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?
Showing posts with label letting go. Show all posts
Showing posts with label letting go. Show all posts
Friday, January 7, 2011
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.”
Thursday, December 16, 2010
surfing the semantics of surrender
I’m not sure how much this is solely an American thing or if it is universally, innately part of our nature, but man oh man, we love flash. We want it to be a limited time offer, and we want to be in on the deal.
And I am not excluding myself from this, by any means. As you can see, I like my woo to be all funny, sexed up, downtown, sharp and sassy. The Bhagavad Gita is an enormous, gorgeous wealth of information, but I think I’ve fallen asleep reading it more times than not.
People get very excited about when something is marketed as "special." This little deeksha/blessing thing I have been doing has been every week, Wednesday nights, for four years. Sometimes two people have shown up, sometimes there’ve been 30. Once I had an impromptu, accidental, paint-the-town-red-bender the night before and I woulda paid my checking account balance to not show, and on any mid-summer’s eve I’d be perky and pretty in hot pink lipstick and a strapless floral sundress, but whatever my mood, I'd get there. The consistency of showing up is training from my Ashtanga practice where dedication is venerated more than progress or ability; as my yoga Guruji always said, “Practice and all is coming.”
Although weekly gatherings have been available for years to our NY community, this summer we had a “special” guest in town, and on a moment’s notice, on the July 4th holiday, 30 people found and made the time to cram into a midtown apartment and meet this man… that day some complained they wished there were more opportunities to get together in the city. (Um, there were.) Our tendency is to show up when we think it’s special, rather than with a more boring, unwavering practice.
So this week there was a little conference call with two recently awakened people who are now being shuttled around the country sharing their profound wisdom, ‘cause people want a taste of that. No, that’s inaccurate. They don’t want a taste; they want it all. They want freedom. Sugar, I want it all... Who doesn’t?
In this recent wave of enthusiasm, and a scrambling community hastening to share the sages, there was a last minute online talk available to be watched live one evening of the awakened guests. On the right hand side of the web browser was a simultaneous live chat.
First the talk was delayed, as the speakers had yet to come to screen.
The side bar chat hubbub read something like this:
“I don’t have video? Do you have video?”
“There’s no sound on mine.”
“Who is that person… have they started yet?”
“It says max number of users reached… help!”
“I’m so disappointed, I really wanted to see this.”
Eventually they started streaming and the content was marvelous, but then once again, the poor organizers, not having had ample time to present a seamless transition and despite valiantly trying to do their best, the fritz nevertheless took over.
There were a couple of schools of thought in the sidebar chat that emerged.
My favorite was between a beautiful poet and mother I know in NY and an unidentified other, who began to joke together, “Well, this is apparently the teaching we were supposed to get!” They took it lightly; they were cracking jokes that totes made me LOL. And I’m not by habit, an LOLer.
As they quipped their witticisms, and others identified the problems they were having in varying degrees of frenzy, one person added to the mix:
“Surrender… patience.” And then: “Surrender to the divine.”
Here’s the irony of that virtual exchange. The women joking about the technical difficulties and saying, “Well, this is the way it’s supposed to be…” were the ones surrendering, not the person who was beseeching us to have patience and surrender.
Surrendering is not a bargaining chip. That’s not how it works.
My best friend loves this word: surrender. I have never liked it. I don’t resonate; it’s bitter on my tastebuds. I think of: “you failed” or “we win.” It reminds me of war, or other masculine things that boys should be taking care of with grunting and big sticks. My bestie hearts “surrender” so much, he wanted to get it tattooed backwards on his chest so that when he looked in the mirror, he could see it properly. That’s a lotta love for that word.
I prefer the phrase: “letting go.” Or as the centuries old Buddhist chant ‘Nam-myoho-renghe-kyo’ postulates: I am in rhythm with the rhythm of life.
This is an ongoing discussion in my and bestie’s weekly hours of philosophical debate. As a whole, we cannot dismiss the discrepancy between the words so quickly as semantics, because in this delicate world of tiptoeing toward understanding, interpreting and experiencing the woo, semantics can make all the difference.
The person on the chat wrote: Surrender to the divine. For my money, I just don’t find that helpful. Five years ago I could have easily been infuriated with a “what the f**k does that really mean??” response. My sister is now doing this little thing that I do, and if I said that to her, she’d roll her eyes, get frustrated and go eat nuts in her room. If I said that out loud to a guy, I’d never date again.
In my interpretation, the person on the call was insinuating that if we “surrendered to the divine” that the technology would magically begin to work. (Disclaimer: I will fully cop to the fact that I may be wrong here, perhaps he or she did not intend that, and if he/she did not, apologies, but since this example can be easily used for anyone using this word/practice in this way, as many people do, I’ll dub this debate as valid nonetheless, even if I am wrong in this particular instance…)
The moment we use surrender as a bargaining chip, it is beside the point. Surrendering to the divine is just surrender to reality, surrendering to the present moment. Not changing the situation, accepting the situation and changing our perception of it. We let go of things, opinions, our stance on things, not so that we can acquire them, but so that we can do just that: LET GO and let them be what they are. Find the peace in the moment with what is actually there, not a fantasy of what we want it to look like.
Now, the catch 22 about surrendering or letting go is that once we really, really do this, is when something comes toward us.
There’s a guy that I used to be hung up on, and I swear to all things holy that he had some kind of internal GPS tracking system linked to me that would activate whenever I fully turned my back. He'd vanish from the chitta vritti of my mind, perhaps facilitated by my having met someone else, or being fully enthralled with another flourishing aspect of my life, and just when I had absolutely let go of any connection to him, he’d resurface out of the woodwork looking for me. Every time. It was laughable it happened so often and with such precise honing. On some plane, that I would never be able to pinpoint, someplace it was not even cognizant to him, he could feel my energy was gone, and he, in turn, being a guy, would want it back and would return, all sweet and wanting.
Doesn’t this apply to so many aspects of our lives? The thing is, with the guy, whenever I would do “work” to let go, it wouldn’t hold water. Until I really, truly let go of expecting any outcome is only when he’d show up.
On the call, surrendering was identifying the reality of the situation. Technical difficulties are here, and so, ok cool—love you all, happy holidays, a sign off, and we’ll all get a recorded YouTube clip emailed to us within the coming days.
Letting go is a major practice in these overarching ambitions towards awakening. Surrendering is allowing ourselves to surf the tide that is life and changing our perception is the sex wax that greases it to happen. The non-dualists would say it is already done. The Buddhists approach it from a different way and teach to welcome everything—to find the stillness within, no matter how rough the tide.
Tattoo it on your chest or take it as it comes; no one said it was easy, but it is simple, so we can at the very least try, and if we can try laughing, and with wetsuits?... well, gee, I think that's more fun.
And I am not excluding myself from this, by any means. As you can see, I like my woo to be all funny, sexed up, downtown, sharp and sassy. The Bhagavad Gita is an enormous, gorgeous wealth of information, but I think I’ve fallen asleep reading it more times than not.
People get very excited about when something is marketed as "special." This little deeksha/blessing thing I have been doing has been every week, Wednesday nights, for four years. Sometimes two people have shown up, sometimes there’ve been 30. Once I had an impromptu, accidental, paint-the-town-red-bender the night before and I woulda paid my checking account balance to not show, and on any mid-summer’s eve I’d be perky and pretty in hot pink lipstick and a strapless floral sundress, but whatever my mood, I'd get there. The consistency of showing up is training from my Ashtanga practice where dedication is venerated more than progress or ability; as my yoga Guruji always said, “Practice and all is coming.”
Although weekly gatherings have been available for years to our NY community, this summer we had a “special” guest in town, and on a moment’s notice, on the July 4th holiday, 30 people found and made the time to cram into a midtown apartment and meet this man… that day some complained they wished there were more opportunities to get together in the city. (Um, there were.) Our tendency is to show up when we think it’s special, rather than with a more boring, unwavering practice.
So this week there was a little conference call with two recently awakened people who are now being shuttled around the country sharing their profound wisdom, ‘cause people want a taste of that. No, that’s inaccurate. They don’t want a taste; they want it all. They want freedom. Sugar, I want it all... Who doesn’t?
In this recent wave of enthusiasm, and a scrambling community hastening to share the sages, there was a last minute online talk available to be watched live one evening of the awakened guests. On the right hand side of the web browser was a simultaneous live chat.
First the talk was delayed, as the speakers had yet to come to screen.
The side bar chat hubbub read something like this:
“I don’t have video? Do you have video?”
“There’s no sound on mine.”
“Who is that person… have they started yet?”
“It says max number of users reached… help!”
“I’m so disappointed, I really wanted to see this.”
Eventually they started streaming and the content was marvelous, but then once again, the poor organizers, not having had ample time to present a seamless transition and despite valiantly trying to do their best, the fritz nevertheless took over.
There were a couple of schools of thought in the sidebar chat that emerged.
My favorite was between a beautiful poet and mother I know in NY and an unidentified other, who began to joke together, “Well, this is apparently the teaching we were supposed to get!” They took it lightly; they were cracking jokes that totes made me LOL. And I’m not by habit, an LOLer.
As they quipped their witticisms, and others identified the problems they were having in varying degrees of frenzy, one person added to the mix:
“Surrender… patience.” And then: “Surrender to the divine.”
Here’s the irony of that virtual exchange. The women joking about the technical difficulties and saying, “Well, this is the way it’s supposed to be…” were the ones surrendering, not the person who was beseeching us to have patience and surrender.
Surrendering is not a bargaining chip. That’s not how it works.
My best friend loves this word: surrender. I have never liked it. I don’t resonate; it’s bitter on my tastebuds. I think of: “you failed” or “we win.” It reminds me of war, or other masculine things that boys should be taking care of with grunting and big sticks. My bestie hearts “surrender” so much, he wanted to get it tattooed backwards on his chest so that when he looked in the mirror, he could see it properly. That’s a lotta love for that word.
I prefer the phrase: “letting go.” Or as the centuries old Buddhist chant ‘Nam-myoho-renghe-kyo’ postulates: I am in rhythm with the rhythm of life.
This is an ongoing discussion in my and bestie’s weekly hours of philosophical debate. As a whole, we cannot dismiss the discrepancy between the words so quickly as semantics, because in this delicate world of tiptoeing toward understanding, interpreting and experiencing the woo, semantics can make all the difference.
The person on the chat wrote: Surrender to the divine. For my money, I just don’t find that helpful. Five years ago I could have easily been infuriated with a “what the f**k does that really mean??” response. My sister is now doing this little thing that I do, and if I said that to her, she’d roll her eyes, get frustrated and go eat nuts in her room. If I said that out loud to a guy, I’d never date again.
In my interpretation, the person on the call was insinuating that if we “surrendered to the divine” that the technology would magically begin to work. (Disclaimer: I will fully cop to the fact that I may be wrong here, perhaps he or she did not intend that, and if he/she did not, apologies, but since this example can be easily used for anyone using this word/practice in this way, as many people do, I’ll dub this debate as valid nonetheless, even if I am wrong in this particular instance…)
The moment we use surrender as a bargaining chip, it is beside the point. Surrendering to the divine is just surrender to reality, surrendering to the present moment. Not changing the situation, accepting the situation and changing our perception of it. We let go of things, opinions, our stance on things, not so that we can acquire them, but so that we can do just that: LET GO and let them be what they are. Find the peace in the moment with what is actually there, not a fantasy of what we want it to look like.
Now, the catch 22 about surrendering or letting go is that once we really, really do this, is when something comes toward us.
There’s a guy that I used to be hung up on, and I swear to all things holy that he had some kind of internal GPS tracking system linked to me that would activate whenever I fully turned my back. He'd vanish from the chitta vritti of my mind, perhaps facilitated by my having met someone else, or being fully enthralled with another flourishing aspect of my life, and just when I had absolutely let go of any connection to him, he’d resurface out of the woodwork looking for me. Every time. It was laughable it happened so often and with such precise honing. On some plane, that I would never be able to pinpoint, someplace it was not even cognizant to him, he could feel my energy was gone, and he, in turn, being a guy, would want it back and would return, all sweet and wanting.
Doesn’t this apply to so many aspects of our lives? The thing is, with the guy, whenever I would do “work” to let go, it wouldn’t hold water. Until I really, truly let go of expecting any outcome is only when he’d show up.
On the call, surrendering was identifying the reality of the situation. Technical difficulties are here, and so, ok cool—love you all, happy holidays, a sign off, and we’ll all get a recorded YouTube clip emailed to us within the coming days.
Letting go is a major practice in these overarching ambitions towards awakening. Surrendering is allowing ourselves to surf the tide that is life and changing our perception is the sex wax that greases it to happen. The non-dualists would say it is already done. The Buddhists approach it from a different way and teach to welcome everything—to find the stillness within, no matter how rough the tide.
Tattoo it on your chest or take it as it comes; no one said it was easy, but it is simple, so we can at the very least try, and if we can try laughing, and with wetsuits?... well, gee, I think that's more fun.
Monday, September 27, 2010
When God closes a door... He sends Morandi takeout
After an unnecessarily trafficked trek on the Merritt stalled our road trip enthusiasm, we appear late Friday evening and the festivities are already underway. The Longtrail keg is tapped, swirling in bellies amidst blueberry and maple syrup marinated pulled pork: just one of the highlights of a BBQ table squished with organic, free range, farm-fresh, local delicacies lovingly prepared by the transported, in-house New York foodie chef. The hot tub is warming up. The firepit is blazing. The bride and groom glow even in the dark, with a comfort and ease that match the surroundings of the Vermont retreat house they have rented for their nuptials.
Perhaps it’s because they are already into Longtrail draft #2 or #3, but I am pulled into animated and fierce embrace after embrace upon arrival. Shouts of joy and faces bright with expectation and happiness greet me as I am told they were waiting for us. It’s not me. They just wanted the community to be complete. The love is more palpable here than any I’ve felt. You could thrust your palm into the unusually temperate New England late September air and grab a fistful as though it were a firefly. You could pocket the love—it’s tangible; it’s there for the taking. There’s an unspoken agreement: please do so; we have enough to share.
I am to be officiating the ceremony the following day and I am honored, humbled beyond words to be included in something that is at the same time spectacularly real and cheerily glamorous: the union of two people, so outrageously beautiful inside and out. A couple who figured it out, and live life and cherish and respect each other in a way that is, as I will tell them later, a shining example for the world. What the world needs now, indeed. They are my inspiration.
The following afternoon, the day of the main event, I’m walking out the door for a quick, jaunty hike to a nearby waterfall with friends when an uneasy sickness comes over me. Suddenly I am woozy and tired, and so trust the feeling in my body and send them on, to instead rest for a few minutes in my lopsided bed within the house. Soon I realize it is not sickness, it’s almost a performance anxiety. I will be leading all through the ceremony, but also have an extemporaneous “homily” to put forth; a task that I have never attempted and a skill that is nowhere near a forte.
When we up our levels of consciousness, these are not easy transitions. Whether it be through cleaner eating, weekend workshops, meditations, deeksha—all of this stuff that we do?... the best analogy I have heard is that it’s like plugging a 220 volt appliance into a 110 volt plug. Our body needs to adjust to the higher frequency; to expand and encompass a more super-charged vibration. I realized, I’m not sick; I need to go make room in myself to hold all this love.
And I did that. With no official ceremony other than drawing from traditions that had left imprints in my experience, I saged the ceremony area and the house. I chanted mantras. I meditated, not for myself, but for all of us—to hold the space—to grow it larger to allow the highest level of love to reside. Ok, so apparently this is the kind of stuff I do now. Whether or not that did anything, I have no practical way of knowing. I guessed and threw some love in that direction. Did I feel better? Yes. Was everyone extraordinarily moved by the emotional ceremony the couple had so exquisitely designed? Yes. I made space, not only for them, but for myself, clearly and definitively outlining: this is what I want, these are my people, this is who I want to be, this is all there is, we all deserve nothing less, and we open ourselves to more.
And then a funny thing happened. Several hours later, something abruptly, unexpectedly removed itself from my life; an aspect of my world which I had devoted months of love and energy to—a turn that I thought could expand into a new path for this junket known as mags (I wasn’t sure, but the hopeful potential was there—the groundwork was laid, the creativity flowing, it was easily flourishing, it was joyful, it was sexy, it was fun…,) and then, without my having a say in it, in the middle of nowhere country, at 11pm on the night of this wedding, I find out it has exited. The prospect is no longer there. Gone, and I have no discussion or say in it and I do not understand it.
Really? NOW? At two of my best friends’ wedding? For reals? On the afternoon where people came to me with tears in their eyes telling me how moved they were by my words? Where I am more grounded and full of love and shiny than perhaps I have ever been (equated to both a goddess and Elaine Stritch, which, yes, seems totally incongruous and random, but still Elaine Stritch is awesome) this road abruptly evaporates before my eyes? It couldn’t have vanished, like, 12 hours later when I was driving back hungover on 91, playing with my blackberry in the backseat? Couldn’t have happened on the following rainy Monday, when I am too cozy to go into my office and am instead working laptop/undies/chaise lazily from home? Nope: had to happen THEN.
And so, by 11pm (six hours into drinking champagne/sauvignon blanc/pinot noir, post dinner, post cake-cutting, post dancing,) I find out and I am crying, well, no… sobbing, convulsing, mourning, on the back fire escape outside my room, desperately struggling to stay present to the moment while still sequestering myself from any of the festivities; trying to contain what has happened to only my own processing and not a disasterous soap-opera-esque wedding drama. A handful of the closest girlfriends I have ever had in my life all happen to be here; they whisper to each other, they come quietly find me, offering support, love, comfort.
And in the midst of a ceaseless sea of snot, I know the truth: the world took it away from me because it didn’t match what I was looking for. Today was a picture, an announcement, a declaration, for my friends, for myself, for all of us to choose the kind of people we want to be, the kind of lives we want to live and most importantly, HOW we want to live them, and this aspect did not match, was not ready to match, or did not want to match, and so it was taken away from me. It happened oh too too dramatically so that I could see how clear the message was.
I went to bed early to keep it close to my chest. The next morning, those nearest to me of course found out. They were warm; we kept the discovery at a hushed distance so as not to mar the perfection of the love cultivated by the weekend.
I was disappointed, angry, hurt, devastated, abandoned. The emotions rose and fell, mashing each other like the clustering of the foliage on the surrounding mountains, overlapping yet still somehow distinct. Witnessing them, I was already feeling the distance of the loss, choosing instead to stick to the vision that I deserve.
A 4am gluttenous fridge pasta raid somewhat assuaged the swollen-eyed, hungover car ride home. Musings over what lessons I need to learn and why I hadn’t yet learned them, why and how I had brought this to myself and what my responsibility was in all of it, my head already wrapping on to how life could be brighter once I got past this, faded to the background as the miles passed. Instead I tuned in to more imminent desires. Self-exploration: pause, food fantasies: begin. I craved pasta; bolognese which I don’t normally eat any longer, but f*&% it all, I'm not a saint and tonight I would allow myself comfort... later this week I’d inevitably stick myself on a juice cleanse.
I'm eyeing the bottle of pinot noir the bride gave me in the backseat (damn-- not a screw top) when an old flame and dear friend texts me. It’s not necessary to recount my loss and add energy to that “story,” so I simply tell him the wedding was “perfect” “so fun, full of love”… I use exclamation points and smiley face emoticons. I tell him I cannot wait to get back to my termpurpedic and order take out.
Half an hour after I get home to my village studio, the buzzer rings and there is a deliveryman from one of my favorite neighborhood restaurants. I did not order this, the old flame sent it as a surprise. In the bag is $50 worth of food—bolognese (he was not told I was craving this in particular,) a large salad and a rich, dark chocolate cake with hazelnuts nuzzling a spot of cream so fresh, an angel probably whipped it together with her wings.
My body tired, spent, in pain, almost cries in joy to the deliveryman. I try to reach the sweetie by phone to thank him, but he avoids my call and instead texts me things that are unusually lovable and comforting—phrases that seem out of place particularly since he doesn’t know of my mourning. He doesn't even know I need it.
And it is a delicious sign: this is what it’s supposed to look like. This is the universe supporting you. This is connection. This is you being seen, appreciated. I eat the bolognese and wash it down with the bride bottle of pinot. The next morning, one of the most brilliant directors in town with whom I have never worked, emails me: "Hello amazing women: I am sending this to a few wonderful actresses I know and admire."
When you uncompromisingly hold what you want in your heart, life will give it to you. When you let go, more comes in. It may not be pretty in the moment, but when we honor the truth of ourselves, unexpected surprises will picnic our path to ease us down the road. Thank you.
Perhaps it’s because they are already into Longtrail draft #2 or #3, but I am pulled into animated and fierce embrace after embrace upon arrival. Shouts of joy and faces bright with expectation and happiness greet me as I am told they were waiting for us. It’s not me. They just wanted the community to be complete. The love is more palpable here than any I’ve felt. You could thrust your palm into the unusually temperate New England late September air and grab a fistful as though it were a firefly. You could pocket the love—it’s tangible; it’s there for the taking. There’s an unspoken agreement: please do so; we have enough to share.
I am to be officiating the ceremony the following day and I am honored, humbled beyond words to be included in something that is at the same time spectacularly real and cheerily glamorous: the union of two people, so outrageously beautiful inside and out. A couple who figured it out, and live life and cherish and respect each other in a way that is, as I will tell them later, a shining example for the world. What the world needs now, indeed. They are my inspiration.
The following afternoon, the day of the main event, I’m walking out the door for a quick, jaunty hike to a nearby waterfall with friends when an uneasy sickness comes over me. Suddenly I am woozy and tired, and so trust the feeling in my body and send them on, to instead rest for a few minutes in my lopsided bed within the house. Soon I realize it is not sickness, it’s almost a performance anxiety. I will be leading all through the ceremony, but also have an extemporaneous “homily” to put forth; a task that I have never attempted and a skill that is nowhere near a forte.
When we up our levels of consciousness, these are not easy transitions. Whether it be through cleaner eating, weekend workshops, meditations, deeksha—all of this stuff that we do?... the best analogy I have heard is that it’s like plugging a 220 volt appliance into a 110 volt plug. Our body needs to adjust to the higher frequency; to expand and encompass a more super-charged vibration. I realized, I’m not sick; I need to go make room in myself to hold all this love.
And I did that. With no official ceremony other than drawing from traditions that had left imprints in my experience, I saged the ceremony area and the house. I chanted mantras. I meditated, not for myself, but for all of us—to hold the space—to grow it larger to allow the highest level of love to reside. Ok, so apparently this is the kind of stuff I do now. Whether or not that did anything, I have no practical way of knowing. I guessed and threw some love in that direction. Did I feel better? Yes. Was everyone extraordinarily moved by the emotional ceremony the couple had so exquisitely designed? Yes. I made space, not only for them, but for myself, clearly and definitively outlining: this is what I want, these are my people, this is who I want to be, this is all there is, we all deserve nothing less, and we open ourselves to more.
And then a funny thing happened. Several hours later, something abruptly, unexpectedly removed itself from my life; an aspect of my world which I had devoted months of love and energy to—a turn that I thought could expand into a new path for this junket known as mags (I wasn’t sure, but the hopeful potential was there—the groundwork was laid, the creativity flowing, it was easily flourishing, it was joyful, it was sexy, it was fun…,) and then, without my having a say in it, in the middle of nowhere country, at 11pm on the night of this wedding, I find out it has exited. The prospect is no longer there. Gone, and I have no discussion or say in it and I do not understand it.
Really? NOW? At two of my best friends’ wedding? For reals? On the afternoon where people came to me with tears in their eyes telling me how moved they were by my words? Where I am more grounded and full of love and shiny than perhaps I have ever been (equated to both a goddess and Elaine Stritch, which, yes, seems totally incongruous and random, but still Elaine Stritch is awesome) this road abruptly evaporates before my eyes? It couldn’t have vanished, like, 12 hours later when I was driving back hungover on 91, playing with my blackberry in the backseat? Couldn’t have happened on the following rainy Monday, when I am too cozy to go into my office and am instead working laptop/undies/chaise lazily from home? Nope: had to happen THEN.
And so, by 11pm (six hours into drinking champagne/sauvignon blanc/pinot noir, post dinner, post cake-cutting, post dancing,) I find out and I am crying, well, no… sobbing, convulsing, mourning, on the back fire escape outside my room, desperately struggling to stay present to the moment while still sequestering myself from any of the festivities; trying to contain what has happened to only my own processing and not a disasterous soap-opera-esque wedding drama. A handful of the closest girlfriends I have ever had in my life all happen to be here; they whisper to each other, they come quietly find me, offering support, love, comfort.
And in the midst of a ceaseless sea of snot, I know the truth: the world took it away from me because it didn’t match what I was looking for. Today was a picture, an announcement, a declaration, for my friends, for myself, for all of us to choose the kind of people we want to be, the kind of lives we want to live and most importantly, HOW we want to live them, and this aspect did not match, was not ready to match, or did not want to match, and so it was taken away from me. It happened oh too too dramatically so that I could see how clear the message was.
I went to bed early to keep it close to my chest. The next morning, those nearest to me of course found out. They were warm; we kept the discovery at a hushed distance so as not to mar the perfection of the love cultivated by the weekend.
I was disappointed, angry, hurt, devastated, abandoned. The emotions rose and fell, mashing each other like the clustering of the foliage on the surrounding mountains, overlapping yet still somehow distinct. Witnessing them, I was already feeling the distance of the loss, choosing instead to stick to the vision that I deserve.
A 4am gluttenous fridge pasta raid somewhat assuaged the swollen-eyed, hungover car ride home. Musings over what lessons I need to learn and why I hadn’t yet learned them, why and how I had brought this to myself and what my responsibility was in all of it, my head already wrapping on to how life could be brighter once I got past this, faded to the background as the miles passed. Instead I tuned in to more imminent desires. Self-exploration: pause, food fantasies: begin. I craved pasta; bolognese which I don’t normally eat any longer, but f*&% it all, I'm not a saint and tonight I would allow myself comfort... later this week I’d inevitably stick myself on a juice cleanse.
I'm eyeing the bottle of pinot noir the bride gave me in the backseat (damn-- not a screw top) when an old flame and dear friend texts me. It’s not necessary to recount my loss and add energy to that “story,” so I simply tell him the wedding was “perfect” “so fun, full of love”… I use exclamation points and smiley face emoticons. I tell him I cannot wait to get back to my termpurpedic and order take out.
Half an hour after I get home to my village studio, the buzzer rings and there is a deliveryman from one of my favorite neighborhood restaurants. I did not order this, the old flame sent it as a surprise. In the bag is $50 worth of food—bolognese (he was not told I was craving this in particular,) a large salad and a rich, dark chocolate cake with hazelnuts nuzzling a spot of cream so fresh, an angel probably whipped it together with her wings.
My body tired, spent, in pain, almost cries in joy to the deliveryman. I try to reach the sweetie by phone to thank him, but he avoids my call and instead texts me things that are unusually lovable and comforting—phrases that seem out of place particularly since he doesn’t know of my mourning. He doesn't even know I need it.
And it is a delicious sign: this is what it’s supposed to look like. This is the universe supporting you. This is connection. This is you being seen, appreciated. I eat the bolognese and wash it down with the bride bottle of pinot. The next morning, one of the most brilliant directors in town with whom I have never worked, emails me: "Hello amazing women: I am sending this to a few wonderful actresses I know and admire."
When you uncompromisingly hold what you want in your heart, life will give it to you. When you let go, more comes in. It may not be pretty in the moment, but when we honor the truth of ourselves, unexpected surprises will picnic our path to ease us down the road. Thank you.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
ok, I'm gonna go now... uh... can you come with me?
This go around it's my last day in India and I am walking through Chennai’s largest shopping “mall,” if you can call it that. Alone now, on a trip that was not about shopping, I take a couple hours to browse, barter and buy those pretty, unnecessary souvenirs that will sparkle against my wrist and warm my collarbone when the a/c is too high at the Angelika. I’m pretty much done, a bit tired and food deprived; my “over it” meter is approaching maximum, so when a shopkeeper shouts out to me, “Madam! Madam!” I don’t even glance to see where it’s coming from.
“Madam! Madam!!” He is insistent. I arrive at officially “over it,” and give him the international ‘no thanks/give it a rest’ gesture, walking, my behind to him and the back of my right hand up, as if to say, “enough, dude.”
He is running down the hallway, barefoot. He’s followed me so long that I think, “What’s up with this guy?” and turn to look. As brazenly annoying as some of these merchants can be, no one has yet to be this determined; a pitbull with a tilaka.
“You don’t look, you miss the best ayurvedic natural shop in the plaza! Please, madam, you come, you look.”
Ok, he’s right. I didn’t look and am actually interested in this, so I go to follow him.
When we sit (they always make you sit down in these stores) he looks at my tulsi mala beads, worn as a bracelet, and he pronounces the name of the guy I came to India to hang about, in question format, as if to say, “Your beads, they are from this guy?” I curiously answer, “Yes.” And I see him gesturing to a picture, prominently placed, clearly designating him as that guy’s Guy as well.
“You see, it is meant!” He smiles enthusiastically. The Guy is famous in these parts, but not so famous that everyone around here would know who he is and even a picture of him would be rare. It is the first one I have seen.
“You are supposed to meet me.” He underlines, satisfied. I smirk back at him, thinking the same thing. He knew I would think it.
I know you rationalists are going to surmise this is a little wack, but you know that already, so bear with me.
It’s not just that I literally had asked the big Guy for a way to clear up my “India spots” as my friend so gently coined them. It’s that everything has been so in-the-flow since being here that it’s hard to dismiss these seemingly small synchronicities/signs and ensuing intrinsic insouciance. I asked. I kinda thought I’d miraculously wake up one morning with no pimples. Instead I got a small barefoot Indian man chasing me down a mall hallway. Grace comes in every form.
There are other little incidents. Being the last of a 100 to leave for an outing, unhurriedly, everyone else stressing to scurry early, and then getting the blessing of road-tripping with a female monk. Going to see another holy lady, placidly pushing the minutes to get there to a really small window, and walking in to find the last three perfect spots open in the second row. She daintily shuffles in, petite and seraphic, so right behind us, someone might have thought we all shared a rickshaw. There are larger signs as well, things that have nothing to do with seating for sages, but these examples (For you and I, both) are more easily digestible.
I could interpret this level of ease as a feeling of being guided, or some kind of peace, thinking and knowing that it’s all going to be all right. Being comfortable with what is. That's been present and building for some time, but it's the newfound speed of it that is almost comically quick. A less secular way to describe it could be just following your own intuition, but having an unshakable faith that you know what’s right for yourself and those things popping up. But I’m talking about at every moment. Especially in the "ugly" ones. It’s easy to be grateful when all is well or when we think we've made it through a rough spot. And there is a world of difference between intellectually thinking it and believing that in our core when the sh** hits the fan. But if we're thinking it, the good news is, that means it’s en route to the core.
I’ve had phases, passing fancies and flirtations with this “guidedness.” This time around the bend it might be due to a larger understanding, but I don’t want to get so deep that I lose you just yet. And perhaps this is just still an Indian haze and I will go back to a lower rung of development as soon as I hit Manhattan’s sidewalks? Maybe I think the guidedness is here to settle down, when really he’s just a player, and in the morning I’ll wake up, mascara smeared from the red-eye, walk-of-shaming it from JFK to my apartment. Totally possible.
“Margaret, seriously, I mean move away from the incense and the voodoo and snap back to reality please. I read that facebook post about you eating a papaya like a monkey— time to get out of India and back to the city. In this world it’s every man for himself. Life is what you make of it.” This is the catch 22, that strange juxtaposition, because both are true. How can both be true? How can everything be taken care of and at the same time you need to work for it? Sorry, but I can’t give you a reasonable answer for that. Let's not go there yet. In the hours upon hours of philosophical discourse with my friends, we often wrap up with, “Don’t act like an enlightened person, if you’re not enlightened… Chai?”
What that means is, there are other levels of this universe we are not privy to, and you can call that spiritual or scientific or pure common sense, but I think we can all at least agree to stuff going on that no one can explain. Until we get there, it’s useless to ask why. And we don't need to act all noble, peace-like and selfless along the way, because really, we’re not that way. We’re human. Even enlightened people get pissed, by the way. My own personal big Guy has a rep for being what some have dubbed as ‘too passionate.’
We have to deal with what’s in front of us, and that will always run the whole gamut of emotions, but what happens is we start to let go of the suffering attached to it. There is joy, but no attachment to that joy as “mine.” There are tears, but they do not send us into a 3-day tailspin where the only people we see are the deli and liquor store deliverymen. When we experience what’s in front of us, for reals, that peace descends. Maybe one day (hopefully, fingers crossed, pretty please?) for good.
How does this relate to a barefoot Indian chasing me down in a shopping mall? Did I get absolutely hoodwinked and was my previous wish for an ayurvedic herb to help cleanse my kidney just a total, random coincidence? Have I completely gone over the deep end, and those close to me secretly (or not so secretly) think I’m living with fuscia colored glasses?
Perhaps.
I’m not saying I’m right. I could never know that for sure. But you know what? I’m happy. I’m at peace. And everything is happening with super efficient, effortless ease. If that means I’m out of my mind, I’ll take it.
“Madam! Madam!!” He is insistent. I arrive at officially “over it,” and give him the international ‘no thanks/give it a rest’ gesture, walking, my behind to him and the back of my right hand up, as if to say, “enough, dude.”
He is running down the hallway, barefoot. He’s followed me so long that I think, “What’s up with this guy?” and turn to look. As brazenly annoying as some of these merchants can be, no one has yet to be this determined; a pitbull with a tilaka.
“You don’t look, you miss the best ayurvedic natural shop in the plaza! Please, madam, you come, you look.”
Ok, he’s right. I didn’t look and am actually interested in this, so I go to follow him.
When we sit (they always make you sit down in these stores) he looks at my tulsi mala beads, worn as a bracelet, and he pronounces the name of the guy I came to India to hang about, in question format, as if to say, “Your beads, they are from this guy?” I curiously answer, “Yes.” And I see him gesturing to a picture, prominently placed, clearly designating him as that guy’s Guy as well.
“You see, it is meant!” He smiles enthusiastically. The Guy is famous in these parts, but not so famous that everyone around here would know who he is and even a picture of him would be rare. It is the first one I have seen.
“You are supposed to meet me.” He underlines, satisfied. I smirk back at him, thinking the same thing. He knew I would think it.
I know you rationalists are going to surmise this is a little wack, but you know that already, so bear with me.
It’s not just that I literally had asked the big Guy for a way to clear up my “India spots” as my friend so gently coined them. It’s that everything has been so in-the-flow since being here that it’s hard to dismiss these seemingly small synchronicities/signs and ensuing intrinsic insouciance. I asked. I kinda thought I’d miraculously wake up one morning with no pimples. Instead I got a small barefoot Indian man chasing me down a mall hallway. Grace comes in every form.
There are other little incidents. Being the last of a 100 to leave for an outing, unhurriedly, everyone else stressing to scurry early, and then getting the blessing of road-tripping with a female monk. Going to see another holy lady, placidly pushing the minutes to get there to a really small window, and walking in to find the last three perfect spots open in the second row. She daintily shuffles in, petite and seraphic, so right behind us, someone might have thought we all shared a rickshaw. There are larger signs as well, things that have nothing to do with seating for sages, but these examples (For you and I, both) are more easily digestible.
I could interpret this level of ease as a feeling of being guided, or some kind of peace, thinking and knowing that it’s all going to be all right. Being comfortable with what is. That's been present and building for some time, but it's the newfound speed of it that is almost comically quick. A less secular way to describe it could be just following your own intuition, but having an unshakable faith that you know what’s right for yourself and those things popping up. But I’m talking about at every moment. Especially in the "ugly" ones. It’s easy to be grateful when all is well or when we think we've made it through a rough spot. And there is a world of difference between intellectually thinking it and believing that in our core when the sh** hits the fan. But if we're thinking it, the good news is, that means it’s en route to the core.
I’ve had phases, passing fancies and flirtations with this “guidedness.” This time around the bend it might be due to a larger understanding, but I don’t want to get so deep that I lose you just yet. And perhaps this is just still an Indian haze and I will go back to a lower rung of development as soon as I hit Manhattan’s sidewalks? Maybe I think the guidedness is here to settle down, when really he’s just a player, and in the morning I’ll wake up, mascara smeared from the red-eye, walk-of-shaming it from JFK to my apartment. Totally possible.
“Margaret, seriously, I mean move away from the incense and the voodoo and snap back to reality please. I read that facebook post about you eating a papaya like a monkey— time to get out of India and back to the city. In this world it’s every man for himself. Life is what you make of it.” This is the catch 22, that strange juxtaposition, because both are true. How can both be true? How can everything be taken care of and at the same time you need to work for it? Sorry, but I can’t give you a reasonable answer for that. Let's not go there yet. In the hours upon hours of philosophical discourse with my friends, we often wrap up with, “Don’t act like an enlightened person, if you’re not enlightened… Chai?”
What that means is, there are other levels of this universe we are not privy to, and you can call that spiritual or scientific or pure common sense, but I think we can all at least agree to stuff going on that no one can explain. Until we get there, it’s useless to ask why. And we don't need to act all noble, peace-like and selfless along the way, because really, we’re not that way. We’re human. Even enlightened people get pissed, by the way. My own personal big Guy has a rep for being what some have dubbed as ‘too passionate.’
We have to deal with what’s in front of us, and that will always run the whole gamut of emotions, but what happens is we start to let go of the suffering attached to it. There is joy, but no attachment to that joy as “mine.” There are tears, but they do not send us into a 3-day tailspin where the only people we see are the deli and liquor store deliverymen. When we experience what’s in front of us, for reals, that peace descends. Maybe one day (hopefully, fingers crossed, pretty please?) for good.
How does this relate to a barefoot Indian chasing me down in a shopping mall? Did I get absolutely hoodwinked and was my previous wish for an ayurvedic herb to help cleanse my kidney just a total, random coincidence? Have I completely gone over the deep end, and those close to me secretly (or not so secretly) think I’m living with fuscia colored glasses?
Perhaps.
I’m not saying I’m right. I could never know that for sure. But you know what? I’m happy. I’m at peace. And everything is happening with super efficient, effortless ease. If that means I’m out of my mind, I’ll take it.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
post Hanuman wrap-up
The “three Huge things” meltdown (see last blog) and subsequent Hanuman save leads me to want to dip my toe into rumination regarding that murky, ubiquitous swampland that is universal law.
Before I do, I would just like to regurgitate the simple facts.
1. Meltdown happened.
2. Surrendered/let go/gave up into Grace/Hanuman/to something (anything) larger than this 5’2 ¾” body of Polish downtown NYC energy known as Mags.
3. (new information here) Within 24 hours of this procession of events, bigger/greater/more beautiful things happened in each of the “three Huge thing” arenas.
The space was filled when I was empty. Only when I was empty. I bring this up, because the turnaround was so dramatically swift and so distinctly paralleled, it could absolutely not be ignored. It’s not necessary to get into intimate specifics, but there’s a way that I thought that things would work out, and when I gave up control that I knew best, the things that appeared in that vacuum were much more of a picture of the woman I want to be than the woman I was trying to hold on to. And believe you me, the new picture was pretty darn smokin’, if I do say so myself.
There’s been a fervor in the recent past surrounding books/films defining “The Secret” and the law of attraction. Others delve a little deeper and speak more specifically to ‘the law of correspondence.’ That idea being, it’s not that you attract what you want, you attract what you ARE. These are not new ideas, it’s just that their popularity has pinnacled as of late. “Law of Attraction” has been the prom queen incumbent for several years running, in so called ‘spiritual’ circles.
The circumstances of one’s life are due to our conditioning, our thoughts, actions, whether conscious or unconscious. Some even say we are living out karmas or samskaras (impressions, seeds of past action) from lives before this one. If that is the case, not having had any life experience (that I am yet aware of) outside of this one, I cannot personally vouch to the verity of those philosophies. However, since having been made aware of the law of correspondence, I have to say it seems pretty damn spot on in the little life I’m walking through right about now.
So what’s the skinny with affirmations and law of attraction and all of that? Can I just say over and over again: “I want 10 million dollars, no, make that: 20 million dollars, 20 million dollars, 20 million dollars, 20 million dollars” or “Bradley Cooper, Bradley Cooper, Bradley Cooper, Bradley Cooper” and it/he will show up? The formula as a whole is a Catch 22; we have to align with it, all the while intensely desiring it, and then also be able to casually release our attachment from the outcome. SO totally easier said than done.
A bestie and I always mirror back approval of awesomeness/fabulousness in daily dealings because “why would God have given us such piquant taste if we were not supposed to relish and prosper with the yummier things of this earth?” The Universe wouldn’t provide a palate being able to designate between wild and farmed salmon or 300 and 600 thread count sheets and yet not also bestow the ability to partake in Life’s more discerning treats. “Hey look, see this luciousness?! Awesome, right?!... oh yeah, sorry babe, that’s just not for you.” The world wouldn’t do that. That would just be mean. And the world isn’t mean.
I’m speaking of a personal designation concerning quality. And I don’t even mean quality as in “bad” vs. “good.” I mean finding the quality of life that speaks to you and rockin it out. That has nothing to do with material excess. We are each drawn to things intrinsically that make our heart sing. A locally sourced or free-trade, handmade, raw, gluten free, exotically spiced 74% cacao chocolate processed by renewable energy is divinity in my mouth, where for others, Hershey’s will do. One of my best friends doesn’t give a hoot for chocolate but eating sheets of nori makes her head spin. For some it’s the solitude of a morning of fly-fishing. Others the freedom of zooming down Bleecker bike lanes with an iPod blasting Metallica and even others for whom a week long Caribbean Carnival cruise is the double-stuff dreams are made of. I truly believe that which we want in our deepest heart of hearts is present for us. Otherwise we would not have been given whatever level of capacity or sophistication or simplicity we vibe with in order to desire it.
Ernest Holmes in the 1926 new thought treatise “Science of Mind” writes: “There is nothing wrong in the desire for self expression. God is more completely expressed through that man who lives largely than through the one who lives meagerly.” SOM also tells us that subjective Mind (the universe) knows only completion, knows no time or process but only the answer. Another way of stating this is, all we want, we have already; we just need to get out of our own way.
My friends know me to be an avid researcher. Some might say anal, know-it-all, bossy boots; I prefer to look at it as being thorough. When I had an opportunity to grill some monks I was studying with in Fiji, I came prepared with oodles of notes and endless rounds of questions. My monk laughed gaily at the serious ardor of my type-A approach, but he gently answered my inquisition on all fronts. It ranged from how significantly was Starbucks really affecting my levels of consciousness to wanting details on my next boyfriend.
And I asked a big one—the concept I could not wrap my head around—the fish I could not fry— the question that caused (still causes) countless hours of debate amidst my tribe: “Is it all pre-determined or do we have free will?” He thought carefully, trying to find words to explain something inexplicable that would at least somewhat mollify my petulant, unenlightened desire for an immediate answer.
“We are here to learn certain lessons. That is set for us. We can choose how quickly or slowly we want to learn them, but they will always be the same lessons.”
So, we have the choice to speed our evolutionary processes or keep repeating the same patterns until we get the picture.
If that’s the right idea, and my and others’ theory is correct that we each have our desires (whether they be for chocolate or Carnival cruises) set out in a direction (even if by no other compass than mere preference,) one could interpret the law of attraction by saying when we wish for something, it's not that we are making it happen, it's that we are allowing that which already exists to come through and manifest into the physical realm. We are not changing the world, we are changing ourselves.
“The ultimate effect is already potential in its cause… to him who can perfectly practice inaction, all things are possible.”
And it seems from my experience, how quickly we can let go of something also seems to parallel how quickly the next thing enters our lives. What was so wild about the whole Hanuman thing was that I took the express train to let go, and then the stuffs arrived immediately—within 24 hours. Not for one thing. For THREE Huge things.
So we release our attachment to it, and it arrives. Meditation, unshakable faith, affirmations (or even any kind of letting go that has nothing to do with defining itself solely as a “spiritual” experience,) attunes us to that level of having it, because in knowing we have it, we have no need for attachment.
Isn’t it true that when your romantic life gets going again suddenly everyone pops out of the woodwork at once? Ya know that phrase, when it rains, it pours?
Theoretically that should work just as easily for bringing a used Honda into your life or a West Village townhouse. But the trick seems to be to attract it, we have to BE it. That’s where the correspondence comes in, in case you thought just sitting around dreaming about Hondas was going to rain them from the heavens. That explains the work. And we also have to be flexible, because many times it doesn’t look the way we thought it would.
The three Huge things were (well, um, HUGE) aspects of life that are important to me. Lettting go of the drama or emotions regarding the “failures” in those areas, I cleared the space for the laws to bring me something that I still wanted—but in the new and improved way. The upgraded version that the ‘smaller’ me would never have gotten had I been calling each and every friend to bitch about the disasters that’d befallen me.
I ended up getting what I deserved (the law of correspondence,) and what I wanted (the law of attraction,) and in much more promising packaging (what up, Grace?)-- but it only came when I let go of my intended results.
Before I do, I would just like to regurgitate the simple facts.
1. Meltdown happened.
2. Surrendered/let go/gave up into Grace/Hanuman/to something (anything) larger than this 5’2 ¾” body of Polish downtown NYC energy known as Mags.
3. (new information here) Within 24 hours of this procession of events, bigger/greater/more beautiful things happened in each of the “three Huge thing” arenas.
The space was filled when I was empty. Only when I was empty. I bring this up, because the turnaround was so dramatically swift and so distinctly paralleled, it could absolutely not be ignored. It’s not necessary to get into intimate specifics, but there’s a way that I thought that things would work out, and when I gave up control that I knew best, the things that appeared in that vacuum were much more of a picture of the woman I want to be than the woman I was trying to hold on to. And believe you me, the new picture was pretty darn smokin’, if I do say so myself.
There’s been a fervor in the recent past surrounding books/films defining “The Secret” and the law of attraction. Others delve a little deeper and speak more specifically to ‘the law of correspondence.’ That idea being, it’s not that you attract what you want, you attract what you ARE. These are not new ideas, it’s just that their popularity has pinnacled as of late. “Law of Attraction” has been the prom queen incumbent for several years running, in so called ‘spiritual’ circles.
The circumstances of one’s life are due to our conditioning, our thoughts, actions, whether conscious or unconscious. Some even say we are living out karmas or samskaras (impressions, seeds of past action) from lives before this one. If that is the case, not having had any life experience (that I am yet aware of) outside of this one, I cannot personally vouch to the verity of those philosophies. However, since having been made aware of the law of correspondence, I have to say it seems pretty damn spot on in the little life I’m walking through right about now.
So what’s the skinny with affirmations and law of attraction and all of that? Can I just say over and over again: “I want 10 million dollars, no, make that: 20 million dollars, 20 million dollars, 20 million dollars, 20 million dollars” or “Bradley Cooper, Bradley Cooper, Bradley Cooper, Bradley Cooper” and it/he will show up? The formula as a whole is a Catch 22; we have to align with it, all the while intensely desiring it, and then also be able to casually release our attachment from the outcome. SO totally easier said than done.
A bestie and I always mirror back approval of awesomeness/fabulousness in daily dealings because “why would God have given us such piquant taste if we were not supposed to relish and prosper with the yummier things of this earth?” The Universe wouldn’t provide a palate being able to designate between wild and farmed salmon or 300 and 600 thread count sheets and yet not also bestow the ability to partake in Life’s more discerning treats. “Hey look, see this luciousness?! Awesome, right?!... oh yeah, sorry babe, that’s just not for you.” The world wouldn’t do that. That would just be mean. And the world isn’t mean.
I’m speaking of a personal designation concerning quality. And I don’t even mean quality as in “bad” vs. “good.” I mean finding the quality of life that speaks to you and rockin it out. That has nothing to do with material excess. We are each drawn to things intrinsically that make our heart sing. A locally sourced or free-trade, handmade, raw, gluten free, exotically spiced 74% cacao chocolate processed by renewable energy is divinity in my mouth, where for others, Hershey’s will do. One of my best friends doesn’t give a hoot for chocolate but eating sheets of nori makes her head spin. For some it’s the solitude of a morning of fly-fishing. Others the freedom of zooming down Bleecker bike lanes with an iPod blasting Metallica and even others for whom a week long Caribbean Carnival cruise is the double-stuff dreams are made of. I truly believe that which we want in our deepest heart of hearts is present for us. Otherwise we would not have been given whatever level of capacity or sophistication or simplicity we vibe with in order to desire it.
Ernest Holmes in the 1926 new thought treatise “Science of Mind” writes: “There is nothing wrong in the desire for self expression. God is more completely expressed through that man who lives largely than through the one who lives meagerly.” SOM also tells us that subjective Mind (the universe) knows only completion, knows no time or process but only the answer. Another way of stating this is, all we want, we have already; we just need to get out of our own way.
My friends know me to be an avid researcher. Some might say anal, know-it-all, bossy boots; I prefer to look at it as being thorough. When I had an opportunity to grill some monks I was studying with in Fiji, I came prepared with oodles of notes and endless rounds of questions. My monk laughed gaily at the serious ardor of my type-A approach, but he gently answered my inquisition on all fronts. It ranged from how significantly was Starbucks really affecting my levels of consciousness to wanting details on my next boyfriend.
And I asked a big one—the concept I could not wrap my head around—the fish I could not fry— the question that caused (still causes) countless hours of debate amidst my tribe: “Is it all pre-determined or do we have free will?” He thought carefully, trying to find words to explain something inexplicable that would at least somewhat mollify my petulant, unenlightened desire for an immediate answer.
“We are here to learn certain lessons. That is set for us. We can choose how quickly or slowly we want to learn them, but they will always be the same lessons.”
So, we have the choice to speed our evolutionary processes or keep repeating the same patterns until we get the picture.
If that’s the right idea, and my and others’ theory is correct that we each have our desires (whether they be for chocolate or Carnival cruises) set out in a direction (even if by no other compass than mere preference,) one could interpret the law of attraction by saying when we wish for something, it's not that we are making it happen, it's that we are allowing that which already exists to come through and manifest into the physical realm. We are not changing the world, we are changing ourselves.
“The ultimate effect is already potential in its cause… to him who can perfectly practice inaction, all things are possible.”
And it seems from my experience, how quickly we can let go of something also seems to parallel how quickly the next thing enters our lives. What was so wild about the whole Hanuman thing was that I took the express train to let go, and then the stuffs arrived immediately—within 24 hours. Not for one thing. For THREE Huge things.
So we release our attachment to it, and it arrives. Meditation, unshakable faith, affirmations (or even any kind of letting go that has nothing to do with defining itself solely as a “spiritual” experience,) attunes us to that level of having it, because in knowing we have it, we have no need for attachment.
Isn’t it true that when your romantic life gets going again suddenly everyone pops out of the woodwork at once? Ya know that phrase, when it rains, it pours?
Theoretically that should work just as easily for bringing a used Honda into your life or a West Village townhouse. But the trick seems to be to attract it, we have to BE it. That’s where the correspondence comes in, in case you thought just sitting around dreaming about Hondas was going to rain them from the heavens. That explains the work. And we also have to be flexible, because many times it doesn’t look the way we thought it would.
The three Huge things were (well, um, HUGE) aspects of life that are important to me. Lettting go of the drama or emotions regarding the “failures” in those areas, I cleared the space for the laws to bring me something that I still wanted—but in the new and improved way. The upgraded version that the ‘smaller’ me would never have gotten had I been calling each and every friend to bitch about the disasters that’d befallen me.
I ended up getting what I deserved (the law of correspondence,) and what I wanted (the law of attraction,) and in much more promising packaging (what up, Grace?)-- but it only came when I let go of my intended results.
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