After an unnecessarily trafficked trek on the Merritt stalled our road trip enthusiasm, we appear late Friday evening and the festivities are already underway. The Longtrail keg is tapped, swirling in bellies amidst blueberry and maple syrup marinated pulled pork: just one of the highlights of a BBQ table squished with organic, free range, farm-fresh, local delicacies lovingly prepared by the transported, in-house New York foodie chef. The hot tub is warming up. The firepit is blazing. The bride and groom glow even in the dark, with a comfort and ease that match the surroundings of the Vermont retreat house they have rented for their nuptials.
Perhaps it’s because they are already into Longtrail draft #2 or #3, but I am pulled into animated and fierce embrace after embrace upon arrival. Shouts of joy and faces bright with expectation and happiness greet me as I am told they were waiting for us. It’s not me. They just wanted the community to be complete. The love is more palpable here than any I’ve felt. You could thrust your palm into the unusually temperate New England late September air and grab a fistful as though it were a firefly. You could pocket the love—it’s tangible; it’s there for the taking. There’s an unspoken agreement: please do so; we have enough to share.
I am to be officiating the ceremony the following day and I am honored, humbled beyond words to be included in something that is at the same time spectacularly real and cheerily glamorous: the union of two people, so outrageously beautiful inside and out. A couple who figured it out, and live life and cherish and respect each other in a way that is, as I will tell them later, a shining example for the world. What the world needs now, indeed. They are my inspiration.
The following afternoon, the day of the main event, I’m walking out the door for a quick, jaunty hike to a nearby waterfall with friends when an uneasy sickness comes over me. Suddenly I am woozy and tired, and so trust the feeling in my body and send them on, to instead rest for a few minutes in my lopsided bed within the house. Soon I realize it is not sickness, it’s almost a performance anxiety. I will be leading all through the ceremony, but also have an extemporaneous “homily” to put forth; a task that I have never attempted and a skill that is nowhere near a forte.
When we up our levels of consciousness, these are not easy transitions. Whether it be through cleaner eating, weekend workshops, meditations, deeksha—all of this stuff that we do?... the best analogy I have heard is that it’s like plugging a 220 volt appliance into a 110 volt plug. Our body needs to adjust to the higher frequency; to expand and encompass a more super-charged vibration. I realized, I’m not sick; I need to go make room in myself to hold all this love.
And I did that. With no official ceremony other than drawing from traditions that had left imprints in my experience, I saged the ceremony area and the house. I chanted mantras. I meditated, not for myself, but for all of us—to hold the space—to grow it larger to allow the highest level of love to reside. Ok, so apparently this is the kind of stuff I do now. Whether or not that did anything, I have no practical way of knowing. I guessed and threw some love in that direction. Did I feel better? Yes. Was everyone extraordinarily moved by the emotional ceremony the couple had so exquisitely designed? Yes. I made space, not only for them, but for myself, clearly and definitively outlining: this is what I want, these are my people, this is who I want to be, this is all there is, we all deserve nothing less, and we open ourselves to more.
And then a funny thing happened. Several hours later, something abruptly, unexpectedly removed itself from my life; an aspect of my world which I had devoted months of love and energy to—a turn that I thought could expand into a new path for this junket known as mags (I wasn’t sure, but the hopeful potential was there—the groundwork was laid, the creativity flowing, it was easily flourishing, it was joyful, it was sexy, it was fun…,) and then, without my having a say in it, in the middle of nowhere country, at 11pm on the night of this wedding, I find out it has exited. The prospect is no longer there. Gone, and I have no discussion or say in it and I do not understand it.
Really? NOW? At two of my best friends’ wedding? For reals? On the afternoon where people came to me with tears in their eyes telling me how moved they were by my words? Where I am more grounded and full of love and shiny than perhaps I have ever been (equated to both a goddess and Elaine Stritch, which, yes, seems totally incongruous and random, but still Elaine Stritch is awesome) this road abruptly evaporates before my eyes? It couldn’t have vanished, like, 12 hours later when I was driving back hungover on 91, playing with my blackberry in the backseat? Couldn’t have happened on the following rainy Monday, when I am too cozy to go into my office and am instead working laptop/undies/chaise lazily from home? Nope: had to happen THEN.
And so, by 11pm (six hours into drinking champagne/sauvignon blanc/pinot noir, post dinner, post cake-cutting, post dancing,) I find out and I am crying, well, no… sobbing, convulsing, mourning, on the back fire escape outside my room, desperately struggling to stay present to the moment while still sequestering myself from any of the festivities; trying to contain what has happened to only my own processing and not a disasterous soap-opera-esque wedding drama. A handful of the closest girlfriends I have ever had in my life all happen to be here; they whisper to each other, they come quietly find me, offering support, love, comfort.
And in the midst of a ceaseless sea of snot, I know the truth: the world took it away from me because it didn’t match what I was looking for. Today was a picture, an announcement, a declaration, for my friends, for myself, for all of us to choose the kind of people we want to be, the kind of lives we want to live and most importantly, HOW we want to live them, and this aspect did not match, was not ready to match, or did not want to match, and so it was taken away from me. It happened oh too too dramatically so that I could see how clear the message was.
I went to bed early to keep it close to my chest. The next morning, those nearest to me of course found out. They were warm; we kept the discovery at a hushed distance so as not to mar the perfection of the love cultivated by the weekend.
I was disappointed, angry, hurt, devastated, abandoned. The emotions rose and fell, mashing each other like the clustering of the foliage on the surrounding mountains, overlapping yet still somehow distinct. Witnessing them, I was already feeling the distance of the loss, choosing instead to stick to the vision that I deserve.
A 4am gluttenous fridge pasta raid somewhat assuaged the swollen-eyed, hungover car ride home. Musings over what lessons I need to learn and why I hadn’t yet learned them, why and how I had brought this to myself and what my responsibility was in all of it, my head already wrapping on to how life could be brighter once I got past this, faded to the background as the miles passed. Instead I tuned in to more imminent desires. Self-exploration: pause, food fantasies: begin. I craved pasta; bolognese which I don’t normally eat any longer, but f*&% it all, I'm not a saint and tonight I would allow myself comfort... later this week I’d inevitably stick myself on a juice cleanse.
I'm eyeing the bottle of pinot noir the bride gave me in the backseat (damn-- not a screw top) when an old flame and dear friend texts me. It’s not necessary to recount my loss and add energy to that “story,” so I simply tell him the wedding was “perfect” “so fun, full of love”… I use exclamation points and smiley face emoticons. I tell him I cannot wait to get back to my termpurpedic and order take out.
Half an hour after I get home to my village studio, the buzzer rings and there is a deliveryman from one of my favorite neighborhood restaurants. I did not order this, the old flame sent it as a surprise. In the bag is $50 worth of food—bolognese (he was not told I was craving this in particular,) a large salad and a rich, dark chocolate cake with hazelnuts nuzzling a spot of cream so fresh, an angel probably whipped it together with her wings.
My body tired, spent, in pain, almost cries in joy to the deliveryman. I try to reach the sweetie by phone to thank him, but he avoids my call and instead texts me things that are unusually lovable and comforting—phrases that seem out of place particularly since he doesn’t know of my mourning. He doesn't even know I need it.
And it is a delicious sign: this is what it’s supposed to look like. This is the universe supporting you. This is connection. This is you being seen, appreciated. I eat the bolognese and wash it down with the bride bottle of pinot. The next morning, one of the most brilliant directors in town with whom I have never worked, emails me: "Hello amazing women: I am sending this to a few wonderful actresses I know and admire."
When you uncompromisingly hold what you want in your heart, life will give it to you. When you let go, more comes in. It may not be pretty in the moment, but when we honor the truth of ourselves, unexpected surprises will picnic our path to ease us down the road. Thank you.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
ok, I'm gonna go now... uh... can you come with me?
This go around it's my last day in India and I am walking through Chennai’s largest shopping “mall,” if you can call it that. Alone now, on a trip that was not about shopping, I take a couple hours to browse, barter and buy those pretty, unnecessary souvenirs that will sparkle against my wrist and warm my collarbone when the a/c is too high at the Angelika. I’m pretty much done, a bit tired and food deprived; my “over it” meter is approaching maximum, so when a shopkeeper shouts out to me, “Madam! Madam!” I don’t even glance to see where it’s coming from.
“Madam! Madam!!” He is insistent. I arrive at officially “over it,” and give him the international ‘no thanks/give it a rest’ gesture, walking, my behind to him and the back of my right hand up, as if to say, “enough, dude.”
He is running down the hallway, barefoot. He’s followed me so long that I think, “What’s up with this guy?” and turn to look. As brazenly annoying as some of these merchants can be, no one has yet to be this determined; a pitbull with a tilaka.
“You don’t look, you miss the best ayurvedic natural shop in the plaza! Please, madam, you come, you look.”
Ok, he’s right. I didn’t look and am actually interested in this, so I go to follow him.
When we sit (they always make you sit down in these stores) he looks at my tulsi mala beads, worn as a bracelet, and he pronounces the name of the guy I came to India to hang about, in question format, as if to say, “Your beads, they are from this guy?” I curiously answer, “Yes.” And I see him gesturing to a picture, prominently placed, clearly designating him as that guy’s Guy as well.
“You see, it is meant!” He smiles enthusiastically. The Guy is famous in these parts, but not so famous that everyone around here would know who he is and even a picture of him would be rare. It is the first one I have seen.
“You are supposed to meet me.” He underlines, satisfied. I smirk back at him, thinking the same thing. He knew I would think it.
I know you rationalists are going to surmise this is a little wack, but you know that already, so bear with me.
It’s not just that I literally had asked the big Guy for a way to clear up my “India spots” as my friend so gently coined them. It’s that everything has been so in-the-flow since being here that it’s hard to dismiss these seemingly small synchronicities/signs and ensuing intrinsic insouciance. I asked. I kinda thought I’d miraculously wake up one morning with no pimples. Instead I got a small barefoot Indian man chasing me down a mall hallway. Grace comes in every form.
There are other little incidents. Being the last of a 100 to leave for an outing, unhurriedly, everyone else stressing to scurry early, and then getting the blessing of road-tripping with a female monk. Going to see another holy lady, placidly pushing the minutes to get there to a really small window, and walking in to find the last three perfect spots open in the second row. She daintily shuffles in, petite and seraphic, so right behind us, someone might have thought we all shared a rickshaw. There are larger signs as well, things that have nothing to do with seating for sages, but these examples (For you and I, both) are more easily digestible.
I could interpret this level of ease as a feeling of being guided, or some kind of peace, thinking and knowing that it’s all going to be all right. Being comfortable with what is. That's been present and building for some time, but it's the newfound speed of it that is almost comically quick. A less secular way to describe it could be just following your own intuition, but having an unshakable faith that you know what’s right for yourself and those things popping up. But I’m talking about at every moment. Especially in the "ugly" ones. It’s easy to be grateful when all is well or when we think we've made it through a rough spot. And there is a world of difference between intellectually thinking it and believing that in our core when the sh** hits the fan. But if we're thinking it, the good news is, that means it’s en route to the core.
I’ve had phases, passing fancies and flirtations with this “guidedness.” This time around the bend it might be due to a larger understanding, but I don’t want to get so deep that I lose you just yet. And perhaps this is just still an Indian haze and I will go back to a lower rung of development as soon as I hit Manhattan’s sidewalks? Maybe I think the guidedness is here to settle down, when really he’s just a player, and in the morning I’ll wake up, mascara smeared from the red-eye, walk-of-shaming it from JFK to my apartment. Totally possible.
“Margaret, seriously, I mean move away from the incense and the voodoo and snap back to reality please. I read that facebook post about you eating a papaya like a monkey— time to get out of India and back to the city. In this world it’s every man for himself. Life is what you make of it.” This is the catch 22, that strange juxtaposition, because both are true. How can both be true? How can everything be taken care of and at the same time you need to work for it? Sorry, but I can’t give you a reasonable answer for that. Let's not go there yet. In the hours upon hours of philosophical discourse with my friends, we often wrap up with, “Don’t act like an enlightened person, if you’re not enlightened… Chai?”
What that means is, there are other levels of this universe we are not privy to, and you can call that spiritual or scientific or pure common sense, but I think we can all at least agree to stuff going on that no one can explain. Until we get there, it’s useless to ask why. And we don't need to act all noble, peace-like and selfless along the way, because really, we’re not that way. We’re human. Even enlightened people get pissed, by the way. My own personal big Guy has a rep for being what some have dubbed as ‘too passionate.’
We have to deal with what’s in front of us, and that will always run the whole gamut of emotions, but what happens is we start to let go of the suffering attached to it. There is joy, but no attachment to that joy as “mine.” There are tears, but they do not send us into a 3-day tailspin where the only people we see are the deli and liquor store deliverymen. When we experience what’s in front of us, for reals, that peace descends. Maybe one day (hopefully, fingers crossed, pretty please?) for good.
How does this relate to a barefoot Indian chasing me down in a shopping mall? Did I get absolutely hoodwinked and was my previous wish for an ayurvedic herb to help cleanse my kidney just a total, random coincidence? Have I completely gone over the deep end, and those close to me secretly (or not so secretly) think I’m living with fuscia colored glasses?
Perhaps.
I’m not saying I’m right. I could never know that for sure. But you know what? I’m happy. I’m at peace. And everything is happening with super efficient, effortless ease. If that means I’m out of my mind, I’ll take it.
“Madam! Madam!!” He is insistent. I arrive at officially “over it,” and give him the international ‘no thanks/give it a rest’ gesture, walking, my behind to him and the back of my right hand up, as if to say, “enough, dude.”
He is running down the hallway, barefoot. He’s followed me so long that I think, “What’s up with this guy?” and turn to look. As brazenly annoying as some of these merchants can be, no one has yet to be this determined; a pitbull with a tilaka.
“You don’t look, you miss the best ayurvedic natural shop in the plaza! Please, madam, you come, you look.”
Ok, he’s right. I didn’t look and am actually interested in this, so I go to follow him.
When we sit (they always make you sit down in these stores) he looks at my tulsi mala beads, worn as a bracelet, and he pronounces the name of the guy I came to India to hang about, in question format, as if to say, “Your beads, they are from this guy?” I curiously answer, “Yes.” And I see him gesturing to a picture, prominently placed, clearly designating him as that guy’s Guy as well.
“You see, it is meant!” He smiles enthusiastically. The Guy is famous in these parts, but not so famous that everyone around here would know who he is and even a picture of him would be rare. It is the first one I have seen.
“You are supposed to meet me.” He underlines, satisfied. I smirk back at him, thinking the same thing. He knew I would think it.
I know you rationalists are going to surmise this is a little wack, but you know that already, so bear with me.
It’s not just that I literally had asked the big Guy for a way to clear up my “India spots” as my friend so gently coined them. It’s that everything has been so in-the-flow since being here that it’s hard to dismiss these seemingly small synchronicities/signs and ensuing intrinsic insouciance. I asked. I kinda thought I’d miraculously wake up one morning with no pimples. Instead I got a small barefoot Indian man chasing me down a mall hallway. Grace comes in every form.
There are other little incidents. Being the last of a 100 to leave for an outing, unhurriedly, everyone else stressing to scurry early, and then getting the blessing of road-tripping with a female monk. Going to see another holy lady, placidly pushing the minutes to get there to a really small window, and walking in to find the last three perfect spots open in the second row. She daintily shuffles in, petite and seraphic, so right behind us, someone might have thought we all shared a rickshaw. There are larger signs as well, things that have nothing to do with seating for sages, but these examples (For you and I, both) are more easily digestible.
I could interpret this level of ease as a feeling of being guided, or some kind of peace, thinking and knowing that it’s all going to be all right. Being comfortable with what is. That's been present and building for some time, but it's the newfound speed of it that is almost comically quick. A less secular way to describe it could be just following your own intuition, but having an unshakable faith that you know what’s right for yourself and those things popping up. But I’m talking about at every moment. Especially in the "ugly" ones. It’s easy to be grateful when all is well or when we think we've made it through a rough spot. And there is a world of difference between intellectually thinking it and believing that in our core when the sh** hits the fan. But if we're thinking it, the good news is, that means it’s en route to the core.
I’ve had phases, passing fancies and flirtations with this “guidedness.” This time around the bend it might be due to a larger understanding, but I don’t want to get so deep that I lose you just yet. And perhaps this is just still an Indian haze and I will go back to a lower rung of development as soon as I hit Manhattan’s sidewalks? Maybe I think the guidedness is here to settle down, when really he’s just a player, and in the morning I’ll wake up, mascara smeared from the red-eye, walk-of-shaming it from JFK to my apartment. Totally possible.
“Margaret, seriously, I mean move away from the incense and the voodoo and snap back to reality please. I read that facebook post about you eating a papaya like a monkey— time to get out of India and back to the city. In this world it’s every man for himself. Life is what you make of it.” This is the catch 22, that strange juxtaposition, because both are true. How can both be true? How can everything be taken care of and at the same time you need to work for it? Sorry, but I can’t give you a reasonable answer for that. Let's not go there yet. In the hours upon hours of philosophical discourse with my friends, we often wrap up with, “Don’t act like an enlightened person, if you’re not enlightened… Chai?”
What that means is, there are other levels of this universe we are not privy to, and you can call that spiritual or scientific or pure common sense, but I think we can all at least agree to stuff going on that no one can explain. Until we get there, it’s useless to ask why. And we don't need to act all noble, peace-like and selfless along the way, because really, we’re not that way. We’re human. Even enlightened people get pissed, by the way. My own personal big Guy has a rep for being what some have dubbed as ‘too passionate.’
We have to deal with what’s in front of us, and that will always run the whole gamut of emotions, but what happens is we start to let go of the suffering attached to it. There is joy, but no attachment to that joy as “mine.” There are tears, but they do not send us into a 3-day tailspin where the only people we see are the deli and liquor store deliverymen. When we experience what’s in front of us, for reals, that peace descends. Maybe one day (hopefully, fingers crossed, pretty please?) for good.
How does this relate to a barefoot Indian chasing me down in a shopping mall? Did I get absolutely hoodwinked and was my previous wish for an ayurvedic herb to help cleanse my kidney just a total, random coincidence? Have I completely gone over the deep end, and those close to me secretly (or not so secretly) think I’m living with fuscia colored glasses?
Perhaps.
I’m not saying I’m right. I could never know that for sure. But you know what? I’m happy. I’m at peace. And everything is happening with super efficient, effortless ease. If that means I’m out of my mind, I’ll take it.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Do you believe in magic?
“If my mother saw me right now, she’d think I was absolutely out of my mind.”
That’s what I was thinking. The point of course, IS to get out of the mind, and to get above that pesky thinking, but I don’t want to digress just my third sentence into this post.
I am in rural Southern India. I am sitting on a concrete floor, surrounded by five other Westerners and a few dozen Indians. Spellbound, transfixed, confused, intrigued. In front of me is a bearded 34-year-old man, hips cocked, grounded stride, wearing a lunghi, tied not around the waist as most men would wear, but instead as an almost makeshift tangerine halter dress. With a deliberate flick of his (her?) wrist, jasmine petals are delicately tossed against the backside of a cow. The cow stands proud, bored, chewing sugarcane, so used to the attention, she is beyond it. Cows are sacred in India. It’s her party and she’ll be indifferent if she wants to.
The man is known as Amma. At four years old, when most children are still aiming to get applesauce in a direct line from their spoons to their mouths, he (geez… she?) started performing his own pujas. (Ceremonies using incense, flowers, ghee, water, smoke, etc. to praise statues of deities and in turn ask for blessings.) At 16 he declared he was Narayani—the first ever incarnation combo of the female goddesses Durga, Lakshmi and Saraswati: spoken of in sacred Hindu texts for thousands of years, but yet to make her glittering debut on this earth. Ta da.
It is one of the most provocatively bizarre things I have ever seen in my life. That Sri Amma is thought to be an Avatar (which has many meanings/interpretations but basically the gist is God in human form with superpowers and the like,) makes the entire situation that much more baffling. A bearded male, as female, God, tossing jasmine at a cow in an orange halter dress. The music accompanying is like modern jazz improv: not melodic: jarring and cacophonous, its builds deceptively exhilarating. We’re not in Kansas anymore.
Amma’s every move is deliberate… focused and efficient yet at the same time devotedly and slowly determined. It is almost sensual; a baffling display of divinity to witness in the flesh, at least from this gal’s limited perspective. Amma will be entirely encompassed by the puja, and then she unexpectedly darts her gaze out into her audience, here, in the cow stall, and will choose one person with whom to lock eyes. Sometimes she does this a couple of times in a half hour-ish puja, sometimes it is once. When her visage hits yours, it is absolutely disarming, dangerous almost. An electric bolt of something mysterious, secret, shared. This is not the round, nurturing gentle love of an older guru mother Amma who holds you to her breast. It is all woman, warrior, the matriarch, the boss. I have seen images of these versions of goddesses. I have never witnessed one in the flesh.
Rationalist skeptics could easily dismiss her as an elaborate drag queen act. I’ve certainly seen affected people from New York that were as dramatic, with better hair and fabulous shoes who would for sure advise to “lose the beard,” so to speak.
But I am here because a friend of a friend is a solid devotee. A talented Australian musician and his open and generous fiancée, both winsome inside and out. They share a fairytale love story with ensuing expedited proposal whose lovely, fated beginnings equal in measure to the drama of their current surroundings.
I had seen the musician perform almost two years ago in Sydney and that’s all I needed to know about his character. Whoever Amma was/is, the musician’s devotion to her and its effects on him were expressed as a handsome young man with groundedness, grace, wisdom, an affable happiness and humility. For my money, it’s tricky to find someone who is entirely devoted and yet still translates as genuine. Many can easily fall into the fanatic category and so be dismissed as loony tunes. The musician straddles this balance in such a bona fide manner, it makes you want what he has.
We all spend a couple of days here, ashram-ing it up, which basically means a lot of puja, a lot of philosophical discourse and a lot of coconuts. We follow Amma here, we follow her there. Due to the fact that she has very few Western guests (we are a half dozen at present, with hundreds of Indians filtering through daily) and that we are friends with the musician, we essentially get VIP treatment everywhere. Inner temple admittance, no lines, no waiting, always front row. Pretty incredible access to someone looked at in this light.
Our final full day my girlfriend and I put together a small basket. After the afternoon puja, Amma was to hand out holy water and bless items if asked. My girlfriend told me to hold the basket and I was nervous, shy. “What do I do? How do I do it?” It’s kinda daunting to approach someone people look at as God. We were ushered to Amma one by one. At my turn, I drank the water in one fell slurp from my right hand, as per usual, and balanced the basket in my left. I then haphazardly lifted my chin to find Amma pouring a circle of water around it. My eyes rose to meet her in thanks and then, in less than a second, our glance locked and it was… oh my… it was…
I don’t usually like to write about these experiences because words aren’t ever enough. They are so so very far away from enough. But I had asked that morning. I said, quietly, without even thinking about it—“I want to believe this. In you. Show me.” And in that less than a moment eye connection, it fell away. Everything fell away. I was swept into a tunnel of another realm of existence and she was gazing at me and the love was so pure, so deep, so unanticipated, so of another level I cannot begin to describe how in that instant everything made sense. It makes me groan to think of it. There is so much more to that brief split second, but compressing it down to words on a page, to a perspective so small it cannot even begin to mirror its majesty, is fruitless.
I asked for it, and I got it. I had a hard time moving, speaking, focusing my eyes for a good 15 minutes. The state probably could have lasted a lot longer but maybe it’s that on some level I felt I did not deserve it. How could a 5’ 2 3/4” bossy cheeky New Yorker hold such vast grace… even for just a moment?
The point here, to all of this, is not to intrigue you with mystical stories. Believe me, I have plenty and I don’t feel it’s my place to share them. But this one, this one was not mine. Amma is not my guru and she blessed me with a sensational love. That was a most gracious gift. I didn’t have an intrinsic belief but the respect for the musician and my friends allowed me the possibility of faith. Sometimes all we need is to leave ourselves open to the possibility. Just the smallest crack and the asking and it will blast us open.
There are essentially two ways to look at life. We can choose to look at the world as magic or not. Elephants, golden temples, supreme love, gifts and open-heartedness. Even if we don’t understand these things, they change us on a neurobiological level. These are stories I hope to save for my children one day to outline in spectacular detail as they lie snug in bed, rapt with attention. To show them the magic, the grace, the gift that can be generosity, friendship, love. I want to believe in magic. I think life is nicer this way. As they would say in India… isn’t it?
That’s what I was thinking. The point of course, IS to get out of the mind, and to get above that pesky thinking, but I don’t want to digress just my third sentence into this post.
I am in rural Southern India. I am sitting on a concrete floor, surrounded by five other Westerners and a few dozen Indians. Spellbound, transfixed, confused, intrigued. In front of me is a bearded 34-year-old man, hips cocked, grounded stride, wearing a lunghi, tied not around the waist as most men would wear, but instead as an almost makeshift tangerine halter dress. With a deliberate flick of his (her?) wrist, jasmine petals are delicately tossed against the backside of a cow. The cow stands proud, bored, chewing sugarcane, so used to the attention, she is beyond it. Cows are sacred in India. It’s her party and she’ll be indifferent if she wants to.
The man is known as Amma. At four years old, when most children are still aiming to get applesauce in a direct line from their spoons to their mouths, he (geez… she?) started performing his own pujas. (Ceremonies using incense, flowers, ghee, water, smoke, etc. to praise statues of deities and in turn ask for blessings.) At 16 he declared he was Narayani—the first ever incarnation combo of the female goddesses Durga, Lakshmi and Saraswati: spoken of in sacred Hindu texts for thousands of years, but yet to make her glittering debut on this earth. Ta da.
It is one of the most provocatively bizarre things I have ever seen in my life. That Sri Amma is thought to be an Avatar (which has many meanings/interpretations but basically the gist is God in human form with superpowers and the like,) makes the entire situation that much more baffling. A bearded male, as female, God, tossing jasmine at a cow in an orange halter dress. The music accompanying is like modern jazz improv: not melodic: jarring and cacophonous, its builds deceptively exhilarating. We’re not in Kansas anymore.
Amma’s every move is deliberate… focused and efficient yet at the same time devotedly and slowly determined. It is almost sensual; a baffling display of divinity to witness in the flesh, at least from this gal’s limited perspective. Amma will be entirely encompassed by the puja, and then she unexpectedly darts her gaze out into her audience, here, in the cow stall, and will choose one person with whom to lock eyes. Sometimes she does this a couple of times in a half hour-ish puja, sometimes it is once. When her visage hits yours, it is absolutely disarming, dangerous almost. An electric bolt of something mysterious, secret, shared. This is not the round, nurturing gentle love of an older guru mother Amma who holds you to her breast. It is all woman, warrior, the matriarch, the boss. I have seen images of these versions of goddesses. I have never witnessed one in the flesh.
Rationalist skeptics could easily dismiss her as an elaborate drag queen act. I’ve certainly seen affected people from New York that were as dramatic, with better hair and fabulous shoes who would for sure advise to “lose the beard,” so to speak.
But I am here because a friend of a friend is a solid devotee. A talented Australian musician and his open and generous fiancée, both winsome inside and out. They share a fairytale love story with ensuing expedited proposal whose lovely, fated beginnings equal in measure to the drama of their current surroundings.
I had seen the musician perform almost two years ago in Sydney and that’s all I needed to know about his character. Whoever Amma was/is, the musician’s devotion to her and its effects on him were expressed as a handsome young man with groundedness, grace, wisdom, an affable happiness and humility. For my money, it’s tricky to find someone who is entirely devoted and yet still translates as genuine. Many can easily fall into the fanatic category and so be dismissed as loony tunes. The musician straddles this balance in such a bona fide manner, it makes you want what he has.
We all spend a couple of days here, ashram-ing it up, which basically means a lot of puja, a lot of philosophical discourse and a lot of coconuts. We follow Amma here, we follow her there. Due to the fact that she has very few Western guests (we are a half dozen at present, with hundreds of Indians filtering through daily) and that we are friends with the musician, we essentially get VIP treatment everywhere. Inner temple admittance, no lines, no waiting, always front row. Pretty incredible access to someone looked at in this light.
Our final full day my girlfriend and I put together a small basket. After the afternoon puja, Amma was to hand out holy water and bless items if asked. My girlfriend told me to hold the basket and I was nervous, shy. “What do I do? How do I do it?” It’s kinda daunting to approach someone people look at as God. We were ushered to Amma one by one. At my turn, I drank the water in one fell slurp from my right hand, as per usual, and balanced the basket in my left. I then haphazardly lifted my chin to find Amma pouring a circle of water around it. My eyes rose to meet her in thanks and then, in less than a second, our glance locked and it was… oh my… it was…
I don’t usually like to write about these experiences because words aren’t ever enough. They are so so very far away from enough. But I had asked that morning. I said, quietly, without even thinking about it—“I want to believe this. In you. Show me.” And in that less than a moment eye connection, it fell away. Everything fell away. I was swept into a tunnel of another realm of existence and she was gazing at me and the love was so pure, so deep, so unanticipated, so of another level I cannot begin to describe how in that instant everything made sense. It makes me groan to think of it. There is so much more to that brief split second, but compressing it down to words on a page, to a perspective so small it cannot even begin to mirror its majesty, is fruitless.
I asked for it, and I got it. I had a hard time moving, speaking, focusing my eyes for a good 15 minutes. The state probably could have lasted a lot longer but maybe it’s that on some level I felt I did not deserve it. How could a 5’ 2 3/4” bossy cheeky New Yorker hold such vast grace… even for just a moment?
The point here, to all of this, is not to intrigue you with mystical stories. Believe me, I have plenty and I don’t feel it’s my place to share them. But this one, this one was not mine. Amma is not my guru and she blessed me with a sensational love. That was a most gracious gift. I didn’t have an intrinsic belief but the respect for the musician and my friends allowed me the possibility of faith. Sometimes all we need is to leave ourselves open to the possibility. Just the smallest crack and the asking and it will blast us open.
There are essentially two ways to look at life. We can choose to look at the world as magic or not. Elephants, golden temples, supreme love, gifts and open-heartedness. Even if we don’t understand these things, they change us on a neurobiological level. These are stories I hope to save for my children one day to outline in spectacular detail as they lie snug in bed, rapt with attention. To show them the magic, the grace, the gift that can be generosity, friendship, love. I want to believe in magic. I think life is nicer this way. As they would say in India… isn’t it?
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
maharishis and mashed potatoes
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.
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.
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.
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