't think yet, anyway. In a way it’s childish to think that we can do it all ourselves. It’s impossible because the ultimate realization is the connectedness of all that is. We need peeps on the way. Then we get to ourselves. The step by step process is in fact: 1) guru 2)yourself 3)you're one.
And going back to the FB friend who posted that mantra? What’s the connection there? Why now? Maybe a little joke from my guru saying, “Hey babes, let me blow your mind even more. I’ve been with you all along. I’ve had my eye on you. Didja know that? You’ve been safe. And we’re still gonna hang ‘cause we’re all tight like that, but you’re getting to the point where you’re not gonna need me anymore. You’re gonna swallow me up so whole inside of you that there won’t be anyplace that I end and you begin. I’m not going anywhere, but you’re good to go. So go, lady. Go.”
That’s it. That’s the guide. Just the one step.
Makes for an efficient, although not very enlightening blogpost, so let me expand on that idea.
I had a most delicious synchronicity this past week. In the awesomeness that is facebook, (I know some people pooh pooh the ol’ FB but man I love it. I’m just a facebook chippy, precisely for things like this,) in its awesomeness, surfaced the first guy I dated in college via a thread of a mutual friend’s newborn baby pictures.
We dated for a month. A couple of months? I have a picture of him from Easter at our house in Chicago where I am wearing a hot pink linen Ann Taylor blazer that I still (although absolutely unsuitable for New York) own. That summer we whisked away to Vegas for an epic three days of concerts with Dave Matthews opening for the Grateful Dead; my best girlfriend and her own fraternity boy leading the way. If I recall correctly, I was a freshman, he was a senior and it had an expiration date stamped on it from the get go; we, not having too much in common other than chemistry. And I don’t mean a science class.
Doing the FB “hm, I wonder what he’s been doing for the last 15 years” drive-by, I see we like the same books. Some of them woo. His posts are meaningful, smart. Was he this smart then? I didn’t remember that. I’m happy to see he is married and thriving elsewhere. My belly gets all toasty to see people well.
A week after we friend each other, he posts a quiz to his friends on FB. Its answer being, the sanskrit mantra that I call mine. These are the words that I say more often than possibly anything else, and there he is on FB, all, asking people if they know what it means.
Out of all the mantras in the world.
The one I use, from my peeps, my guru, if you will, which was injected into me by some divine physician, similar to a little kid who gets a shot in the ass when his mom is distracting him to look the other way in the doctor’s office at the kitty poster. Haven’t seen this guy, or perhaps even thought of him in a decade in a half, a week after we “friend,” he posts that? Odds please? I mean, c’mon people.
And although that synchronicity was indeed lovely, that’s not the point of this story. The point is the mantra. The way that mantra, that guru, snuck into my little life and implanted itself forever in there, was so surreptitious, so patient, so in-for-the-long-haul and confidant of its own organic process, that I didn’t even know it happened.
Guru means someone who spreads the light. So, anyone can be your guru or teacher. In fact, ironically enough, the more advanced we get, the more we see everything and everyone as a guru until that moment when it all merges and we have no need… but I’m getting ahead of myself.
Traditionally, a guru is the mac daddy of all teachers. The master. Usually an enlightened person, because the thing about an enlightened person or master is, you can’t ever get ahead of them. They are an unending resource of wisdom and grace, so although we can go through dozen of other teachers along the way, to find a mac daddy (or mac mommy I suppose) is a one shot deal. The umbrella teacher: you don’t have to go elsewhere, so in a way, to find this person is like the most efficient thing that can happen when desiring a focus for a spiritual path. You found someone you vibe with? Good, now listen to ‘im.
It helps if they are alive, because then there’s a flow, an influx of information. I had/have nothing against the Virgin Mary, for instance, I just find that, for me, she didn’t make a very good conversationalist. But if you can go in your heart and talk to Mary today as your personal savior, well, God bless you sistah, all the power to you.
But really, you don’t have a choice. You don’t find the teacher. He/she finds you. The zen saying is: “when the student is ready the teacher appears.” Think “Karate Kid.” Think “Dirty Dancing.”
Mine totally snuck up on me. I think He knew that I wouldn’t be receptive to guru-dom and any kind of devotion that would entail. (A then Type A controlling New Yorker? I was ripe, but not willing.)
First, he introduced himself to me via a total Brazilian hottie. I mean, I don’t care who or what you are into, a Brazilian hottie is just, across the board, damn good marketing on the part of the divine.
After the initial intro, for years there was this mantra in my life and I was following this weird instinctual pull to organize, participate, but it wasn’t until I was in Australia and someone asked the Brazilian hottie at a yogi party how we know each other, and I heard her answer: “We have the same guru…,” that it hit me. I have a guru? Huh, I guess I do. And that Guy brought she and I together. I hadn’t seen that. She had.
But what's most marvelous was that just around that time, He started to show up. I would get pockets of information in an instantaneous download. Like, a whole slew of knowledge, that I didn’t have one moment, would suddenly be there the next, as though it just uploaded in the computer of my mind. I didn’t have to learn it, I didn’t have to go figure it out or research it, it was just there, this knowing. And I immediately equated it with him; I intrinsically knew that’s where it came from.
It wasn’t a conversation the way we'd think of one. It was literally an instantaneous knowledge. I wondered if that’s what people meant when they said “Jesus spoke to me.” This was not an intuition, a gut feeling, a leaning. This was: this is DONE. I was surer of that info than anything else in my life. I didn’t choose to be sure, that’s how it presented itself: as fact.
And although this was pretty f**ing miraculous, I didn’t get all “saved” and start going nutso over this guy. I played hard to get. I wanted to keep my options open. What, you want a lifelong commitment from a couple spectacular experiences? Dude, you’re going to have to work a little harder than that.
To make things more complicated, there was another guru that led me to this guru. I feel like they tag teamed me. Getting me to India. Getting me onto a yoga mat. Introducing me to the Brazillian hottie.
When I was practicing yoga abroad, I was so very way out of my league, next to some of the most advanced teachers and practitioners in the world, dedicated but absolutely lower-than-remedial compared to the people around me. I had a deep respect and admiration for, but didn’t feel any specific personal connection to the yoga guruji. It was only when he passed away three years later that I realized how much he lived in my heart.
When I heard of his passing, the most profound grief I have ever experienced seized me. Its intensity shocked me. Nothing had ever come close to this loss, this deep a pain and sorrow. It only took hold of me for a day, but it was inconsolable and at the same time, outrageously gorgeous in its depth of feeling. (I have the capacity to feel this? Oh my, marvelous.) In that day, I saw lineage, tradition, why people held such devotion and respect for their teachers in the world of woo. I watched my own teacher grieve his master, his father. Such love for someone who has shown you how to live a life worth having.
I’m not really sure if everyone has a guru. I’d assume they do. I mean it wouldn’t really be fair otherwise, right? “Oh Margaret- well she was good four lives ago, so yes, give her a guru, but Hank? Oh Hank’s been a total ass for eons. Let’s let him suffer though some karma payback. He’s just shit outta luck this go around.” Mm, no. That doesn’t seem fair.
But on the other hand, things are accelerating so quickly these days, in a very short while, if not already, the mystical middleman may no longer be necessary.
In the Indian tradition the antaryamin, the indweller or inner witness is the consciousness inside you. And there are all different levels of what a guru can be, so they don't have to be a small Indian person or a divine inside you, it can be sports, your children, your art.
Our gurus are each other; eventually they are ourselves. I must caution though, that most of us can’t just jump straight to ourselves. Until we get to a place where we’ve sussed it all out, let it all go, “wood-shed” and shined a light on the structures of our mind, healed our hurts or identified our conditioning and attachments, anything we think may be intuition guiding us might actually be the ego. So it's not just "wait." It's work while you wait.
The self-as-guru is not a one-stop shop. I don't think yet, anyway. In a way it’s childish to think that we can do it all ourselves. It’s impossible because the ultimate realization is the connectedness of all that is. We need peeps on the way. Then we get to ourselves. The step by step process is in fact: 1) guru 2)yourself 3)you're one.
And going back to the FB friend who posted that mantra? What’s the connection there? Why now? Maybe a little joke from my guru saying, “Hey babes, let me blow your mind even more. I’ve been with you all along. I’ve had my eye on you. Didja know that? You’ve been safe. And we’re still gonna hang ‘cause we’re all tight like that, but you’re getting to the point where you’re not gonna need me anymore. You’re gonna swallow me up so whole inside of you that there won’t be anyplace that I end and you begin. I’m not going anywhere, but you’re good to go. So go, lady. Go.”
Friday, January 7, 2011
9 things you don't want to hear: a 2010 blog wrap up with perhaps some squeezable wisdom
click to read the fullest expansion of the theory:
you shouldn't schedule a date on a spiritual retreat weekend
god can be your gangsta rapper
spirituality without suffering is total bullsh**
life will screw you. that's only so it can make sweet love to you later.
they say a sex break can make you shinier
god is a drag queen
f*@# spirituality
blessturbation-- yes, we can
bile and upping consciousness... ew, really?
you shouldn't schedule a date on a spiritual retreat weekend
god can be your gangsta rapper
spirituality without suffering is total bullsh**
life will screw you. that's only so it can make sweet love to you later.
they say a sex break can make you shinier
god is a drag queen
f*@# spirituality
blessturbation-- yes, we can
bile and upping consciousness... ew, really?
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
the amazeballs muchacho of authenticity
When I was in Chicago last month, I was to meet my sister’s boyfriend. I don’t need to get into specifics, but let’s just acknowledge that my mom won’t even consider an introduction. She refuses to accept that they are together and wholeheartedly disapproves of the entire situation. Mom’s kinda playing the old-school, unfair, crazypants card here, but so it is.
My sister is in love. No one can dissuade another from being in love. However, that does not stop my mother from continually trying to get me to instead push my sister to date the son of the sausage king of Chicago, whose own mother once met my sister and has been dropping the son as bait ever since... (I did mention both that my sister already has a boyfriend and that reason has yet to arrive in these proceedings, right…?)
This whole family balancing was an interesting, precarious, Jenga process of assemblage because it made me question my own judgments, expectations of what I want sis’s boyfriend (now, maybe perhaps potential future husband?) to be to (oh so selfish) me; it shined a Fresnel on the structures of the mind for prissy, pretty mags. Rather than pre-define him by my societal or cultural prejudices, I wanted to be clear on what my sister deserves and so first I had to define what that is.
I want any boyfriend/potential husband to be sophisticated, well-read, sharp, liberal, charming and most definitely funny, because really, his sole purpose at proposed future familial excursions is to keep me entertained. And he’d get big points, of course, if he owned a beach house. Big points.
Ok, so once I got the nonsense of what this little “mags” body thinks she wants for her sister, I thought I’d get real and take some time to think about what was important for her. What do you want for those you hold dear?
People might say: All I want for them is to be happy.
But, sometimes don’t we see people who are “happy in love” and yet something doesn’t smell quite right? They aren’t really the fullest expression of themselves while in love with that person or perhaps they’re sacrificing an innate part of their core to be with him/her? And you/I/we, in turn, miss that person?
In my musings, I think what’s key is to have someone to turn you on. And I (for once) am not talking about sex here. Does my sister’s boyfriend bring out the best in her? Is she the most grounded, light, fun, giving, and dependable version of herself both with him and outside of their time together? Are her priorities in order? Or is she taking on his characteristics, bending to be in his world?
The same questions can be applied to a spiritual person or practice. A lotta people can get wrapped up in something “woo,” and we think, um, where’d they go?
I had lunch with a colleague (a beautiful teacher in Chicago) and she spoke of people being able to traverse dimensions and go to different planes of consciousness. That’s cool and all, but my wiring is practical. I want to be here. When the last guy I was dating expressed a distaste for the woo making people float in lala land, or live in some kind of alternate reality, I determinedly responded, “I don’t want to be anywhere else! I love New York.” I’m not reaching for the clouds. I’m grounding to the pavement. (and it’s sparkly in New York, btw, have you noticed?)
When you first meet someone who’s enlightened, it’s kinda disappointing. Unless you have a previously bestowed love for them or you’re far enough in your development to be sensitive to higher frequencies and can tap into that kind of vibration, usually they’re just lumps of bones and mass, all ordinary.
You want them to be all, like, walking on water with firecrackers shooting out of their forehead, and you end up on a cold, damp floor in a four-foot cave across the world, or at a lecture in midtown, and see this little person sitting there all normal and scratching their nose, and maybe (depending on how “famous” they are), dozens of people around ‘em perhaps fanning or primping pillows for him/her, and think… This is it? What’s the deal here? Unless they are tapped into a deep meditative state or some such, when they are hanging around they are doing just that—hanging.
It’s a little disarming at first because we want them to be so much jazzier. We think every moment of life, particularly in the presence of the “enlightened,” should look like it’s been bedazzled within a millimeter of itself. When we asked monks in Fiji and India what they do when they’re not teaching, you know what their answer was? “We really like action movies.” “We have huge games of cricket.” They’re on Facebook.
With all the enlightened folk that I’ve come into contact with, and I am so so grateful that there have been many, here’s the common thread. They’re just regular. If there is any spangly brouhaha surrounding them, they are not organizing it—they just happen to be in the middle of it. When the ordinary is spectacular, that’s when you’re awake.
There’s the old zen adage, the finger pointing at the moon is not the moon.
If you’ve found a teacher (or a lover,) when you are in their presence, no one else exists; the rest of the world falls away. But they are not the moon, they are the pointer. The moon is you… their job is to bring out the best in you. The real you. Eventually the rest of your world falls away and you encompass that “now-ness” for yourself and others.
It’s only natural and enjoyable, that in the early flush of a relationship, romantic or spiritual, we take on the characteristics of our new love. This is part of the excitement that this kind of discovery can bring to us and provides a fun and connective texture to our lives.
My sister is peppering up her lexicon with Spanish words, so we got a “muchacho” spiced in here and there. With her last boyfriend they liked to call each other “lover” over and over again, with varying degrees of emphasis, unendingly, in public. (Needless to say, I am really. really. really. happy that phase is over.) My friends toss around “amazeballs.” The spiritual vocab a la mode is “authentic,” it used to be “prosperous.”
The communities we choose are reflected not only in our vocabulary, but in our dress (Converse, barefoot, Louboutains?), stomping grounds (the bar, the temple) and sport teams (insert yours here.)
But it seems the fine line between fanaticism and devotion, between blinded love and a healthy relationship comes down to is: Is it bringing out the best in you and is it bringing out the real you? Are you attached to the finger (the teacher, the lover) or are you looking to the moon? (yourself. shinier. the ultimate inner bedazzle)
After I wrote this, I found the most emailed article in the New York Times in the last couple of days has been “The Happy Marriage is the ’Me’ Marriage.” It basically posits that helping each other’s self-expansion is what makes a happy marriage. Not a successful marriage. A happy one. Does the other person fuel your growth? (This was THE MOST emailed article in the New York Times for the last five days straight. Not politics, weight loss, will iPhone finally come to Verizon, or what’s the hottest new restaurant of 2011…nope, self-expansion. Times are a changing… but I digress.)
Everything is a process. I’ve been involved in plenty of relationships that weren’t supporting my higher good, and when I first found yoga, was so loud-mouthed about it I’m surprised I didn’t get slapped around. For all of us, of course, there is no wrong place, no wrong way to do it. There are appropriate times to hibernate in introspection or even get lost in a flurry of sex. But ultimately? Ultimately we want to get to the place where “muchacho” is a spice and not the main enchilada. Is the "muchacho" a life raft, helping us to cling to where we are, what we know? Or is it the key to our self-expansion?
It’s difficult to allow ourselves to get uncomfortable. We want it to be warm and fuzzy, familiar, easy. It’s only when we get out of the comfort zone, when we reach, confront the pretty or the ugly, that change takes place. This is the key point to distinguish—are we holding on to pleasure because it’s familiar?
By the same token, if we’re reaching for the shiny (yes, please! reach!) but there is still discomfort/pain/longing that arises, there’s just simply more to do. No biggie. Just a fact of life. “Your head has more mountain to climb.” We want to get to the point where sitting and scratching our nose is enough of a bedazzlement. Where authenticity to ourselves is not about us doing what we want, but us being ok with where we are. If not yet here, the “yay!” happiness follows. Promise.
I was asked to write an article for the (lovely, right on) www.amareway.org site about authentic happiness and this is the main essence of it all.
We can have our muchacho and eat it too. We want to have the moon, but at some point we need to let go of the finger. The ultimate universal relationship isn’t with our lover or our guru, it’s with ourselves. That’s why the self-expansion makes you happy in a relationship, it’s for you. Until we can be real to every moment, we need to be real to what’s within. That’s when happy arrives. And maybe it’s wearing a sombrero.
My sister is in love. No one can dissuade another from being in love. However, that does not stop my mother from continually trying to get me to instead push my sister to date the son of the sausage king of Chicago, whose own mother once met my sister and has been dropping the son as bait ever since... (I did mention both that my sister already has a boyfriend and that reason has yet to arrive in these proceedings, right…?)
This whole family balancing was an interesting, precarious, Jenga process of assemblage because it made me question my own judgments, expectations of what I want sis’s boyfriend (now, maybe perhaps potential future husband?) to be to (oh so selfish) me; it shined a Fresnel on the structures of the mind for prissy, pretty mags. Rather than pre-define him by my societal or cultural prejudices, I wanted to be clear on what my sister deserves and so first I had to define what that is.
I want any boyfriend/potential husband to be sophisticated, well-read, sharp, liberal, charming and most definitely funny, because really, his sole purpose at proposed future familial excursions is to keep me entertained. And he’d get big points, of course, if he owned a beach house. Big points.
Ok, so once I got the nonsense of what this little “mags” body thinks she wants for her sister, I thought I’d get real and take some time to think about what was important for her. What do you want for those you hold dear?
People might say: All I want for them is to be happy.
But, sometimes don’t we see people who are “happy in love” and yet something doesn’t smell quite right? They aren’t really the fullest expression of themselves while in love with that person or perhaps they’re sacrificing an innate part of their core to be with him/her? And you/I/we, in turn, miss that person?
In my musings, I think what’s key is to have someone to turn you on. And I (for once) am not talking about sex here. Does my sister’s boyfriend bring out the best in her? Is she the most grounded, light, fun, giving, and dependable version of herself both with him and outside of their time together? Are her priorities in order? Or is she taking on his characteristics, bending to be in his world?
The same questions can be applied to a spiritual person or practice. A lotta people can get wrapped up in something “woo,” and we think, um, where’d they go?
I had lunch with a colleague (a beautiful teacher in Chicago) and she spoke of people being able to traverse dimensions and go to different planes of consciousness. That’s cool and all, but my wiring is practical. I want to be here. When the last guy I was dating expressed a distaste for the woo making people float in lala land, or live in some kind of alternate reality, I determinedly responded, “I don’t want to be anywhere else! I love New York.” I’m not reaching for the clouds. I’m grounding to the pavement. (and it’s sparkly in New York, btw, have you noticed?)
When you first meet someone who’s enlightened, it’s kinda disappointing. Unless you have a previously bestowed love for them or you’re far enough in your development to be sensitive to higher frequencies and can tap into that kind of vibration, usually they’re just lumps of bones and mass, all ordinary.
You want them to be all, like, walking on water with firecrackers shooting out of their forehead, and you end up on a cold, damp floor in a four-foot cave across the world, or at a lecture in midtown, and see this little person sitting there all normal and scratching their nose, and maybe (depending on how “famous” they are), dozens of people around ‘em perhaps fanning or primping pillows for him/her, and think… This is it? What’s the deal here? Unless they are tapped into a deep meditative state or some such, when they are hanging around they are doing just that—hanging.
It’s a little disarming at first because we want them to be so much jazzier. We think every moment of life, particularly in the presence of the “enlightened,” should look like it’s been bedazzled within a millimeter of itself. When we asked monks in Fiji and India what they do when they’re not teaching, you know what their answer was? “We really like action movies.” “We have huge games of cricket.” They’re on Facebook.
With all the enlightened folk that I’ve come into contact with, and I am so so grateful that there have been many, here’s the common thread. They’re just regular. If there is any spangly brouhaha surrounding them, they are not organizing it—they just happen to be in the middle of it. When the ordinary is spectacular, that’s when you’re awake.
There’s the old zen adage, the finger pointing at the moon is not the moon.
If you’ve found a teacher (or a lover,) when you are in their presence, no one else exists; the rest of the world falls away. But they are not the moon, they are the pointer. The moon is you… their job is to bring out the best in you. The real you. Eventually the rest of your world falls away and you encompass that “now-ness” for yourself and others.
It’s only natural and enjoyable, that in the early flush of a relationship, romantic or spiritual, we take on the characteristics of our new love. This is part of the excitement that this kind of discovery can bring to us and provides a fun and connective texture to our lives.
My sister is peppering up her lexicon with Spanish words, so we got a “muchacho” spiced in here and there. With her last boyfriend they liked to call each other “lover” over and over again, with varying degrees of emphasis, unendingly, in public. (Needless to say, I am really. really. really. happy that phase is over.) My friends toss around “amazeballs.” The spiritual vocab a la mode is “authentic,” it used to be “prosperous.”
The communities we choose are reflected not only in our vocabulary, but in our dress (Converse, barefoot, Louboutains?), stomping grounds (the bar, the temple) and sport teams (insert yours here.)
But it seems the fine line between fanaticism and devotion, between blinded love and a healthy relationship comes down to is: Is it bringing out the best in you and is it bringing out the real you? Are you attached to the finger (the teacher, the lover) or are you looking to the moon? (yourself. shinier. the ultimate inner bedazzle)
After I wrote this, I found the most emailed article in the New York Times in the last couple of days has been “The Happy Marriage is the ’Me’ Marriage.” It basically posits that helping each other’s self-expansion is what makes a happy marriage. Not a successful marriage. A happy one. Does the other person fuel your growth? (This was THE MOST emailed article in the New York Times for the last five days straight. Not politics, weight loss, will iPhone finally come to Verizon, or what’s the hottest new restaurant of 2011…nope, self-expansion. Times are a changing… but I digress.)
Everything is a process. I’ve been involved in plenty of relationships that weren’t supporting my higher good, and when I first found yoga, was so loud-mouthed about it I’m surprised I didn’t get slapped around. For all of us, of course, there is no wrong place, no wrong way to do it. There are appropriate times to hibernate in introspection or even get lost in a flurry of sex. But ultimately? Ultimately we want to get to the place where “muchacho” is a spice and not the main enchilada. Is the "muchacho" a life raft, helping us to cling to where we are, what we know? Or is it the key to our self-expansion?
It’s difficult to allow ourselves to get uncomfortable. We want it to be warm and fuzzy, familiar, easy. It’s only when we get out of the comfort zone, when we reach, confront the pretty or the ugly, that change takes place. This is the key point to distinguish—are we holding on to pleasure because it’s familiar?
By the same token, if we’re reaching for the shiny (yes, please! reach!) but there is still discomfort/pain/longing that arises, there’s just simply more to do. No biggie. Just a fact of life. “Your head has more mountain to climb.” We want to get to the point where sitting and scratching our nose is enough of a bedazzlement. Where authenticity to ourselves is not about us doing what we want, but us being ok with where we are. If not yet here, the “yay!” happiness follows. Promise.
I was asked to write an article for the (lovely, right on) www.amareway.org site about authentic happiness and this is the main essence of it all.
We can have our muchacho and eat it too. We want to have the moon, but at some point we need to let go of the finger. The ultimate universal relationship isn’t with our lover or our guru, it’s with ourselves. That’s why the self-expansion makes you happy in a relationship, it’s for you. Until we can be real to every moment, we need to be real to what’s within. That’s when happy arrives. And maybe it’s wearing a sombrero.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
men: my 2011 minimalist manifesto
This week I met Everett Bogue, who I adored from afar. I tweeted him; a flagging follow up to a cheeky, but true-to-the-core email, suggesting perhaps a coffee or drink in his upcoming travels, and before I knew it, we had next day plans to cart around a sleeping bag in Chicago, which, incidentally, never ended up getting there.
Everett does not live outside the box. In his world, there is no box. He’s not off the grid; he’s above it. It was the snarky, youthful rebellion of his super smart pro-minimalist blog that attracted me to him, but it was fate, two open intuitions and matching gut instincts that had us traversing around Chicago on a late 2010, surprisingly sunny afternoon.
We talked about insane things. I mean, real things that are happening, but that are so far out of the mainstream that they’d be hard to believe. He opened my eyes to a fascinating digital lattice of rogue minimalists broncoing this world on their terms. Just shy of a decade younger, I also saw how differently, how much more quickly his mind could operate. How things that might seem abnormal to our generation, and crazypants to my mother, are enthusiastically welcomed with an open heart and mind. This is freedom. The capacity for this higher consciousness is going to be a no brainer for the youngin’s. It’s built in. Structures are falling, because they are not buying.
This year my new year’s resolution is to fully, once and for all, move over and let life take me. My mantra will be
I mean, I’ve pretty much been doing this for the last six or so years since that moment when everything fell apart. Just letting go, and letting it all brisk me along. Flight cancellation? No problem. A two-week trip turning into six months abroad? Did it. Didn’t get that fantastic job I thought was, for sure, mine? Ok, that’s the way it was supposed to be. But Mags’ particular mental kryptonite, even if I was my happiest, most flowing, easy self, across the world and deepening, or making money or riding high, (ok, and here I am... I'm going to cop to it) has been men.
By now, I was “supposed” to be married, with two kids in my West Village brownstone and meeting Bernadette Peters for routine lunch/shopping sprees at Bergdorf’s. Instead, I spent the month perched in legwarmers and sucking down green juice in my hometown, occasionally suffering through a Lifetime TV movie of the week to appease my mother. Which was, by far, my greatest familial sacrifice to date, and no small act of love on my part. (The Lifetime TV movies of the week, not the month with my mother.)
In the last six years, I have spent the very vast majority of my time alone. I see couples traveling together, comfortable in their familiarity—I don’t remember what that feels like. I don’t know what it’s like to have someone roll over and give you a kiss to wake you up on your birthday. This doesn’t bother me; it’s just foreign territory.
In the kitchen, precisely as I was typing this, my mother beseeched me:
“Just promise me one thing Margaret. You work so hard on your writing, yoga, your ‘oneness’ (picture her fleeting, disapproving nose-crunch,) promise me this year you will devote the same amount of time and attention to finding a man.”
Well mom, I’m sorry to disappoint, but this is, in fact, the opposite of what I am planning to do.
What I promise to do is honor every moment in front of me. Seize every experience as if my life depended on it, because quite obviously, it does. Breathe in the grit and the grime that is today and continue to plow through it in a state of unconditional, blinded love, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts. Unconditional, blinded love for myself and everyone around me. I’m gonna get retro RENT all up in that piece and “No day but today” will be my theme song… and to do that, I am going to stop looking for a man.
Let me assure you that this does not come from some embittered space of being angry at men, or life, for not having given me a guy. Far from it. I love men. Bring ‘em on. What I am letting go of is the attachment to wanting men, from wanting to be married, from the desire to be one half a couple. I am not throwing men out from my life, I am taking a cue from Everett: I’m going minimalist. I’m opting for freedom, and for taking life as it comes.
So, what does that mean?
Well, it means no asking friends to set me up. No online dating. That handful of guys that I keep in my back pocket as a “maybe” “one day” “friends with benefits" “just for fun”? ? Done. Please exit the space of my mind. If you want reentrance, you better know how to show up for real. I’ve seen you do it before. You show up for business meetings and you show up for the superbowl. You’re capable.
Romances that have no shot of extending? Ok, that’s an adventure, those could work. (I mean, I’m not pledging to be a nun for God’s sake.) But keeping my radar up at a party? Looking down to check if the hot guy at the coffee shop has a wedding ring? Being a little extra flirty until the stranger references his girlfriend in the third sentence of conversation? Over.
If you actually saw inside my mind, you might think I’m being a little rash. I am hardly obsessive with any of these romantic thoughts. The guy who turned out to not like me so much last year (after seven months of me hoping he did,) well, he exited my thought sphere relatively quickly, but nowhere near as quickly as I would have liked. It was annoying as hell to know it wasn’t going to happen, and yet there he was, parked in my mind, lookin' all sexy, taking up space—I had no control over it.
I want freedom. Not from men. From my mind. Going minimalist does not mean giving men up entirely, it means living with only that which is necessary. And if we don’t have an equal energetic exchange… You are no longer necessary to my life. Consider yourself feng shui’d out. I'm streamlining my heart.
One of my favorite girlfriends (who also happens to be one of my smartest, most open, most generous, positive and grounded, drop-dead-gorgeous girlfriends) said to me while sitting on my couch a couple of months ago:
“You know, looking around at all the people I know, and how hard I’ve worked, all that I’ve accomplished and what I want in my life, I’m starting to wish and wonder ‘why can’t I just be married with a baby by now?’ “
Here’s my answer. Because you’re not done yet. We’re not done yet. Although I have friends who have thriving families with children in tow and still manage to be Manhattanite socialite butterflies and successful businesswomen, there is (of course, there should be) a different perspective in life when there's a family to consider.
And had I started my family years ago, everything in my life that to this date holds any real kind of value, a generosity for others, any actual ability for me to possibly be a stellar mother in the future, would not be present. There were marvelous places I needed to go. There were things I still needed to learn. Apparently… there still are.
This holds true for anything in our lives. The precarious existence that is this world sometimes does not afford us the thing we want at the moment we want it. Until we let go of the desires that bind us, we cannot ever know real freedom.
This is the freedom that Everett has. And ok, fair enough, who knows if he will want it ten years from now, but I will tell you quite earnestly that he is living in a new paradigm, partially of his own making, and inspiring thousands, if not more, to do the same.
I don’t need to tell the world what I want. It knows. There is a definite value to focus and intent, but really and truly? The more I let go, the more things come to me. I sit back and when the opportunity presents itself, then I leap.
It doesn’t mean I don’t take chances or action—writing to a complete stranger to get together whom I had found online? Never did that before. But it came from such a place of intuition and of selflessness, there was no need to pave a route, it was there. I didn’t need anything from Everett; I didn’t want anything from him. I liked his style. He seemed cool. If he thought I was a wackjob and didn’t want to respond, no biggie.
So, we’re coming to the precipice. We can hold tight to a rigid view of what we want it to look like, or we can let go of attachments and enjoy the ride for what it is.
If you had told me ten years ago my life would look like this I would have said: “no way.” For how many of us that does that truth hold water? If you had asked me last year what I want most in life, I would have easily spouted, “my partner in life and a family.” But that's not here. And the world knows better than I do. So perhaps that’s not my path. Maybe I am meant for different, more bizarre, perhaps greater things. I only want to: be. here. now. At my fullest. Whatever that looks like. So I’m letting go of my deepest desire because it’s been binding me. I opt instead for freedom. Scary, unknowable, uncomfortable, unprotected, sometimes lonely freedom.
“Ok, 2011. Whatever you say.”
Everett does not live outside the box. In his world, there is no box. He’s not off the grid; he’s above it. It was the snarky, youthful rebellion of his super smart pro-minimalist blog that attracted me to him, but it was fate, two open intuitions and matching gut instincts that had us traversing around Chicago on a late 2010, surprisingly sunny afternoon.
We talked about insane things. I mean, real things that are happening, but that are so far out of the mainstream that they’d be hard to believe. He opened my eyes to a fascinating digital lattice of rogue minimalists broncoing this world on their terms. Just shy of a decade younger, I also saw how differently, how much more quickly his mind could operate. How things that might seem abnormal to our generation, and crazypants to my mother, are enthusiastically welcomed with an open heart and mind. This is freedom. The capacity for this higher consciousness is going to be a no brainer for the youngin’s. It’s built in. Structures are falling, because they are not buying.
This year my new year’s resolution is to fully, once and for all, move over and let life take me. My mantra will be
“Ok, 2011. Whatever you say.”
I mean, I’ve pretty much been doing this for the last six or so years since that moment when everything fell apart. Just letting go, and letting it all brisk me along. Flight cancellation? No problem. A two-week trip turning into six months abroad? Did it. Didn’t get that fantastic job I thought was, for sure, mine? Ok, that’s the way it was supposed to be. But Mags’ particular mental kryptonite, even if I was my happiest, most flowing, easy self, across the world and deepening, or making money or riding high, (ok, and here I am... I'm going to cop to it) has been men.
By now, I was “supposed” to be married, with two kids in my West Village brownstone and meeting Bernadette Peters for routine lunch/shopping sprees at Bergdorf’s. Instead, I spent the month perched in legwarmers and sucking down green juice in my hometown, occasionally suffering through a Lifetime TV movie of the week to appease my mother. Which was, by far, my greatest familial sacrifice to date, and no small act of love on my part. (The Lifetime TV movies of the week, not the month with my mother.)
In the last six years, I have spent the very vast majority of my time alone. I see couples traveling together, comfortable in their familiarity—I don’t remember what that feels like. I don’t know what it’s like to have someone roll over and give you a kiss to wake you up on your birthday. This doesn’t bother me; it’s just foreign territory.
In the kitchen, precisely as I was typing this, my mother beseeched me:
“Just promise me one thing Margaret. You work so hard on your writing, yoga, your ‘oneness’ (picture her fleeting, disapproving nose-crunch,) promise me this year you will devote the same amount of time and attention to finding a man.”
Well mom, I’m sorry to disappoint, but this is, in fact, the opposite of what I am planning to do.
What I promise to do is honor every moment in front of me. Seize every experience as if my life depended on it, because quite obviously, it does. Breathe in the grit and the grime that is today and continue to plow through it in a state of unconditional, blinded love, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts. Unconditional, blinded love for myself and everyone around me. I’m gonna get retro RENT all up in that piece and “No day but today” will be my theme song… and to do that, I am going to stop looking for a man.
Let me assure you that this does not come from some embittered space of being angry at men, or life, for not having given me a guy. Far from it. I love men. Bring ‘em on. What I am letting go of is the attachment to wanting men, from wanting to be married, from the desire to be one half a couple. I am not throwing men out from my life, I am taking a cue from Everett: I’m going minimalist. I’m opting for freedom, and for taking life as it comes.
So, what does that mean?
Well, it means no asking friends to set me up. No online dating. That handful of guys that I keep in my back pocket as a “maybe” “one day” “friends with benefits" “just for fun”? ? Done. Please exit the space of my mind. If you want reentrance, you better know how to show up for real. I’ve seen you do it before. You show up for business meetings and you show up for the superbowl. You’re capable.
Romances that have no shot of extending? Ok, that’s an adventure, those could work. (I mean, I’m not pledging to be a nun for God’s sake.) But keeping my radar up at a party? Looking down to check if the hot guy at the coffee shop has a wedding ring? Being a little extra flirty until the stranger references his girlfriend in the third sentence of conversation? Over.
If you actually saw inside my mind, you might think I’m being a little rash. I am hardly obsessive with any of these romantic thoughts. The guy who turned out to not like me so much last year (after seven months of me hoping he did,) well, he exited my thought sphere relatively quickly, but nowhere near as quickly as I would have liked. It was annoying as hell to know it wasn’t going to happen, and yet there he was, parked in my mind, lookin' all sexy, taking up space—I had no control over it.
I want freedom. Not from men. From my mind. Going minimalist does not mean giving men up entirely, it means living with only that which is necessary. And if we don’t have an equal energetic exchange… You are no longer necessary to my life. Consider yourself feng shui’d out. I'm streamlining my heart.
One of my favorite girlfriends (who also happens to be one of my smartest, most open, most generous, positive and grounded, drop-dead-gorgeous girlfriends) said to me while sitting on my couch a couple of months ago:
“You know, looking around at all the people I know, and how hard I’ve worked, all that I’ve accomplished and what I want in my life, I’m starting to wish and wonder ‘why can’t I just be married with a baby by now?’ “
Here’s my answer. Because you’re not done yet. We’re not done yet. Although I have friends who have thriving families with children in tow and still manage to be Manhattanite socialite butterflies and successful businesswomen, there is (of course, there should be) a different perspective in life when there's a family to consider.
And had I started my family years ago, everything in my life that to this date holds any real kind of value, a generosity for others, any actual ability for me to possibly be a stellar mother in the future, would not be present. There were marvelous places I needed to go. There were things I still needed to learn. Apparently… there still are.
This holds true for anything in our lives. The precarious existence that is this world sometimes does not afford us the thing we want at the moment we want it. Until we let go of the desires that bind us, we cannot ever know real freedom.
This is the freedom that Everett has. And ok, fair enough, who knows if he will want it ten years from now, but I will tell you quite earnestly that he is living in a new paradigm, partially of his own making, and inspiring thousands, if not more, to do the same.
I don’t need to tell the world what I want. It knows. There is a definite value to focus and intent, but really and truly? The more I let go, the more things come to me. I sit back and when the opportunity presents itself, then I leap.
It doesn’t mean I don’t take chances or action—writing to a complete stranger to get together whom I had found online? Never did that before. But it came from such a place of intuition and of selflessness, there was no need to pave a route, it was there. I didn’t need anything from Everett; I didn’t want anything from him. I liked his style. He seemed cool. If he thought I was a wackjob and didn’t want to respond, no biggie.
So, we’re coming to the precipice. We can hold tight to a rigid view of what we want it to look like, or we can let go of attachments and enjoy the ride for what it is.
If you had told me ten years ago my life would look like this I would have said: “no way.” For how many of us that does that truth hold water? If you had asked me last year what I want most in life, I would have easily spouted, “my partner in life and a family.” But that's not here. And the world knows better than I do. So perhaps that’s not my path. Maybe I am meant for different, more bizarre, perhaps greater things. I only want to: be. here. now. At my fullest. Whatever that looks like. So I’m letting go of my deepest desire because it’s been binding me. I opt instead for freedom. Scary, unknowable, uncomfortable, unprotected, sometimes lonely freedom.
“Ok, 2011. Whatever you say.”
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