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.
Monday, February 21, 2011
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
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