Today I cried.
And cried.
And cried.
And I am not, never have been, a crier. I’ve almost always been envious of criers. Even lying on a yoga mat, going through meditations dispelling grievances, I listened to a bestie’s unmistakable avalanches of tears in the nearby front row, admiring, “wow, she really lets herself go there… kinda jealous.”
Several of us participated in a weekend workshop whose main premise was to remove the barriers and charges that we construct in our lifetimes of conditioning via media and society, in turn releasing patterns of hurt from relationships and images of what we think things are supposed to look like. Awakening into a daily practice and journey of living a life of integrity and true authenticity. Geez louise, that sounds so blahbitty blah. I almost just fell asleep myself re-reading that just now.
It’s about being real.
Real in a society that prizes dramatic camera angle shifts and theatrical underscoring in game shows. Real when “have a nice day” can often be a rote response devoid of eye contact.
All this processing was not easy, but necessary. Beautiful, but sticky and unglamorous.
Thank God for two urban upscale chic twin sisters out from Cali who kept it all on the level and led us through it all, b.s. flowery spiritual pretension aside. Shout out to Catherine and Elizabeth, um, you rock beyond belief.
After a very long and gorgeously arduous Day One of our workshop, I rousted from leggings and blankie, quick-changed to designer jeans with a sweep of shadow from my Mac palette, and out the door to meet the person who is a new great joy of my life. Who I hope will continue to be the great joy in my life...
Instead of finding a sweet respite my (ugh, HATED this word at this moment) my f’ing PROCESSING brought up a state of irritability usually completely foreign to me these days. Grouchiness, disconnection, poutiness, exhaustion—all in the middle of what was supposed to be my awakening, enlightening, om shanti weekend. I was meant to be walking on water, bestowing virtual rose petals to those around me, blessing people with my angelic presence by having them waft through my wake, and instead I was stomping my feet on Houston like a sorority girl just shy of her daily minimum iced-venti-skinny-sugar-free-vanilla latte requirement.
The universe was telling me, sorry sweetheart—no comfort here, you’re going to have to process this one on your own.
And I did, at 4:30am sleeplessly and restlessly pacing in my kitchen, owning my own aggravations, taking responsibility for my reactions, and in that magic transmutation of accepting and letting go of our charges, awoke to a blackberry blinking with words of forgiveness, acceptance from the aforementioned person I would like to keep around in my life. I owned my own bull-sh*% and everything else worked out.
And today after another ridiculous day of intense exercises and meditations, of people moaning, wailing, growling, laughing unabashedly (so much so an outside observer might doubt the laughter’s verity,) I sat relatively calmly in a Neo state of observing, holding space. A slight nausea, a quickening of cell fluctuation and a determined quest during the break for a person holding chocolate to share, were my greatest outbursts.
Until the end of the day, when each of my friends, and several were present, went up to experience something known as mukti deeksha, which is not to be explained or fruitlessly detailed other than to say it is profound and sacred.
My ex and bestie got up and as I held my hands palm to palm, whispering silently to whomever was listening for his highest good, I broke out into rivers of tears. Maybelline Great Lash in Very Very Black waterproof (hardly) mascara staining my cheeks.
Vocal sobs. Not of pain. The emotion of the moment was too overwhelming to barrier behind tear ducts, too visceral to contain inside any subdued or appropriate behavior. (This was a safe space, this would not show up on YouTube, so you know, why not go there?) A moment of almost maternal pride, of honor, of deeply humble appreciation. As each of my peeps went up and the tears ebbed and flowed, it was as though watching family, the connection so strong, and like witnessing a sacrament, the experience so, for lack of a better word (or perhaps it is precisely the right one) holy.
Almost a decade ago, I threw vicious, stiletto-like puncturing wounds of words at the ex and bestie, on a more than regular basis, and wouldn’t be surprised it he reminded me that there was an actual shoe lobbed in the mix at any one of countless raging battles.
Twenty years ago, I stabbed my sister in her shoulder with a pencil. She has a small blue tattooed dot where the lead now lives, that she will still shuffle out in a show and tell of that obnoxious incident.
Whatever the reason, I used to be not nice and very very angry. As we all collectively went through layers and layers this weekend, excavating tombs of fury and resentment, I found that on all fronts familial and familiar, there was nothing left to unearth.
I had worked through it.
There are varying levels of “success” I’ve had in the dozen years since graduating college. Peaks from an outsider’s perspective could include stage door scenes of people lining up for photos or autographs during a successful run, awards, being able to walk into Louis Vuitton and drop thousands of dollars without the blink of an eye, personal triumphs that, not to mention, led to association at times with celebrities, political notables from Mayors to Presidents, first class plane tickets, invites to exclusive international clubs, stints in exquisite rooms at Four Seasons, Mandarin Orientals, Ritz Carltons the world over. These have not been the course of my daily life, but those peaks have been present and abundant.
Without a doubt my proudest moments have nothing to do with anything that might impress anyone else.
I had a strong reaction this past week when someone new in the picture pressed me to define what I was “doing” with my life. This person did not want to see my talents wasted, and it was a challenge to my ego, for shizzle. What I have been doing is unquantifiable and even I can’t take credit for it because it’s out of my hands. At best, I could point toward a room of sweaty, wrought people with a sparkle in their eye and say, “well, I kinda held a sign that pointed them here.” Not exactly press-clipping worthy.
My most significant triumphs have been private.
Non reactive behavior. A cessation of anger. Someone flicking me off or screaming at me and not having defenses flare up, but instead cocking my head quizzically and silently blessing them instead. A peace that has developed within me that is deep enough to withstand terrific earthquakes, and when they come, they are low on the rictor scale and disperse quickly.
Am I en route to saintliness?
Shall I never sin again?
Has anger or resentment taken a permanent vacation from the emotive contexts of my actions? Absolutely not. I don’t have the desire (or the wherewithal, let’s be honest) to be so virginally, crystal clear because I enjoy the grittiness of life too much. I like vodka. I love being passionate. I am innately feisty. What’s the point of existence if there’s no room for naughty?
But if my major weekend processing was about getting through a marginal princess moment, I think I’m all right.
If my biggest conflict was resolving misaligned communication with someone I care for, although unwelcome, uncomfortable and momentarily heart-wrenching, if we could turn that around in a matter of hours, I will warmly and eagerly accept a brief discomfort in the greater trade off toward authenticity. A wave of pain is so inconsequential when kept in perspective of a life that used to be an ocean of ungrounded grasping. That this was my largest disturbance in a world that used to be full of violence, selfishness, petty acting out and anger, is my most exceptional success.
This afternoon I went up for my own mukti experience, and as I stepped to what could best be described as a makeshift altar, I found myself again, overwhelmed by tears. To be humbled by grace, to feel for others more than I do myself, to know that all of that can only be present when I take care of myself first? Fountains of tears of gratitude for all that is, that I am a part of it, and it is a part of me.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
material of the misfortunate
I usually choose not to get bloggity blog specific with too intimate details here, but two events happened this week that were kinda big and will change the course of the lives of people around me, and then, since we’re all swimming in the same river, it only stands to reason, my raft will be vulnerable to their tide.
The irony is that there are other areas of my personal life that are flourishing in a more beautiful way than they have in years. One aspect is not a tide—it’s a zen pool of deliciousness—out of Hershey’s syrup even, it’s so sweet. And perhaps it’s not irony—is it balance? Does the universe automatically fluctuate to keep a yin/yang equilibrium? Is it that when one portion of the world is (capital W) Wonderful, the other is challenging so it all evens out?... like, rather than having an ebb or flow of life that is a clearly juxtaposed, black and white couple months of “yay,” couple months of “boo,” instead as we mature and our personal fabrics grow intimately and infinitely more complicated, the varying textures allow for a simultaneous richness we hadn’t expected? Like the lotus flower, reminding us, you can’t bloom the beauty without trudging through the swamp underneath—both are necessary parts.
So, to simply state it, two of the females I love most in this world had life changing events this week. Penelope, my 12lb toy fox terrier, to whom (although my ex and bestie houses her) I am still considered mommy with visitation rights, was viciously and brutally attacked by a German Shepard in the Tompkins Square dog run. Although the doctor called her quite the fighter and after a few days in the vet hospital she will live through this, she now looks like a sad, cute, heart-wrenching little furry Frankenstein.
My mother was diagnosed with cancer in both breasts. Cancer has never run in our family. My mother has always been a pretty robust woman. It was a shot out of the dark.
Although I have always been a pillar of strength with my family on some level, when texting with my bestie who pressed into how I was feeling, I found myself surprisingly nonplussed. I even SMS joked: “I’m ok. Really. Too ok? Either I’m in denial or I’m an enlightened being.”
It’s not that I didn’t care, it’s just my mind did not go to some dramatic supposition of what would, what COULD happen. There is not a doubt in my mind that the calm I have access to has everything to do with yoga/meditation/deeksha and our various philosophical pursuits. My mind did not engage in a fear consciousness and fast-forward to hospitals and deathbeds and rainy April funerals. What happened/is happening to both my beloved ladies is not dramatic or unjust or tragic, it just is.
That’s not to say I was devoid of emotion. I burst into tears when seeing my little princess’ mangled body, covered in blood, she, drugged to the extent that she had difficulty recognizing my presence, going in and out of consciousness. But I knew, Penelope would gain insight and strength; her scars would be a unique addition to what was once looked at as a purebred, potentially champion show-quality bod. She’s been East Village’d—tattooed with experience, with character.
The cancer could be the biggest blessing my mother has ever experienced. After years of loudmouth nagging my family toward healthier proclivities (I might have thought it impossible to coax the ham and vodka out of a Pole’s diet) perhaps this gives my mother an opportunity to experiment and examine living in a different way. An unfamiliar, uncomfortable, alternative, painful way, yes, because it’s new, because it’s not what the media tells us is the way… but if we don’t present ourselves with uncomfortable situations—if we allow ourselves to be anesthetized by primetime and pre-packaged meals, is that living? Doesn’t the glitter abound when we take that uncomfortable, unfamiliar leap into love, into a new set of habits, into going against the flow of what everyone around us is doing and following that guidance within ourselves?
Isn’t cancer a way of saying--- “Hi, good morning. Stop. Go back to go. Collect your $200. Let’s take care of this and then you’re going to get a do over.”
A vicious, seemingly random animal attack houses inherent in the incident’s wake an outpouring of community, a love that’s sewn tighter with stitches, incredible bravery on the part of the warrior princess pup, a shaking up of the status quo for a neighborhood to illustrate: Here is who we are; Here is what we believe; Here’s how we roll.
Already (even in only 24 hours within the diagnosis) I see reflections of my mother I have never seen before. She is astoundingly more positive than I ever thought she could be at this point, fortifying herself to the circumstance that she will do whatever it takes to beat her befallen maladies. I watch her bravery build and it stitches me closer to her heart; it grows my love for her stronger. My pride and confidence for her is renewed; a top off of admiration. Who she truly is as a person is shining through in this put upon adversity. Go MOM. And although these lessons will be hers to process, to learn, to overcome, what’s happening provides me with the opportunity to see as an adult woman, the shiny essence of my mother. Maybe for the first time, she’s not protecting me from herself. Who she is. What she believes. How she rolls. And as the stitching grows more intricate, the beauty of life’s fabric is interwoven through the pain.
The irony is that there are other areas of my personal life that are flourishing in a more beautiful way than they have in years. One aspect is not a tide—it’s a zen pool of deliciousness—out of Hershey’s syrup even, it’s so sweet. And perhaps it’s not irony—is it balance? Does the universe automatically fluctuate to keep a yin/yang equilibrium? Is it that when one portion of the world is (capital W) Wonderful, the other is challenging so it all evens out?... like, rather than having an ebb or flow of life that is a clearly juxtaposed, black and white couple months of “yay,” couple months of “boo,” instead as we mature and our personal fabrics grow intimately and infinitely more complicated, the varying textures allow for a simultaneous richness we hadn’t expected? Like the lotus flower, reminding us, you can’t bloom the beauty without trudging through the swamp underneath—both are necessary parts.
So, to simply state it, two of the females I love most in this world had life changing events this week. Penelope, my 12lb toy fox terrier, to whom (although my ex and bestie houses her) I am still considered mommy with visitation rights, was viciously and brutally attacked by a German Shepard in the Tompkins Square dog run. Although the doctor called her quite the fighter and after a few days in the vet hospital she will live through this, she now looks like a sad, cute, heart-wrenching little furry Frankenstein.
My mother was diagnosed with cancer in both breasts. Cancer has never run in our family. My mother has always been a pretty robust woman. It was a shot out of the dark.
Although I have always been a pillar of strength with my family on some level, when texting with my bestie who pressed into how I was feeling, I found myself surprisingly nonplussed. I even SMS joked: “I’m ok. Really. Too ok? Either I’m in denial or I’m an enlightened being.”
It’s not that I didn’t care, it’s just my mind did not go to some dramatic supposition of what would, what COULD happen. There is not a doubt in my mind that the calm I have access to has everything to do with yoga/meditation/deeksha and our various philosophical pursuits. My mind did not engage in a fear consciousness and fast-forward to hospitals and deathbeds and rainy April funerals. What happened/is happening to both my beloved ladies is not dramatic or unjust or tragic, it just is.
That’s not to say I was devoid of emotion. I burst into tears when seeing my little princess’ mangled body, covered in blood, she, drugged to the extent that she had difficulty recognizing my presence, going in and out of consciousness. But I knew, Penelope would gain insight and strength; her scars would be a unique addition to what was once looked at as a purebred, potentially champion show-quality bod. She’s been East Village’d—tattooed with experience, with character.
The cancer could be the biggest blessing my mother has ever experienced. After years of loudmouth nagging my family toward healthier proclivities (I might have thought it impossible to coax the ham and vodka out of a Pole’s diet) perhaps this gives my mother an opportunity to experiment and examine living in a different way. An unfamiliar, uncomfortable, alternative, painful way, yes, because it’s new, because it’s not what the media tells us is the way… but if we don’t present ourselves with uncomfortable situations—if we allow ourselves to be anesthetized by primetime and pre-packaged meals, is that living? Doesn’t the glitter abound when we take that uncomfortable, unfamiliar leap into love, into a new set of habits, into going against the flow of what everyone around us is doing and following that guidance within ourselves?
Isn’t cancer a way of saying--- “Hi, good morning. Stop. Go back to go. Collect your $200. Let’s take care of this and then you’re going to get a do over.”
A vicious, seemingly random animal attack houses inherent in the incident’s wake an outpouring of community, a love that’s sewn tighter with stitches, incredible bravery on the part of the warrior princess pup, a shaking up of the status quo for a neighborhood to illustrate: Here is who we are; Here is what we believe; Here’s how we roll.
Already (even in only 24 hours within the diagnosis) I see reflections of my mother I have never seen before. She is astoundingly more positive than I ever thought she could be at this point, fortifying herself to the circumstance that she will do whatever it takes to beat her befallen maladies. I watch her bravery build and it stitches me closer to her heart; it grows my love for her stronger. My pride and confidence for her is renewed; a top off of admiration. Who she truly is as a person is shining through in this put upon adversity. Go MOM. And although these lessons will be hers to process, to learn, to overcome, what’s happening provides me with the opportunity to see as an adult woman, the shiny essence of my mother. Maybe for the first time, she’s not protecting me from herself. Who she is. What she believes. How she rolls. And as the stitching grows more intricate, the beauty of life’s fabric is interwoven through the pain.
Friday, April 9, 2010
love letter to my better half
Last night was one of those perfect New York City nights. A rogue 80 degree April day folded into a balmy, urban Thursday evening. A bestie was scooting through for the weekend before embarking on his next international chapter and we met at a hip and casual West Village cantina for Italian. Private school teenagers lazily luxuriated outside the entrance in 5-inch heels, dangling Chanel purses. Couples in hipster duds giggling and practically skipping up Hudson trekked North to the loud glitter of the meatpacking district. Eye contact and the once over were granted to each passerby as everyone invigorated by the electricity of the bewildering warmth was out for a night on the town.
Ours was a multi course meal lubricated with carafes of wine and dirty martinis as we caught up on love, careers, creative aspirations… several hours later we added a 3rd bestie, heatedly debating free will vs. a fixed plan and myriads of other philosophies over bottomless cups of frozen rusty knots. My friend was especially exuberant because although he lived a block away, he’d been on tour for two years and was therefore beyond himself to be back in the land of pretty people and picante conversation. The city sizzled. And we tapped in.
The West Village is a magical place. Although it’s existed for hundreds of years, in the last decade it has become (if perhaps more gentrified and less affordable to bohemians) only more coveted, more relevant in some way, more intrinsically cool. It’s popularity, particularly in the summer months, has even grown to be a bit of a nuisance. Fighting to get home on a weekend night is as though through a parade, and not just on Halloween. Its cast of characters ranges from extras to day players to contract roles and there is a sense from everyone living or visiting that they want to be a part of it. Wanting to be seen, to be involved, to be where the action is and having a sense of belonging within it. If all the world’s a stage, the West Village is down center, with two follow spots aimed at its streets.
Around the world there are areas known to have energy vortexes—Sedona, part of India, the Himalayas, Machu Picchu, the list goes on. These are locales that have high energy due to electromagnetic fields and are linked to ley lines—energy lines. All of these are supposedly attuned to the chakras, energy centers of our physical bodies that operate in tandem with our nervous systems.
New York is not considered to be an energy vortex or to have any sort of auspicious lay lines that run through its streets. However, what if one could argue that the energy produced from its residents/commuters/passerbys is just as influential in the ability to affect our nervous system’s perception as any topographical designations? And if that energy is concentrated most where people want to be, then the West Village is it. There is something drawing us here that is beyond the brownstoned, cobblestoned blocks, Bleecker Street boutique couture and Batali eateries. Aside from the parades of people, coming from someone who works in one of the city’s busiest real estate offices, I can tell you—the West Village listings get the most hits city wide.
Known as “Little Bohemia” as far off as a century ago, and ground zero for the zany well before that, the WV is off the grid, on every level. Even today, its tucked away, convoluted floorplan of zig-zagged streets caters to those seeking a creative (albeit affluent) cache. Although many can’t, or don’t want to, afford the price per square foot that this area now brings, there is a tribal sense of belonging for residents in knowing that you are giving up comfort because you want to be here. Because you NEED to be here.
Regardless of whether one believes in energy or chakras or what have you, we all have at least a very basic gauge of an energy or mood someone emits. You know when your lover is in a bad mood and you need to give her some space, or bring her a glass of pinot, tout de suite. A depressive can enter a room and vacuum the life out of it instantaneously. Back in the days we used to party, I had the fattest Chihuahua of all time, Frederick, who had a very keen sense of people. There was always a rotating crew filtering through our after-parties, and although we might be too inebriated to judge someone’s character, Frederick would get low to the ground with a vicious growl until the wacked out person would leave—the straggler wouldn’t even be doing anything different than anyone else, but Frederick could sense the danger of this person’s energy on a level we could not intimate.
If these levels of energy from people around us affect us, could there not also be residual traces left behind of those who were here before our time? And furthermore, if space and time do not exist as many postulate, couldn't we theoretically have and allow ourselves a connection to those energies in the here and now?
And so perhaps it’s not the Magnolia cupcakes or Christopher Street sex shops that draw us here but it’s the essence and the spirit of the artists of past generations. The beat poets of the 50’s, the free loving nature of the gay community overtaking the area in the 80’s, the generations of actors, painters, artists, for whom “off the grid” was the only way to live and the one place that truly felt like home.
If they once took this place over, are they not here now? Are we not feeding off of their vestigial dreams, aspirations, bathing in their triumphs and empathizing in their defeats? Could it be possible that I, on some level, could connect my chakras and soak up or tap into the consciousness of Eugene O’Neill, Bob Dylan or Eleanor Roosevelt? Can I open my private lay lines to inhibit the soul of a past creative revolution or connect to a crux of inspiration? Wouldn’t that be incredible?
Only thing is, I’m not really sure how to do that. But it’s a nice thought. And it doesn’t hurt to try. Until I figure it out, I’m just super grateful that some of the city’s best gelato is a few blocks away. I’m going to go grab some Ciacco Peperoncino and eat it in front of Edna St. Vincent Millay’s townhouse. If I can’t get in her head, at least the hypothesis will be delish to contemplate.
Ours was a multi course meal lubricated with carafes of wine and dirty martinis as we caught up on love, careers, creative aspirations… several hours later we added a 3rd bestie, heatedly debating free will vs. a fixed plan and myriads of other philosophies over bottomless cups of frozen rusty knots. My friend was especially exuberant because although he lived a block away, he’d been on tour for two years and was therefore beyond himself to be back in the land of pretty people and picante conversation. The city sizzled. And we tapped in.
The West Village is a magical place. Although it’s existed for hundreds of years, in the last decade it has become (if perhaps more gentrified and less affordable to bohemians) only more coveted, more relevant in some way, more intrinsically cool. It’s popularity, particularly in the summer months, has even grown to be a bit of a nuisance. Fighting to get home on a weekend night is as though through a parade, and not just on Halloween. Its cast of characters ranges from extras to day players to contract roles and there is a sense from everyone living or visiting that they want to be a part of it. Wanting to be seen, to be involved, to be where the action is and having a sense of belonging within it. If all the world’s a stage, the West Village is down center, with two follow spots aimed at its streets.
Around the world there are areas known to have energy vortexes—Sedona, part of India, the Himalayas, Machu Picchu, the list goes on. These are locales that have high energy due to electromagnetic fields and are linked to ley lines—energy lines. All of these are supposedly attuned to the chakras, energy centers of our physical bodies that operate in tandem with our nervous systems.
New York is not considered to be an energy vortex or to have any sort of auspicious lay lines that run through its streets. However, what if one could argue that the energy produced from its residents/commuters/passerbys is just as influential in the ability to affect our nervous system’s perception as any topographical designations? And if that energy is concentrated most where people want to be, then the West Village is it. There is something drawing us here that is beyond the brownstoned, cobblestoned blocks, Bleecker Street boutique couture and Batali eateries. Aside from the parades of people, coming from someone who works in one of the city’s busiest real estate offices, I can tell you—the West Village listings get the most hits city wide.
Known as “Little Bohemia” as far off as a century ago, and ground zero for the zany well before that, the WV is off the grid, on every level. Even today, its tucked away, convoluted floorplan of zig-zagged streets caters to those seeking a creative (albeit affluent) cache. Although many can’t, or don’t want to, afford the price per square foot that this area now brings, there is a tribal sense of belonging for residents in knowing that you are giving up comfort because you want to be here. Because you NEED to be here.
Regardless of whether one believes in energy or chakras or what have you, we all have at least a very basic gauge of an energy or mood someone emits. You know when your lover is in a bad mood and you need to give her some space, or bring her a glass of pinot, tout de suite. A depressive can enter a room and vacuum the life out of it instantaneously. Back in the days we used to party, I had the fattest Chihuahua of all time, Frederick, who had a very keen sense of people. There was always a rotating crew filtering through our after-parties, and although we might be too inebriated to judge someone’s character, Frederick would get low to the ground with a vicious growl until the wacked out person would leave—the straggler wouldn’t even be doing anything different than anyone else, but Frederick could sense the danger of this person’s energy on a level we could not intimate.
If these levels of energy from people around us affect us, could there not also be residual traces left behind of those who were here before our time? And furthermore, if space and time do not exist as many postulate, couldn't we theoretically have and allow ourselves a connection to those energies in the here and now?
And so perhaps it’s not the Magnolia cupcakes or Christopher Street sex shops that draw us here but it’s the essence and the spirit of the artists of past generations. The beat poets of the 50’s, the free loving nature of the gay community overtaking the area in the 80’s, the generations of actors, painters, artists, for whom “off the grid” was the only way to live and the one place that truly felt like home.
If they once took this place over, are they not here now? Are we not feeding off of their vestigial dreams, aspirations, bathing in their triumphs and empathizing in their defeats? Could it be possible that I, on some level, could connect my chakras and soak up or tap into the consciousness of Eugene O’Neill, Bob Dylan or Eleanor Roosevelt? Can I open my private lay lines to inhibit the soul of a past creative revolution or connect to a crux of inspiration? Wouldn’t that be incredible?
Only thing is, I’m not really sure how to do that. But it’s a nice thought. And it doesn’t hurt to try. Until I figure it out, I’m just super grateful that some of the city’s best gelato is a few blocks away. I’m going to go grab some Ciacco Peperoncino and eat it in front of Edna St. Vincent Millay’s townhouse. If I can’t get in her head, at least the hypothesis will be delish to contemplate.
Monday, April 5, 2010
love
"Any time not spent on love is wasted." - Torquato Tasso
One of my favorite Easter traditions used to be Swieconka. This is where Polish people gather on Holy Saturday, the day before the day, bringing culinary abundance to be blessed by a priest so that when the vodka and kielbasa starts flowing immediately after morning mass on Sunday, it’s as though the divine has already assuaged any guilt related to the drunken gluttony that will inevitably follow. (I don’t know why only Polish people ever did this—perchance in anticipation of how much Belvedere we’d go through—preventative penance, perhaps.) As I thought of my own impromptu Easter picnic, I wondered if I could incorporate this familial tradition into festivities with friends.
I brought to mind the traditional basket: kielbasa, eggs, a lamb made of butter and one of sugar, ham, cheese, bacon… and I realized that all of these foods, although not entirely nixed from my current diet, are certainly consciously kept at bay on a more than regular basis. Calling my mother, I detailed my predicament. She recounted to me the list from above and I replied,
“Well, I’ve been eating mostly vegan lately, mom, so, you know, none of those things really work so well for me right now.”
She paused thoughtfully, then in a cheery, childlike burst of inspiration chimed in “I know! Lamb! Lamb is also really good to use.”
Pause. (My mind notes silently to itself that my go-to place is not the one of my past, snarky, retaliative sarcasm—awesome, this is growth.) Pause. “…Yeah, um, mom… that’s still not really the best if I’m aiming for VEGAN.”
Today I received this quotation from a random Kabballah newletter:
“Unconditional love is accepting someone as they are, without judgment. And it doesn't just happen. It is a mountain you must constantly climb, looking to the peak even when you've been knocked down to your knees. This is unconditional love.”
My mother and I used to be oil and water. More specifically, I might have fancied myself to be unrefined extra virgin organic expeller cold pressed olive oil and she could not fathom any issue I might have with tap water. Other than sharing an ability to hold a relentless focus toward an object of desire, and my spitting image visage of her 30 years ago (thank you mom,) I’m hard pressed to find many things we have in common. It’s no secret that to get from a rebellious, tantrum throwing, reluctantly suburban sequestered, 15 year old to a place of truly holding my mother in a light where I properly cherish and respect her, took Andes of work.
When we teach ourselves to love, does it stretch the reservoir of our capacity to receive love in greater amounts? I would argue, yes.
Today is Easter and I’m assuming we’re all familiar with the Jesus crucifixion account. After days of torture, the pinnacle of the gory event culminated in his last magnanimous breaths of “Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do.” Now, this wasn’t an evolution of love. This was not a breakthrough climax due to years of cognitive therapy. I would venture to say Jesus was not carrying the cross, whispering silent affirmations regarding himself or those around him. The idea is that Jesus was born to this world encompassing such a pure embodiment of love that he was instantly recognized as sent from elsewhere. He was so tapped into the light, everyone collectively thought, “Dude, it’s obvi this guy is NOT human.” If one chooses to believe that Jesus healed the sick from any number of maladies ranging from blindness to leprosy, the magic is not that HE was able to produce a miracle, it’s that he was able to see the perfection in someone so completely when others couldn’t, that he/she would be connected to that love and thereby be spontaneously healed.
"A Course in Miracles" is a useful text for those interested in metaphysical teachings via a Jesus slant. Using Christic terminology, it speaks to how there are only two forces in this world: fear and love. It postulates that love is the innate state and our natural inheritance, and our work is only about removing the blocks from that love. Jesus had it in spades, but we, as mere mortals, can get there. Every religious or spiritual following basically holds the same truth, but it is said quite succinctly in ACIM.
I think we have been collectively under the veil of the idea that love is something that we are graced with or not. Particularly in contemporary America, where disposable and flashy are coveted material adjectives, the idea that one must tend to love, as though a garden, and root through its weeds, seems unromantic. Unglamorous. Not hot enough for primetime. The commercialization of love via shows such as “The Bachelor” coats relationship in a polyurethane gleam of what something is “supposed” to look like. Props include single long-stemmed red roses, evening gowns, faux waterfalls and emotional waterworks; really it’s just an updated Miss America pageant and instead of a tiara, the winner gets a diamond ring.
“The Bachelor” happens to be one of my mother’s favorite shows, so when visiting her, I have, out of love for her, sat and watched it. And then, like the malleable sheep that I am, have been subsequently sucked into the drama. No mater how set-dressed, Disney-fied or over-produced the show can be, these people do open their hearts and genuine emotion seems to surface. However, even if authentic love could bloom in these plastic surroundings, it’s usually only weeks later the public evaporation is so splashed across the tabloids, I find myself inadvertently learning these people’s names that I know nothing about.
What I have found in my personal experience is that love has nothing to do with anyone around me and everything to do with myself. As I’ve evolved (let’s hope) and that development continues to unroll, the simplest way to put it is, when I am less concerned with myself there is more love for others. What I find intriguing is we are not born with fixed levels of selflessness. Our capacity to love can be nurtured and its muscle developed.
We’ve all experienced the glow of the beginning of a relationship where we’ll bend over backwards for our partner, happily wanting to take care of him/her, perhaps even self-sacrificing to tend to his/her needs. And many times, that fades. The gestures, the romance, the willingness to compromise easily. When I look around at the people whom I feel have the best relationships, I notice that this willingness is still present. And it doesn’t only have to do with romantic relationships—one would never try to grow a business, and then sit back one day and say “Cool, that’s launched, now I’m done. What are you going to do for ME, baby?” No, there are hurdles and milestones and things get easier or smoother, or settle in to more of a pattern, but it is still a daily effort.
"But love, I've come to understand, is more than three words mumbled before bed time. Love is sustained by action, a pattern of devotion in the things we do for each other every day." -Nicholas Sparks
The act of DECIDING to love changes us to be more open to love. If I were at my mother’s for Easter, she might say, “Margaret can you drive to the grocery?..., I forgot herring in oil. You’ll need to go to the special Polish deli a half hour away.”
Based on where I am in my life, as well as any particular day, the reactions range. “Absolutely, I’ll go right now!” throwing some house music on the BMW cd player and jamming it out into town, would be a "good" day.
Ten years ago, there would have been whining, screaming, a “Why do I have to do it—What about my sister—I have to do everything!” attitude, stomping, sulking and a bitter ride into the city.
Clearly one of these routes is more pleasant than the other.
There are certainly moments where still Mom could catch me in a crabby mood, and although I might go, it would be begrudgingly. Hardly Jesus material, but I like to think of this as a deposit into the love bank. When we do something that we know to be the right or kind or selfless thing to do, against the will of our pouty ego, it’s a choice recognizing there might be a higher love present, outside of the confines of what our own perceptions might intimate. Kabbalah speaks to this as resistance, and with rising above our reactive behaviors, it says we transform ourselves to allow more light into our lives. Even simpler bumper sticker wisdom: What Would Jesus Do?
This can be practiced in reaction to disgruntled deliverymen, picking our battles in relation to ESPN hours logged on a shared TV, or not throwing tantrums at your mother because of elevated holiday stress levels. (ACIM also says, would you rather be happy, or would you rather be right? I used to want to be right. Happy is more fun these days.) Love IS a mountain we must constantly climb, in the small, daily decisions of what kind of person we choose to be. The beauty is, it gets easier with each step, and the view from the top?... well, it’s pretty f’ing spectacular.
One of my favorite Easter traditions used to be Swieconka. This is where Polish people gather on Holy Saturday, the day before the day, bringing culinary abundance to be blessed by a priest so that when the vodka and kielbasa starts flowing immediately after morning mass on Sunday, it’s as though the divine has already assuaged any guilt related to the drunken gluttony that will inevitably follow. (I don’t know why only Polish people ever did this—perchance in anticipation of how much Belvedere we’d go through—preventative penance, perhaps.) As I thought of my own impromptu Easter picnic, I wondered if I could incorporate this familial tradition into festivities with friends.
I brought to mind the traditional basket: kielbasa, eggs, a lamb made of butter and one of sugar, ham, cheese, bacon… and I realized that all of these foods, although not entirely nixed from my current diet, are certainly consciously kept at bay on a more than regular basis. Calling my mother, I detailed my predicament. She recounted to me the list from above and I replied,
“Well, I’ve been eating mostly vegan lately, mom, so, you know, none of those things really work so well for me right now.”
She paused thoughtfully, then in a cheery, childlike burst of inspiration chimed in “I know! Lamb! Lamb is also really good to use.”
Pause. (My mind notes silently to itself that my go-to place is not the one of my past, snarky, retaliative sarcasm—awesome, this is growth.) Pause. “…Yeah, um, mom… that’s still not really the best if I’m aiming for VEGAN.”
Today I received this quotation from a random Kabballah newletter:
“Unconditional love is accepting someone as they are, without judgment. And it doesn't just happen. It is a mountain you must constantly climb, looking to the peak even when you've been knocked down to your knees. This is unconditional love.”
My mother and I used to be oil and water. More specifically, I might have fancied myself to be unrefined extra virgin organic expeller cold pressed olive oil and she could not fathom any issue I might have with tap water. Other than sharing an ability to hold a relentless focus toward an object of desire, and my spitting image visage of her 30 years ago (thank you mom,) I’m hard pressed to find many things we have in common. It’s no secret that to get from a rebellious, tantrum throwing, reluctantly suburban sequestered, 15 year old to a place of truly holding my mother in a light where I properly cherish and respect her, took Andes of work.
When we teach ourselves to love, does it stretch the reservoir of our capacity to receive love in greater amounts? I would argue, yes.
Today is Easter and I’m assuming we’re all familiar with the Jesus crucifixion account. After days of torture, the pinnacle of the gory event culminated in his last magnanimous breaths of “Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do.” Now, this wasn’t an evolution of love. This was not a breakthrough climax due to years of cognitive therapy. I would venture to say Jesus was not carrying the cross, whispering silent affirmations regarding himself or those around him. The idea is that Jesus was born to this world encompassing such a pure embodiment of love that he was instantly recognized as sent from elsewhere. He was so tapped into the light, everyone collectively thought, “Dude, it’s obvi this guy is NOT human.” If one chooses to believe that Jesus healed the sick from any number of maladies ranging from blindness to leprosy, the magic is not that HE was able to produce a miracle, it’s that he was able to see the perfection in someone so completely when others couldn’t, that he/she would be connected to that love and thereby be spontaneously healed.
"A Course in Miracles" is a useful text for those interested in metaphysical teachings via a Jesus slant. Using Christic terminology, it speaks to how there are only two forces in this world: fear and love. It postulates that love is the innate state and our natural inheritance, and our work is only about removing the blocks from that love. Jesus had it in spades, but we, as mere mortals, can get there. Every religious or spiritual following basically holds the same truth, but it is said quite succinctly in ACIM.
I think we have been collectively under the veil of the idea that love is something that we are graced with or not. Particularly in contemporary America, where disposable and flashy are coveted material adjectives, the idea that one must tend to love, as though a garden, and root through its weeds, seems unromantic. Unglamorous. Not hot enough for primetime. The commercialization of love via shows such as “The Bachelor” coats relationship in a polyurethane gleam of what something is “supposed” to look like. Props include single long-stemmed red roses, evening gowns, faux waterfalls and emotional waterworks; really it’s just an updated Miss America pageant and instead of a tiara, the winner gets a diamond ring.
“The Bachelor” happens to be one of my mother’s favorite shows, so when visiting her, I have, out of love for her, sat and watched it. And then, like the malleable sheep that I am, have been subsequently sucked into the drama. No mater how set-dressed, Disney-fied or over-produced the show can be, these people do open their hearts and genuine emotion seems to surface. However, even if authentic love could bloom in these plastic surroundings, it’s usually only weeks later the public evaporation is so splashed across the tabloids, I find myself inadvertently learning these people’s names that I know nothing about.
What I have found in my personal experience is that love has nothing to do with anyone around me and everything to do with myself. As I’ve evolved (let’s hope) and that development continues to unroll, the simplest way to put it is, when I am less concerned with myself there is more love for others. What I find intriguing is we are not born with fixed levels of selflessness. Our capacity to love can be nurtured and its muscle developed.
We’ve all experienced the glow of the beginning of a relationship where we’ll bend over backwards for our partner, happily wanting to take care of him/her, perhaps even self-sacrificing to tend to his/her needs. And many times, that fades. The gestures, the romance, the willingness to compromise easily. When I look around at the people whom I feel have the best relationships, I notice that this willingness is still present. And it doesn’t only have to do with romantic relationships—one would never try to grow a business, and then sit back one day and say “Cool, that’s launched, now I’m done. What are you going to do for ME, baby?” No, there are hurdles and milestones and things get easier or smoother, or settle in to more of a pattern, but it is still a daily effort.
"But love, I've come to understand, is more than three words mumbled before bed time. Love is sustained by action, a pattern of devotion in the things we do for each other every day." -Nicholas Sparks
The act of DECIDING to love changes us to be more open to love. If I were at my mother’s for Easter, she might say, “Margaret can you drive to the grocery?..., I forgot herring in oil. You’ll need to go to the special Polish deli a half hour away.”
Based on where I am in my life, as well as any particular day, the reactions range. “Absolutely, I’ll go right now!” throwing some house music on the BMW cd player and jamming it out into town, would be a "good" day.
Ten years ago, there would have been whining, screaming, a “Why do I have to do it—What about my sister—I have to do everything!” attitude, stomping, sulking and a bitter ride into the city.
Clearly one of these routes is more pleasant than the other.
There are certainly moments where still Mom could catch me in a crabby mood, and although I might go, it would be begrudgingly. Hardly Jesus material, but I like to think of this as a deposit into the love bank. When we do something that we know to be the right or kind or selfless thing to do, against the will of our pouty ego, it’s a choice recognizing there might be a higher love present, outside of the confines of what our own perceptions might intimate. Kabbalah speaks to this as resistance, and with rising above our reactive behaviors, it says we transform ourselves to allow more light into our lives. Even simpler bumper sticker wisdom: What Would Jesus Do?
This can be practiced in reaction to disgruntled deliverymen, picking our battles in relation to ESPN hours logged on a shared TV, or not throwing tantrums at your mother because of elevated holiday stress levels. (ACIM also says, would you rather be happy, or would you rather be right? I used to want to be right. Happy is more fun these days.) Love IS a mountain we must constantly climb, in the small, daily decisions of what kind of person we choose to be. The beauty is, it gets easier with each step, and the view from the top?... well, it’s pretty f’ing spectacular.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Don't mind me... I'm just processing.
I laughed. I cried. It was better than CATS.
The workshop was grand, thanks. Self-costumed in a “Spiritual Gangster” flashdance outfit (replete with legwarmers, of course) I danced with abandon, loved like a four year old child on a sugar bent, felt an ongoing essence of oneness in the universe and at one point had a good ten minute period where I witnessed: “Holy sh#* I’m totally like Keanu Reeves in “The Matrix” where he’s breathing the world. This is AWESOME.”
There were many more deep, fun, funny, sparkly, crazy things that happened over the course of the workshop, but detailing them doesn’t really suit the practical or philosophical proclivities of this post.
Let’s talk about bile, baby.
We were there for energy, getting it, moving it, giving it, absorbing it, regurgitating it. And although you would think this’d be all easy, hippie, om shanti sunshine and snapdragons, each of us experienced severe physical reactions to what our bodies were processing.
For three days, in a direct juxtaposition to my constantly on-the-go nature and more recent well-rounded relationship with food, I tangoed with fits of narcolepsy and benders rivaling Anthony Bourdain's most adventurous forays into food. Literally all of my free time outside of the workshop was in front of the fridge or on my mattress. An involuntary nap, and then multiple dinners and straight snacking until I passed out.
Outside of the townhouse walls where the workshop was held, there was something in my mouth or in my hand on the way to my mouth, and many times, both, at all times.
I visited the Fairway on the Upper West Side and the Gourmet Garage in the West Village within only a three hour window, vacuuming loads of groceries into my arms at each visit.
My friends suffered through my string of jokes: “I think I’m pregs with mukti.” “Just in time for Easter and Passover… kids, I think I literally may be housing the second coming of Christ.”
When two other slim, sexy girlfriends echoed “Ohmigod, TOTALLY. I CANNOT stop eating—it’s like it’s out of control! I’m so glad it’s not just me!,” I then definitively surmised in dry mock seriousness:
“Guys… It’s ‘cause we’re giving birth to the awakening.”
I was only half kidding.
It seems that the labor pains of life increase profusely when pertaining to pursuits in levels of consciousness.
The day following this workshop, the woman closest to me right now (who would really be more aptly labeled sister than friend,) had to cancel all of her clients and reached out through the course of the day in a play by play of her processing which was coming out of every uncomfortable end.
Another injured her hip to the extent that she was searching for crutches to borrow in Manhattan via Facebook status updates.
There are sacred ceremonies I have participated in, and although I will not detail them here out of respect to the secrecy needed in order to maintain their authenticity, I will say, that one sits down in a room of strangers, you are handed a bucket and a roll of toilet paper and you become intimate with those objects over the course of eight hours.
That stuff is weird.
And it’s gross.
Why do we need to discuss this, Margaret?
Although purging is its own rite of passage and many spiritual traditions will take on these practices as part of ancient rituals still subscribed to, we can manage without detailed accounts of classified religious sacraments or the likes of colon hydrotherapy and panchakarma for now.
What interests me more here, is the way that life overtakes our physical body when we don’t want it to, and how to get past it. It’s not knowingly and consciously undertaking a fast or entering a sweat lodge. It’s the car accident that wakes you up, the broken leg that slows you down just when you’d just hit your invincible speed, or puking your guts out after a weekend workshop.
There is some kind of physical transmutation that coincides with large amounts of change or energy going through the human body. On one hand, it is so impossible to believe that anything mental or “spiritual” could cause these kinds of physical reactions. One could argue, is it not psychosomatic? Well, precisely… what if it is?
What if the association between our brains and our conditioned thought patterns is so linked to our nervous system and physiology that the only way we can release these connections is through a physical dispelling or protection, manifested in various symptoms, whatever they may be.
If a door slams on my hand, I will cry. That is a release. If a guy slams on my heart, I will also cry. The same physical release, although one is an emotional reaction where the other is a physical pain. Is the door slam more valid because matter, velocity and the width of a doorframe can quantify it?
Our bodies and our lives speak to us through these experiences. What that means specifically is an ongoing exploration, but more pressingly, how can we process them? How do we accept where we are with grace when the better part of a rainy Monday is spent with a sweaty forehead dry heaving across the American Standard toilet logo? Or... can eating through four tubs of hummus, two chocolate bars and a pound of organic raw cashews justify as energy needing to ground itself?
Louise Hay’s work is a voyage into these concepts—correlating health and a conversation with our bodies. Her aptly titled “You Can Heal Your Life” is a bible for self-administered mind/body medicine. For example, for the friend/sister sacked with nausea, Hay would list the probable cause as “Fear. Rejecting an idea or experience…” and offers the new thought pattern of “I am safe. I trust that the process of life to bring only good to me.”
My nauseous sistah called me throughout the day yesterday, needing support. She’s so dear to me, I probably spend more time worrying about her than I do myself, the way we needlessly do with those close to us, in some kind of maternal instinct to want to take care of her.
I tried, but it seemed no amount of wisdom or words of solace could comfort her pain. She offered a respectful “I think you need to see that we are processing differently here, I really am not well,” when I think what she really meant was “bitch, I’m on my knees at death’s door, don’t tell me that a massage and a jog by the Hudson made you all dandy.”
What was I doing wrong? How could I help to ease her pain?... because my words weren’t cutting it.
Last night I watched the emotive “Ram Dass: Fierce Grace” documentary. Toward the end of the film he is a counseling woman whose lover had been brutally murdered. Ram Dass was able to be caring, giving her the space to express emotion yet still gently guiding her to experience her pain without wallowing in it. What was most beautiful and enlightening to watch was his reaction to the woman when she told him of her worry that she would not find a love like that again. The deceased boyfriend “visited” her later and told her there was a much larger love in store for her:
“This was small peanuts. And when you find that love, I am part of it.”
Ram Dass responded with an involuntary “Yum yum yum yum” (the bija mantra associated with the heart chakra is ‘yum’, btw) and then he broke out into tears. Tears of beauty; vocal, guttural sobs of empathic pain collocated to the extent that the joy and suffering were at once indistinguishable; a primal yin and yang exposition encompassing both the darkness of despair and a miracle of hope.
This was such a gorgeous lesson for me personally because it so clearly illustrated a twofold process of what we are looking for with comfort. And although he was concerned with grief and a tragic incident this woman was working through, we can use the same concepts in dealing with physical ailments as our bodies process the lessons were are struggling to incorporate into our hearts and minds. The vomit of life comes both in a physical and emotional realm.
We want to be heard/supported in the moment, and we want to be told it will be okay in a larger landscape of the world/life/day.
Faith can provide this for us. A friend may be able to lead us to that faith. If you have Ram Dass handy, it's going to be a pretty spectacularly clear lesson.
However, there are times that no one can offer us relief or consolation. Although it may look like bile, or a fridge and tummy full of too much food, this, even, is a gift from faith itself so that we, in a last vestige of surrender, finally turn to seek that strength within ourselves. If we step up to take responsibility for even our most uncomfortable ailments, we open ourselves to the luster of life.
The workshop was grand, thanks. Self-costumed in a “Spiritual Gangster” flashdance outfit (replete with legwarmers, of course) I danced with abandon, loved like a four year old child on a sugar bent, felt an ongoing essence of oneness in the universe and at one point had a good ten minute period where I witnessed: “Holy sh#* I’m totally like Keanu Reeves in “The Matrix” where he’s breathing the world. This is AWESOME.”
There were many more deep, fun, funny, sparkly, crazy things that happened over the course of the workshop, but detailing them doesn’t really suit the practical or philosophical proclivities of this post.
Let’s talk about bile, baby.
We were there for energy, getting it, moving it, giving it, absorbing it, regurgitating it. And although you would think this’d be all easy, hippie, om shanti sunshine and snapdragons, each of us experienced severe physical reactions to what our bodies were processing.
For three days, in a direct juxtaposition to my constantly on-the-go nature and more recent well-rounded relationship with food, I tangoed with fits of narcolepsy and benders rivaling Anthony Bourdain's most adventurous forays into food. Literally all of my free time outside of the workshop was in front of the fridge or on my mattress. An involuntary nap, and then multiple dinners and straight snacking until I passed out.
Outside of the townhouse walls where the workshop was held, there was something in my mouth or in my hand on the way to my mouth, and many times, both, at all times.
I visited the Fairway on the Upper West Side and the Gourmet Garage in the West Village within only a three hour window, vacuuming loads of groceries into my arms at each visit.
My friends suffered through my string of jokes: “I think I’m pregs with mukti.” “Just in time for Easter and Passover… kids, I think I literally may be housing the second coming of Christ.”
When two other slim, sexy girlfriends echoed “Ohmigod, TOTALLY. I CANNOT stop eating—it’s like it’s out of control! I’m so glad it’s not just me!,” I then definitively surmised in dry mock seriousness:
“Guys… It’s ‘cause we’re giving birth to the awakening.”
I was only half kidding.
It seems that the labor pains of life increase profusely when pertaining to pursuits in levels of consciousness.
The day following this workshop, the woman closest to me right now (who would really be more aptly labeled sister than friend,) had to cancel all of her clients and reached out through the course of the day in a play by play of her processing which was coming out of every uncomfortable end.
Another injured her hip to the extent that she was searching for crutches to borrow in Manhattan via Facebook status updates.
There are sacred ceremonies I have participated in, and although I will not detail them here out of respect to the secrecy needed in order to maintain their authenticity, I will say, that one sits down in a room of strangers, you are handed a bucket and a roll of toilet paper and you become intimate with those objects over the course of eight hours.
That stuff is weird.
And it’s gross.
Why do we need to discuss this, Margaret?
Although purging is its own rite of passage and many spiritual traditions will take on these practices as part of ancient rituals still subscribed to, we can manage without detailed accounts of classified religious sacraments or the likes of colon hydrotherapy and panchakarma for now.
What interests me more here, is the way that life overtakes our physical body when we don’t want it to, and how to get past it. It’s not knowingly and consciously undertaking a fast or entering a sweat lodge. It’s the car accident that wakes you up, the broken leg that slows you down just when you’d just hit your invincible speed, or puking your guts out after a weekend workshop.
There is some kind of physical transmutation that coincides with large amounts of change or energy going through the human body. On one hand, it is so impossible to believe that anything mental or “spiritual” could cause these kinds of physical reactions. One could argue, is it not psychosomatic? Well, precisely… what if it is?
What if the association between our brains and our conditioned thought patterns is so linked to our nervous system and physiology that the only way we can release these connections is through a physical dispelling or protection, manifested in various symptoms, whatever they may be.
If a door slams on my hand, I will cry. That is a release. If a guy slams on my heart, I will also cry. The same physical release, although one is an emotional reaction where the other is a physical pain. Is the door slam more valid because matter, velocity and the width of a doorframe can quantify it?
Our bodies and our lives speak to us through these experiences. What that means specifically is an ongoing exploration, but more pressingly, how can we process them? How do we accept where we are with grace when the better part of a rainy Monday is spent with a sweaty forehead dry heaving across the American Standard toilet logo? Or... can eating through four tubs of hummus, two chocolate bars and a pound of organic raw cashews justify as energy needing to ground itself?
Louise Hay’s work is a voyage into these concepts—correlating health and a conversation with our bodies. Her aptly titled “You Can Heal Your Life” is a bible for self-administered mind/body medicine. For example, for the friend/sister sacked with nausea, Hay would list the probable cause as “Fear. Rejecting an idea or experience…” and offers the new thought pattern of “I am safe. I trust that the process of life to bring only good to me.”
My nauseous sistah called me throughout the day yesterday, needing support. She’s so dear to me, I probably spend more time worrying about her than I do myself, the way we needlessly do with those close to us, in some kind of maternal instinct to want to take care of her.
I tried, but it seemed no amount of wisdom or words of solace could comfort her pain. She offered a respectful “I think you need to see that we are processing differently here, I really am not well,” when I think what she really meant was “bitch, I’m on my knees at death’s door, don’t tell me that a massage and a jog by the Hudson made you all dandy.”
What was I doing wrong? How could I help to ease her pain?... because my words weren’t cutting it.
Last night I watched the emotive “Ram Dass: Fierce Grace” documentary. Toward the end of the film he is a counseling woman whose lover had been brutally murdered. Ram Dass was able to be caring, giving her the space to express emotion yet still gently guiding her to experience her pain without wallowing in it. What was most beautiful and enlightening to watch was his reaction to the woman when she told him of her worry that she would not find a love like that again. The deceased boyfriend “visited” her later and told her there was a much larger love in store for her:
“This was small peanuts. And when you find that love, I am part of it.”
Ram Dass responded with an involuntary “Yum yum yum yum” (the bija mantra associated with the heart chakra is ‘yum’, btw) and then he broke out into tears. Tears of beauty; vocal, guttural sobs of empathic pain collocated to the extent that the joy and suffering were at once indistinguishable; a primal yin and yang exposition encompassing both the darkness of despair and a miracle of hope.
This was such a gorgeous lesson for me personally because it so clearly illustrated a twofold process of what we are looking for with comfort. And although he was concerned with grief and a tragic incident this woman was working through, we can use the same concepts in dealing with physical ailments as our bodies process the lessons were are struggling to incorporate into our hearts and minds. The vomit of life comes both in a physical and emotional realm.
We want to be heard/supported in the moment, and we want to be told it will be okay in a larger landscape of the world/life/day.
Faith can provide this for us. A friend may be able to lead us to that faith. If you have Ram Dass handy, it's going to be a pretty spectacularly clear lesson.
However, there are times that no one can offer us relief or consolation. Although it may look like bile, or a fridge and tummy full of too much food, this, even, is a gift from faith itself so that we, in a last vestige of surrender, finally turn to seek that strength within ourselves. If we step up to take responsibility for even our most uncomfortable ailments, we open ourselves to the luster of life.
Friday, March 26, 2010
the deeksha side of things
Almost six years ago, I walked into the Quad Cinema on 13th street, and exited: changed. My life was perfectly poised for a post apocalyptic rebirth. That particular day’s minefield included sleeping on the couch in a loft I painstakingly designed and called home with a soon-to-be ex in the next room, and a familial situation in Chicago convoluted enough to be dramatically on par with Tracy Letts’ characters in AUGUST: Osage County.
The film was “What the Bleep do We Know” and it blew my mind. Production values and creative flaws aside (which could be designated as: not so great and many, respectively,) it introduced me to the idea of quantum physics and ushered in a subsequent voracious study period in said physics concepts. Immediately, I went home and ordered several books on Amazon regarding the subject, as well as sending duplicates to my friend Logan who was with me. I was disparate that I’d need to wait for delivery, so impassioned was I, and would have given a considerable caboodle for a Kindle on that day.
The idea that there is a connection between all of us, a desk, a tree, the 79th street Subway station, my mom’s nail polish, Clinton’s cigars, what have you, that could be quantified in a quantum field was intriguing to me beyond words. It rang true. This source/power/force as an overriding, inextricable oneness made infinite more sense than: “Jesus Christ died for your sins. Now go tell the old guy in the wooden booth how you’ve been a bad girl this week.”
I liked the language of these explorations, the basics of these connections. Now, of course the scientific community does not see this as a watershed film and it only gives the loosest skimming of some of quantum physics’ tenets, but that was irrelevant in my case on that day, because the film was a doorway to an idea I had never considered. Film as guru: A way to access, study, be inspired by ways of approaching energy.
I have an extremely low tolerance in my life for bullsh#*. (pardon my French) Perhaps a gentler way of saying that is that my go-to place is one of brutal honesty. For those who are compassionately blessed with innate levels of tact, I can be seen as hard. Every once in a while I will still see a friend wince when I haven’t sugar-coated something enough for him/her. Much of my personal development has been geared to softening edges so as not to inadvertently slice into the hearts of those I’d like to keep around me. That being said, in the land of woowoo spiritual ideas, one can come across a lot of bullsh#*. Or at the very least, things that are presented in a manner so holy and gently, they never resonated with my urban disposition.
The idea of working with energy intrigued me, but in my quest I found it all to be dispassionately vague and incoherent. When a best girlfriend during that war-torn time would try to help me out of the surrounding hostility that was my life, providing generous reiki sessions, the effects seemed to be nebulous at best. I’ve already expressed my disdain for all things too “precious” concerning spirituality or energetic resources, and although I’m certain at the time I was more bitter and armored than a dandelion and bullet-proof vest burrito, reiki was not making any noticeable progressive changes in my life. Yoga made me feel better, but I didn’t really know why. My personal experience with tapping into energy was gross at best, and I had a thirst for more.
Cut to: Incredible India. Adriana was a ridiculously stunning woman… A Brazilian who had been living in Hong Kong for five years, and abroad became the older, wiser sister I never had. Only slightly older—so we could still be besties, but every so often I would look to her for wisdom or to receive admonishment. Although she had the kind of beauty and figure that makes one want to curse God for the inequity of the universe, the most spectacular feature about Adriana was her gregariously-open heart. Plus she had that South American mouth, which did not stop running from 3:30am when we awoke until nightfall. She knew everyone, and everyone adored her.
She really was/is my sister, my compatriot. Adriana wore mascara and I knew she came from a world of high heels and bright lights. Daily we got into passionate arguments with the men in our group trying to prove verities in esoteric discourse. We enjoyed raising our voices in heated, heartfelt debate. Ours was a cosmopolitan consciousness.
One day, early into our tenure, she told me very simply—“there’s something that I do, and I think you would like it, do you want me to show you?” That’s all she would really say about it. It was called deeksha and we went to her little flat, she put on some music and I closed my eyes.
As soon as her hands touched my head, I felt it rush through me—THIS was energy. Heat, movement swirling throughout my body, images flashing—or was it lights? Colors? Intangible, unidentifiable activity coursing through my body. I could not get a hold of it, I could not explain it, it was happening and it was undeniable. I had, for the first time, incontrovertible evidence that something was going on.
She had me lie down for a few minutes, and when I stepped squinting into the mid-afternoon sun adjusting my eyes to find her figure, I eagerly demanded: “WHAT WAS THAT?”
It was called deeksha, and she had just come back from a school near Chennai and a 21-day process that prepped her in learning to facilitate it.
Immediately I organized groups to receive it once a week. Adriana had no choice in the matter. Looking back, I’m not even sure if I asked her if it was ok, which is absurdly rude when I think about it now. But I took the reins and ran with it—corralling together yogi friends that became 20-25 a week receiving the deeksha.
We approached it the way it was introduced to us: no extraneous information, no explanations, no promises. Just come sit down and see. It is meant to be experienced. Not discussed. Visceral, not verbose.
I LOVED that there was no bull sh#* surrounding it. When I pursued looking closer into the teachings from the school that birthed the phenom, I found it to be so open and devoid of any religious rhetoric, or any desire to expand, or ask for your money, or need anything at all from you, that it was ridonkulously refreshing. In the milieu of too syrupy God-stuff, it seemed authentic.
A few years later I learned to facilitate the deeksha myself (or oneness blessing as it was now called, although I have always preferred the Indian term, deeksha) and started to inundate my friends with it.
I love the way that it was presented to me, with no attachments or pomposity, and I like to keep it that way—trying to preserve a balance between holding a reverence while still instilling a sense of “it’s no big deal.” It’s not therapy; it’s a dose of grace. It can rock your world, but so what? Holy is as holy does.
In the city, when someone or something gets a little too involved in any kind of discourse about it, it doesn’t suit my taste—I move it along—I suppose it is my tough love approach overlaying the idea that the entire thing should be experiential in nature rather than philosophical.
Yet the experience has absolutely changed me and those around me. My neighbors tell me (without my asking) that I am consistently one of the friendliest people in the building. My facialist’s curmudgeonly Russian husband who I thought never smiled, ever, just gave me a huge tooth-mouthed grin and a large wave when I passed him on my bike.
I could go on about the levels of compassion and generosity of spirit that have unfolded for me in this process, but I’m not really in a la-di-da mood at the moment, so let me just say I am better. More patient. More compassionate. Full of love. Still don’t have a tolerance for bull sh#* so I guess that’s not going to change.
I write this because tonight I’m entering into a workshop for this business and I know I’m going to come out of it different. Possibly more la-di-da. Although I don’t think I’ll be walking on water, I know that Sunday I’ll be shinier than I am today. Perhaps I’m not even spiritual, maybe I’m just vain. In any event, that-- for me-- is worth the effort.
The film was “What the Bleep do We Know” and it blew my mind. Production values and creative flaws aside (which could be designated as: not so great and many, respectively,) it introduced me to the idea of quantum physics and ushered in a subsequent voracious study period in said physics concepts. Immediately, I went home and ordered several books on Amazon regarding the subject, as well as sending duplicates to my friend Logan who was with me. I was disparate that I’d need to wait for delivery, so impassioned was I, and would have given a considerable caboodle for a Kindle on that day.
The idea that there is a connection between all of us, a desk, a tree, the 79th street Subway station, my mom’s nail polish, Clinton’s cigars, what have you, that could be quantified in a quantum field was intriguing to me beyond words. It rang true. This source/power/force as an overriding, inextricable oneness made infinite more sense than: “Jesus Christ died for your sins. Now go tell the old guy in the wooden booth how you’ve been a bad girl this week.”
I liked the language of these explorations, the basics of these connections. Now, of course the scientific community does not see this as a watershed film and it only gives the loosest skimming of some of quantum physics’ tenets, but that was irrelevant in my case on that day, because the film was a doorway to an idea I had never considered. Film as guru: A way to access, study, be inspired by ways of approaching energy.
I have an extremely low tolerance in my life for bullsh#*. (pardon my French) Perhaps a gentler way of saying that is that my go-to place is one of brutal honesty. For those who are compassionately blessed with innate levels of tact, I can be seen as hard. Every once in a while I will still see a friend wince when I haven’t sugar-coated something enough for him/her. Much of my personal development has been geared to softening edges so as not to inadvertently slice into the hearts of those I’d like to keep around me. That being said, in the land of woowoo spiritual ideas, one can come across a lot of bullsh#*. Or at the very least, things that are presented in a manner so holy and gently, they never resonated with my urban disposition.
The idea of working with energy intrigued me, but in my quest I found it all to be dispassionately vague and incoherent. When a best girlfriend during that war-torn time would try to help me out of the surrounding hostility that was my life, providing generous reiki sessions, the effects seemed to be nebulous at best. I’ve already expressed my disdain for all things too “precious” concerning spirituality or energetic resources, and although I’m certain at the time I was more bitter and armored than a dandelion and bullet-proof vest burrito, reiki was not making any noticeable progressive changes in my life. Yoga made me feel better, but I didn’t really know why. My personal experience with tapping into energy was gross at best, and I had a thirst for more.
Cut to: Incredible India. Adriana was a ridiculously stunning woman… A Brazilian who had been living in Hong Kong for five years, and abroad became the older, wiser sister I never had. Only slightly older—so we could still be besties, but every so often I would look to her for wisdom or to receive admonishment. Although she had the kind of beauty and figure that makes one want to curse God for the inequity of the universe, the most spectacular feature about Adriana was her gregariously-open heart. Plus she had that South American mouth, which did not stop running from 3:30am when we awoke until nightfall. She knew everyone, and everyone adored her.
She really was/is my sister, my compatriot. Adriana wore mascara and I knew she came from a world of high heels and bright lights. Daily we got into passionate arguments with the men in our group trying to prove verities in esoteric discourse. We enjoyed raising our voices in heated, heartfelt debate. Ours was a cosmopolitan consciousness.
One day, early into our tenure, she told me very simply—“there’s something that I do, and I think you would like it, do you want me to show you?” That’s all she would really say about it. It was called deeksha and we went to her little flat, she put on some music and I closed my eyes.
As soon as her hands touched my head, I felt it rush through me—THIS was energy. Heat, movement swirling throughout my body, images flashing—or was it lights? Colors? Intangible, unidentifiable activity coursing through my body. I could not get a hold of it, I could not explain it, it was happening and it was undeniable. I had, for the first time, incontrovertible evidence that something was going on.
She had me lie down for a few minutes, and when I stepped squinting into the mid-afternoon sun adjusting my eyes to find her figure, I eagerly demanded: “WHAT WAS THAT?”
It was called deeksha, and she had just come back from a school near Chennai and a 21-day process that prepped her in learning to facilitate it.
Immediately I organized groups to receive it once a week. Adriana had no choice in the matter. Looking back, I’m not even sure if I asked her if it was ok, which is absurdly rude when I think about it now. But I took the reins and ran with it—corralling together yogi friends that became 20-25 a week receiving the deeksha.
We approached it the way it was introduced to us: no extraneous information, no explanations, no promises. Just come sit down and see. It is meant to be experienced. Not discussed. Visceral, not verbose.
I LOVED that there was no bull sh#* surrounding it. When I pursued looking closer into the teachings from the school that birthed the phenom, I found it to be so open and devoid of any religious rhetoric, or any desire to expand, or ask for your money, or need anything at all from you, that it was ridonkulously refreshing. In the milieu of too syrupy God-stuff, it seemed authentic.
A few years later I learned to facilitate the deeksha myself (or oneness blessing as it was now called, although I have always preferred the Indian term, deeksha) and started to inundate my friends with it.
I love the way that it was presented to me, with no attachments or pomposity, and I like to keep it that way—trying to preserve a balance between holding a reverence while still instilling a sense of “it’s no big deal.” It’s not therapy; it’s a dose of grace. It can rock your world, but so what? Holy is as holy does.
In the city, when someone or something gets a little too involved in any kind of discourse about it, it doesn’t suit my taste—I move it along—I suppose it is my tough love approach overlaying the idea that the entire thing should be experiential in nature rather than philosophical.
Yet the experience has absolutely changed me and those around me. My neighbors tell me (without my asking) that I am consistently one of the friendliest people in the building. My facialist’s curmudgeonly Russian husband who I thought never smiled, ever, just gave me a huge tooth-mouthed grin and a large wave when I passed him on my bike.
I could go on about the levels of compassion and generosity of spirit that have unfolded for me in this process, but I’m not really in a la-di-da mood at the moment, so let me just say I am better. More patient. More compassionate. Full of love. Still don’t have a tolerance for bull sh#* so I guess that’s not going to change.
I write this because tonight I’m entering into a workshop for this business and I know I’m going to come out of it different. Possibly more la-di-da. Although I don’t think I’ll be walking on water, I know that Sunday I’ll be shinier than I am today. Perhaps I’m not even spiritual, maybe I’m just vain. In any event, that-- for me-- is worth the effort.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
rockin' and rollin'
This past week I was a wee bit of a rockstar. Eons ago, in college, I was known to be the last girl to leave the party and the first one in ballet class the next morning. I’ve had a couple of doozys in the last few years, and some stellar nightlife periods in the city, but as of late, the connection I have to my body and the world on an ongoing basis is more important to me than “chasing” any surface fun. It’s seldom that I drink two evenings in a row these days, and so to go out every single night in a week is as rare a venture as Courtney Love remaining sober for a year.
I usually do 11 backbends at the end of my yoga practice. As my yoga teacher came to assist this afternoon, she said, “only halfway today, right?” When I nodded yes, she threw out a knowing, “I thought so.” The week was apparently emanating from my cells: spelling out: proceed with caution, Mags in recovery mode.
Needless, to say, I am drinking green juice as I type this, and that will remain my menu until I am back at a sparkly 108%.
What I’d like to say, however, is that I have no guilt or remorse associated with this week whatsoever, due to the spectacular company I kept. It’s not that I wanted to go out every night, it’s just that there were a string of time sensitive events, each at high levels of priority for me: openings, best friends moving to foreign lands, congratulatory cocktails, private excitements and developments…
And as I spent time with these people, over Belvederes, Blue Moons, Bushmills, blessings, bike rides, concerts, dinners, workshops, parties, sunsets that turned to sunrises, I grew more and more overjoyed with the beauty that my life has become; filled with a beaming pride in the incredibly ambitious and creative outputs of peeps close to me, and that those surrounding me are some of the sexiest folks around inside and out.
There’s a sense that we are all on the verge of something huge, both collectively and individually. I witness my friends’ successes unfold as we each hold the levels of sincerity and connection between us as the dearest prize. The success is secondary; it’s always been about being true to ourselves, consistently and blindingly, many times arduously, following that fire of restlessness that doesn’t allow one to settle.
Success is, of course, a matter of opinion and perception. I see my friends as successful because they hold themselves to their own truth and highest integrity. Even in their failures or falling short, there is an overarching idea of wanting to do/be better. In any and every aspect of life. Mediocrity and/or complacency does not exist for these few. And these people range from those in the baby steps of organically and nurturingly growing a private practice, to stars whose fame is such that they are asked for autographs when we are out in the world. And certainly, some have success in one huge pie slice of life, but not others, so that balance may be elusive, but in the areas where they are not content, there's an acceptance, but not a resignation, to something less than.
I think the important thing for us to remember, other than (of course) the idea to live in the present moment and lovingly appreciate where we are right now, is that no one ever sees the end result (of whatever success means to you) at the first step. Almost without exception, these people would have told you that five or ten years ago they could not imagine that it would look the way it did. And also almost without exception, they knew something was coming.
This is the most difficult walnut to crack, isn’t it? Particularly when one is immersed in any sort of spiritual or philosophical discourse about what we want out of life and how to get it: That constant ebb and flow of desire vs. attachment.
And although they were around, I’m not interested here in peeking at the rockstars, CEO’s, insanely talented artists or corporate managing directors... I want to speak about my friend Sean. Many of you know last week I was involved with a global affair to bring awareness regarding the issue of human trafficking in India. Sean spearheaded this entire effort, whose main soiree centered with over 200 people in Mysore, India, and was followed in 20 different countries and 50 different cities worldwide. What he accomplished, and the awareness brought to this cause, is nothing short of extraordinary, and my point is: he never had a plan.
Sean was one of my India besties. There was a quartet of us that caused major hub-bub. We loved humor, debating philosophy and each other, so we always seemed to the most vivacious group anywhere. This was not always perceived to be a positive thing, by those who held a soft-spoken devotion to ascetic yogic practices. Toward the end of my time there, I heard that someone called us the party group, and I was never really sure why—no one “partied.” (I drank more liquor in one night last week than I drank during half a year there.) Being wild was having a glass of wine on your day off. The only time I drank vodka during those six months was on my 30th birthday (although, that day was, indeed a party). At the end of the night Sean held my giggly head in his lap and somehow got my body (doused with vodka, and for the first time in its life, unaccustomed to it) back home, dangling off the end of his scooter, my sari skimming the road.
Sean didn’t arrive in India to practice yoga, but ended up in Mysore and decided to hang out there, casually setting up shop in his apartment offering acupuncture to the traveling yogis. He has an incredibly gentle, easy-going touch and a warmly affable demeanor. There is not an inauthentic bone in his body, so naturally people were drawn to him. Getting involved with Odanadi, the anti-trafficking organization that rescues and rehabilitates women and children, was what kept him interested in hanging about.
Honestly? They weren’t really that psyched about it at first. Lots of yogis travel to Mysore (it made #4 on this year’s NY TIMES list of where to head this year)— hundreds, if not thousands a year, all with altruistic visions of seva (service.) And just as abruptly, many leave—herein lies the rub… no one sticks it out long enough to make any kind of lasting change, or just as soon as they become involved to the point of being helpful, they need to return to lives, on pause, back home.
Sean had infinite levels of patience that I could not fathom. He followed that intuition inside of him to take it slowly, build trust, and show them he wasn’t going anywhere. And slowly, slowly, one child, one hour, one afternoon, one day at a time, they let him in. Three years later, he is spearheading a global effort that will absolutely change the course of these children’s lives. We throw the word ‘amazing’ around so casually these days; I believe this is an instance where its full meaning is well warranted.
Sean did not go to India to change the world. In fact, by most New Yorkers perception, his docile, unassuming ways could be thought of as unambitious, unmotivated. Before I learned the very valuable lesson of never trying to coerce a person out of what they wanted to do, I grew increasingly petulant on many occasions when Sean politely declined joining in any sort of gathering I had set up in India. I was going to the trouble of being a social butterfly, and g*$ d^*# it, my friends would join me if I had anything to say about it.
Sean was zen. And at the time I REALLY didn’t like zen. I mean, how could one possibly be zen when there was so much to DO in the world?! But he had the serenity to not listen to his loud, overdramatic, whiny, New York friend, but instead to some quiet voice within him that continued to whisper: stay—be here one day at a time, trust that it will unfold, or let go and embrace the idea it might not, but at the very least, be here and be real. Three years later, he changes the world. Little ol’ funny sweetie British acupuncturist Sean.
So, I’m speaking to myself as much as I’m speaking to you, because I know the majority of the people reading this are friends who have that same wellspring of enthusiasm for something inside of them that may not, as of yet, be tangible.
Although this time I won’t overdo it, I will raise my glass to you, my inspirations. Here’s cheers to unimpeded faith and choosing to build that bridge where one has yet to exist, rather than trodding the path so seemingly clear to the rest. Na zdrowie. To your health, on every extrordinary level.
I usually do 11 backbends at the end of my yoga practice. As my yoga teacher came to assist this afternoon, she said, “only halfway today, right?” When I nodded yes, she threw out a knowing, “I thought so.” The week was apparently emanating from my cells: spelling out: proceed with caution, Mags in recovery mode.
Needless, to say, I am drinking green juice as I type this, and that will remain my menu until I am back at a sparkly 108%.
What I’d like to say, however, is that I have no guilt or remorse associated with this week whatsoever, due to the spectacular company I kept. It’s not that I wanted to go out every night, it’s just that there were a string of time sensitive events, each at high levels of priority for me: openings, best friends moving to foreign lands, congratulatory cocktails, private excitements and developments…
And as I spent time with these people, over Belvederes, Blue Moons, Bushmills, blessings, bike rides, concerts, dinners, workshops, parties, sunsets that turned to sunrises, I grew more and more overjoyed with the beauty that my life has become; filled with a beaming pride in the incredibly ambitious and creative outputs of peeps close to me, and that those surrounding me are some of the sexiest folks around inside and out.
There’s a sense that we are all on the verge of something huge, both collectively and individually. I witness my friends’ successes unfold as we each hold the levels of sincerity and connection between us as the dearest prize. The success is secondary; it’s always been about being true to ourselves, consistently and blindingly, many times arduously, following that fire of restlessness that doesn’t allow one to settle.
Success is, of course, a matter of opinion and perception. I see my friends as successful because they hold themselves to their own truth and highest integrity. Even in their failures or falling short, there is an overarching idea of wanting to do/be better. In any and every aspect of life. Mediocrity and/or complacency does not exist for these few. And these people range from those in the baby steps of organically and nurturingly growing a private practice, to stars whose fame is such that they are asked for autographs when we are out in the world. And certainly, some have success in one huge pie slice of life, but not others, so that balance may be elusive, but in the areas where they are not content, there's an acceptance, but not a resignation, to something less than.
I think the important thing for us to remember, other than (of course) the idea to live in the present moment and lovingly appreciate where we are right now, is that no one ever sees the end result (of whatever success means to you) at the first step. Almost without exception, these people would have told you that five or ten years ago they could not imagine that it would look the way it did. And also almost without exception, they knew something was coming.
This is the most difficult walnut to crack, isn’t it? Particularly when one is immersed in any sort of spiritual or philosophical discourse about what we want out of life and how to get it: That constant ebb and flow of desire vs. attachment.
And although they were around, I’m not interested here in peeking at the rockstars, CEO’s, insanely talented artists or corporate managing directors... I want to speak about my friend Sean. Many of you know last week I was involved with a global affair to bring awareness regarding the issue of human trafficking in India. Sean spearheaded this entire effort, whose main soiree centered with over 200 people in Mysore, India, and was followed in 20 different countries and 50 different cities worldwide. What he accomplished, and the awareness brought to this cause, is nothing short of extraordinary, and my point is: he never had a plan.
Sean was one of my India besties. There was a quartet of us that caused major hub-bub. We loved humor, debating philosophy and each other, so we always seemed to the most vivacious group anywhere. This was not always perceived to be a positive thing, by those who held a soft-spoken devotion to ascetic yogic practices. Toward the end of my time there, I heard that someone called us the party group, and I was never really sure why—no one “partied.” (I drank more liquor in one night last week than I drank during half a year there.) Being wild was having a glass of wine on your day off. The only time I drank vodka during those six months was on my 30th birthday (although, that day was, indeed a party). At the end of the night Sean held my giggly head in his lap and somehow got my body (doused with vodka, and for the first time in its life, unaccustomed to it) back home, dangling off the end of his scooter, my sari skimming the road.
Sean didn’t arrive in India to practice yoga, but ended up in Mysore and decided to hang out there, casually setting up shop in his apartment offering acupuncture to the traveling yogis. He has an incredibly gentle, easy-going touch and a warmly affable demeanor. There is not an inauthentic bone in his body, so naturally people were drawn to him. Getting involved with Odanadi, the anti-trafficking organization that rescues and rehabilitates women and children, was what kept him interested in hanging about.
Honestly? They weren’t really that psyched about it at first. Lots of yogis travel to Mysore (it made #4 on this year’s NY TIMES list of where to head this year)— hundreds, if not thousands a year, all with altruistic visions of seva (service.) And just as abruptly, many leave—herein lies the rub… no one sticks it out long enough to make any kind of lasting change, or just as soon as they become involved to the point of being helpful, they need to return to lives, on pause, back home.
Sean had infinite levels of patience that I could not fathom. He followed that intuition inside of him to take it slowly, build trust, and show them he wasn’t going anywhere. And slowly, slowly, one child, one hour, one afternoon, one day at a time, they let him in. Three years later, he is spearheading a global effort that will absolutely change the course of these children’s lives. We throw the word ‘amazing’ around so casually these days; I believe this is an instance where its full meaning is well warranted.
Sean did not go to India to change the world. In fact, by most New Yorkers perception, his docile, unassuming ways could be thought of as unambitious, unmotivated. Before I learned the very valuable lesson of never trying to coerce a person out of what they wanted to do, I grew increasingly petulant on many occasions when Sean politely declined joining in any sort of gathering I had set up in India. I was going to the trouble of being a social butterfly, and g*$ d^*# it, my friends would join me if I had anything to say about it.
Sean was zen. And at the time I REALLY didn’t like zen. I mean, how could one possibly be zen when there was so much to DO in the world?! But he had the serenity to not listen to his loud, overdramatic, whiny, New York friend, but instead to some quiet voice within him that continued to whisper: stay—be here one day at a time, trust that it will unfold, or let go and embrace the idea it might not, but at the very least, be here and be real. Three years later, he changes the world. Little ol’ funny sweetie British acupuncturist Sean.
So, I’m speaking to myself as much as I’m speaking to you, because I know the majority of the people reading this are friends who have that same wellspring of enthusiasm for something inside of them that may not, as of yet, be tangible.
Although this time I won’t overdo it, I will raise my glass to you, my inspirations. Here’s cheers to unimpeded faith and choosing to build that bridge where one has yet to exist, rather than trodding the path so seemingly clear to the rest. Na zdrowie. To your health, on every extrordinary level.
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