My girlfriend Adriana and I totally played hooky yesterday from a group fieldtrip we already paid for. We’re full on spiritual delinquents. When they told us the other night that the trip was five hours each way, and that that bus left at 5:30am, I looked to her pregs belly, its corresponding comically surprised and strained face, and definitively announced: “That’s too much for you. We’re not going.” (Adriana is delivering all natural route, and I joke with her that I am her "pre doula." A doula provides emotional and physical support for the mother during childbirth. I'm the demanding New York version. Carrying extra organic bars for her everywhere we go, keeping an eye out to make sure she is somewhat comfortable, telling her we're going to exploit the baby when we really need to get her first in line for things. Putting my foot down when people say things like: tomorrow you're going to be on a bus for ten hours. Did we forget to mention that?)
We took three more minutes to ask a helper’s advice, confirming our decision to ditch the excursion, and then guiltlessly, chose to give up our 3000 rupees and have a lazy day on campus rather than on an Indian bus. However there is no such thing as a day off when going through a process like this in India. The learning comes to you.
Yesterday I had written several paragraphs about my Sunday morning. It was a cataclysmic happening brought on by meditative processing, and rivers of epic (yet dignified, of course) prose flowed through me, disassembling the majesty and magnificence of the experience, to cart it, illuminated and open into the blogsophere… then I thought to myself : “What a bunch of horseshit. I’m not going to share that.”
It’s not that the experience didn’t shift my reality or my outlook on nature or give me an infinite gratitude for the expandedness and complexity of the universe. I’m not saying I didn’t sob harder than I have in my life, face covered in snot and body immovable in realization. Ok, fine, I was there. So what? Why would someone give a sh** about that if she is having boy problems? Who cares, if your family is undergoing unspeakable loss, or you have been evicted or you are having panic attacks at the side of the road because life is too much? We have to be where we are.
I’m not here in India looking for anything. What I was searching for I found a while ago. I’m not saying there wasn’t a search involved, but I got what I needed. Paths are beautiful and super necessary— but we all need to start from where we are, not where we think we want to be. For this, sometimes we need a tour guide.
To steal someone else’s metaphor: why are we always mortgaging ourselves for some future event? This is it kids.
But, to somewhat contradict the simplicity of that statement (and I must do this, because this is the nature of reality; that both sides of the same truth exist together; oy—so unfair… a bitch of a paradox, I know,) I love to philosophize about where we will go individually and collectively… This little body mind organism (or spacesuit as Ram Dass would dub it,) known to you all as Margaret, mags, Margie, Malgosia, sweetie, hottie, little lady, polka dot, loves to talk. That’s just my programming.
So on our delinquent day off, Adriana and I did what we two together do best. What we have done the world over in Australia, London, now on our second go around in India; we talked each other’s ears off. We chatted endlessly in our dorm room, in the dining hall, on the bus, on steps in front of a gift shop, in the bathroom, on the steps in front of the temple, walking, squatting, yoga-ing, calling from a block away using hand signals, even. Talking about everything from non-dualism, to pregnancy to our penchant for pragmatic boys. Miso soup, maharishis, mud masks, mashed potatoes. Others here comment on how passionate we are. We’re not riled up. We’re not upset. We shrug, looking at each other calmly and contentedly as we explain: “It’s our nature.”
I look at her and it is almost as though we have grown more similar, the way a pet and an owner do, in the last six days. (You would think after six days of non-stop talking we would have nothing to talk about—nope—there is only more.) Against the backdrop of 200 people from a dozen countries, with so many different styles and cultures, although we two are so dissimilar personally, here, we are cutie pattootie petite bobsy twins, with our mouths running off and our pink view of the world. It is utterly remarkable that we can spend so many hours in each other’s presence with our surroundings falling away from us. If I were in prison with Adriana, I don’t think I’d ever notice. That we found each other from across the world and still continue to meet hopefully once a year and pick up where we left off, is all the faith I need in destiny. If I believe in anything at all, I believe in Adriana. If I have ever known devotion, it is for her.
Dri is only a year and bit older, but she is my spiritual mentor. I would not have called her this a couple of years ago, but now I see that is exactly what she is. She's my tour guide. I think we are equal in each other’s eyes, but I look to her for guidance and trust what she says, and even when I don’t want to hear it, I listen. She scolds me, she praises me, she laughs at me, she laughs with me. There used to be times when I didn't like this-- when it would bring up that agitation... Who likes being told what to do? Who likes being told they may be wrong?
This is what we each need to find for ourselves if we want to make progress. Not a small, gorgeous pregs Brazilian (although, if available, I highly recommend going for that model...) Call it a coach, a mentor, a guide, the other half to your team. Someone who you adore that can be occasionally tough with you. If we're grounded and smart we will seek a partner who challenges us to look at things differently. If not our romantic partners, at the very least a few close friends who are not afraid to tell you: "You're wrong." "I disagree." "You're being dumb." "Look at it this way instead." "That dress looks awful." "Put down the 4th cupcake-- three is enough, lady."
This resistance is what pushes us to grow. If we stagnate, in any level of our life, we atrophy. Not only Maharishi's say that-- Woody Allen had it dead on, so to speak. But it's not only our relationships that die if we don't move forward, that is true on every level from our foodstuffs to our quad muscles to that little gooey mess in our head we think is our mind. Our greatest teachers are not those who only christen us with love and light, but who bring out the darkness and dividedness in us and then show us how to embrace both. This is why we build community, not just for support but for strength.
Yesterday in all the om shantiness of my stolen day off, I thought I would have a relaxing morning. Needless to say, it was anything but. I tried to record a video message to send via facebook to a sweetie. Within the debacle that was trying to sort things out technically in India, my icamera captured my “om shanti” self, swearing, scowling on film, when 20 seconds before I had wondered if my hair up or down would be a more attractive visage for the video message sent home. I was totally called out on my own humanity— angry, arrogant, vain-- it was disturbing and delightful. All the negative aspects are still there. Of course they are. Even facebook video messaging, or lack thereof, can be a teacher. A scowl, seeing the scowl, the subsequent smile, and then the stillness.
Dri and I laughed and laughed over this in the dining hall. Then we dove into a 90 minute debate over free will. We’re small. We like to talk. She likes mashed potatoes. I want to look pretty in a virtual video message. That’s it. That’s who we are now. I'm so glad to have her on my team. That’s it. We’re here. And we’re in bliss. It’s the hardest thing, and it’s the simplest.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
f*@# spirituality
I’m so over the word spiritual. If I never heard the word spiritual again in my life that would work just fine with me, and yet even as I write this I know it will escape my lips within the next 24 hours because our vocabularic landscape has not yet birthed a new paradigm of words that can erase the societal interdependence associated with “spiritual.”
One of my dearest friends is a seriously advanced yoga teacher and ex design exec, a cynical brit, who juxtaposes sense and spirituality—(ugh, I couldn’t even go a couple sentences) perhaps more tactfully than anyone I’ve ever known. He regularly sports a “fuck yoga” t-shirt. It’s provocative in refusing to be attached to and/or dismissing any ideas of what we think that is and should be. Refusing to be judged and labeled as a yoga “teacher” and what that should look like.
The yoga teacher’s pregs future wife, Adriana, is my current India dorm roomie. Not only roomie, but older sister, mentor, I’d even go so far as to say divine goddess sexpot guru. Brazillian, brillz, stunning in that way that makes you curse the injustice of the world because Brazilian women even exist in the first place. A non-judgmental intellectual and voracious researcher who loves mascara—this, and many other things bond us, and brought us together four years ago in India. She is the reason I am here this week. The “fuck yoga” teacher who lovingly impregnated her? He’s the Brit I thumbed to in Mysore four years ago, whispering “I think he likes you…” We’ve been a fam since.
What we are doing here this week in India is indescribable magic on many levels. I don’t have the words, no one on the planet has the words to demystify or illustrate what is happening because it’s of a plane we can’t perceive. We’re drawn here; we show up, our lives change. We give it up to faith and hopefully have the groundedness within ourselves to judge what works and what doesn’t.
That being said, last night we closed a pretty special day one of a full on trainer course with 200 other people from a dozen different countries; we have five translators going at all times it’s so big. After deeksha’ing it up, we were told to hug the person next to us. This broke out into a spontaneous hugging/laughing/ecstasy session of emotion for everyone else involved for the next 10-15 minutes. Dri and I hugged. I told her I loved the feel of her 5-month bump when she pressed her tiny body to mine. (She says she’s taller—she says this to people we meet. I think I am. The fact of the matter is we are both very small brunettes, both eyes wide with the aforementioned mascara.) We stopped our hugging and looked around at that spontaneous emotion that erupted around us, seemingly apart from us.
We were in the front row, in a prime position. She said quite simply, and I couldn’t love her more for this: “This hugging is lasting quite long… should we sit and pretend that we’re done?... (20 seconds later, still awkwardly standing)… wow, that’s a lot of hugging.”
I don’t want to sound like a hugging curmudgeon. Of course, everyone has the absolute right to express this love in whichever way they feel, but on some level, I feel like I want to take back the woo a notch for those who wouldn’t feel comfortable hugging 30 strangers from different countries. (Imagine Obama hugging 30 random people—just not really his style, nor would we want it to be. We wouldn’t want it of Jon Stewart either, I’d imagine… I don’t think that the kind of guy I want to end up with would want to hug 30 strangers. Not a judgment, different strokes.) This resistance is not a bad thing; it is called discernment, which is also a valuable “spiritual” practice. A week ago, going over a thousands of years old meditation for some peeps, one of the key words was discernment, and I feel like this is being lost in this world of woo “seeking.”
As you know, although I draw from this tradition and there is much beauty there, I am not some zen Buddhist master who resonates with “nothingness” as the ultimate enlightened state. That’s too cold for me. I need sparkle. I need color. I need fire.
Earlier today, I stood, my feet so happily soaking in the softness of the white marble floor of a temple that I had wanted to come to for years. On the top five list of my life: children, husband, career success being three of the others, coming to this temple has been on my priority to do list since I heard it was being built. It was the screen saver in my blackberry for the last nine months and when I got here, all I could do was to marvel at how soft the white marble felt. I didn’t know it would be marble against my bare feet. I didn’t know it would be soft. I didn’t know that that would be a most delicious discovery.
There was a ceremony this morning, and I clapped, I sang, I raised my hands in prayer and gave thanks and soaked in the love—I participated willingly, happily, gratefully. I had some pretty awesome out-of and in body connections but I’ll gloss over those; I don’t want to brag. In my mind’s eye, this did not mean I had to go hug everyone in my path several hours later. (Although they call this place a “university” I’ve seen looser Ashrams. The teachers are dubbed guides, but in their language it is "dasas," monks with vows and the like… they are not allowed to hug and supposedly they are already feeling oodles of love with humanity. Discernment for different reasons, but still: Discernment.)
The most beautiful sentence someone could say to me in the whole world would not be, “Take my hand; let’s go to the ashram.” It would sound something more like: “We have 8pm reservations at (insert delectable downtown manhattan restaurant here; ) wear heels.”
We are so collectively…no, let me go back. Who am I really talking to here? I’m talking to the cool kids, the intellectuals, the pragmatists, the realists, the urbanites, the urbane. Which, is also, to some extent: us. And I find we are collectively terrified of the woo. We are terrified of something that is there to guide us.
A few of the people closest to me are dynamic and successful men with absolutely no spiritual bent. I cherish these relationships perhaps most of all because they challenge my beliefs and my faith (at this point impossible, sorry boys) but also provoke and confront my interpretations of these ideas forcing me to juggle semantics and explore scientifically and practically what I am really doing. I love these discourses, these challenges, these debates because they push me to clarify what this means for myself and helps me to express it in ways to people who might not otherwise listen. I would rather coax a banker to feel a minute of love than bring a yogi to three hours of ecstasy. The yogi doesn’t need me. Neither does the banker, but hey, I can be a fun gal to have around.
I rant about this now, because I want to claim this for my own, for our own, because if you are reading this, presumably we resonate with the same mindset in one way or another, on one topic or another. I want to find a new word for “spiritual” because this connection to yourself, to this peace, to a capability for love, and really that’s all it is, is for each of us. And not tapping into it is like having a million bucks in a bank account and not wanting to know the pin code to access it. It’s there. Whoever you are, whether you believe it or not.
A friend texted back an opinion about this optional sacred ceremony I have the opportunity to participate in here, that she did while in India. “It’s lovely, but not necessary.” For all of us: coming to India? It’s lovely, but not necessary. We can find those stolen moments of love, of peace, of generosity, of connection just as easily in a downtown restaurant. It doesn’t need to be spiritual. We don’t have to hug it out. But it’s there. It exists. In you. So look out for it. Because it’s there for you and only you. And the more you notice it, the more it shows up. That’s the way it works.
One of my dearest friends is a seriously advanced yoga teacher and ex design exec, a cynical brit, who juxtaposes sense and spirituality—(ugh, I couldn’t even go a couple sentences) perhaps more tactfully than anyone I’ve ever known. He regularly sports a “fuck yoga” t-shirt. It’s provocative in refusing to be attached to and/or dismissing any ideas of what we think that is and should be. Refusing to be judged and labeled as a yoga “teacher” and what that should look like.
The yoga teacher’s pregs future wife, Adriana, is my current India dorm roomie. Not only roomie, but older sister, mentor, I’d even go so far as to say divine goddess sexpot guru. Brazillian, brillz, stunning in that way that makes you curse the injustice of the world because Brazilian women even exist in the first place. A non-judgmental intellectual and voracious researcher who loves mascara—this, and many other things bond us, and brought us together four years ago in India. She is the reason I am here this week. The “fuck yoga” teacher who lovingly impregnated her? He’s the Brit I thumbed to in Mysore four years ago, whispering “I think he likes you…” We’ve been a fam since.
What we are doing here this week in India is indescribable magic on many levels. I don’t have the words, no one on the planet has the words to demystify or illustrate what is happening because it’s of a plane we can’t perceive. We’re drawn here; we show up, our lives change. We give it up to faith and hopefully have the groundedness within ourselves to judge what works and what doesn’t.
That being said, last night we closed a pretty special day one of a full on trainer course with 200 other people from a dozen different countries; we have five translators going at all times it’s so big. After deeksha’ing it up, we were told to hug the person next to us. This broke out into a spontaneous hugging/laughing/ecstasy session of emotion for everyone else involved for the next 10-15 minutes. Dri and I hugged. I told her I loved the feel of her 5-month bump when she pressed her tiny body to mine. (She says she’s taller—she says this to people we meet. I think I am. The fact of the matter is we are both very small brunettes, both eyes wide with the aforementioned mascara.) We stopped our hugging and looked around at that spontaneous emotion that erupted around us, seemingly apart from us.
We were in the front row, in a prime position. She said quite simply, and I couldn’t love her more for this: “This hugging is lasting quite long… should we sit and pretend that we’re done?... (20 seconds later, still awkwardly standing)… wow, that’s a lot of hugging.”
I don’t want to sound like a hugging curmudgeon. Of course, everyone has the absolute right to express this love in whichever way they feel, but on some level, I feel like I want to take back the woo a notch for those who wouldn’t feel comfortable hugging 30 strangers from different countries. (Imagine Obama hugging 30 random people—just not really his style, nor would we want it to be. We wouldn’t want it of Jon Stewart either, I’d imagine… I don’t think that the kind of guy I want to end up with would want to hug 30 strangers. Not a judgment, different strokes.) This resistance is not a bad thing; it is called discernment, which is also a valuable “spiritual” practice. A week ago, going over a thousands of years old meditation for some peeps, one of the key words was discernment, and I feel like this is being lost in this world of woo “seeking.”
As you know, although I draw from this tradition and there is much beauty there, I am not some zen Buddhist master who resonates with “nothingness” as the ultimate enlightened state. That’s too cold for me. I need sparkle. I need color. I need fire.
Earlier today, I stood, my feet so happily soaking in the softness of the white marble floor of a temple that I had wanted to come to for years. On the top five list of my life: children, husband, career success being three of the others, coming to this temple has been on my priority to do list since I heard it was being built. It was the screen saver in my blackberry for the last nine months and when I got here, all I could do was to marvel at how soft the white marble felt. I didn’t know it would be marble against my bare feet. I didn’t know it would be soft. I didn’t know that that would be a most delicious discovery.
There was a ceremony this morning, and I clapped, I sang, I raised my hands in prayer and gave thanks and soaked in the love—I participated willingly, happily, gratefully. I had some pretty awesome out-of and in body connections but I’ll gloss over those; I don’t want to brag. In my mind’s eye, this did not mean I had to go hug everyone in my path several hours later. (Although they call this place a “university” I’ve seen looser Ashrams. The teachers are dubbed guides, but in their language it is "dasas," monks with vows and the like… they are not allowed to hug and supposedly they are already feeling oodles of love with humanity. Discernment for different reasons, but still: Discernment.)
The most beautiful sentence someone could say to me in the whole world would not be, “Take my hand; let’s go to the ashram.” It would sound something more like: “We have 8pm reservations at (insert delectable downtown manhattan restaurant here; ) wear heels.”
We are so collectively…no, let me go back. Who am I really talking to here? I’m talking to the cool kids, the intellectuals, the pragmatists, the realists, the urbanites, the urbane. Which, is also, to some extent: us. And I find we are collectively terrified of the woo. We are terrified of something that is there to guide us.
A few of the people closest to me are dynamic and successful men with absolutely no spiritual bent. I cherish these relationships perhaps most of all because they challenge my beliefs and my faith (at this point impossible, sorry boys) but also provoke and confront my interpretations of these ideas forcing me to juggle semantics and explore scientifically and practically what I am really doing. I love these discourses, these challenges, these debates because they push me to clarify what this means for myself and helps me to express it in ways to people who might not otherwise listen. I would rather coax a banker to feel a minute of love than bring a yogi to three hours of ecstasy. The yogi doesn’t need me. Neither does the banker, but hey, I can be a fun gal to have around.
I rant about this now, because I want to claim this for my own, for our own, because if you are reading this, presumably we resonate with the same mindset in one way or another, on one topic or another. I want to find a new word for “spiritual” because this connection to yourself, to this peace, to a capability for love, and really that’s all it is, is for each of us. And not tapping into it is like having a million bucks in a bank account and not wanting to know the pin code to access it. It’s there. Whoever you are, whether you believe it or not.
A friend texted back an opinion about this optional sacred ceremony I have the opportunity to participate in here, that she did while in India. “It’s lovely, but not necessary.” For all of us: coming to India? It’s lovely, but not necessary. We can find those stolen moments of love, of peace, of generosity, of connection just as easily in a downtown restaurant. It doesn’t need to be spiritual. We don’t have to hug it out. But it’s there. It exists. In you. So look out for it. Because it’s there for you and only you. And the more you notice it, the more it shows up. That’s the way it works.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
fasten your seat belts/give peace a chance
Heavy duty drugs. Extortion. Police. Detectives. Hospitals. Nervous breakdowns. Panic attacks. Radiation. Lies. Violence. Stage 4 addictions. Denial. Eviction. Tears. Fighting. Resentment. Disappointment.
This was the daily bread of my last few weeks. I sat relatively calmly, distanced, in the eye of the storm, save two sobbing breakdowns to a nearest and a dearest, respectively, confined to two back-to-back phone calls, within a condensed half hour.
I am going to India in just over a week to take part in an advanced training and I was told by others to buckle in—that once that decision was made, tumult would follow as everything came up that needed resolving. I was hoping this would be along the lines of some past body image issues surfacing and maybe a remorseful late night Ben and Jerry’s binge. Perhaps an evening of too much vodka where I did something absolutely ridiculous and regretful at the close. Apparently I am past those hurdles and my stuff only comes in at primetime drama levels. The goings on could not be confined to a 60 minute "Law and Order" episode. We're nearing an entire season of a sequel to "The Wire" at this point.
In a series of dry, joking texts regarding my level-headedness, I told one friend that I was having plastic statues of me made, to hand out to others for worship. To another I insisted upon a medal, perhaps a trophy even, and that I wouldn’t be opposed to a parade. Clearly, I’m not that evolved yet.
But this isn’t just about me. Everyone I know has been going through extreme levels of change in the last few weeks, whether positive or negative, across the board, those closest to me have experienced unexpected break-ups, weddings, babies being born, homes being put on the market. People who haven’t been in a relationship for years suddenly finding love and huge jobs being granted—personal dramas of blockbuster proportions sweeping almost every single person I know.
I have received more “what’s up with the universe” calls, emails, texts, than I ever have in my life.
So what’s up?
Many of you are probably familiar with the whole 2012 phenom. The Mayans predicted thousands of years ago (and there are several others in varying traditions that correlate the same date) basically an end to humanity as we know it. The pessimists foretell of an apocalypse. Many more dub it a quantum leap of human consciousness; the year that humanity will evolve into a different way of being. I’ve heard that it will be a return to the “true balance between the divine feminine and masculine.”
This is not going to happen overnight, but there will be a tipping point in that year to where, we all, as a human race, essentially start to operate in a different way.
Old patterns of thought, conditioning, must be broken down in order to clear the space for a different idea. This can be painful. It can be voluntary or involuntary. If you are not ready to embrace the change yourself, the world will push you toward it. Fasten your seat belt. This ascent into collective a new way of thinking is reflected in our society and our world on every level. Obama. The BP Oil Spill. Interest and insistence for all things green from countertop sprays to our local produce. The near-manic levels of excitement in anticipation of the release of “Eat Pray Love,” the movie.
You might think the entire 2012 prediction is a load of nonsense. Philosophic discourse, spiritual enlightenment, these are luxurious discussions, and we should indeed be grateful that such a debate can exist in our lives. Whether or not someone wants to get caught up in semantics regarding evolution or the divine, it is undeniable that there is great change taking place. The totally terrific part of it is that there is no need to be concerned with anything on a global level—everything begins at home.
Some of the teachings I have been ingesting in the last few years include dialogue of: “What can I do to change the world?”
“If you can love your family, you can change the world. That is not as simple as it appears.”
And
“The measure of fulfillment in our experience is dependant on how comfortable we are with ourselves… being comfortable with yourself is the true measure of growth.”
The only thing we have the ability to change is ourselves, and this is enough. And we don’t necessarily need to change, if your go-to state is love, generosity, compassion, peace… congratulations—let’s build you a temple. (with a giftshop that sells agave sweetened cupcakes, preferably)
I know I’m a cheerleader for the woo. The reason for it is because all of this has changed my life, my relation to peace within myself and those around me so drastically that I can’t help but want to spread the love. It’s not easy to shift our perspectives, but it also isn’t complicated. All joking about parades and plastic statues a la Ganesha aside, as my family was melting down around me (and they had EVERY reason and right to) I remained, for all intents and purposes, pretty chill the whole time. And when not chill, I wasn’t caught up in the drama or my reaction to it, I was just allowing it to pass. I'm not saying I was a perfect floating cloud of love and compassion showering hersey kisses and sparklers at each and every moment, but I did not not make things more difficult with my own b.s. I did not burden others with my drama, save for giving an outline to my closest friends. I did not head straight to the bar. I did not jump off a bridge.
We don’t choose what comes into our life. We only choose how we react to it. There are the small, daily ways that we can facilitate all of our growth and evolution into a new way of being. We're all free to pick and choose the path that feels yummiest. Eventually these things build so that when the hammer falls, we are ready and grounded. When life gets to epic proportions and the idea of self-pity crosses my mind, I remind myself: You wanted a roller-coaster, sweetie. Here it is. Hang on for the ride.
Don't take my word for it...:
“Each one has to find his peace from within. And peace to be real must be unaffected by outside circumstances.”
-Mahatma Gandhi
“The more you sweat in peacetime, the less you bleed during war.”
-Chinese Proverb
“Peace is not only better than war, but infinitely more arduous.”
-George Bernard Shaw
“Peace is a daily, a weekly, a monthly process, gradually changing opinions, slowly eroding old barriers, quietly building new structures.”
-John F. Kennedy
"If half a century of living has taught me anything at all, it has taught me that nothing can bring you peace but yourself. "
-Dale Carnegie
"Ev'rybody's talking about
Bagism, Shagism, Dragism, Madism,
Ragism, Tagism
This-ism, That-ism, is-m, is-m, is-m
All we are saying is give peace a chance."
-The Beatles
This was the daily bread of my last few weeks. I sat relatively calmly, distanced, in the eye of the storm, save two sobbing breakdowns to a nearest and a dearest, respectively, confined to two back-to-back phone calls, within a condensed half hour.
I am going to India in just over a week to take part in an advanced training and I was told by others to buckle in—that once that decision was made, tumult would follow as everything came up that needed resolving. I was hoping this would be along the lines of some past body image issues surfacing and maybe a remorseful late night Ben and Jerry’s binge. Perhaps an evening of too much vodka where I did something absolutely ridiculous and regretful at the close. Apparently I am past those hurdles and my stuff only comes in at primetime drama levels. The goings on could not be confined to a 60 minute "Law and Order" episode. We're nearing an entire season of a sequel to "The Wire" at this point.
In a series of dry, joking texts regarding my level-headedness, I told one friend that I was having plastic statues of me made, to hand out to others for worship. To another I insisted upon a medal, perhaps a trophy even, and that I wouldn’t be opposed to a parade. Clearly, I’m not that evolved yet.
But this isn’t just about me. Everyone I know has been going through extreme levels of change in the last few weeks, whether positive or negative, across the board, those closest to me have experienced unexpected break-ups, weddings, babies being born, homes being put on the market. People who haven’t been in a relationship for years suddenly finding love and huge jobs being granted—personal dramas of blockbuster proportions sweeping almost every single person I know.
I have received more “what’s up with the universe” calls, emails, texts, than I ever have in my life.
So what’s up?
Many of you are probably familiar with the whole 2012 phenom. The Mayans predicted thousands of years ago (and there are several others in varying traditions that correlate the same date) basically an end to humanity as we know it. The pessimists foretell of an apocalypse. Many more dub it a quantum leap of human consciousness; the year that humanity will evolve into a different way of being. I’ve heard that it will be a return to the “true balance between the divine feminine and masculine.”
This is not going to happen overnight, but there will be a tipping point in that year to where, we all, as a human race, essentially start to operate in a different way.
Old patterns of thought, conditioning, must be broken down in order to clear the space for a different idea. This can be painful. It can be voluntary or involuntary. If you are not ready to embrace the change yourself, the world will push you toward it. Fasten your seat belt. This ascent into collective a new way of thinking is reflected in our society and our world on every level. Obama. The BP Oil Spill. Interest and insistence for all things green from countertop sprays to our local produce. The near-manic levels of excitement in anticipation of the release of “Eat Pray Love,” the movie.
You might think the entire 2012 prediction is a load of nonsense. Philosophic discourse, spiritual enlightenment, these are luxurious discussions, and we should indeed be grateful that such a debate can exist in our lives. Whether or not someone wants to get caught up in semantics regarding evolution or the divine, it is undeniable that there is great change taking place. The totally terrific part of it is that there is no need to be concerned with anything on a global level—everything begins at home.
Some of the teachings I have been ingesting in the last few years include dialogue of: “What can I do to change the world?”
“If you can love your family, you can change the world. That is not as simple as it appears.”
And
“The measure of fulfillment in our experience is dependant on how comfortable we are with ourselves… being comfortable with yourself is the true measure of growth.”
The only thing we have the ability to change is ourselves, and this is enough. And we don’t necessarily need to change, if your go-to state is love, generosity, compassion, peace… congratulations—let’s build you a temple. (with a giftshop that sells agave sweetened cupcakes, preferably)
I know I’m a cheerleader for the woo. The reason for it is because all of this has changed my life, my relation to peace within myself and those around me so drastically that I can’t help but want to spread the love. It’s not easy to shift our perspectives, but it also isn’t complicated. All joking about parades and plastic statues a la Ganesha aside, as my family was melting down around me (and they had EVERY reason and right to) I remained, for all intents and purposes, pretty chill the whole time. And when not chill, I wasn’t caught up in the drama or my reaction to it, I was just allowing it to pass. I'm not saying I was a perfect floating cloud of love and compassion showering hersey kisses and sparklers at each and every moment, but I did not not make things more difficult with my own b.s. I did not burden others with my drama, save for giving an outline to my closest friends. I did not head straight to the bar. I did not jump off a bridge.
We don’t choose what comes into our life. We only choose how we react to it. There are the small, daily ways that we can facilitate all of our growth and evolution into a new way of being. We're all free to pick and choose the path that feels yummiest. Eventually these things build so that when the hammer falls, we are ready and grounded. When life gets to epic proportions and the idea of self-pity crosses my mind, I remind myself: You wanted a roller-coaster, sweetie. Here it is. Hang on for the ride.
Don't take my word for it...:
“Each one has to find his peace from within. And peace to be real must be unaffected by outside circumstances.”
-Mahatma Gandhi
“The more you sweat in peacetime, the less you bleed during war.”
-Chinese Proverb
“Peace is not only better than war, but infinitely more arduous.”
-George Bernard Shaw
“Peace is a daily, a weekly, a monthly process, gradually changing opinions, slowly eroding old barriers, quietly building new structures.”
-John F. Kennedy
"If half a century of living has taught me anything at all, it has taught me that nothing can bring you peace but yourself. "
-Dale Carnegie
"Ev'rybody's talking about
Bagism, Shagism, Dragism, Madism,
Ragism, Tagism
This-ism, That-ism, is-m, is-m, is-m
All we are saying is give peace a chance."
-The Beatles
Thursday, July 1, 2010
privacy please: sex and God
In kindergarten I ripped out racy b&w magazine ads of a naked, intertwined, sweaty man and woman, and presented them, as a show of pre-pubescent instinctual flirtation, in a saucy little pile, to a boy I liked in my class. I was five, maybe six years old. You can imagine how mortified I was to return home and find said pictures in a manila envelope on my kitchen table with my mom and dad hovering above it, not quite equipped with the parental tools to know what to do with me. I didn’t go into Catholic school until a year later, because God only knows (pardon the equivoque) what might have happened if nuns attributed the sensual magazine pages to my personal (or lack thereof) development. Now thinking back on it, perhaps the entire incident was the prompting my parents needed to put me under the watchful eye of those private school nuns.
I have always had a passionate draw to sex, sensuality, physicality. One notices these interests are higher than the average levels when over 30 years on this planet provide a string of relationships with which to mirror those energies. I was a smart, mousy, unattractive kid. Although I am grateful for them now, many of my formative years I was shunned in social circles and so I spent my time buried in books, and living in a world of imagination, scheming fantastical adventures of a life far away from our little brick Chicago home. I was, without a doubt, a full-fledged geek.
Around 18 all of that dramatically shifted. I went from cute to sexy. Bookworm to bombshell. Men’s eyes were suddenly on me always, and it was intoxicating. Sex is a powerful force in our world, particularly in this country where the media phrase “sex sells” still so pervades our societal landscape, there are times I see billboards on Houston that make me blush. Although I always seemed to (thankfully) be a good gal at heart, (even if Girls Gone Wild had been around I probably would have been too socially awkward to participate) there was a bit of a feeling of someone who wins the lottery—suddenly I had access to all these resources and I wanted to play.
I bring this up because sex, at its most beautiful, is a sacred, intimate act. A woman in particular can only fully open her being to a man when she feels safe, respected, protected. As we mature we learn how to boundary and nurture this exchange; our most exquisite interactions are, and should remain, private, personal, venerated.
As we all deepen and strive to bring more soul bling into our daily bread, melding spirituality or source or spirit with our lives, I wonder if we shouldn’t treat God more like sex.
In the enthusiasm of an awakening—be it sexual or spiritual, it is easy to wear our sex or our soul on our sleeve. It’s human nature to want to go toward what makes us feel good, proclaim it loudly, to take ownership of it for ourselves, at times publicly or in a flashy manner. At 18 that meant tight blouses, in my 20’s it was espousing the miracle benefits of my newly discovered yoga practice to those who didn’t necessarily care to listen. My bestie came back from a Deepak Chopra retreat last year telling me ten times a day why I should be meditating half an hour in the morning and the evening, and it was more than mildly irritating.
So I offer, should we be treating our God connection more like our sex lives? I realize how hypocritical I am being here to some extent, considering I have 20 blog posts about consciousness, but should we be more careful? Is there perhaps a more appropriate, discreet way to outlie our God stuffs to the world?
In a reverse blasphemy, could one argue that 'Jesus Saves’ pamplets are vulgar? Soapbox preachings distasteful? Has anyone ever been "saved" by having God crammed down their throat?
A couple nights ago I was in the East Village sipping wine at a sidewalk café with two people from my real estate world. A band of Hare Krishnas walked by as they are want to do in that area since there is a temple right on 2nd Avenue. Now I probably happen to know more than the average person when it comes to what they are chanting and why, although ten years ago, I too would have designated them as a bit nutty. One of my colleagues, a touch drunk, let out a harsh remark regarding his vexation for the HK’s. The other (being a close friend and therefore aware of my spiritual bent) with a sideways glance at me, tried to soften the other’s biting comments. Obviously our reactions speak to our own fears and conditioning, but it was an interesting display to see someone respond so negatively to such innocent jubilation.
I’ve always liked my spiritual juju to be dealt with as little “woo” as possible. A personal choice, yes, and not for everyone, but I wonder if there might be some value across the board in more prudently expressing our spiritual connections to the world. As any chic woman knows, when dressing, juxtaposition is key. If it’s a tight short skirt, that is equaled out by a looser blouse. If you’re going to go for the cleavage, you don’t let it all hang out underneath as well. A little goes a long way.
When everything is on display, that speaks to an insecurity. Could the same be said for all the woo? Are not the most grounded teachers of our time not those who recruit, who are screaming, preaching, but rather those who have an innate peace and groundedness and instead, others are drawn to them?
It’s a tricky balance, and we’re all bound to misstep here and there. Everyone has to figure it out for themselves. Will I wear mala beads as a bracelet and maybe silently thank my food before eating? Yes. Am I going to hold hands with all of my friends in a hip restaurant and chant a mantra over our cocktails? Um, not so much.
I’m going to wear a short denim mini today. I will counteract that with a demure, stylish blazer. When someone asks what I do with my yoga, my mediation, my food, my blessings, I will be open, honest, but choose to keep my cards close to my chest. Because that’s mine and for me alone. And if someone wants access, well, they’re going to have to work for it.
I have always had a passionate draw to sex, sensuality, physicality. One notices these interests are higher than the average levels when over 30 years on this planet provide a string of relationships with which to mirror those energies. I was a smart, mousy, unattractive kid. Although I am grateful for them now, many of my formative years I was shunned in social circles and so I spent my time buried in books, and living in a world of imagination, scheming fantastical adventures of a life far away from our little brick Chicago home. I was, without a doubt, a full-fledged geek.
Around 18 all of that dramatically shifted. I went from cute to sexy. Bookworm to bombshell. Men’s eyes were suddenly on me always, and it was intoxicating. Sex is a powerful force in our world, particularly in this country where the media phrase “sex sells” still so pervades our societal landscape, there are times I see billboards on Houston that make me blush. Although I always seemed to (thankfully) be a good gal at heart, (even if Girls Gone Wild had been around I probably would have been too socially awkward to participate) there was a bit of a feeling of someone who wins the lottery—suddenly I had access to all these resources and I wanted to play.
I bring this up because sex, at its most beautiful, is a sacred, intimate act. A woman in particular can only fully open her being to a man when she feels safe, respected, protected. As we mature we learn how to boundary and nurture this exchange; our most exquisite interactions are, and should remain, private, personal, venerated.
As we all deepen and strive to bring more soul bling into our daily bread, melding spirituality or source or spirit with our lives, I wonder if we shouldn’t treat God more like sex.
In the enthusiasm of an awakening—be it sexual or spiritual, it is easy to wear our sex or our soul on our sleeve. It’s human nature to want to go toward what makes us feel good, proclaim it loudly, to take ownership of it for ourselves, at times publicly or in a flashy manner. At 18 that meant tight blouses, in my 20’s it was espousing the miracle benefits of my newly discovered yoga practice to those who didn’t necessarily care to listen. My bestie came back from a Deepak Chopra retreat last year telling me ten times a day why I should be meditating half an hour in the morning and the evening, and it was more than mildly irritating.
So I offer, should we be treating our God connection more like our sex lives? I realize how hypocritical I am being here to some extent, considering I have 20 blog posts about consciousness, but should we be more careful? Is there perhaps a more appropriate, discreet way to outlie our God stuffs to the world?
In a reverse blasphemy, could one argue that 'Jesus Saves’ pamplets are vulgar? Soapbox preachings distasteful? Has anyone ever been "saved" by having God crammed down their throat?
A couple nights ago I was in the East Village sipping wine at a sidewalk café with two people from my real estate world. A band of Hare Krishnas walked by as they are want to do in that area since there is a temple right on 2nd Avenue. Now I probably happen to know more than the average person when it comes to what they are chanting and why, although ten years ago, I too would have designated them as a bit nutty. One of my colleagues, a touch drunk, let out a harsh remark regarding his vexation for the HK’s. The other (being a close friend and therefore aware of my spiritual bent) with a sideways glance at me, tried to soften the other’s biting comments. Obviously our reactions speak to our own fears and conditioning, but it was an interesting display to see someone respond so negatively to such innocent jubilation.
I’ve always liked my spiritual juju to be dealt with as little “woo” as possible. A personal choice, yes, and not for everyone, but I wonder if there might be some value across the board in more prudently expressing our spiritual connections to the world. As any chic woman knows, when dressing, juxtaposition is key. If it’s a tight short skirt, that is equaled out by a looser blouse. If you’re going to go for the cleavage, you don’t let it all hang out underneath as well. A little goes a long way.
When everything is on display, that speaks to an insecurity. Could the same be said for all the woo? Are not the most grounded teachers of our time not those who recruit, who are screaming, preaching, but rather those who have an innate peace and groundedness and instead, others are drawn to them?
It’s a tricky balance, and we’re all bound to misstep here and there. Everyone has to figure it out for themselves. Will I wear mala beads as a bracelet and maybe silently thank my food before eating? Yes. Am I going to hold hands with all of my friends in a hip restaurant and chant a mantra over our cocktails? Um, not so much.
I’m going to wear a short denim mini today. I will counteract that with a demure, stylish blazer. When someone asks what I do with my yoga, my mediation, my food, my blessings, I will be open, honest, but choose to keep my cards close to my chest. Because that’s mine and for me alone. And if someone wants access, well, they’re going to have to work for it.
Monday, June 28, 2010
tightroping the designation between lohan and lama
In case you hadn't noticed, I've always had high expectations. This, by a generous observer may be quantified as good taste, refined interests, manners, a voracious appetite for success in any endeavor. In less magnanimous circles, I have been called a snob, pretentious, ruthless, cold. I’ve been demanding of myself and others my entire life and although I thought I had released all of that in recent years, a couple of things have been coming up lately that show me that bastion of elitism has not quite fizzled from my foundation. I'd like to think I'm "om shanti," turns out I might still be a bitch.
On the whole “everything is one thing” tip, re: haut monde, if this is innate within me, it is not an unwelcome quality unless presumably I take it to a point where it becomes harmful to myself or others; to the point where being what I deem to be excellent interferes with compassion or houses itself in judgment I am unaware of. If I don’t want to put Burger King into my body, that’s my prerogative. If I think you’re an asshole for doing so, well that’s just mean.
My mother suffered a lifetime of being irked by my urbanity. (Imagine rearing the finicky six-year-old who pooh poohs cold cuts in her daily lunches, or vacationing with the 28-year-old who dubs the all-inclusive carribbean Hilton you are paying for "bourgeois.") However this week she beckoned for me to bring back more of the "old margaret." Not in ego or personality... in fact, just recently my mom told my sister that our last visit was the best we've ever been together. For a mother and daughter that had three decades of being (insert metaphor for whatever could be even more violently opposed than oil and water,) my mom and are are now, like, seriously besties. She's my go to phone call. We talk an hour a day. For anyone who knew us ten years ago, he/she might have deemed that preposterous, impossible. It's beyond beautiful and it has everything to do with all of this stuff. So when she asked me to bring back more of the "old margaret" she meant, after these years of pushing my boundaries to find what was essential or more importantly, non-essential, time to let go of some of the hippie. Translation?: Take the peace. Leave the birkenstocks.
My mother was only echoing sentiments that I had been progressing toward naturally, but as with all growth, relationship pains can be tricky thorns to embrace. I'm not only discussing the material realm here. My snobbery has seemingly crossed over into the emotional playing field.
There’s a great article a girlfriend emailed me a couple of weeks ago from the Times titled “What Pets Can Teach Us About Marriage.” Its opening line is: “Do you greet each other with excitement, overlook each other’s flaws and easily forgive bad behavior? If it’s your pet, the answer is probably yes. But your spouse? Probably not.” The article goes on to say that when pets make mistakes we don’t take it personally and are quick to forgive. It outlines how taking such an approach in interpersonal relationships could soften our interactions.
When I was married, my and my ex’s relationship lightened the moment we split. From the moment I decided to move out, we were besties again. We even had a divorce party. I wasn’t holding him to some set of expectations that I was devastated he could never meet. He no longer had to be the Norman Rockwell husband in my eyes, he could just be himself and if he wasn’t what I needed at the moment, that’s all that was necessary to discover and we could move on from there. It needn’t be moving on with a 50 person vodka-soaked party. However, if you happen to have a loft at your disposal, I gotta say, that’s a super enjoyable way to go.
Recently I became upset with some people close to me due to actions which I deemed inappropriate. I am a believer that when discord happens in my life, it’s my job to investigate what “my fingerprints” are in the situation. Rather than complaining to whomever will listen about the situation (or at least, in this less than stellar instant, AFTER complaining to whomever would listen) sitting down and figuring out how and why this situation presented itself to me...
Looks like I should have fido’d ‘em from the get go. Once I released them from whom I thought they needed to be (not matching the particular brand of excellence I craved at the moment,) their actions were no longer hurtful, irritating or infuriating. If my dog chose beef jerky over a bed of kale, I would not be pissed. He'd probably eat both, but the jerky was closer. If a puppy innocently marked his territory on my newly acquired white armchair, anger would be fruitless.
Rather than use incidents for judgment or consternation, I remind myself I can just use them for information. In simplest terms, to use someone else’s phrase, we are not on the same “wavelength.” That is not a positive or negative thing, it just is. So I can bemoan, mourn or get angered at that fact, and perhaps I will for a short while to give that feeling its due and allow it to pass, but if I chastise someone for not being where I am, that’s not only ridiculously egotistical and petty, it doesn’t serve me either. Where would I be if others hadn’t allowed me my tantrums or selfishness? I’d probably be stuck in them, or stuck in more of them. I’d probably have driven away every friend or lover I’ve ever had with my past transgressions of bitchdom to an epic degree. Grace is gracious. It will move us.
This is maybe sometimes easier said than done—we get caught up in the conditioning of roles we play for each other. We want a sibling or best friend to be there the day a lover wants to move on, for a good old bitch fest or cry, regardless of their work deadlines. We want a partner to be listening compassionately, holding us fiercely, ideally feeding us raw 70% cacao organic chocolate (no, let's get real, New York Super Fudge Chunk- from the pint, please, no need to dish it out) after a tough day. We want our mom to emphasize our attributes and affirm we deserve the best, when the reality of the situation is maybe she’s feeling less than awesome that day and has worries we can’t relate to.
If we could loosen our expectations, even just a little, how much more flexibility would it allow us in our relationships? I would venture to guess that on a small investment in giving someone the benefit of the doubt, we’d receive a greater return than we’d expect.
After my bitching and bemoaning, once I did decide to take responsibility for my own reactions and allow others to be where they are (which is really only where they can be at the end of the day) the grace appeared.
The sexy neighborhood hottie girlfriend I knew I was destined to meet emailed me saying “I could feel you… let’s go get a steak and a kir royale at a French bistro.” On the street, I ran into someone who knew me to my core and reaffirmed my innate warmth, without my needing to ask. Our guidance and intuition lead us to the connections that feed us, when we loosen the reigns on what we think it’s “supposed “ to look like. And the greatest lesson, time and again, like a miraculous record that gets better each time we hear it, is the way that life looks without those expectations is much more fabulous, sexy and full of possibilities than any box we can conceive for ourselves... no matter how luxe that box looks in our mind's eye. So maybe the best way to look at others IS the way we look at our dogs. It’s simpler, it’s sweeter, and in the end, we’re the ones who feel the love.
On the whole “everything is one thing” tip, re: haut monde, if this is innate within me, it is not an unwelcome quality unless presumably I take it to a point where it becomes harmful to myself or others; to the point where being what I deem to be excellent interferes with compassion or houses itself in judgment I am unaware of. If I don’t want to put Burger King into my body, that’s my prerogative. If I think you’re an asshole for doing so, well that’s just mean.
My mother suffered a lifetime of being irked by my urbanity. (Imagine rearing the finicky six-year-old who pooh poohs cold cuts in her daily lunches, or vacationing with the 28-year-old who dubs the all-inclusive carribbean Hilton you are paying for "bourgeois.") However this week she beckoned for me to bring back more of the "old margaret." Not in ego or personality... in fact, just recently my mom told my sister that our last visit was the best we've ever been together. For a mother and daughter that had three decades of being (insert metaphor for whatever could be even more violently opposed than oil and water,) my mom and are are now, like, seriously besties. She's my go to phone call. We talk an hour a day. For anyone who knew us ten years ago, he/she might have deemed that preposterous, impossible. It's beyond beautiful and it has everything to do with all of this stuff. So when she asked me to bring back more of the "old margaret" she meant, after these years of pushing my boundaries to find what was essential or more importantly, non-essential, time to let go of some of the hippie. Translation?: Take the peace. Leave the birkenstocks.
My mother was only echoing sentiments that I had been progressing toward naturally, but as with all growth, relationship pains can be tricky thorns to embrace. I'm not only discussing the material realm here. My snobbery has seemingly crossed over into the emotional playing field.
There’s a great article a girlfriend emailed me a couple of weeks ago from the Times titled “What Pets Can Teach Us About Marriage.” Its opening line is: “Do you greet each other with excitement, overlook each other’s flaws and easily forgive bad behavior? If it’s your pet, the answer is probably yes. But your spouse? Probably not.” The article goes on to say that when pets make mistakes we don’t take it personally and are quick to forgive. It outlines how taking such an approach in interpersonal relationships could soften our interactions.
When I was married, my and my ex’s relationship lightened the moment we split. From the moment I decided to move out, we were besties again. We even had a divorce party. I wasn’t holding him to some set of expectations that I was devastated he could never meet. He no longer had to be the Norman Rockwell husband in my eyes, he could just be himself and if he wasn’t what I needed at the moment, that’s all that was necessary to discover and we could move on from there. It needn’t be moving on with a 50 person vodka-soaked party. However, if you happen to have a loft at your disposal, I gotta say, that’s a super enjoyable way to go.
Recently I became upset with some people close to me due to actions which I deemed inappropriate. I am a believer that when discord happens in my life, it’s my job to investigate what “my fingerprints” are in the situation. Rather than complaining to whomever will listen about the situation (or at least, in this less than stellar instant, AFTER complaining to whomever would listen) sitting down and figuring out how and why this situation presented itself to me...
Looks like I should have fido’d ‘em from the get go. Once I released them from whom I thought they needed to be (not matching the particular brand of excellence I craved at the moment,) their actions were no longer hurtful, irritating or infuriating. If my dog chose beef jerky over a bed of kale, I would not be pissed. He'd probably eat both, but the jerky was closer. If a puppy innocently marked his territory on my newly acquired white armchair, anger would be fruitless.
Rather than use incidents for judgment or consternation, I remind myself I can just use them for information. In simplest terms, to use someone else’s phrase, we are not on the same “wavelength.” That is not a positive or negative thing, it just is. So I can bemoan, mourn or get angered at that fact, and perhaps I will for a short while to give that feeling its due and allow it to pass, but if I chastise someone for not being where I am, that’s not only ridiculously egotistical and petty, it doesn’t serve me either. Where would I be if others hadn’t allowed me my tantrums or selfishness? I’d probably be stuck in them, or stuck in more of them. I’d probably have driven away every friend or lover I’ve ever had with my past transgressions of bitchdom to an epic degree. Grace is gracious. It will move us.
This is maybe sometimes easier said than done—we get caught up in the conditioning of roles we play for each other. We want a sibling or best friend to be there the day a lover wants to move on, for a good old bitch fest or cry, regardless of their work deadlines. We want a partner to be listening compassionately, holding us fiercely, ideally feeding us raw 70% cacao organic chocolate (no, let's get real, New York Super Fudge Chunk- from the pint, please, no need to dish it out) after a tough day. We want our mom to emphasize our attributes and affirm we deserve the best, when the reality of the situation is maybe she’s feeling less than awesome that day and has worries we can’t relate to.
If we could loosen our expectations, even just a little, how much more flexibility would it allow us in our relationships? I would venture to guess that on a small investment in giving someone the benefit of the doubt, we’d receive a greater return than we’d expect.
After my bitching and bemoaning, once I did decide to take responsibility for my own reactions and allow others to be where they are (which is really only where they can be at the end of the day) the grace appeared.
The sexy neighborhood hottie girlfriend I knew I was destined to meet emailed me saying “I could feel you… let’s go get a steak and a kir royale at a French bistro.” On the street, I ran into someone who knew me to my core and reaffirmed my innate warmth, without my needing to ask. Our guidance and intuition lead us to the connections that feed us, when we loosen the reigns on what we think it’s “supposed “ to look like. And the greatest lesson, time and again, like a miraculous record that gets better each time we hear it, is the way that life looks without those expectations is much more fabulous, sexy and full of possibilities than any box we can conceive for ourselves... no matter how luxe that box looks in our mind's eye. So maybe the best way to look at others IS the way we look at our dogs. It’s simpler, it’s sweeter, and in the end, we’re the ones who feel the love.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
blessing one out
Enroute to LaGuardia, I was in a cab, a little earlier than I would have liked, bathed in the dawn of a slight emotional malaise. This morning I awoke in a sea of a sort of general uncertainty towards assorted aspects of my life that could, on a wildly optimistic disneyfied day, be seen as (cue: wind chimes) an ‘ocean of potential.’ Stirring vulnerably to a 7am cell phone alarm as it graduated to louder tones, alone in bed, with a slight sauvignon haze lingering, it was more an uncomfortable disposition than an adventurous one.
Later, settled into the backseat of a cabbie who favored a jagged, unsettling driving style, I closed my eyes to multitask travel with a few minutes of meditation. I had only made it through chakra one of seven when the familiar, assigned (Tune_AssemblyLine) ringtone of my sister pierced through the calming instructions being carried by my earbuds. Not having spoken regarding my arrival arrangements, I swayed from the meditation dedication to answer.
She (not really sure why she called… I, not really sure why I answered) was irritable, and that’s a generous assignation. It unearthed that there was nothing to arrange or discuss; it seemed all had to be coordinated with my mother. The sole (perhaps unintended, unconscious) purpose of her call was to let me know she was sick, had been sick all week, and then to convey exasperation that my mother had “of course" not taken a moment from her post-cancer-removal surgical recuperation to inform daughter #2 in New York of daughter #1’s sickness in Chicago.
I will now justify the following statements (perhaps unfairly, but dear reader, it is, after all, my blog) by prefacing the reminder: me: post sauvignon haze, 7am cell phone alarm, ADHD cab driver.
Sis: irritable beyond what might be deemed rational or appropriate given the circumstances.
Me: (not out loud, in my head, of course)…Really? My careers are stalled at huge turning points, some close relationships precarious, and I am decidedly in need of a three day juice fast as witnessed by a bloated kidney that is not tucking nicely and efficiently away in marichasana d. Oh yeah, and by the way, mom had CANCER and is recuperating in bed. Really? We need this 8am attitude?
With some force that was larger than me (perhaps, at least, thank goodness we DID get through that 1st chakra) my sleepy sauvignon haze did not rise in a ruthless, victory-seeking showdown to compete with my sister. Instead I found myself spouting out a reasonable “You know what, hon? Why don’t we talk later?” (Although, the thought to float in an inadvertently patronizing “Sweetie, you don’t seem to be yourself” mid-sentence, did come to mind… yet I somehow managed to keep it simple and sweet, my reply bereft of arrows.)
Hanging up, I went back to chakras #2-7. The cabbie’s driving was about as even keel as Lindsay Lohan’s life trajectory. Hi, nausea. Finishing, sighing, hoping it did SOMETHING, I opened my eyes to an indeterminate portion of Queens and the very first thing to snag my vision was a billboard in the distance. A blank, whitewashed stretch of unused advertising space hovering above the BQE and scrawled across the bottom in a huge, rebellious, graffiti tag of two-foot-high, spray-painted letters spelling out: BLESS YOURSELF.
It jarred me to the present moment.
One really can’t ask for a clearer sign from the universe than a giant billboard. It wouldn’t even be negligent, it would be just plain stupid to not pay attention.
I happen to facilitate this experience known as deeksha, which is quite literally translated as a blessing. Although its primary purpose is to SPREAD the love, one can indeed, bless oneself. And I’m not ashamed to say, I do bless myself. Maybe not every day, but often.
And, so, what the heck? Why should I care if the cabbie thinks I’m crazy pants? His driving certainly hasn’t been a model of balance and equilibrium. So I blessed myself. Right in the backseat of the cab. It didn’t feel naughty; it felt necessary.
It would really help my story if I came out the other end of the blessing refreshed, renewed, perhaps exhilarated or at least reset. To be dead honest, I didn’t feel much different afterwards than before going in.
But that’s what’s so tricky with all of this stuff, isn’t it? Being tied to our American mindset and conditioning of wanting/needing it now/yesterday with scientific studies and incontrovertible proof might just rob us of some of the magic that can be life.
It’s impossible to quantify the glitter. You can’t ziplock away a baby’s giggle, flash-freeze a kiss to take with you for travel, take out a ruler and designate 3.75 inches between slightly irritated and cheerfully helpful to others. And there are no scientific tools to measure a person’s development.
I don’t as of yet have the evidence that that moment of blessturbation will bring any peace or joy or balance to my life. But taking that moment helps me to build the faith that it will. These moments, these things that we all do to cultivate mindfulness are not to wish away a slight hangover or to switch our moods between extremes (although those things certainly can and have been welcome side effects.) These practices are not instantaneous pill-popping remedies to mask symptoms, they are the long term solution.
Whereas I still have that minor headache, and I would be lying if I didn’t say I really hope my sister will be in a better mood by the time I see her, the self-bless will come in handy later-- when something huge and horrible happens (and there have been a couple of those moments in the last six months) and I am not a wreck, but I am here. Still standing, And not just standing, but smiling. And not just in my own bubble, but available, present to and for others. Open hearted. Hopeful. Aware. Awake. That’s what it’s for.
Later, settled into the backseat of a cabbie who favored a jagged, unsettling driving style, I closed my eyes to multitask travel with a few minutes of meditation. I had only made it through chakra one of seven when the familiar, assigned (Tune_AssemblyLine) ringtone of my sister pierced through the calming instructions being carried by my earbuds. Not having spoken regarding my arrival arrangements, I swayed from the meditation dedication to answer.
She (not really sure why she called… I, not really sure why I answered) was irritable, and that’s a generous assignation. It unearthed that there was nothing to arrange or discuss; it seemed all had to be coordinated with my mother. The sole (perhaps unintended, unconscious) purpose of her call was to let me know she was sick, had been sick all week, and then to convey exasperation that my mother had “of course" not taken a moment from her post-cancer-removal surgical recuperation to inform daughter #2 in New York of daughter #1’s sickness in Chicago.
I will now justify the following statements (perhaps unfairly, but dear reader, it is, after all, my blog) by prefacing the reminder: me: post sauvignon haze, 7am cell phone alarm, ADHD cab driver.
Sis: irritable beyond what might be deemed rational or appropriate given the circumstances.
Me: (not out loud, in my head, of course)…Really? My careers are stalled at huge turning points, some close relationships precarious, and I am decidedly in need of a three day juice fast as witnessed by a bloated kidney that is not tucking nicely and efficiently away in marichasana d. Oh yeah, and by the way, mom had CANCER and is recuperating in bed. Really? We need this 8am attitude?
With some force that was larger than me (perhaps, at least, thank goodness we DID get through that 1st chakra) my sleepy sauvignon haze did not rise in a ruthless, victory-seeking showdown to compete with my sister. Instead I found myself spouting out a reasonable “You know what, hon? Why don’t we talk later?” (Although, the thought to float in an inadvertently patronizing “Sweetie, you don’t seem to be yourself” mid-sentence, did come to mind… yet I somehow managed to keep it simple and sweet, my reply bereft of arrows.)
Hanging up, I went back to chakras #2-7. The cabbie’s driving was about as even keel as Lindsay Lohan’s life trajectory. Hi, nausea. Finishing, sighing, hoping it did SOMETHING, I opened my eyes to an indeterminate portion of Queens and the very first thing to snag my vision was a billboard in the distance. A blank, whitewashed stretch of unused advertising space hovering above the BQE and scrawled across the bottom in a huge, rebellious, graffiti tag of two-foot-high, spray-painted letters spelling out: BLESS YOURSELF.
It jarred me to the present moment.
One really can’t ask for a clearer sign from the universe than a giant billboard. It wouldn’t even be negligent, it would be just plain stupid to not pay attention.
I happen to facilitate this experience known as deeksha, which is quite literally translated as a blessing. Although its primary purpose is to SPREAD the love, one can indeed, bless oneself. And I’m not ashamed to say, I do bless myself. Maybe not every day, but often.
And, so, what the heck? Why should I care if the cabbie thinks I’m crazy pants? His driving certainly hasn’t been a model of balance and equilibrium. So I blessed myself. Right in the backseat of the cab. It didn’t feel naughty; it felt necessary.
It would really help my story if I came out the other end of the blessing refreshed, renewed, perhaps exhilarated or at least reset. To be dead honest, I didn’t feel much different afterwards than before going in.
But that’s what’s so tricky with all of this stuff, isn’t it? Being tied to our American mindset and conditioning of wanting/needing it now/yesterday with scientific studies and incontrovertible proof might just rob us of some of the magic that can be life.
It’s impossible to quantify the glitter. You can’t ziplock away a baby’s giggle, flash-freeze a kiss to take with you for travel, take out a ruler and designate 3.75 inches between slightly irritated and cheerfully helpful to others. And there are no scientific tools to measure a person’s development.
I don’t as of yet have the evidence that that moment of blessturbation will bring any peace or joy or balance to my life. But taking that moment helps me to build the faith that it will. These moments, these things that we all do to cultivate mindfulness are not to wish away a slight hangover or to switch our moods between extremes (although those things certainly can and have been welcome side effects.) These practices are not instantaneous pill-popping remedies to mask symptoms, they are the long term solution.
Whereas I still have that minor headache, and I would be lying if I didn’t say I really hope my sister will be in a better mood by the time I see her, the self-bless will come in handy later-- when something huge and horrible happens (and there have been a couple of those moments in the last six months) and I am not a wreck, but I am here. Still standing, And not just standing, but smiling. And not just in my own bubble, but available, present to and for others. Open hearted. Hopeful. Aware. Awake. That’s what it’s for.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
the gala gourmet
In a dimly lit, midtown ballroom, I stood high heeled, spruced, glammed, trying to eek out one more night on the town in a last season Nanette Lepore purple leopard-print dress. There’s a movie star, there’s our gala’s honoree, there’s another movie star, here are many of my friends and colleagues in the theatre world—successful artists doing great work. One is nominated for a Tony Award the following morning, there are artistic directors, musicians, actors, at different levels of prestige, but all with a commitment to that difficult (yet unavoidable) life in the arts, surrounded by the generous few who fund those endeavors.
I will sit through dinner (my sole purpose of being placed next to a prominent board member is to be pretty and charming, perhaps slightly sexy, but of course not outwardly so) entertaining a table of Princeton grads my parents’ age, trying to tactfully and gracefully whisk away inquiries with: “You know, I actually don’t get down to Palm Beach much each winter” and offer empathy for daughters’ Southampton weddings’ oversized guest lists. Tonight is not about my thoughts or ideas or even talent. I am here to smile, to be grateful, to be eye candy.
This benefit was for old school theatre and old school money. Classic, high minded, intellectual, effete.
Two weeks ago I attended the opening of a ground-breaking new rock musical on Broadway and its celebration was much more a Page 6 splash of photo ops. I am bringing up the comparison of these two events not in terms of status, but rather in terms of consciousness, and more specifically, consciousness as it relates to food. In the rockstar world, where my friends are East Village juicing vegans and my clients celeb forward thinking pioneers, in the party’s generous displays of faux-trashy culinary abundance, there were plenty of vegan options on hand.
Although I’ve mentioned here before that I’m not interested in labels, there has been a natural progression in my body and mind’s awareness to the effect of animal products on my physique and also how the impact of what I ingest affects the world on a global scale. There is plenty of information available as to how eating a burger impacts global warming, in fact may be THE biggest negative influence on climate change, and not to mention the way it influences worldwide economics and our use of fossil fuels as a human race. If people are not aware of these correlations, it’s either because they are ignorant of the interconnections or our societal conditioning is so strong that we don’t WANT to be aware of them.
So although at the rockstar soiree I was solidly dedicated toward a vegan bent, by the time my highbrow event rolled by, I had slipped slightly into an easier, more unconscious state of “Oh, one taste won’t hurt.” The week prior I had a bite of my date’s Soho House burger. One night I bought a pint Haagen Dazs cookie dough ice cream. A little touch of parmesean on a ceaser salad with egg in its dressing was allowed entry into my body’s menu.
My deal with myself was to acquiesce when the food was spectacular. Babbo. That every once in a while slice of Joe’s. The gelato from the stellar place when it’s made with artisanal standards.
I am told I am a harsh critic. Fine dining for hundreds of people is difficult, if not impossible. The one time I have ever had superb food-- I mean SUPERB food—at a large event, was a wedding at the Mandarin Oriental in London. One time in a solid 15 years of fancy pants parties.
So, when at the old school gala, in a room of heavy hitters with deep pockets, I saw a slider, making its way to me, presented elegantly on a platter amidst a dozen of its buddies, the small dollop of meat housed in a refined white roll (also usually absent from my diet,) I rationalized: “oh, one doesn’t hurt.” This parlayed itself into other “innocent” transgressions: the salmon appetizer (its color clearly designating it farmed and not wild, and therefore potentially and probably full of toxins, dyes) the cheap champagne, the post event cab drop-off at the gelato spot down the block, rather than the foot of my apartment.
Where I felt it, was not that night, but on that confrontational magic carpet that doesn’t let any slider slide: my yoga mat the next morning. Whether it’s boy trouble or consciousness in cuisine, the showdown with my chakras in my ashtanga practice brings up all and lets me know very very clearly what works and what doesn’t.
I really have absolutely no interest in designating things as “bad” or “good” in terms of “should” or shouldn’t’s.” In my mind, those polarities do not exist, but there is, however, a natural progression toward feeling better for yourself and that I find, in turn, supports the evolution of our world around us. It’s not that vodka, meat, candy of the tangible or media varieties make connection impossible, it’s just that it makes them harder. I have found these things to be an obstacle to higher levels of ease and natural sparkliness. So, it’s not about deprivation, but more about the conscious knowing that—if I eat this, do this, it will affect this.
This can only come with awareness and experimentation. And should and MUST be an organic process of unfolding. A couple of years ago, I had a determined exercise in disaster that was a self-enforced six months of a raw food diet. Its tenets made intellectual sense to me, but its rigors proved to be too much to handle for my body—I wasn’t ready to be there yet. I’m not sure that I ever want or need to be ready to be there.
These things happen slowly. I have used all natural cleaning products for some time now. Recently I entered into an apartment with someone whose cleaning lady had just departed. He inhaled deeply, “doesn’t that smell fantastic?” Lysol lemon permeated the air and I was instantaneously nauseous from its toxicity. I wouldn’t have known this would happen, but it shows how conditioned we can become to chemical and processed scents, products and foods that we fool our bodies into thinking they are normal, even “fresh.”
There are countless books on food affecting levels of consciousness, from yoga sutras dating thousands of years back to the current popularity of Michael Pollen’s books who doesn’t give a whiff of anything holy or spiritual in his eating recommendations, but simply shows us how and why fresh, local and simple is best.
Perhaps for the first time, it is the younger, hipper, more affluent neighborhoods and groupings of people that are making sweeping change. It’s becoming sexy to be in the know. The documentary “Food, Inc.” should be mandatory viewing not just because it’s short, a great overview, accessible and easy to digest, but because it’s what people are talking about. So if conscious consumerism isn’t one’s bag, at least we can make the choice to participate with the cool kids in knowing what the conversation is about.
When we progress into deeper levels of knowing and have an understanding of the more subtle energies of the bodies, one can feel the emotional, physiological and digestive discomforts that processed foods, chemicals and animal products have. For heaven’s sake, philosophy is so boring, the only way that we can use these concepts is to experiment and see what works for ourselves.
The last 36 hours I’ve felt out of sorts with my digestive tract from the Monday evening party in my belly that was the slider and its string of friends. I made it through my yoga practice, but it was uncomfortable at best. My focus was drawn to a tightness in my midsection when that energy may have been better used elsewhere. Life just didn’t flow as effortlessly as I would have liked it to.
Whine. Boo. Snore. Aren’t I supposed to be so clean that these small detours passed though my body even easier? Shouldn’t the toxicities of life be affecting me less, not more?
In reluctant response, I did a mini fruit/veggie (ok, some hummus and chocolate too) focus until I knew the transgressions were out of my body. As soon as I felt them pass, I felt lighter. In tune, turned on, energy back. Alive.
Friday night I have dinner at my fave restaurant that makes the best chicken in town. I haven’t tasted this chicken in nine months and already I’m reasoning with myself. Do I order the chicken, tasting it wholly and consciously with each bite? Blessing and having gratitude with it beforehand? Trying to honor the spirit of the bird and what it means to eat it? Or do I stick to my pinot and a pasta and have one delish bite of my date’s chicken instead, savoring that moment and knowing that my belly and my connection will be more open in the am?
After my 36 hours of stuff and rinse, I sit here now with sports socks in hand, about to run by the Hudson. Not because I have to, but because I WANT to. That energy present may be worth the trade off, in and of itself. Not to mention, my running shorts… well, they’re kinda short and I still think they look pretty good. A bonus not only for myself but for future boyfriends as well. So, even if fossil fuels, global economies and siddha states of consciousness aren’t of interest, it’s nice to know that awareness can contribute to a sweeter physique at any age.
I offer this discourse not because burgers and Fantastic countertop spray are the enemy, but to perhaps stretch our ideas of what we can do for our bodies and our selves. Making an effort to recycle, considering what goes into our mouth and acknowledging a gratitude before we do, are gestures that link us to a higher and wider consciousness. If we knew that choosing quinoa kale salad over chicken would do as much for our evolution as meditation, blessings or acts of kindness, maybe not all at once, but one step, one blog post, one breakfast at a time… would we go there? Could we go there? Will we? Time will tell.
I will sit through dinner (my sole purpose of being placed next to a prominent board member is to be pretty and charming, perhaps slightly sexy, but of course not outwardly so) entertaining a table of Princeton grads my parents’ age, trying to tactfully and gracefully whisk away inquiries with: “You know, I actually don’t get down to Palm Beach much each winter” and offer empathy for daughters’ Southampton weddings’ oversized guest lists. Tonight is not about my thoughts or ideas or even talent. I am here to smile, to be grateful, to be eye candy.
This benefit was for old school theatre and old school money. Classic, high minded, intellectual, effete.
Two weeks ago I attended the opening of a ground-breaking new rock musical on Broadway and its celebration was much more a Page 6 splash of photo ops. I am bringing up the comparison of these two events not in terms of status, but rather in terms of consciousness, and more specifically, consciousness as it relates to food. In the rockstar world, where my friends are East Village juicing vegans and my clients celeb forward thinking pioneers, in the party’s generous displays of faux-trashy culinary abundance, there were plenty of vegan options on hand.
Although I’ve mentioned here before that I’m not interested in labels, there has been a natural progression in my body and mind’s awareness to the effect of animal products on my physique and also how the impact of what I ingest affects the world on a global scale. There is plenty of information available as to how eating a burger impacts global warming, in fact may be THE biggest negative influence on climate change, and not to mention the way it influences worldwide economics and our use of fossil fuels as a human race. If people are not aware of these correlations, it’s either because they are ignorant of the interconnections or our societal conditioning is so strong that we don’t WANT to be aware of them.
So although at the rockstar soiree I was solidly dedicated toward a vegan bent, by the time my highbrow event rolled by, I had slipped slightly into an easier, more unconscious state of “Oh, one taste won’t hurt.” The week prior I had a bite of my date’s Soho House burger. One night I bought a pint Haagen Dazs cookie dough ice cream. A little touch of parmesean on a ceaser salad with egg in its dressing was allowed entry into my body’s menu.
My deal with myself was to acquiesce when the food was spectacular. Babbo. That every once in a while slice of Joe’s. The gelato from the stellar place when it’s made with artisanal standards.
I am told I am a harsh critic. Fine dining for hundreds of people is difficult, if not impossible. The one time I have ever had superb food-- I mean SUPERB food—at a large event, was a wedding at the Mandarin Oriental in London. One time in a solid 15 years of fancy pants parties.
So, when at the old school gala, in a room of heavy hitters with deep pockets, I saw a slider, making its way to me, presented elegantly on a platter amidst a dozen of its buddies, the small dollop of meat housed in a refined white roll (also usually absent from my diet,) I rationalized: “oh, one doesn’t hurt.” This parlayed itself into other “innocent” transgressions: the salmon appetizer (its color clearly designating it farmed and not wild, and therefore potentially and probably full of toxins, dyes) the cheap champagne, the post event cab drop-off at the gelato spot down the block, rather than the foot of my apartment.
Where I felt it, was not that night, but on that confrontational magic carpet that doesn’t let any slider slide: my yoga mat the next morning. Whether it’s boy trouble or consciousness in cuisine, the showdown with my chakras in my ashtanga practice brings up all and lets me know very very clearly what works and what doesn’t.
I really have absolutely no interest in designating things as “bad” or “good” in terms of “should” or shouldn’t’s.” In my mind, those polarities do not exist, but there is, however, a natural progression toward feeling better for yourself and that I find, in turn, supports the evolution of our world around us. It’s not that vodka, meat, candy of the tangible or media varieties make connection impossible, it’s just that it makes them harder. I have found these things to be an obstacle to higher levels of ease and natural sparkliness. So, it’s not about deprivation, but more about the conscious knowing that—if I eat this, do this, it will affect this.
This can only come with awareness and experimentation. And should and MUST be an organic process of unfolding. A couple of years ago, I had a determined exercise in disaster that was a self-enforced six months of a raw food diet. Its tenets made intellectual sense to me, but its rigors proved to be too much to handle for my body—I wasn’t ready to be there yet. I’m not sure that I ever want or need to be ready to be there.
These things happen slowly. I have used all natural cleaning products for some time now. Recently I entered into an apartment with someone whose cleaning lady had just departed. He inhaled deeply, “doesn’t that smell fantastic?” Lysol lemon permeated the air and I was instantaneously nauseous from its toxicity. I wouldn’t have known this would happen, but it shows how conditioned we can become to chemical and processed scents, products and foods that we fool our bodies into thinking they are normal, even “fresh.”
There are countless books on food affecting levels of consciousness, from yoga sutras dating thousands of years back to the current popularity of Michael Pollen’s books who doesn’t give a whiff of anything holy or spiritual in his eating recommendations, but simply shows us how and why fresh, local and simple is best.
Perhaps for the first time, it is the younger, hipper, more affluent neighborhoods and groupings of people that are making sweeping change. It’s becoming sexy to be in the know. The documentary “Food, Inc.” should be mandatory viewing not just because it’s short, a great overview, accessible and easy to digest, but because it’s what people are talking about. So if conscious consumerism isn’t one’s bag, at least we can make the choice to participate with the cool kids in knowing what the conversation is about.
When we progress into deeper levels of knowing and have an understanding of the more subtle energies of the bodies, one can feel the emotional, physiological and digestive discomforts that processed foods, chemicals and animal products have. For heaven’s sake, philosophy is so boring, the only way that we can use these concepts is to experiment and see what works for ourselves.
The last 36 hours I’ve felt out of sorts with my digestive tract from the Monday evening party in my belly that was the slider and its string of friends. I made it through my yoga practice, but it was uncomfortable at best. My focus was drawn to a tightness in my midsection when that energy may have been better used elsewhere. Life just didn’t flow as effortlessly as I would have liked it to.
Whine. Boo. Snore. Aren’t I supposed to be so clean that these small detours passed though my body even easier? Shouldn’t the toxicities of life be affecting me less, not more?
In reluctant response, I did a mini fruit/veggie (ok, some hummus and chocolate too) focus until I knew the transgressions were out of my body. As soon as I felt them pass, I felt lighter. In tune, turned on, energy back. Alive.
Friday night I have dinner at my fave restaurant that makes the best chicken in town. I haven’t tasted this chicken in nine months and already I’m reasoning with myself. Do I order the chicken, tasting it wholly and consciously with each bite? Blessing and having gratitude with it beforehand? Trying to honor the spirit of the bird and what it means to eat it? Or do I stick to my pinot and a pasta and have one delish bite of my date’s chicken instead, savoring that moment and knowing that my belly and my connection will be more open in the am?
After my 36 hours of stuff and rinse, I sit here now with sports socks in hand, about to run by the Hudson. Not because I have to, but because I WANT to. That energy present may be worth the trade off, in and of itself. Not to mention, my running shorts… well, they’re kinda short and I still think they look pretty good. A bonus not only for myself but for future boyfriends as well. So, even if fossil fuels, global economies and siddha states of consciousness aren’t of interest, it’s nice to know that awareness can contribute to a sweeter physique at any age.
I offer this discourse not because burgers and Fantastic countertop spray are the enemy, but to perhaps stretch our ideas of what we can do for our bodies and our selves. Making an effort to recycle, considering what goes into our mouth and acknowledging a gratitude before we do, are gestures that link us to a higher and wider consciousness. If we knew that choosing quinoa kale salad over chicken would do as much for our evolution as meditation, blessings or acts of kindness, maybe not all at once, but one step, one blog post, one breakfast at a time… would we go there? Could we go there? Will we? Time will tell.
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