The ArcLight Cinerama Dome in Hollywood was fancy pants. After all it is (“Welcome to Hollywood! What's your dream? Everybody comes here; this is Hollywood, land of dreams…” -Pretty Woman, obvi) Hollywood, so it stands to reason that their theatres should have assigned seating, epic screens and validated parking.
Following my friends to our seats, I cooed at the ceiling, “It looks like we’re inside the Epcot Center ball!” (I’ve always had a bizarre affection for that giant Epcot golf ball… but I digress) It wasn’t my idea to see Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, but I was willing to come along for the ride.
I am not a Harry Potter fan. That is not to say that what I think J.K. Rowling has created with her empire is anything short of, well, a capital “S” Superstah fairytale international kingdom, well gilded with riches and notoriety. I am in curious awe, of course, of any realm so far reaching in scope and power, and kudos to her for the genius marketing of her corporate team’s vision to propel the mega world into mega bucks. Always a voracious reader, I remember being quite surprisingly captivated by the 1st book, that momentum propelling me to slurp up #2 and #3 quite quickly thereafter. By the time #4 came along, I had to wait for its arrival. The wait dampened my enthusiasm; I was jaded to quidditch as just another sport, and when eyeing its thick hardcover I remember surmising, “It was fun, but not fun enough to haul around with me as dead weight.” (I’ll refrain from any gauche relationship metaphor here.) I wonder had Kindle been around then, if it could have persuaded me into a perusal of #4.
I kinda assumed that the #6 film would give a once over, “last… on Harry Potter” sequence, bringing illiterates up to date with its characters, but it seems they deduced rather than waste time on needless exposition, to dive right in. So basically I had no idea what was happening throughout the first act of the film. It seemed very slow. And very dramatic. Soap operas seemed like sitcoms by contrast to the lethargic anticipation that was this 1st act.
Anyhow, I was oh-so-patiently waiting for the movie to progress for two and a half hours. About 2/3rds of the way through (I’m assuming if you care at all about HP you will have seen the film by this point and there is no need for a spoiler alert here, although, in any event, here: spoiler alert) there is the big scene between Harry Potter and his bestie Ron Weasley, where Ron has to face his biggest fears before they can progress.
Now in all the slow moving drama that precedes, some pretty big things are on the line. People are dying right left and center, there are battles and incredible healing powers sealing what would be fatal wounds, faces are rivers of tears and foreheads webs of wrinkled anxiety. People are being chased and go into hiding from monstrously hideous bad guys, all in a vast, disparately landscaped set of varying shades of darkness. It seems existence as their race knows it is ultimately being threatened and it’s up to HP and crew to do that “the one” hero thing and, in seven books/films or less, ya know, save the world.
So in this moment, where Ron has arrived in the nick of time to save Harry, up comes a swirling black mass of ghoulish black clouds, illustrated and sounded elaborately as Ron’s fears. Ron has to be able to face his fears in order to conquer them and save Harry. In the theatrical panorama that is the ensuing armageddon of the HP saga, are Ron’s fears centered around the expulsion of their race, or the fall of life as they know it? Are they masses of worries about those dying or of his own possible extinction? No… it’s all… “mommy didn’t love me, the girl I want loves Harry more, and ‘Harry can do better without you.’”
I loved this part of the movie, because this is where it got real.
It reminds me of the portion of Elizabeth Gilbert’s star memoir, Eat Pray Love.
(wow, aren’t I being a little media piglet with the topical blockbuster pop-culture references in this post) where she speaks about meeting refugee girls in a camp. Instead of being worried about their displaced homeland or future as a community, their counseling with her consisted of, “OMG—there’s this cute boy in the refugee camp, I don’t know if he likes me.”
This is the human condition. As much compassion as we can and do muster for the atrocities befalling many parts of the world, generally our greatest fears and our most prevalent thoughts are not of inhumanities elsewhere. The kryptonite that is our ego mind saddles us with the running dialogue of things close to our hands and heart.
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
Hallow is not in my daily lexicon, so I google’d it for the purposes of this blog. "To make holy or sacred, to sanctify or consecrate, to venerate.” The ‘deathly’ hallows could easily be defined as examining those darkest parts of ourselves by taking the ugliest fears and making friends with them, thereby transforming them to “holy.” Or as I would put it, as more one with ourselves. This is after all, what my teachers, Buddhist and Indian (and any wealth of other traditions) urge us to do. By facing the ego, we not only befriend it, but the ultimate spiritual enlightenment they say, is the ultimate death of the ego, creating an intrinsic sense of oneness with all. HP is another modern mass media outlet underlining that the courage to face these fears is where our greatest strengths lie. Hallowed be the death.
What I liked most about this Harry flick was not just the stadium seating and the company of my loveliest of friends, but that within the melodrama that is an uber-blockbuster and all of its surrounding brouhaha, the underlying message is simple. When the world is falling apart, start where you are. That’s why the Harry and Ron scene rang real—if your true fears are girl problems or jealousy of your best friend, be there. Be here. All you have is what’s right in front of your nose, and the healing can only begin when you get real about what’s really in your mind. To throw in a last pop reference, by the perhaps not so esteemed and yet still admired En Vogue: “free your mind, and the rest will follow.”
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
family matters
“Where are you headed today?”
A cute TSA employee strikes up a conversation with me as I wait for the conveyor to push my laptop through the scanner.
“Chicago.”
“Is Chicago home?”
No, he’s not cute, he’s out-of-place-for-airport-security dashing; this guy… this guy can frisk me, no problem.
“No, New York is home, but my family is in Chicago.”
“How long will you be there for?”
I raise my eyebrows, “A month.”
“A month! Now that’s some visit!”
“Well, my mom is sick and I want to go help her out.”
He’s flirty. Maybe slightly unprofessional, but I’m not filing a complaint anytime soon.
“Did she talk you into that?”
“No,” I raise my eyes to deliver the line straight on, “I’m just a really good daughter.”
We laugh. His smile is dazzling. How nice. On four hours of sleep, hungover, with no caffeine or food in my system, I am surprisingly chipper. Perhaps I am still drunk. The rest of the journey to the airplane is like this. Everyone seems more polite than usual. People are extraordinarily courteous. I see strangers talking, making connections, expressing gratitude. Holiday music piping through the terminal, perhaps they are all drunk on the season, now unabashedly in full swing post Thanksgiving weekend.
I am leaving one family to go to another. My soul is juiced up after an unexpectedly super fantastic six days in LA. I yoga’d it up, I sashayed for hours beachside, drank far too much alcohol and even more green juice trying to counterbalance it. I had a birthday, a reading, Thanksgiving with friends and family Hollywood Hills dinners. I bowled a strikingly (pardon the pun) awesome 167 at the Lucky Strike lanes. For my birthday I received the new Jonathan Franzen book and a deliciously sweet truffle of a weekend romance.
Several of my closest friends have moved here—it started five years ago with my bestie Broadway veteran Adam…simply the most charming, charismatic person I have ever known. Period. The West Coast has propelled him to the brink of interior design reality show stardom and he leads me around like a trophy fag hag, which I am more than proud to be.
The wave continues with David and Logan who for a solid seven years (along with our relocated Vermonter Tesha) were so close, they were not my crew. They were, they are, my tribe. At one point we coined ourselves ‘lodamate.’ T-shirts were made. I’m not kidding.
So with the mass exodus West, what’s a girl to do but head for a visit?
My amazon goddess oneness sistah Katie was trying LA on for size, there were yogis peppered everywhere and friends I adore from high school are here I didn’t even get a chance to see, the schedule was so packed.
Being with friends like this is being with family. These are the people who with ridiculous generosity offer, “Here take the keys to this apartment, we’ll stay together and you can stay there for free.” They respond to pick up requests without a moment’s hesitation: “of course.” They will brew you a pot of coffee when they have a house full of guests arriving to entertain and your lazy, tired ass should have made it to Starbucks on the way there. They have your back. This kind of love, the connection, the support, is what life is all about. I think of the yogis I met in India, who would fall in love and abandon their own continents to be with each other—I mean, that is an incredibly deep knowing. When you find this, you hold fast to it. You vacation together, you move to be near each other, it IS family.
As the jet-stream glides me eastward away from them, so grateful for the week I have had, my thoughts transition to this month with my “real” family. There is the old Ram Dass adage thrown around: “if you think you are so enlightened, go spend a week with your parents.” A month in my mother’s home will be the longest I have spent there in seventeen years. I’m not planning to lubricate the situation by running out for a case of holiday season Belvedere (our family is essentially sponsored by the vodka) but am instead placing my mother, sister and I on a one week cleanse and juice fast to start, which is going to stir up every irritability that ever existed in any of us. This will quite literally be, my most in-depth spiritual retreat.
Because the thing about family is, the comfort and the warmth and the ease that all the familiarity brings can also rear its ugly head as the place we feel most comfortable to be our nastiest selves. Often times our parents or siblings can bring things up in us, whether intentionally or unintentionally, that are the biggest thorns in our lattisumus dorsi. Something comes from one of their mouths that could be processed quite palatably from a stranger, but because our mother says it, there is all of this “stuff” attached to it.: expectation, charges of emotional hurt from the past. Discomfort when we don’t see eye to eye or they nag us for something we want to do or a way we want to be.
I joke with the TSA guy, and I joke here, but I’m pretty dead on serious when I label this a spiritual retreat. I fully expect to learn more about myself in a suburban Chicago household than I would spending a month in India with my teachers.
It’s leaning into the fire. Buddhist nun Pema Chödrön has a whole book titled “The Wisdom of No Escape” that speaks to this theory and practice. I will purposely be reaching for the irritations so that I can see how I react to them, notice this, and then in that inherent way that bringing attention to something and actually experiencing it rather than avoiding it dissipates it, this will be a month long meditative process.
Of course I go with excitement and love. I am fueled by the comfort and generosity I have with my tribe, to extend it to my family. Intending to learn and grow from any holiday stress that arises lets us all off the hook a little bit, doesn’t it? The world is a little jollier this month, decorated a little sparklier, as selfishness always seems to be ratcheted down a notch… And if everyone entered the season heart open, with a sprinkling of self-inquiry on mind, wouldn’t that make for a more enlightened December? Tonight the ladies of my family will feast, this weekend we will famine. I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the opportunities in love with those nearest to me in this life.
6:30am the next morning (4:30am LA time) my sister’s alarm in the next room agonizingly rousts me out of a dream, twice, from my best sleep in a week. "Why the f**k is a spaceship is landing in my room?!" I shuffle to her room intercepting the silence before the 3rd snooze. Desperately tired and annoyed beyond reason that she can sleep through the sci-fi, space-age, musically whirling futuristic noise that is her cell phone alarm clock, I am exhausted and murderous. I hate that she can sleep through anything; I hate that I cannot. I hate that she has to go to work this morning… "Doesn’t she realize that as my younger sister she should be sensitive and subservient to my every comfort and desire??," my thoughts mutter to themselves… opportunities for love... deep breath... stand-by… and… go.
A cute TSA employee strikes up a conversation with me as I wait for the conveyor to push my laptop through the scanner.
“Chicago.”
“Is Chicago home?”
No, he’s not cute, he’s out-of-place-for-airport-security dashing; this guy… this guy can frisk me, no problem.
“No, New York is home, but my family is in Chicago.”
“How long will you be there for?”
I raise my eyebrows, “A month.”
“A month! Now that’s some visit!”
“Well, my mom is sick and I want to go help her out.”
He’s flirty. Maybe slightly unprofessional, but I’m not filing a complaint anytime soon.
“Did she talk you into that?”
“No,” I raise my eyes to deliver the line straight on, “I’m just a really good daughter.”
We laugh. His smile is dazzling. How nice. On four hours of sleep, hungover, with no caffeine or food in my system, I am surprisingly chipper. Perhaps I am still drunk. The rest of the journey to the airplane is like this. Everyone seems more polite than usual. People are extraordinarily courteous. I see strangers talking, making connections, expressing gratitude. Holiday music piping through the terminal, perhaps they are all drunk on the season, now unabashedly in full swing post Thanksgiving weekend.
I am leaving one family to go to another. My soul is juiced up after an unexpectedly super fantastic six days in LA. I yoga’d it up, I sashayed for hours beachside, drank far too much alcohol and even more green juice trying to counterbalance it. I had a birthday, a reading, Thanksgiving with friends and family Hollywood Hills dinners. I bowled a strikingly (pardon the pun) awesome 167 at the Lucky Strike lanes. For my birthday I received the new Jonathan Franzen book and a deliciously sweet truffle of a weekend romance.
Several of my closest friends have moved here—it started five years ago with my bestie Broadway veteran Adam…simply the most charming, charismatic person I have ever known. Period. The West Coast has propelled him to the brink of interior design reality show stardom and he leads me around like a trophy fag hag, which I am more than proud to be.
The wave continues with David and Logan who for a solid seven years (along with our relocated Vermonter Tesha) were so close, they were not my crew. They were, they are, my tribe. At one point we coined ourselves ‘lodamate.’ T-shirts were made. I’m not kidding.
So with the mass exodus West, what’s a girl to do but head for a visit?
My amazon goddess oneness sistah Katie was trying LA on for size, there were yogis peppered everywhere and friends I adore from high school are here I didn’t even get a chance to see, the schedule was so packed.
Being with friends like this is being with family. These are the people who with ridiculous generosity offer, “Here take the keys to this apartment, we’ll stay together and you can stay there for free.” They respond to pick up requests without a moment’s hesitation: “of course.” They will brew you a pot of coffee when they have a house full of guests arriving to entertain and your lazy, tired ass should have made it to Starbucks on the way there. They have your back. This kind of love, the connection, the support, is what life is all about. I think of the yogis I met in India, who would fall in love and abandon their own continents to be with each other—I mean, that is an incredibly deep knowing. When you find this, you hold fast to it. You vacation together, you move to be near each other, it IS family.
As the jet-stream glides me eastward away from them, so grateful for the week I have had, my thoughts transition to this month with my “real” family. There is the old Ram Dass adage thrown around: “if you think you are so enlightened, go spend a week with your parents.” A month in my mother’s home will be the longest I have spent there in seventeen years. I’m not planning to lubricate the situation by running out for a case of holiday season Belvedere (our family is essentially sponsored by the vodka) but am instead placing my mother, sister and I on a one week cleanse and juice fast to start, which is going to stir up every irritability that ever existed in any of us. This will quite literally be, my most in-depth spiritual retreat.
Because the thing about family is, the comfort and the warmth and the ease that all the familiarity brings can also rear its ugly head as the place we feel most comfortable to be our nastiest selves. Often times our parents or siblings can bring things up in us, whether intentionally or unintentionally, that are the biggest thorns in our lattisumus dorsi. Something comes from one of their mouths that could be processed quite palatably from a stranger, but because our mother says it, there is all of this “stuff” attached to it.: expectation, charges of emotional hurt from the past. Discomfort when we don’t see eye to eye or they nag us for something we want to do or a way we want to be.
I joke with the TSA guy, and I joke here, but I’m pretty dead on serious when I label this a spiritual retreat. I fully expect to learn more about myself in a suburban Chicago household than I would spending a month in India with my teachers.
It’s leaning into the fire. Buddhist nun Pema Chödrön has a whole book titled “The Wisdom of No Escape” that speaks to this theory and practice. I will purposely be reaching for the irritations so that I can see how I react to them, notice this, and then in that inherent way that bringing attention to something and actually experiencing it rather than avoiding it dissipates it, this will be a month long meditative process.
Of course I go with excitement and love. I am fueled by the comfort and generosity I have with my tribe, to extend it to my family. Intending to learn and grow from any holiday stress that arises lets us all off the hook a little bit, doesn’t it? The world is a little jollier this month, decorated a little sparklier, as selfishness always seems to be ratcheted down a notch… And if everyone entered the season heart open, with a sprinkling of self-inquiry on mind, wouldn’t that make for a more enlightened December? Tonight the ladies of my family will feast, this weekend we will famine. I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the opportunities in love with those nearest to me in this life.
6:30am the next morning (4:30am LA time) my sister’s alarm in the next room agonizingly rousts me out of a dream, twice, from my best sleep in a week. "Why the f**k is a spaceship is landing in my room?!" I shuffle to her room intercepting the silence before the 3rd snooze. Desperately tired and annoyed beyond reason that she can sleep through the sci-fi, space-age, musically whirling futuristic noise that is her cell phone alarm clock, I am exhausted and murderous. I hate that she can sleep through anything; I hate that I cannot. I hate that she has to go to work this morning… "Doesn’t she realize that as my younger sister she should be sensitive and subservient to my every comfort and desire??," my thoughts mutter to themselves… opportunities for love... deep breath... stand-by… and… go.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
the celibacy confab: merry christmas to me
My sexual over-enthusiasm may actually be a medical condition. I learned this when I casually mentioned to Adriana (pregs Brazilian bestie guru) on the last India turn that I didn't like necklaces—hated how constrictive they were along my shoulders and body and so always opted for bling elsewhere. She (a holistic practitioner and trained kinesiologist) asked a series of other questions and casually diagnosed I may be “lachesis” and suggested homeopathy.
“The Lachesis individual is like a highly strung bow, taut with sexual energy, which must find an outlet if it is not to backfire upon its owner.” says herbs2000.com. According to my research and understanding, it is not so much a condition as it is a designation. Like: Sagittarius, or American.
This designation has thankfully not parlayed itself into an unhealthy nymphomania—sex has never been a dangerous addiction or something casually pursued. My overall snobbery extends to my body; brains turn me on more than brawn, and if emotion isn’t present, neither is anything else. But I bring this up to show you just how important sex is for the mind/body organism known as Mags, because she’s thinking of giving it up.
“It’s not bramacharya if you’re just not getting laid.”
In the yogi community I resided in for a time years ago, this was an oft-spoken phrase. Inevitably a new arrival (myself included,) eyes blurried by an exotic “glamour” that something like living in India to practice yoga can provide for the ego/mind, wanting to stretch his or her vocabularic use of the yamas/niyamas would drop the bramacharya reference, to which would come the response:
“It’s not bramacharya if you’re just not getting laid.”
Bramacharya is celibacy for spiritual purposes. There are people (not only in India) who take on the life of a bramachari or brahmacharini (female) to specifically up their levels of consciousness and strengthen a connection to the divine. Although this can be a life-long devotion, it can also be utilized for shorter periods to gather energy and deepen yogic practices. This is not just a yogi thing-- priests, monks, nuns everywhere subscribe. Ghandi was a celibate. Earlier this year Lady Gaga advertised and advocated her own current celibacy.
Where I lived in India, the ratio of men to women was kinda like theatre camp. If you were a straight male, essentially you were a kid in a candy store. A dozen women for each man, all beautiful and fit, kind, and probably from an urban, more sophisticated area. Of course there were more serious ascetic yogis, who were far above carnal desire, but at the end of the day we were all human and a lotta people went through that town.
There, I was pretty much practicing inadvertent bramacharya, which, really didn’t count.
So in New York City in the fall of what has been a ping-pong match of a year, I want to ground boldly in one direction, maybe save on a couple of months of brazilians, and so am considering bramacharya. Not forever, but maybe until 2011.
Right now I’m in the inadvertent mode, but that stance could so very easily be swayed/broken/altered. Even as I start to ponder it, and I find myself midst cocktail conversation announcing I’m considering it, that inexplicable pull of the universe happens where letting go causes the vacuum of non-neediness to suck that very thing to you. Hotties start showing up outta nowhere. Everywhere I go is spewing smart, attractive, single men and they are glued to me. Did this happen before? Did I just not notice? Am I sending off a “hey pretty much considering being chaste for the rest of 2010 vibe” and they smell it, like a dog in heat that can’t have the one thing they want?
So the reason I’m considering it is because next month I’m taking some time to dig down and focus on my creative output. The 2nd chakra is the seat of all sexuality and creativity; the theory is abstaining from sex helps fuel the other. Kundalini drives energy up through creativity and then to eventual spiritual awakening and realization. Although I’m being glib about it here, Bramacharya is a serious yogic life long practice; it is said that a minimum of 12 years is essential for real spiritual progress…. So this little experiment, should I choose to accept it, is at best, Bramacharaya-lite. If it could even be dubbed that. Diet bramacharaya? Bramacharaya One?
Logistically speaking, once out of the dating game, it’s incredible how much time frees up when not seeing someone (or several someones as many are wont to do in our fine city of fair speci-men and women.) Suddenly stretches of hours, evenings, weekend mornings, are yours, tucked nicely back in your skinny jeans pocket.
I’ve always been incredibly good at entertaining myself because I tend to get bored of people easily. (Not a very generous spiritual perspective, but true nonetheless, although I’d like to think I’ve become more patient.) Many times I prefer to be alone than to be under-whelmed at a dinner, party, etc. I don’t have that FOMO anxiety (fear of missing out) in my blood. I’m fine missing out. You go right ahead; I’m going to go read. So, to have more of that time to myself is a gorgeous gift; I rarely get lonely, and if creative output is happening, well then forget it—that’s when I’m at my best, and who wouldn’t want to be there?
Yet speaking of entertaining myself, ah, how do I put this delicately? Well, it seems that sexy solo time must also be considered when pondering bramacharya. It’s easy enough to not go out with peeps for a few months, but if sexual energy is the culprit to be harnessed here, then it only stands to reason that we’re talking about an across the board hiatus, right? This… this (um, blush) is more of a substantive commitment.
And what’s the line? Is kissing ok? Well that kinda stirs up some energy, so maybe not. So, does that mean, no dating? How about no flirting? Do you just turn off the flirt the way that some people do when they get married? Just not go there?
And what’s the commitment? What if one of the best lovers of your life comes out of the woodwork for a roll in the hay and he’s in town from Nairobi, for one night only? Or a ‘friend with benefits’ has a serious crisis and “needs” you for stress release or comfort? Or a long lost love materializes out of the ether, suddenly and miraculously ready to commit—is a gal really going to prolong that spicy reunion for the sake of a temporary spiritual practice? I’m not fantasizing that these things will happen—but all probabilities need to be considered because this is, in essence, a sacred deal with yourself. And ya don’t wanna let yourself down. Not for Tom or Harry, and certainly not for dick.
So, I suppose bramacharya is on the ballot for December but this gal still hasn’t figured out which amendments need to be included in the proposition. She’d like to believe that the world isn’t so cruel that it needs to test her, but she also inherently knows that there will be some kind of spectacular challenge set forth. Some miraculously confronting Hail Mary testing text: “Mags! I’m at the end of your block with my bf and Bradley Cooper—we need a 4th for dinner… Come!”
The world does not respond to wishy washy. Particularly when it comes down to these sorts of spiritual practices; dedication is key. I’ve given up hot celebrity sex before when in love with someone else… the real question is, do I love myself enough to give myself the same respect? Can I calm my lascivious, lachesis’d self and get through the holiday season with second chakra energies working overtime on writing rather than writhing? Is there really anything to this theory/experiment at all, or am I just missing out on good times for no reason? Maybe this is what is meant by “buckle down”...? Ladies and gentlemen: (well, in my case, really only the gentlemen...) It may be time.
“The Lachesis individual is like a highly strung bow, taut with sexual energy, which must find an outlet if it is not to backfire upon its owner.” says herbs2000.com. According to my research and understanding, it is not so much a condition as it is a designation. Like: Sagittarius, or American.
This designation has thankfully not parlayed itself into an unhealthy nymphomania—sex has never been a dangerous addiction or something casually pursued. My overall snobbery extends to my body; brains turn me on more than brawn, and if emotion isn’t present, neither is anything else. But I bring this up to show you just how important sex is for the mind/body organism known as Mags, because she’s thinking of giving it up.
“It’s not bramacharya if you’re just not getting laid.”
In the yogi community I resided in for a time years ago, this was an oft-spoken phrase. Inevitably a new arrival (myself included,) eyes blurried by an exotic “glamour” that something like living in India to practice yoga can provide for the ego/mind, wanting to stretch his or her vocabularic use of the yamas/niyamas would drop the bramacharya reference, to which would come the response:
“It’s not bramacharya if you’re just not getting laid.”
Bramacharya is celibacy for spiritual purposes. There are people (not only in India) who take on the life of a bramachari or brahmacharini (female) to specifically up their levels of consciousness and strengthen a connection to the divine. Although this can be a life-long devotion, it can also be utilized for shorter periods to gather energy and deepen yogic practices. This is not just a yogi thing-- priests, monks, nuns everywhere subscribe. Ghandi was a celibate. Earlier this year Lady Gaga advertised and advocated her own current celibacy.
Where I lived in India, the ratio of men to women was kinda like theatre camp. If you were a straight male, essentially you were a kid in a candy store. A dozen women for each man, all beautiful and fit, kind, and probably from an urban, more sophisticated area. Of course there were more serious ascetic yogis, who were far above carnal desire, but at the end of the day we were all human and a lotta people went through that town.
There, I was pretty much practicing inadvertent bramacharya, which, really didn’t count.
So in New York City in the fall of what has been a ping-pong match of a year, I want to ground boldly in one direction, maybe save on a couple of months of brazilians, and so am considering bramacharya. Not forever, but maybe until 2011.
Right now I’m in the inadvertent mode, but that stance could so very easily be swayed/broken/altered. Even as I start to ponder it, and I find myself midst cocktail conversation announcing I’m considering it, that inexplicable pull of the universe happens where letting go causes the vacuum of non-neediness to suck that very thing to you. Hotties start showing up outta nowhere. Everywhere I go is spewing smart, attractive, single men and they are glued to me. Did this happen before? Did I just not notice? Am I sending off a “hey pretty much considering being chaste for the rest of 2010 vibe” and they smell it, like a dog in heat that can’t have the one thing they want?
So the reason I’m considering it is because next month I’m taking some time to dig down and focus on my creative output. The 2nd chakra is the seat of all sexuality and creativity; the theory is abstaining from sex helps fuel the other. Kundalini drives energy up through creativity and then to eventual spiritual awakening and realization. Although I’m being glib about it here, Bramacharya is a serious yogic life long practice; it is said that a minimum of 12 years is essential for real spiritual progress…. So this little experiment, should I choose to accept it, is at best, Bramacharaya-lite. If it could even be dubbed that. Diet bramacharaya? Bramacharaya One?
Logistically speaking, once out of the dating game, it’s incredible how much time frees up when not seeing someone (or several someones as many are wont to do in our fine city of fair speci-men and women.) Suddenly stretches of hours, evenings, weekend mornings, are yours, tucked nicely back in your skinny jeans pocket.
I’ve always been incredibly good at entertaining myself because I tend to get bored of people easily. (Not a very generous spiritual perspective, but true nonetheless, although I’d like to think I’ve become more patient.) Many times I prefer to be alone than to be under-whelmed at a dinner, party, etc. I don’t have that FOMO anxiety (fear of missing out) in my blood. I’m fine missing out. You go right ahead; I’m going to go read. So, to have more of that time to myself is a gorgeous gift; I rarely get lonely, and if creative output is happening, well then forget it—that’s when I’m at my best, and who wouldn’t want to be there?
Yet speaking of entertaining myself, ah, how do I put this delicately? Well, it seems that sexy solo time must also be considered when pondering bramacharya. It’s easy enough to not go out with peeps for a few months, but if sexual energy is the culprit to be harnessed here, then it only stands to reason that we’re talking about an across the board hiatus, right? This… this (um, blush) is more of a substantive commitment.
And what’s the line? Is kissing ok? Well that kinda stirs up some energy, so maybe not. So, does that mean, no dating? How about no flirting? Do you just turn off the flirt the way that some people do when they get married? Just not go there?
And what’s the commitment? What if one of the best lovers of your life comes out of the woodwork for a roll in the hay and he’s in town from Nairobi, for one night only? Or a ‘friend with benefits’ has a serious crisis and “needs” you for stress release or comfort? Or a long lost love materializes out of the ether, suddenly and miraculously ready to commit—is a gal really going to prolong that spicy reunion for the sake of a temporary spiritual practice? I’m not fantasizing that these things will happen—but all probabilities need to be considered because this is, in essence, a sacred deal with yourself. And ya don’t wanna let yourself down. Not for Tom or Harry, and certainly not for dick.
So, I suppose bramacharya is on the ballot for December but this gal still hasn’t figured out which amendments need to be included in the proposition. She’d like to believe that the world isn’t so cruel that it needs to test her, but she also inherently knows that there will be some kind of spectacular challenge set forth. Some miraculously confronting Hail Mary testing text: “Mags! I’m at the end of your block with my bf and Bradley Cooper—we need a 4th for dinner… Come!”
The world does not respond to wishy washy. Particularly when it comes down to these sorts of spiritual practices; dedication is key. I’ve given up hot celebrity sex before when in love with someone else… the real question is, do I love myself enough to give myself the same respect? Can I calm my lascivious, lachesis’d self and get through the holiday season with second chakra energies working overtime on writing rather than writhing? Is there really anything to this theory/experiment at all, or am I just missing out on good times for no reason? Maybe this is what is meant by “buckle down”...? Ladies and gentlemen: (well, in my case, really only the gentlemen...) It may be time.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
the bitch of bliss
Here are some raw deets. It doesn't start off so pretty, but it gets nicer later, promise.
Last December I spent a few sticky weeks in hometown Chicago, my longest stretch in years, to be supportive for my closest someone whom I thought was in an intense depression. She happened to be high on crystal meth the entire time. It was morose; I had no idea why.
This year breast cancer showed up for my mother. The first surgery didn’t take care of it. They had to go in again, and then of course, months of radiation.
A few months ago, the drug addiction my father had been battling and we’d been waltzing with for years came to a head, when he was beaten up and checked into a hospital. He was there for nine days and wouldn’t leave—too terrified to go home, too proud to admit what was going on or ask for help; he remained there as we scrambled remotely with police dealings and how to get his BMW out of the impound. My sister had to pull to the side of the road to manage panic attacks. My mother walled up.
The first relationship in years where I came close to someone I thought I could love for a while abruptly exited my life. I had no say in it.
…and for the first time in years, I went into debt to get by.
Anything that I thought I could hold onto, that could support me, was taken away.
Those are the facts.
Here’s the story.
The last two days I have felt my most intense connection with the world to date. I’ve had glimpses of this in the past, and I’m pretty sure it’s not here to stay, but I see the divine joke in it all. My hand in the matrix. I was walking up 6th Avenue the other morning, looked at a hotdog cart and understood that it came from me. Not intellectually. I made the cart. I was the cart. To have this kind of obsequious understanding about something so, not only ordinary, but dirty, seemingly incongruous with your life, is quite simply, everything. I try not to use the word ‘oneness’ because I don’t want any vocabulary so present in my life that I think it encompasses the answer, but really, there is no better word for it.
A person cannot know what this is until we experience it. I know I’m starting to sound like an MP3 stuck on repeat, but it’s true. And it’s a tricky little bastard. We start this journey, we get pushed or pulled or thrown in, for a little respite from our suffering. Yoga makes us feel better. Deeksha lifts our spirits. Perhaps we glow a little bit, in turn start to take better care of ourselves. But then… then, once you have an experience of the supreme understanding, you are pretty much f*%@ed. Because then, there is an involuntary evolutionary pull toward that day when you are That, and you know it, and every cell of yours vibrates with that truth.
And the ride sucks. It’s hard. There are many times that you want to throw your hands up in the air and you wish you could rewind. “Stop the World, I Want to Get off” is not just a droll name for a 1960’s musical, you feel it and you want to go back… to that bliss of ignorance. But you can’t. You’re on the road to the Ultimate Bliss. And you certainly can’t explain it to anyone who’s not there yet—your family, that guy you wanted to be your boyfriend, your boss when the work you’ve been doing up to now just isn’t cutting it anymore. “I’m sorry I’ve been out of sorts lately, I’ve just been consumed with learning who I am on the road to Ultimate Bliss.” I’m on that path and even just rereading that sentence makes me want to punch that person in the face.
Here’s why it’s all consuming. Because the love is so ridiculously vast. Once you have a glimpse of it, and you see that’s what there is, everything else is just so very unimportant.
And the paradoxical beauty is the side effects are miraculous. Relationships develop MORE meaning, not less. You saw my laundry list of less than stellar happenings above? They just happened. Emotions rose, and they dissipated. There was deep feeling, but there was absolutely no drama. Not coming from me anyway. And when it came at me? I did not participate in propelling the dramatics forward. To have that kind of equanimity when literally the sky is falling around you is an incomparable feeling.
I tell you this not to stir up any kind of empathy from you, I have no interest in that, and it doesn’t serve me; quite frankly, it would only be wasted if you had it. I say this to show you (and I purposefully laid it all out here, no vague veiled poetic metaphors about my circumstances, cleverly disguised for blogland) this work can and does have a direct correlation with our levels of suffering.
I experienced it; I was solid throughout. The family dramas?—I was like a little Buddha in the middle of it all, amazed at my innate tranquility. The guy? Well, that was the tough one for me. I really really really really wanted to play the blame game on that one. But I watched as all the emotions rose and fell, watched what the process of life brought up for me to see, watched how and why I created it for myself and it went by.
Here’s what else. I speak more to my mother every week than I do anyone else. I grew up angry at her, and since our relationship has blossomed, for the first time I have magnificent women in my life. A whole entourage, of the most gorgeous, giving, level-headed fabulous women in Manhattan. I dare anyone to find a sparklier group. This new level with my mother was not cultivated—it just happened.
My neighbor told me the other day every time he sees me ride around my bike it looks like I am in a little bubble of positivity. He said it really looks like that. And that’s what I feel. I am happy. Happy for no reason. Certainly not happy because the circumstances of my life are the best they have ever been, and yet I am beyond grateful. So grateful with all the beauty that surrounds me…. Because the beauty is in the dirt. When the angry or the sad day comes up, I pull out the dark lipstick, repeat Edith Piaf on my iPod, hope that it’s raining to support my mood and then I live in that aspect. It’s the sad scene of the movie. I’m the star, and it’s so much fun.
I’m well aware that I probably lost half of you with this post. If you haven’t yet started the ride, or are unaware you’ve started it, you will dismiss me, you will say I am not living in reality. And it’s quite literally the opposite. Reality is all we have. This is it. Now. All of this, all of this wading through suffering and stretching uncomfortably toward understanding is so that we can experience it, fully, without fear, with incredible amounts of compassion and love.
We don’t need to have catastrophic events to feel the suffering. I like to live large, so apparently my dealings prefer to be marvelously dramatic. Suffering of an “ordinary” level is just as painful—being trapped in the mind is just as constraining whether we are faced with drug additions or boy problems. Breaking free is just as remarkable, whatever and however mundane the circumstances appear to be.
The people around me are leading spectacular lives. Because they are real. We are all going to be there sooner than we know. You don’t have to take my word for it. You won’t, until you see it yourself. But I will say it anyway, it’s so so so much better when it’s authentic. And being authentic brings the bliss.
Last December I spent a few sticky weeks in hometown Chicago, my longest stretch in years, to be supportive for my closest someone whom I thought was in an intense depression. She happened to be high on crystal meth the entire time. It was morose; I had no idea why.
This year breast cancer showed up for my mother. The first surgery didn’t take care of it. They had to go in again, and then of course, months of radiation.
A few months ago, the drug addiction my father had been battling and we’d been waltzing with for years came to a head, when he was beaten up and checked into a hospital. He was there for nine days and wouldn’t leave—too terrified to go home, too proud to admit what was going on or ask for help; he remained there as we scrambled remotely with police dealings and how to get his BMW out of the impound. My sister had to pull to the side of the road to manage panic attacks. My mother walled up.
The first relationship in years where I came close to someone I thought I could love for a while abruptly exited my life. I had no say in it.
…and for the first time in years, I went into debt to get by.
Anything that I thought I could hold onto, that could support me, was taken away.
Those are the facts.
Here’s the story.
The last two days I have felt my most intense connection with the world to date. I’ve had glimpses of this in the past, and I’m pretty sure it’s not here to stay, but I see the divine joke in it all. My hand in the matrix. I was walking up 6th Avenue the other morning, looked at a hotdog cart and understood that it came from me. Not intellectually. I made the cart. I was the cart. To have this kind of obsequious understanding about something so, not only ordinary, but dirty, seemingly incongruous with your life, is quite simply, everything. I try not to use the word ‘oneness’ because I don’t want any vocabulary so present in my life that I think it encompasses the answer, but really, there is no better word for it.
A person cannot know what this is until we experience it. I know I’m starting to sound like an MP3 stuck on repeat, but it’s true. And it’s a tricky little bastard. We start this journey, we get pushed or pulled or thrown in, for a little respite from our suffering. Yoga makes us feel better. Deeksha lifts our spirits. Perhaps we glow a little bit, in turn start to take better care of ourselves. But then… then, once you have an experience of the supreme understanding, you are pretty much f*%@ed. Because then, there is an involuntary evolutionary pull toward that day when you are That, and you know it, and every cell of yours vibrates with that truth.
And the ride sucks. It’s hard. There are many times that you want to throw your hands up in the air and you wish you could rewind. “Stop the World, I Want to Get off” is not just a droll name for a 1960’s musical, you feel it and you want to go back… to that bliss of ignorance. But you can’t. You’re on the road to the Ultimate Bliss. And you certainly can’t explain it to anyone who’s not there yet—your family, that guy you wanted to be your boyfriend, your boss when the work you’ve been doing up to now just isn’t cutting it anymore. “I’m sorry I’ve been out of sorts lately, I’ve just been consumed with learning who I am on the road to Ultimate Bliss.” I’m on that path and even just rereading that sentence makes me want to punch that person in the face.
Here’s why it’s all consuming. Because the love is so ridiculously vast. Once you have a glimpse of it, and you see that’s what there is, everything else is just so very unimportant.
And the paradoxical beauty is the side effects are miraculous. Relationships develop MORE meaning, not less. You saw my laundry list of less than stellar happenings above? They just happened. Emotions rose, and they dissipated. There was deep feeling, but there was absolutely no drama. Not coming from me anyway. And when it came at me? I did not participate in propelling the dramatics forward. To have that kind of equanimity when literally the sky is falling around you is an incomparable feeling.
I tell you this not to stir up any kind of empathy from you, I have no interest in that, and it doesn’t serve me; quite frankly, it would only be wasted if you had it. I say this to show you (and I purposefully laid it all out here, no vague veiled poetic metaphors about my circumstances, cleverly disguised for blogland) this work can and does have a direct correlation with our levels of suffering.
I experienced it; I was solid throughout. The family dramas?—I was like a little Buddha in the middle of it all, amazed at my innate tranquility. The guy? Well, that was the tough one for me. I really really really really wanted to play the blame game on that one. But I watched as all the emotions rose and fell, watched what the process of life brought up for me to see, watched how and why I created it for myself and it went by.
Here’s what else. I speak more to my mother every week than I do anyone else. I grew up angry at her, and since our relationship has blossomed, for the first time I have magnificent women in my life. A whole entourage, of the most gorgeous, giving, level-headed fabulous women in Manhattan. I dare anyone to find a sparklier group. This new level with my mother was not cultivated—it just happened.
My neighbor told me the other day every time he sees me ride around my bike it looks like I am in a little bubble of positivity. He said it really looks like that. And that’s what I feel. I am happy. Happy for no reason. Certainly not happy because the circumstances of my life are the best they have ever been, and yet I am beyond grateful. So grateful with all the beauty that surrounds me…. Because the beauty is in the dirt. When the angry or the sad day comes up, I pull out the dark lipstick, repeat Edith Piaf on my iPod, hope that it’s raining to support my mood and then I live in that aspect. It’s the sad scene of the movie. I’m the star, and it’s so much fun.
I’m well aware that I probably lost half of you with this post. If you haven’t yet started the ride, or are unaware you’ve started it, you will dismiss me, you will say I am not living in reality. And it’s quite literally the opposite. Reality is all we have. This is it. Now. All of this, all of this wading through suffering and stretching uncomfortably toward understanding is so that we can experience it, fully, without fear, with incredible amounts of compassion and love.
We don’t need to have catastrophic events to feel the suffering. I like to live large, so apparently my dealings prefer to be marvelously dramatic. Suffering of an “ordinary” level is just as painful—being trapped in the mind is just as constraining whether we are faced with drug additions or boy problems. Breaking free is just as remarkable, whatever and however mundane the circumstances appear to be.
The people around me are leading spectacular lives. Because they are real. We are all going to be there sooner than we know. You don’t have to take my word for it. You won’t, until you see it yourself. But I will say it anyway, it’s so so so much better when it’s authentic. And being authentic brings the bliss.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
heart to hearth: cultivating generosity
Hyannisport. Mid-May, pre-season Cape Cod. The multi-million dollar home is a stone’s throw from the Kennedy Compound; its lawn nuzzling the Atlantic Ocean expansive enough for six shoulder-to-shoulder croquet matches. While relishing in the surroundings, post shower one afternoon, I wrapped myself in the softest towel I had ever experienced. Wanting to procure it for myself, I looked at the label: Neiman Marcus. Of course. Later I researched: $135 a bath towel. There were seven grand worth of towels in the house alone.
My ex and bestie is one of the greatest of all time, but he doesn’t have a mind for logistics. Or rather, he doesn’t have MY mind for logistics, which when thrown a potpourri of information will have it immediately organized, people inspired and bossed around, and all data cross-referenced and color coded in detailed printouts with back-up digital copies on the always carted Blackberry, just in case.
So when his family bid on the aforementioned private mansion at a charity auction and were unable to use its seven bedrooms for a week away, natch I was called to step in and figure out who went where. We weren’t quite given enough notice allowing peeps to plan proper vacation time off, so it became a hodge podge of guests; a puzzle of room arranging that required (in my mind) spreadsheets.
The bestie and I had just departed from a “woo” weekend workshop when we learned of the house. Needless to say, we were particularly open. I ended up inviting two people to join our vaca who were strangers pre-workshop. One was tall, gorgeous Katie. She radiated. I literally thought: Amazon woman, Greek goddess. Katie seemed like too confining a name for such epic female form. She and I complimented each other in the bathroom and came back to our seats only to find we were sitting side by side. We watched each other pull out a green juice from our respective bags with a manicured hand, at which point I looked her in the eye and said, “We’re going to be new best friends.” Once I found out she lived close to me on Perry Street, the deal was done.
Her own bestie in tow David was a handsome, quiet man with an unwavering groundedness and one of those bodies that is incredibly well cared for. (That’s the PC version of: really super yoked.) We didn’t speak as much, but in my mind, I grouped them together. I immediately adored the outgoing gal, and by default, trusted her entourage. They were shortly thereafter invited to the Cape with ten other friends.
In the road trip up, I gave the breakdown of that weekend’s guests to the guy I was dating at the time. (This was a fairly new relationship, and he did get mad props for being game to join. A dozen people he didn’t really know? Our first weekend away in a house that was provided by my Ex-husband? Creative and spiritual types that he had absolutely no close relationship with in his own world? Mad props.)
That being said, once I mentioned the two new additions to our group, he pretty much told me he thought I was out of my mind.
"You mean, you don't even know these people?”
I looked at him, all puppy-eyed and innocent (a recently cultivated look,) “I’ve never met them, but I know them.”
(Hm. Now looking back on it, this might have been the moment that the relationship took a turn toward its expiration.)
“Wow, I just don’t know anyone who would ever do that.”
“That’s how we roll. I can see they’re good people. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Well, lucky for me, so this story may somewhere, sometime veer near a point, only the best happened. Katie and David turned out to get gold stars for the weekend; their generosity was bountiful. An unecessary boon to all of us, for sure, and a windfall that was not even karmically mine—the house after all had nothing to do with me, I was merely the company manager for its arrangements.
After a couple of days of David and Katie’s general fun-loving magnanimous attitudes and deep awesomeness, even the guy I was with admitted, "I misjudged him. I’m touched that he would be so generous without knowing me.” The guy was given a book from the local Barnes and Noble and some excellent free therapy that he was enthusiastic about at the time, but that I’m not sure he ever heeded.
David and Katie grew to be good friends in separate ways. Katie was always great for a bright smile or a no frills soul excavation, and made the cut to the short-list roster for a “girls night” crew—my own “pink ladies” of Manhattan. I began to work with David as my network chiropractor and his insight and wisdom continues to floor me every time I think I can get away with a choice that’s less than what I ultimately deserve and he calls me out on my own sneaky ego-ic b.s. When I needed a space for my first Goddess weekend workshop, he offered his office flatiron loft with a generosity beyond measure: “It’s your first time, just give me whatever you want for utilities.”
Unbounded generosity from a heart-centered hunch and a pinch of faith. This… this is how I would like to see the world starting to work on a large scale. What if we trusted people more? What if we left places/spaces/events better than when we found them, to hold the integrity for having faith in that trust?
Jim Carrey spoke recently about how the “news has the media condense all of this negativity in one place and is not representative of what the world is, or what the world wants.” We have a misperception about the goodness of life. People are starting to shift that perception, because celebration is truckload of a lot more fun. Call it a vanity of self expansion: Faith makes you prettier. Integrity offers peace of mind. Generosity keeps the flow of abundance open.
Financially my friends run the gamut. There are a few who are by anyone's designation: wealthy, most are very well off and then I have peeps who have given up the exec life opting for something simpler, and those who have yet to get to that place they deserve in terms of prosperity.
I’ll tell you this much, what I see first hand, is that happiness is directly equated to what you give. Rich or poor, retired by 40 or juggling a day job to support a higher artistic vision, the people who give are shinier, happier people.
You can call it “pay it forward” “you give what you get” “as within, so without…” it’s not how much do you give, it’s DO you give? And in what spirit do you give? Reluctantly, because you feel like you should? Do you take into account how much others around you have and make up the difference because you know you can afford more? If money isn’t flourishing, do you give in other ways? There’s no wrong, it’s not a quiz, but really… look… do you give?
Money is just energy. It’s all just consciousness. And as all the “good” work we try to do on ourselves is not a one-for-one exchange, neither are the karmic backlashes of those times we remain tight-fisted out of “reason.” Greed, apathy, hoarding, these are unconscious exercises that lead to cancer, shutting down, a hardening of the heart. Our media only exacerbates the situation with it’s constant fear-inducing dramatics. Turn down the volume.
I’ve been (pardon the pun) on both sides of the coin. Even very recently, taken out by friends when things were tight, and I have in the past gratefully footed the bill when I know it’s tough for someone else. But it’s not about money is it? It’s about love, and with a card, a phone call in hearing someone out when you really have ‘better things to do,', making the choice to put someone's needs in front of our own when it may not be the comfiest response... what you give is what you get. When you gamble on the good, life will not let you down, and cultivating generosity will morph it into a natural practice.
The people who own that insanely awesome Cape Cod house are hugely active philanthropists. Their home (it was at least their 2nd, maybe even 3rd?,) covered in family photographs of smiling faces. They have the formula figured out, and you can see it in the walls—there is no end in sight to the richness of their lives. Prosperity consciousness always starts from within. Heart to hearth, that’s the path.
My ex and bestie is one of the greatest of all time, but he doesn’t have a mind for logistics. Or rather, he doesn’t have MY mind for logistics, which when thrown a potpourri of information will have it immediately organized, people inspired and bossed around, and all data cross-referenced and color coded in detailed printouts with back-up digital copies on the always carted Blackberry, just in case.
So when his family bid on the aforementioned private mansion at a charity auction and were unable to use its seven bedrooms for a week away, natch I was called to step in and figure out who went where. We weren’t quite given enough notice allowing peeps to plan proper vacation time off, so it became a hodge podge of guests; a puzzle of room arranging that required (in my mind) spreadsheets.
The bestie and I had just departed from a “woo” weekend workshop when we learned of the house. Needless to say, we were particularly open. I ended up inviting two people to join our vaca who were strangers pre-workshop. One was tall, gorgeous Katie. She radiated. I literally thought: Amazon woman, Greek goddess. Katie seemed like too confining a name for such epic female form. She and I complimented each other in the bathroom and came back to our seats only to find we were sitting side by side. We watched each other pull out a green juice from our respective bags with a manicured hand, at which point I looked her in the eye and said, “We’re going to be new best friends.” Once I found out she lived close to me on Perry Street, the deal was done.
Her own bestie in tow David was a handsome, quiet man with an unwavering groundedness and one of those bodies that is incredibly well cared for. (That’s the PC version of: really super yoked.) We didn’t speak as much, but in my mind, I grouped them together. I immediately adored the outgoing gal, and by default, trusted her entourage. They were shortly thereafter invited to the Cape with ten other friends.
In the road trip up, I gave the breakdown of that weekend’s guests to the guy I was dating at the time. (This was a fairly new relationship, and he did get mad props for being game to join. A dozen people he didn’t really know? Our first weekend away in a house that was provided by my Ex-husband? Creative and spiritual types that he had absolutely no close relationship with in his own world? Mad props.)
That being said, once I mentioned the two new additions to our group, he pretty much told me he thought I was out of my mind.
"You mean, you don't even know these people?”
I looked at him, all puppy-eyed and innocent (a recently cultivated look,) “I’ve never met them, but I know them.”
(Hm. Now looking back on it, this might have been the moment that the relationship took a turn toward its expiration.)
“Wow, I just don’t know anyone who would ever do that.”
“That’s how we roll. I can see they’re good people. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Well, lucky for me, so this story may somewhere, sometime veer near a point, only the best happened. Katie and David turned out to get gold stars for the weekend; their generosity was bountiful. An unecessary boon to all of us, for sure, and a windfall that was not even karmically mine—the house after all had nothing to do with me, I was merely the company manager for its arrangements.
After a couple of days of David and Katie’s general fun-loving magnanimous attitudes and deep awesomeness, even the guy I was with admitted, "I misjudged him. I’m touched that he would be so generous without knowing me.” The guy was given a book from the local Barnes and Noble and some excellent free therapy that he was enthusiastic about at the time, but that I’m not sure he ever heeded.
David and Katie grew to be good friends in separate ways. Katie was always great for a bright smile or a no frills soul excavation, and made the cut to the short-list roster for a “girls night” crew—my own “pink ladies” of Manhattan. I began to work with David as my network chiropractor and his insight and wisdom continues to floor me every time I think I can get away with a choice that’s less than what I ultimately deserve and he calls me out on my own sneaky ego-ic b.s. When I needed a space for my first Goddess weekend workshop, he offered his office flatiron loft with a generosity beyond measure: “It’s your first time, just give me whatever you want for utilities.”
Unbounded generosity from a heart-centered hunch and a pinch of faith. This… this is how I would like to see the world starting to work on a large scale. What if we trusted people more? What if we left places/spaces/events better than when we found them, to hold the integrity for having faith in that trust?
Jim Carrey spoke recently about how the “news has the media condense all of this negativity in one place and is not representative of what the world is, or what the world wants.” We have a misperception about the goodness of life. People are starting to shift that perception, because celebration is truckload of a lot more fun. Call it a vanity of self expansion: Faith makes you prettier. Integrity offers peace of mind. Generosity keeps the flow of abundance open.
Financially my friends run the gamut. There are a few who are by anyone's designation: wealthy, most are very well off and then I have peeps who have given up the exec life opting for something simpler, and those who have yet to get to that place they deserve in terms of prosperity.
I’ll tell you this much, what I see first hand, is that happiness is directly equated to what you give. Rich or poor, retired by 40 or juggling a day job to support a higher artistic vision, the people who give are shinier, happier people.
You can call it “pay it forward” “you give what you get” “as within, so without…” it’s not how much do you give, it’s DO you give? And in what spirit do you give? Reluctantly, because you feel like you should? Do you take into account how much others around you have and make up the difference because you know you can afford more? If money isn’t flourishing, do you give in other ways? There’s no wrong, it’s not a quiz, but really… look… do you give?
Money is just energy. It’s all just consciousness. And as all the “good” work we try to do on ourselves is not a one-for-one exchange, neither are the karmic backlashes of those times we remain tight-fisted out of “reason.” Greed, apathy, hoarding, these are unconscious exercises that lead to cancer, shutting down, a hardening of the heart. Our media only exacerbates the situation with it’s constant fear-inducing dramatics. Turn down the volume.
I’ve been (pardon the pun) on both sides of the coin. Even very recently, taken out by friends when things were tight, and I have in the past gratefully footed the bill when I know it’s tough for someone else. But it’s not about money is it? It’s about love, and with a card, a phone call in hearing someone out when you really have ‘better things to do,', making the choice to put someone's needs in front of our own when it may not be the comfiest response... what you give is what you get. When you gamble on the good, life will not let you down, and cultivating generosity will morph it into a natural practice.
The people who own that insanely awesome Cape Cod house are hugely active philanthropists. Their home (it was at least their 2nd, maybe even 3rd?,) covered in family photographs of smiling faces. They have the formula figured out, and you can see it in the walls—there is no end in sight to the richness of their lives. Prosperity consciousness always starts from within. Heart to hearth, that’s the path.
Monday, October 11, 2010
when life chooses for us
There was one full day that my iPod repeated Kelly Clarkson’s “Since You’ve Been Gone” a solid seven times. I pulled the rebounder/trampoline from underneath my bed and with some fierce fist-pumping, seriously bounced it out. In fact, I have an old iTunes playlist dubbed “screw you” which came in super handy for about 48 hours. The itinerary that week was: shock/pasta/wine, bouncing/punching/kicking and then my inevitable green juice cleanse/turn in/give it up/let go/figure it out.
One moment everything was perfect and the next I was jilted; inelegantly, impolitely and unconsciously. I did my best to not add any drama to the “story.” Still the (unsolicited, unanimous) response from my friends at the scene of the crime was clear: “what??” “are you serious??” “not ok” “game over” “done.”
There’s a Sioux legend that states: “The longest journey you will make in your life is from your head to your heart.” Here I had the reverse situation. My head, my friends and even my (usually zen and silent) hairdresser clearly pointed out the red flags and danger, yet still, my silly heart wanted it. Thank you, Kelly Clarkson, for bouncing me straight.
When my own emotional dust dissipated I was left with the question that had come up immediately, and finally the clear-headedness to approach it: How did I bring this to myself? What is it in me that caused this to happen? Am I really that dumb or is there something that hasn’t been cleared yet? And I sank in, I went deep, I unearthed a past hurt I thought was over—a trauma from my childhood I thought in all these years of “woo” I had worked through, and there it was, its sad little face, whimpering, “Hey, I’m still here.“ I pulled her into an embrace of acceptance and love… I hold this. I take responsibility for it. I bring the ugliness to light and so the story changes, NOW.
I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, there is something major and unprecedented up with the world as of late. There is quite simply no one I know who is on solid ground. Looking around at my friends, those close to me, anybody who is really working on figuring it all out whether though yoga, therapy, parenthood (rather than just blindly forging ahead in a chosen surface ignorance) is struggling/unsure/unclear in a major aspect of their life. Monstrous curve balls are being thrown in our faces, rugs pulled out from under us, or we’re stuck in patterns of indecision, restlessness, pain and almost everyone has really just about had enough.
A friend of a friend described it as constipation, which I think is most appropriate. We are on the precipice of something great but we can’t see what that is, and right now it feels like everyone needs a huge dose of emotional, spiritual or financial Ex Lax.
The peeps in India say two things—firstly I’ve been hearing for months that there is a giant energy shift in November, another in March and of course the upcoming 2012 brouhaha. Ok, November (jeez, there better be,) almost here, bring it. They also said this week that if we are in the midst of all of this existential suffering, if we are experiencing more of that than physical (i.e.: ‘ow, my bones are creaking, that f’ing hurts’) or psychological (‘why did he say that, what happens if she doesn’t call me, he/she/they had no right to do that, why are my bones creaking?’)—if those thoughts are secondary to a general “what am I doing with my life/what’s the purpose” malaise, then that means we are “guaranteed” enlightenment in this life and we should be celebrating the uncomfortability. Eckhart Tolle and his three years of misery were referenced. Props went out to David Hawkins.
Regardless of all that, we cannot know something as true until we experience it. Therefore, I am not offering you the information above as something I know to be upcoming fact. I’m not a fortune teller, I’m a downtown philosopher with a hole in the big toe of her sock and Lindt sea salt dark chocolate on her tongue, who can’t even fast-forward six hours to make a commitment for dinner tonight. I write it here, so that if it might happen to give you comfort, then that opportunity is there.
The last months, well, years, of my life have been consumed by an enthusiasm for this knowledge; by a desire to share what I have seen and learned most simply and humbly because the quality of my world is so much more excellent having been exposed to these things. The rewards of living a conscious life, again, cannot be known until experienced. Are we going to reach “enlightenment” in this life? To be honest, I don’t really quite care. I’m here. I show up. I’m present for my friends. Even in pain, I am clear-headed, this is all I know to be true. This is what’s real for me.
I was very recently asked by a skeptic, what happens if none of this stuff turns out to be true? What if there is no huge shift in 2012? What if humanity stays the same? What if this is it? And by the way, “you’re beautiful, smart, sweet… I don’t understand why don’t you really go and do something with your life?”
I wish I could say with authority that I chose this… this artist’s life, which is now morphing/merging with an even more amorphous (less practical, less definable, let’s be honest—less “marketable” artist/philosopher life.) Would more credence be given to what I was doing if I were made rich by doing it? In America, it sure would. But we don’t just live in America. We live in a realm bigger than this. I didn’t “choose” to be here, I just followed my heart and my intuition and know it’s not “me” doing it and the joy, the beauty, even in the pain, even in the difficulty, reflecting back at me both pre and post Kelly Clarkson bouncing is something I wouldn’t trade for anything. And I have exquisite taste, if I do say so myself, so that’s no small statement.
I didn’t choose it. It chose me. And I choose to have the faith that this is where I need to be at this moment, and that this moment is perfect. And to my friends who are so outrageously beautiful and inspiring, I say hold fast. The faith isn’t only for myself; it’s for you, for us.
Because even though I can’t lavish the people I love with the material things of this world in the way that I wish I could right now… even though things might be messy and muddy and mascara smeared… even though I’m a tiny woman with a laptop on a chaise in a Village studio, I might be tiny, but I’m not small. None of us are. And so we hang on to that faith, in each other, in something greater around us because we trust the beauty that is our authenticity. We trust that even when it looks ugly, that by choosing to live an integral life, the beauty is on the way. When everything falls apart, we find the courage to be brave, to be raw, to be present, to be real. And that to me, is the most important thing of all.
One moment everything was perfect and the next I was jilted; inelegantly, impolitely and unconsciously. I did my best to not add any drama to the “story.” Still the (unsolicited, unanimous) response from my friends at the scene of the crime was clear: “what??” “are you serious??” “not ok” “game over” “done.”
There’s a Sioux legend that states: “The longest journey you will make in your life is from your head to your heart.” Here I had the reverse situation. My head, my friends and even my (usually zen and silent) hairdresser clearly pointed out the red flags and danger, yet still, my silly heart wanted it. Thank you, Kelly Clarkson, for bouncing me straight.
When my own emotional dust dissipated I was left with the question that had come up immediately, and finally the clear-headedness to approach it: How did I bring this to myself? What is it in me that caused this to happen? Am I really that dumb or is there something that hasn’t been cleared yet? And I sank in, I went deep, I unearthed a past hurt I thought was over—a trauma from my childhood I thought in all these years of “woo” I had worked through, and there it was, its sad little face, whimpering, “Hey, I’m still here.“ I pulled her into an embrace of acceptance and love… I hold this. I take responsibility for it. I bring the ugliness to light and so the story changes, NOW.
I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, there is something major and unprecedented up with the world as of late. There is quite simply no one I know who is on solid ground. Looking around at my friends, those close to me, anybody who is really working on figuring it all out whether though yoga, therapy, parenthood (rather than just blindly forging ahead in a chosen surface ignorance) is struggling/unsure/unclear in a major aspect of their life. Monstrous curve balls are being thrown in our faces, rugs pulled out from under us, or we’re stuck in patterns of indecision, restlessness, pain and almost everyone has really just about had enough.
A friend of a friend described it as constipation, which I think is most appropriate. We are on the precipice of something great but we can’t see what that is, and right now it feels like everyone needs a huge dose of emotional, spiritual or financial Ex Lax.
The peeps in India say two things—firstly I’ve been hearing for months that there is a giant energy shift in November, another in March and of course the upcoming 2012 brouhaha. Ok, November (jeez, there better be,) almost here, bring it. They also said this week that if we are in the midst of all of this existential suffering, if we are experiencing more of that than physical (i.e.: ‘ow, my bones are creaking, that f’ing hurts’) or psychological (‘why did he say that, what happens if she doesn’t call me, he/she/they had no right to do that, why are my bones creaking?’)—if those thoughts are secondary to a general “what am I doing with my life/what’s the purpose” malaise, then that means we are “guaranteed” enlightenment in this life and we should be celebrating the uncomfortability. Eckhart Tolle and his three years of misery were referenced. Props went out to David Hawkins.
Regardless of all that, we cannot know something as true until we experience it. Therefore, I am not offering you the information above as something I know to be upcoming fact. I’m not a fortune teller, I’m a downtown philosopher with a hole in the big toe of her sock and Lindt sea salt dark chocolate on her tongue, who can’t even fast-forward six hours to make a commitment for dinner tonight. I write it here, so that if it might happen to give you comfort, then that opportunity is there.
The last months, well, years, of my life have been consumed by an enthusiasm for this knowledge; by a desire to share what I have seen and learned most simply and humbly because the quality of my world is so much more excellent having been exposed to these things. The rewards of living a conscious life, again, cannot be known until experienced. Are we going to reach “enlightenment” in this life? To be honest, I don’t really quite care. I’m here. I show up. I’m present for my friends. Even in pain, I am clear-headed, this is all I know to be true. This is what’s real for me.
I was very recently asked by a skeptic, what happens if none of this stuff turns out to be true? What if there is no huge shift in 2012? What if humanity stays the same? What if this is it? And by the way, “you’re beautiful, smart, sweet… I don’t understand why don’t you really go and do something with your life?”
I wish I could say with authority that I chose this… this artist’s life, which is now morphing/merging with an even more amorphous (less practical, less definable, let’s be honest—less “marketable” artist/philosopher life.) Would more credence be given to what I was doing if I were made rich by doing it? In America, it sure would. But we don’t just live in America. We live in a realm bigger than this. I didn’t “choose” to be here, I just followed my heart and my intuition and know it’s not “me” doing it and the joy, the beauty, even in the pain, even in the difficulty, reflecting back at me both pre and post Kelly Clarkson bouncing is something I wouldn’t trade for anything. And I have exquisite taste, if I do say so myself, so that’s no small statement.
I didn’t choose it. It chose me. And I choose to have the faith that this is where I need to be at this moment, and that this moment is perfect. And to my friends who are so outrageously beautiful and inspiring, I say hold fast. The faith isn’t only for myself; it’s for you, for us.
Because even though I can’t lavish the people I love with the material things of this world in the way that I wish I could right now… even though things might be messy and muddy and mascara smeared… even though I’m a tiny woman with a laptop on a chaise in a Village studio, I might be tiny, but I’m not small. None of us are. And so we hang on to that faith, in each other, in something greater around us because we trust the beauty that is our authenticity. We trust that even when it looks ugly, that by choosing to live an integral life, the beauty is on the way. When everything falls apart, we find the courage to be brave, to be raw, to be present, to be real. And that to me, is the most important thing of all.
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.
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