I've finished Eat, Pray, Love and lump of something emotional welled in my throat. I finished the book while sitting in the common area of the writing space and I refused to cry in front of complete strangers. I had just had a coughing fit moments early because of choking on my own spit. How would weeping look? They'd think me a mess.
How do I sum this all up?
What I think is the "wise me" says: "Put the book down. Live your life. The story's over. Liz has given you what she can. Now, go, live your life. God has given you clues. Go, follow them. Use them."
The "scared child me" whimpers and still looks down at the book, hoping for more magic - sort of like that gentle, warm, embracing and loving hug our moms gave us (or, at least, ought to have given us) before sending us out into the big, scary world. We, as children, could venture forth, knowing that, no matter where we go, we will always be loved and cared for.
The one last gift Liz gives is this: "The Zen Buddhists believe . . . an oak tree is brought into creation by two forces at the same time. Obviously, there is the acorn from which it all begins . . . But only a few recognize that there is another force operating here as well - the future tree itself . . ." p 329
"I think of everything I endured before getting here and wonder if it was me - I mean, this happy and balanced me, who is now dozing on the deck of this small Indonesian fishing boat - who pulled the other, younger, more confused and more struggling me forward during all those hard years. The younger me was the acorn full of potential, but it was the older me, the already existing oak, who was saying the whole time: 'YES - grow! Change! Evoke! Come out and meet me here, where I already exist in wholeness and maturity! I need you to grow into me!" p 329 - 330
What would we say to our younger selves if given the chance? What would our future selves, what DO our future selves say to us, if only we'd listen?
I figured out the feeling, the lump of something in my throat: the good-bye feeling, the end-of-an-adventure feeling. Whatever that feeling is when we've read a really good book, gotten to know and love the characters and then, say good-bye. We could go back and read it again, but we know, deep down, the sense of discovery, the sense of meeting and growing to love would never exist in the same way. We'd just be reading a history. So, we sadly say good-bye, wash back on to the shore of reality, our bodies still warm and humming from the adventurous embrace of the story, and we meet the day.
"Yet, what keeps me from dissolving right now into a complete fairy-tale shimmer is this solid truth, a truth which has veritably built my bones over the last few years - I was not rescued by a prince; I was the administrator of my own rescue"
So, God will send us guides, but he will never send us rescuers.
Be the administrator of your own rescue and I'll be the administrator of mine.
And, I'll meet you on the hill top where hallowed souls shine.
Scoffers will scoff. Non-believers will weep.
But, you and I, my friend, will take the heavenly leap.
And, if we shall fall, God will catch us and land us on the moon.
For we have shot for the stars and sang a great lover's tune.
Don't be afraid. God has given us wings.
Sing out your mighty song, for God gave us voices to sing.
Laugh and cry, crawl and scrape, but never weep in fear.
For dawn is coming, the lights are on and a loving God is near.
So, let's gather up and take a leap, a leap of hope and faith.
For a life lived so adventurously, is a life not gone to waste.
Thank you, Liz. I love you as much as an absolute, complete stranger can love another.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Monday, May 7, 2012
Day 62. April 6th, 2012 Friggin Spiritual Journey!
I've been doing this for four months now! Perhaps its time to put this down, to finish this and move on. Liz is on the final leg of he stay in Bali. She's reflecting on the last time she stayed there, years ago (her "week of solitude"). "I'm not talking because I'm on a friggin' spiritual journey, you nasty little punk - now go AWAY!" she blurted out at a relentless, talkative, "beach-smart" child. p 326.
Her pause for reflection has caused me to do so, as well. "Life's a journey, not a destination," Steven Tyler once said. Though I've changed (grown, hopefully) I haven't arrived anywhere. I've struggled through this last part of the book, the loving part, as I've struggled in my life, lately. It hasn't been painful, it's just been a difficult juggling act: the video shoot, the new job in a restaurant, writing (which has obviously lagged - evident in my lack of focus on this blog) and the relationship. Prayer and meditation has been lacking, too.
Liz seems so self aware. I used to think I was self aware, but I've realized that I still have little idea of what's going on. Liz's book has changed me, changed my outlook, been a catalyst to change in my life.
When Liz was on the island the first time, in the secluded place where she's now taking Felipe, she took herself through a cleansing meditation: "Show me everything that's causing you sorrow . . . show me your anger, now . . . show me your shame . . ." p 327. I've had to go through a similar process, in order to recover from drinking. She was able to forgive herself, and all that was troubling her, she welcomed into her heart until she was empty.
She realized her capacity for love, compassion, forgiveness and then realized God's infinite capacity for these things. "I saw that my heart was not even nearly full, not even after having taken in and tended to all those calamitous urchins of sorrow and anger and shame' my heart could easily have received and forgiven even more. It's love was infinite.
"I know then that this is how God loves us all and receives us all, and there is no such thing in this universe as hell, except maybe in out own terrified minds." p 328
Our own terrified minds . . . that's why we do the horrible things we do to each other, to frighten others into a state where we won't feel so scared. This kind of thinking, I think, exists on a personal, a national, and a global level. Perhaps, that's why some one invented the concept of "hell", to frighten those they wanted to control so they'll behave, get in line. We need order to feel ok.
"Just imagine! - what God, in all His eternal compassion, can forgive and accept."
As humans, our own fears keep us from compassion, forgiveness and acceptance. But, like her Guru said, "Fear - who cares?" So fear is a feeling we capitalize on in each other and ourselves. The only difference between me and the guy who did the thing I was too afraid to do is action . . . he did it! We both feel the fear, but he had the faith and he took the action. Fear is a theme that seems to be coming up a lot for me. Fear (or, at least, my awareness of it) is becoming prevalent. And, as I'm becoming more aware of my fear, I'm getting rather sick of it and its power over me.
Of course, I can't rid myself of it any more than I can rid myself of any other emotion. I will always feel it. I can't fight it. That will just make it worse. But, God can deal with it. As a matter of fact, I really think he should. Of course, that's contingent upon my willingness to let Him.
Procrastination: I've realized that "I don't want to" really means "I'm too scared to." Unless, we're talking about knitting, accounting or "prince alberts" (look it up) - those things I really, truly have no interest in doing.
What will happen if and/or when I get published? What do I do to perpetuate my fears tied up in that? My feelings of inadequacy, of being too old, too dumb, not talented enough, too slow, not creative or imaginative enough, not skilled enough . . . yet,
“The only thing standing between you and your goal is the bullshit story you keep telling yourself as to why you can't achieve it.” Jordan Belfort
"Inaction breeds doubt and fear. Action breeds confidence and courage. If you want to conquer fear, do not sit home and think about it. Go out and get busy." Dale Carnegie
Her pause for reflection has caused me to do so, as well. "Life's a journey, not a destination," Steven Tyler once said. Though I've changed (grown, hopefully) I haven't arrived anywhere. I've struggled through this last part of the book, the loving part, as I've struggled in my life, lately. It hasn't been painful, it's just been a difficult juggling act: the video shoot, the new job in a restaurant, writing (which has obviously lagged - evident in my lack of focus on this blog) and the relationship. Prayer and meditation has been lacking, too.
Liz seems so self aware. I used to think I was self aware, but I've realized that I still have little idea of what's going on. Liz's book has changed me, changed my outlook, been a catalyst to change in my life.
When Liz was on the island the first time, in the secluded place where she's now taking Felipe, she took herself through a cleansing meditation: "Show me everything that's causing you sorrow . . . show me your anger, now . . . show me your shame . . ." p 327. I've had to go through a similar process, in order to recover from drinking. She was able to forgive herself, and all that was troubling her, she welcomed into her heart until she was empty.
She realized her capacity for love, compassion, forgiveness and then realized God's infinite capacity for these things. "I saw that my heart was not even nearly full, not even after having taken in and tended to all those calamitous urchins of sorrow and anger and shame' my heart could easily have received and forgiven even more. It's love was infinite.
"I know then that this is how God loves us all and receives us all, and there is no such thing in this universe as hell, except maybe in out own terrified minds." p 328
Our own terrified minds . . . that's why we do the horrible things we do to each other, to frighten others into a state where we won't feel so scared. This kind of thinking, I think, exists on a personal, a national, and a global level. Perhaps, that's why some one invented the concept of "hell", to frighten those they wanted to control so they'll behave, get in line. We need order to feel ok.
"Just imagine! - what God, in all His eternal compassion, can forgive and accept."
As humans, our own fears keep us from compassion, forgiveness and acceptance. But, like her Guru said, "Fear - who cares?" So fear is a feeling we capitalize on in each other and ourselves. The only difference between me and the guy who did the thing I was too afraid to do is action . . . he did it! We both feel the fear, but he had the faith and he took the action. Fear is a theme that seems to be coming up a lot for me. Fear (or, at least, my awareness of it) is becoming prevalent. And, as I'm becoming more aware of my fear, I'm getting rather sick of it and its power over me.
Of course, I can't rid myself of it any more than I can rid myself of any other emotion. I will always feel it. I can't fight it. That will just make it worse. But, God can deal with it. As a matter of fact, I really think he should. Of course, that's contingent upon my willingness to let Him.
Procrastination: I've realized that "I don't want to" really means "I'm too scared to." Unless, we're talking about knitting, accounting or "prince alberts" (look it up) - those things I really, truly have no interest in doing.
What will happen if and/or when I get published? What do I do to perpetuate my fears tied up in that? My feelings of inadequacy, of being too old, too dumb, not talented enough, too slow, not creative or imaginative enough, not skilled enough . . . yet,
“The only thing standing between you and your goal is the bullshit story you keep telling yourself as to why you can't achieve it.” Jordan Belfort
"Inaction breeds doubt and fear. Action breeds confidence and courage. If you want to conquer fear, do not sit home and think about it. Go out and get busy." Dale Carnegie
"If you are distressed by
anything external, the pain is not due to the thing itself, but to your
estimate of it; and this you have the power to revoke at any moment." Marcus Aurelius
"When a resolute young fellow
steps up to the great bully, the world, and takes him boldly by the
beard, he is often surprised to find it comes off in his hand, and that
it was only tied on to scare away the timid adventurers." Ralph Waldo Emerson
Day 61. April 4th, 2012 Games
Less than two weeks left in Bali and all the eating, the praying and the loving will be done . . . at least this record of it will be. I'm going to avoid getting too reflective right now. I'll reserve that for the final entry, which is coming soon.
Wayan finally bought a house, in what was an old twist of benign manipulation: a woman crawling out of abject poverty, wisdom from the patient, observant and tolerant Felipe, and "bull-shitting", she finally bought a house. It was a good lesson on living life on life's terms.
"What happens with westerners who live here for a long time" (says Felipe) "is that they usually end up falling into one of two camps. Half of them keep playing the tourist, saying, 'oh these lovely Balinese, so sweet, so gracious . . . and getting ripped-off like crazy. The other half get so frustrated with being ripped-off all the time they start to hate the Balinese. And, that's a shame, because you've lost all these wonderful friends." p 321
"I don't want to play games, Felipe," Liz says. He kisses her head and says, "Then you can't live in Bali, darling."
WE have to accept the way the world works, play by life's rules, I guess, if we want to survive, live life on life's terms. Sometimes, I get confused between my principals and self-righteousness. But, like Darwin said, "It's not the strongest who survive, nor the most intelligent, but the ones most adaptable to change." God's world is ever changing and, most of the time, I have no idea what's going on.
Wayan finally bought a house, in what was an old twist of benign manipulation: a woman crawling out of abject poverty, wisdom from the patient, observant and tolerant Felipe, and "bull-shitting", she finally bought a house. It was a good lesson on living life on life's terms.
"What happens with westerners who live here for a long time" (says Felipe) "is that they usually end up falling into one of two camps. Half of them keep playing the tourist, saying, 'oh these lovely Balinese, so sweet, so gracious . . . and getting ripped-off like crazy. The other half get so frustrated with being ripped-off all the time they start to hate the Balinese. And, that's a shame, because you've lost all these wonderful friends." p 321
"I don't want to play games, Felipe," Liz says. He kisses her head and says, "Then you can't live in Bali, darling."
WE have to accept the way the world works, play by life's rules, I guess, if we want to survive, live life on life's terms. Sometimes, I get confused between my principals and self-righteousness. But, like Darwin said, "It's not the strongest who survive, nor the most intelligent, but the ones most adaptable to change." God's world is ever changing and, most of the time, I have no idea what's going on.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Day 60. April 2nd, 2012 Unconditional Love
I read more today than usual because I was drawn into the saga of Wayan and her potential new home. It hasn't happened, yet.
Liz wrote more about Felipe, what kind of man he is. She wrote about his character and that she's falling in love with him (he's already fallen in love with her). I can't help but feel sorry for Liz's ex-husband . . . unless, he's a really good man, a strong man who's able to move on (though, by the sound of the painful fights resulting from the divorce, I feel doubtful). I feel bad for the guy who got dumped, only to have his ex-wife go on to live this beautiful life. Unless, of course, he found a way through truly loving her to be happy that Liz is living a joyful life, even though he still hurts a little.
An interesting thing about Felipe: "For some reason," he says. "I feel the same way about you that I felt about my kids when they were small - that it wasn't their job to love me, it was my job to love them. You can decide to feel however you want to, but I love you and I will always love you . . . even if we never see each other again, you already brought me back to life, and that's a lot." p 311
Felipe is a wise man. He seems to have learned how the world works. I feel, again, as if I'm at the beginning. Compared to Felipe, I'm just beginning to see how the world works. It's like I'm just beginning to be shown and he's already been shown. I'm just beginning to learn how to see, to learn, even if I don't like the lessons very much. So, it's my job to love my fiancee and not her job to love me back (especially in the way I think I should be loved - I should strike that notion from my mind).
I should ask myself: How generous am I with my love? Do I put conditions on it? Do I put conditions on my generosity? That's not very generous then is it? Do I rub her feet without any expectation of reciprocation (just an example)? Do I resent having to do it because I haven't gotten anything in return?
God asks me to be kind. loving and generous. As far as I know, he doesn't ask me to stop these things when I think I'm not getting what I deem the proper amount of love in return. I'm just realizing now that I don't know how to love unconditionally yet. Perhaps, that comes from the fact that I don't know how to love myself unconditionally, yet. I guess I have to learn how to accept myself, "warts and all", before I can learn to accept my fiancee, "warts and all".
Liz wrote more about Felipe, what kind of man he is. She wrote about his character and that she's falling in love with him (he's already fallen in love with her). I can't help but feel sorry for Liz's ex-husband . . . unless, he's a really good man, a strong man who's able to move on (though, by the sound of the painful fights resulting from the divorce, I feel doubtful). I feel bad for the guy who got dumped, only to have his ex-wife go on to live this beautiful life. Unless, of course, he found a way through truly loving her to be happy that Liz is living a joyful life, even though he still hurts a little.
An interesting thing about Felipe: "For some reason," he says. "I feel the same way about you that I felt about my kids when they were small - that it wasn't their job to love me, it was my job to love them. You can decide to feel however you want to, but I love you and I will always love you . . . even if we never see each other again, you already brought me back to life, and that's a lot." p 311
Felipe is a wise man. He seems to have learned how the world works. I feel, again, as if I'm at the beginning. Compared to Felipe, I'm just beginning to see how the world works. It's like I'm just beginning to be shown and he's already been shown. I'm just beginning to learn how to see, to learn, even if I don't like the lessons very much. So, it's my job to love my fiancee and not her job to love me back (especially in the way I think I should be loved - I should strike that notion from my mind).
I should ask myself: How generous am I with my love? Do I put conditions on it? Do I put conditions on my generosity? That's not very generous then is it? Do I rub her feet without any expectation of reciprocation (just an example)? Do I resent having to do it because I haven't gotten anything in return?
God asks me to be kind. loving and generous. As far as I know, he doesn't ask me to stop these things when I think I'm not getting what I deem the proper amount of love in return. I'm just realizing now that I don't know how to love unconditionally yet. Perhaps, that comes from the fact that I don't know how to love myself unconditionally, yet. I guess I have to learn how to accept myself, "warts and all", before I can learn to accept my fiancee, "warts and all".
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Day 59 March 30th, 2012 Yeah, This One Is About Sex
In Chapters 97 and 99 (98 was spent on a road trip with Yudhi), Liz finally has sex with Felipe . . . and more sex . . . "When we (she and Yudhi) return to Ubud, I got straight back to Felipe's house and don't leave his bedroom for approximately another month." p 294 "Never have I been so unpeeled, revealed, unfurled and hurled through the event of love-making."
Liz offers a key (or is it instruction) for men: ". . . if a man really touches you gently, caresses your skin, says loving things, kisses you all over your body, takes his time . . . sex can be nice." p 302
How many of us take our time? I guess this question is really for the dudes. How many of us worship our women's bodies the way Felipe worships Liz's? I know, you're probably thinking (like me) try doing that after a year or 10 years, even. Doctors and therapists would have an answer for this. I do not.
I've known how to be animalistic. I've known how to find the woman who wants to be taken and take her. I've learned how to touch and kiss and lick in all the right places and move in all the right ways for the sake of pleasure. Let me stop here and note that I have since begun to learn the difference between love and pleasure . . . or even happiness and pleasure. But, back when I was picking up women, they were usually drunk and horny already, so they were already willing. When a woman is ready and willing all a man has to do is listen to her body and learn how to have a little stamina and well, you're great in bed! However, I imagine the women's insecurities and vulnerabilities were quieted by alcohol. And, great sex is different than great love making. Also, a dude has to eventually consider the cost of continually being a stud in a stranger's bed. Out there in the fictional world created in the deluded male brain (seemingly driven by scientifically suggested animal instinct ingrained in our DNA) the "stud" is the ideal. "The Ladies Man"!
However, the compulsion to please a new woman every night, to somehow win or dominate or achieve the "stud of the year award" leaves you feeling empty. The best I ever felt was the same, never better about myself. I'll stop short of getting entirely too personal here and say this: Even deeper than that urge to sow our oats sits the basic need to be loved. And, random acts of sex has never been a substitute for love. Believe me, I've tried. Maybe other men can do it without guilt or conscience. But, in pursuit of a meaningful life, such actions always left me wanting.
Then, there's sharing with the one you love! Scary! I still feel like I'm clumsy at it. Do I do the things Liz writes about? Yes. I think. At least I've learned how to listen to a woman's body. Without going to into embarrassing detail (I've embarrassed myself enough I think), time and attention with one woman will teach you a lot about what she likes.
Do I have patience, though? Do I really take my time, or do I rush into things and hope she'll catch up? I suppose my fiancee and I could have that conversation that makes the little boy inside me blush and get squirrelly. But, if we're in this for the long haul, I guess we have to learn how to communicate about such things.
Again, how many of us worship the temple that is the woman's body? And, how many woman take care of it, love it and nurture it, themselves. I'm not talking about masturbation (Liz did. I can't). I'm talking about really taking care of yourselves, loving your own self, loving your own bodies (despite what the airbrushed, photo shopped magazines say), providing for yourself and the healthy, strong temples you'd be happy to look at in the mirror. I'd take confident over "perfect" any day, by the way.
Another thing I've learned is that if a woman feels "fat" or "ugly", or if she's feeling insecure or distracted by any thought (hell, even if her back hurts or my stubble hurts!) an orgasm isn't going to happen. But, hey, sometimes "it" doesn't happen. Women still enjoy the act of love making. At least that's what I've been told. Maybe I've been lied to. If that's true, the woman ultimately suffers. If a woman lies about sex with even a halfway decent man she's selling herself short.
Of course, chemistry is the key! See Day 58's entry. I've said enough, probably too much. And, I've even edited myself!
Liz offers a key (or is it instruction) for men: ". . . if a man really touches you gently, caresses your skin, says loving things, kisses you all over your body, takes his time . . . sex can be nice." p 302
How many of us take our time? I guess this question is really for the dudes. How many of us worship our women's bodies the way Felipe worships Liz's? I know, you're probably thinking (like me) try doing that after a year or 10 years, even. Doctors and therapists would have an answer for this. I do not.
I've known how to be animalistic. I've known how to find the woman who wants to be taken and take her. I've learned how to touch and kiss and lick in all the right places and move in all the right ways for the sake of pleasure. Let me stop here and note that I have since begun to learn the difference between love and pleasure . . . or even happiness and pleasure. But, back when I was picking up women, they were usually drunk and horny already, so they were already willing. When a woman is ready and willing all a man has to do is listen to her body and learn how to have a little stamina and well, you're great in bed! However, I imagine the women's insecurities and vulnerabilities were quieted by alcohol. And, great sex is different than great love making. Also, a dude has to eventually consider the cost of continually being a stud in a stranger's bed. Out there in the fictional world created in the deluded male brain (seemingly driven by scientifically suggested animal instinct ingrained in our DNA) the "stud" is the ideal. "The Ladies Man"!
However, the compulsion to please a new woman every night, to somehow win or dominate or achieve the "stud of the year award" leaves you feeling empty. The best I ever felt was the same, never better about myself. I'll stop short of getting entirely too personal here and say this: Even deeper than that urge to sow our oats sits the basic need to be loved. And, random acts of sex has never been a substitute for love. Believe me, I've tried. Maybe other men can do it without guilt or conscience. But, in pursuit of a meaningful life, such actions always left me wanting.
Then, there's sharing with the one you love! Scary! I still feel like I'm clumsy at it. Do I do the things Liz writes about? Yes. I think. At least I've learned how to listen to a woman's body. Without going to into embarrassing detail (I've embarrassed myself enough I think), time and attention with one woman will teach you a lot about what she likes.
Do I have patience, though? Do I really take my time, or do I rush into things and hope she'll catch up? I suppose my fiancee and I could have that conversation that makes the little boy inside me blush and get squirrelly. But, if we're in this for the long haul, I guess we have to learn how to communicate about such things.
Again, how many of us worship the temple that is the woman's body? And, how many woman take care of it, love it and nurture it, themselves. I'm not talking about masturbation (Liz did. I can't). I'm talking about really taking care of yourselves, loving your own self, loving your own bodies (despite what the airbrushed, photo shopped magazines say), providing for yourself and the healthy, strong temples you'd be happy to look at in the mirror. I'd take confident over "perfect" any day, by the way.
Another thing I've learned is that if a woman feels "fat" or "ugly", or if she's feeling insecure or distracted by any thought (hell, even if her back hurts or my stubble hurts!) an orgasm isn't going to happen. But, hey, sometimes "it" doesn't happen. Women still enjoy the act of love making. At least that's what I've been told. Maybe I've been lied to. If that's true, the woman ultimately suffers. If a woman lies about sex with even a halfway decent man she's selling herself short.
Of course, chemistry is the key! See Day 58's entry. I've said enough, probably too much. And, I've even edited myself!
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Day 58. March 26th, 2012 Chemistry
"My friend Annie says it all comes down to one simple question: 'Do you want your belly pressed against this person's belly forever - or not?'" p. 294
I think my fiancee and I have belly on belly chemistry. I'm not going to get into embarrassing details, but we all know when it feels good . . . and I'm not just talking the naughty bits. I'm talking the whole package. Like when they're skin feels good. Or, when they make that certain sound when you're "doing something right." We've noted that we're crazy over each others' pheromones.
But, like a typical guy, I'm about to nod off. The last two days I've been training at the restaurant, working on "Save the Dates" and meeting about a video shoot I have coming up. And, the chair I've found at the library is REALLY comfy. That all adds up to a powerful need for a nap. Thank God sex lasts longer than it took to write this.
I think my fiancee and I have belly on belly chemistry. I'm not going to get into embarrassing details, but we all know when it feels good . . . and I'm not just talking the naughty bits. I'm talking the whole package. Like when they're skin feels good. Or, when they make that certain sound when you're "doing something right." We've noted that we're crazy over each others' pheromones.
But, like a typical guy, I'm about to nod off. The last two days I've been training at the restaurant, working on "Save the Dates" and meeting about a video shoot I have coming up. And, the chair I've found at the library is REALLY comfy. That all adds up to a powerful need for a nap. Thank God sex lasts longer than it took to write this.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Day 57. March 24th, 2012 Fear
I've gotten a new job at a restaurant and I'm afraid. It's only part-time. I'm still afraid. Liz's life seems to simple, free, straightforward. I suppose she's not burdened with my kind of insanity. I get a new guy to help - I'm afraid. I get some work thrown my way - I'm afraid. I don't have any money - I'm afraid (well, that's a reasonable fear). I'm sick of all this fear!
I've learned that fear is a lack of faith. Yet, I seem no less afraid than when I was still drinking. It just goes to show that a simple cessation of drinking coupled with a little "straightening up and flying right" isn't enough.
Funny, God is giving me gifts and I'm afraid of them - like how I was afraid to jump into the pool for the first time when I was a child, untrusting of the swimming instructor and crying. However, by the time I was in Junior High School, I was competitively swimming; and winning from time to time. Interesting metaphor for my life. For, now I stand at the edge of every swimming pool God leads me too . . . and wail in fear, cling to my fiancee (like my mommy) looking to her for courage, afraid to leap into the pool of life.
What am I afraid of? Looking life a fool, a failure? Am I afraid of people not liking me, getting mad at me? I'm afraid of success, too. Actually, I'm afraid of the responsibility success will bring me. I'm also afraid of what a fool I'll look like trying to achieve success at something I'm not yet good at. I'm afraid of being laughed at or worse, being passed over. I'm afraid of the expectations that follow success. Perhaps, they'll realize I'm a fraud, that I don't have what it takes to run with the "big boys", to swim with the big kids.
So, where does that get me? Too much reliance on all things human. I, as a human and others as humans will let me down. My self-will can only get me so far. God does the rest. So, I get jealous of those who are actually brave enough to try. And, I'm judgemental of myself: "I'm not going to be good enough anyway, so why bother trying."
The effort, as I can recall, wasn't well-applauded when I was growing up. It was the accomplishments. And, second place wasn't good enough. Frustration and disappointment weren't always understood and acknowledged. Fear was never an option. I've come to believe that fear equals weakness.
However, I'm 8 years past the age where I can no longer blame my parents for my problems. I heard the other day that everybody experiences fear. Jeb Corliss (the guy in the wingsuit), I think said this and that the only difference is that he doesn't let fear own him or control him. I guess I do.
Then, I burden my fiancee with it. It sucks the passion and the romance out of our life together. It doesn't allow me to adore her the way Felipe adores Liz - with confidence, with certainty, in an uncomplicated, direct, pure, certain way. Liz is swimming with God and I'm too afraid to jump into his arms.
I have been fired from three restaurants, two in sobriety. One, I quit from in a very ugly way, then sat at the bar and drank (not in sobriety). Perhaps, I'm not thoroughly following God's path. And, no mystical, magical spell reserved for Scott is going to save me. I have to face my fears and trust that God will be right there with me the whole time and he won't let go.
If I went to Bali, it would just be an escape . . . an escape in vain, because there is no escape from fear.
I've learned that fear is a lack of faith. Yet, I seem no less afraid than when I was still drinking. It just goes to show that a simple cessation of drinking coupled with a little "straightening up and flying right" isn't enough.
Funny, God is giving me gifts and I'm afraid of them - like how I was afraid to jump into the pool for the first time when I was a child, untrusting of the swimming instructor and crying. However, by the time I was in Junior High School, I was competitively swimming; and winning from time to time. Interesting metaphor for my life. For, now I stand at the edge of every swimming pool God leads me too . . . and wail in fear, cling to my fiancee (like my mommy) looking to her for courage, afraid to leap into the pool of life.
What am I afraid of? Looking life a fool, a failure? Am I afraid of people not liking me, getting mad at me? I'm afraid of success, too. Actually, I'm afraid of the responsibility success will bring me. I'm also afraid of what a fool I'll look like trying to achieve success at something I'm not yet good at. I'm afraid of being laughed at or worse, being passed over. I'm afraid of the expectations that follow success. Perhaps, they'll realize I'm a fraud, that I don't have what it takes to run with the "big boys", to swim with the big kids.
So, where does that get me? Too much reliance on all things human. I, as a human and others as humans will let me down. My self-will can only get me so far. God does the rest. So, I get jealous of those who are actually brave enough to try. And, I'm judgemental of myself: "I'm not going to be good enough anyway, so why bother trying."
The effort, as I can recall, wasn't well-applauded when I was growing up. It was the accomplishments. And, second place wasn't good enough. Frustration and disappointment weren't always understood and acknowledged. Fear was never an option. I've come to believe that fear equals weakness.
However, I'm 8 years past the age where I can no longer blame my parents for my problems. I heard the other day that everybody experiences fear. Jeb Corliss (the guy in the wingsuit), I think said this and that the only difference is that he doesn't let fear own him or control him. I guess I do.
Then, I burden my fiancee with it. It sucks the passion and the romance out of our life together. It doesn't allow me to adore her the way Felipe adores Liz - with confidence, with certainty, in an uncomplicated, direct, pure, certain way. Liz is swimming with God and I'm too afraid to jump into his arms.
I have been fired from three restaurants, two in sobriety. One, I quit from in a very ugly way, then sat at the bar and drank (not in sobriety). Perhaps, I'm not thoroughly following God's path. And, no mystical, magical spell reserved for Scott is going to save me. I have to face my fears and trust that God will be right there with me the whole time and he won't let go.
If I went to Bali, it would just be an escape . . . an escape in vain, because there is no escape from fear.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Day 56. March 23rd, 2012 Affairs and Such
Finally! A full night's sleep. No howling last night. After almost a week of that: falling asleep at 2 or 3 am, waking up at 6 am to the dog howling, listening to classical music on my ipod with the volume turned up to drown out the sound, drifting in and out of sleep until 10 or 11 am . . . what a relief!!
But, we slept through the night. How pleasant and relieving it was to hear our neighbor come home last night, to hear the slamming of the door, the happy, yippy whimpering . . . then, silence. Sweet, wonderful silence! I think out of pure relief I feel asleep early.
Liz explained her hesitation to Felipe's suggestion that they have an affair: ". . . some else inside me put in a serious request that I donate the entirety of this year of travelling all to myself. That some vital transformation is happening in my life, and this transformation needs time and room in order to finish its process undisturbed. That basically, I'm the cake that just came out of the oven and it still needs more time to cool before it can be frosted. I don't want to loose control of my life, again." p. 284
Good advice for an alcoholic like me. Many of us who go through such life-altering, vital transformation wish to "get involved" in our first year - myself included. I was pretty indiscriminate on the number of "affairs" I wanted to have once I was single and "getting sober". I shot right out of the oven and went swimming in the frosting, making messes, causing third degree burns everywhere. I didn't devote enough time and energy to the vital transformation. I didn't leave time to God to do his work. I cheated myself.
But, I guess I wanted my cake and I wanted to eat it too, and the frosting, lots of it . . . and lick the bowl, your bowl too and have a bite of your cake. I had stopped drinking, yes, (on the day of typing this, I've been gifted four years without a drink) but I hadn't found sanity. I was impeding my transformation, listening to my own sick thinking as opposed to God's love, wisdom, and cleansing purity.
So, I chose the harder, more painful path, stringing my recovery out over a long, arduous period of time. But, it finally got too painful and I had to let go of my old thinking and old behavior, completely. I wasn't able to do it all at once. But, as I have let go, so has my life gotten better.
I wonder what's next. The wedding is approaching. Though it doesn't seem so now, I'll blink and suddenly, it will be November. I wonder if my fiancee and I know what we're getting into. We do. We've had a practice run. We've lived together for awhile. We've had our fights. We've made up. We've reached understandings. We've found common ground. We've grown and are learning.
Liz writes something interesting about herself: "I have a tendency not only to see the best in everyone, but to assume that everyone is emotionally capable of reaching his highest potential. I have fallen in love more times than I care to count with the highest potential of a man, rather that with the man himself, and then I have hung onto the relationship for a long time (sometimes for too long) waiting for the man to ascend to his own greatness. Many times in romance I have been a victim of my own optimism," p. 285.
That feeds my fears. Is that what my fiancee and I are doing to each other? One thing I must mention here is before I got sober, she hung on, knowing there was a good person underneath the drunken infidelity. It fed a sick relationship, but her relentless love paid off in the end. We had to break apart to come back together.
It's an illusion to thin we have any control over some one's potential. I don't think Liz was necessarily a victim of her own optimism. I think she was a victim of her expectations. The more I try to force my fiancee to be the great person I think she should be, the more she resists and gets angry. All I can do is support and encourage what she wants to do. And leave the potential stuff up to her and God. And, keep facing my own fears.
If she never changed, would I still love her. I don't know. Probably. I couldn't help it. But, that's a future that hasn't happened yet (and may not ever happen) and I wouldn't have any control over it any way. I ought to love her for who she is (not for who I think she should be) and let God take care of the rest.
But, we slept through the night. How pleasant and relieving it was to hear our neighbor come home last night, to hear the slamming of the door, the happy, yippy whimpering . . . then, silence. Sweet, wonderful silence! I think out of pure relief I feel asleep early.
Liz explained her hesitation to Felipe's suggestion that they have an affair: ". . . some else inside me put in a serious request that I donate the entirety of this year of travelling all to myself. That some vital transformation is happening in my life, and this transformation needs time and room in order to finish its process undisturbed. That basically, I'm the cake that just came out of the oven and it still needs more time to cool before it can be frosted. I don't want to loose control of my life, again." p. 284
Good advice for an alcoholic like me. Many of us who go through such life-altering, vital transformation wish to "get involved" in our first year - myself included. I was pretty indiscriminate on the number of "affairs" I wanted to have once I was single and "getting sober". I shot right out of the oven and went swimming in the frosting, making messes, causing third degree burns everywhere. I didn't devote enough time and energy to the vital transformation. I didn't leave time to God to do his work. I cheated myself.
But, I guess I wanted my cake and I wanted to eat it too, and the frosting, lots of it . . . and lick the bowl, your bowl too and have a bite of your cake. I had stopped drinking, yes, (on the day of typing this, I've been gifted four years without a drink) but I hadn't found sanity. I was impeding my transformation, listening to my own sick thinking as opposed to God's love, wisdom, and cleansing purity.
So, I chose the harder, more painful path, stringing my recovery out over a long, arduous period of time. But, it finally got too painful and I had to let go of my old thinking and old behavior, completely. I wasn't able to do it all at once. But, as I have let go, so has my life gotten better.
I wonder what's next. The wedding is approaching. Though it doesn't seem so now, I'll blink and suddenly, it will be November. I wonder if my fiancee and I know what we're getting into. We do. We've had a practice run. We've lived together for awhile. We've had our fights. We've made up. We've reached understandings. We've found common ground. We've grown and are learning.
Liz writes something interesting about herself: "I have a tendency not only to see the best in everyone, but to assume that everyone is emotionally capable of reaching his highest potential. I have fallen in love more times than I care to count with the highest potential of a man, rather that with the man himself, and then I have hung onto the relationship for a long time (sometimes for too long) waiting for the man to ascend to his own greatness. Many times in romance I have been a victim of my own optimism," p. 285.
That feeds my fears. Is that what my fiancee and I are doing to each other? One thing I must mention here is before I got sober, she hung on, knowing there was a good person underneath the drunken infidelity. It fed a sick relationship, but her relentless love paid off in the end. We had to break apart to come back together.
It's an illusion to thin we have any control over some one's potential. I don't think Liz was necessarily a victim of her own optimism. I think she was a victim of her expectations. The more I try to force my fiancee to be the great person I think she should be, the more she resists and gets angry. All I can do is support and encourage what she wants to do. And leave the potential stuff up to her and God. And, keep facing my own fears.
If she never changed, would I still love her. I don't know. Probably. I couldn't help it. But, that's a future that hasn't happened yet (and may not ever happen) and I wouldn't have any control over it any way. I ought to love her for who she is (not for who I think she should be) and let God take care of the rest.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Day 55. March 21st, 2012 Love is Always Complicated
Felipe says, "And love is always complicated. But still humans must try to love each other darling. We must get our hearts broken sometimes. This is a good sign, having a broken heart. It means we have tried for something." p 277
Felipe is the older Brazilian man, who hosted a party Liz went to, who Liz flirted with, who held doors for her, danced with her, called her "darling". "Then, again, I noticed he called everyone 'darling' - even the hairy male bartender. Still the attention is nice . . ." p 267.
Call me thick. Call me slow, but I think this is the guy she falls in love with. And, she decides, based on past experience, to not marry him. I think, in her next book (in real life, for that matter) they're forced to marry to get him into the country.
ANYWAY, as to his insight into the complications of a relationship - even choosing the color of a blender to be added to the wedding registry at Potter Barn can get complicated. Dudes! Here's a piece of advice given to me that I think can be helpful: You have to care! Or, at least care about the fact that she cares.
It may seem like a "Running Man" game of mind reading, but it's not. She just wants to have a discussion. She may already have decided on the red one and you want the blue one. She may already have decided on the wooden salad tongs and you couldn't give a rats ass about salad tongs (and, forced to decide, you'd pick the metal ones - because, hey, metal is easier to clean, it's more durable . . .) but she still wants the wooden ones.
And, we love our women, right? And, somewhere, deep down beneath our meat-head male ego and our Grizzly Adams logic, we want them to be happy. So, we have to participate. They need to know that we at least care about the time and the effort they put in to making our future house or apartment a home.
And, as much as the box set of Steve McQueen DVDs, the first set of Craftsman tools we still love, The picture of you and Cal Ripken, Jr., or the tickets to the Monsters of Rock concert we went to in our 20s still make us happy, so does the perfect blender, the perfect set of towels, the perfect picture frame, and, yes, the perfect set of salad serving utensils make her happy. Because, those things have specific meaning to her, the same way our favorite 1/2" socket wrench has specific meaning to us. As we linger over which is the perfect drill with the LED work light, level, keyless chuck, with carbide bits, 14.4V . . . so will she linger over the perfect set of silver wear.
Screw it! It makes her happy. My favorite pen makes me happy. Your favorite set of strings on your guitar may make you happy. And, if a tune-up with a K&N air filter, high-performance platinum spark plugs, and synthetic oil make you drive around with pride, then perhaps you can care a little bit about the thread count of the sheets she'll slink into, the color of the towels she'll dry her naked body with or the pots and pans she may like to cook with while quietly humming a lovely tune to herself. Holy Crap! Just I get totally sexist there?
So, in the spirit of equality, consider this: When helping clean up after dinner, I don't want crappy pans that are hard to clean. Also, my fiancee likes to hang shelves. So, she wants an easy-to-use drill with varied speeds, a reasonable torque control that doesn't race to 3,000,000 rpms and is well-balanced.
We both want a nice living space. We both want a nice home. We like to make decisions together, because the relationship, as complicated or as much of a pain in the ass as it can be, still matters. We're partners. Our opinions matters to each other. That's why we ask it. I've bucked at her answers, only to conceded two days later that she was right (the proper use of the word "alight"). She's done the same with me (An announcement at the reception that dessert is available and people can serve themselves). We're still learning. But, if we do it out of love, the misunderstandings will be few and the fights will be short.
Felipe is the older Brazilian man, who hosted a party Liz went to, who Liz flirted with, who held doors for her, danced with her, called her "darling". "Then, again, I noticed he called everyone 'darling' - even the hairy male bartender. Still the attention is nice . . ." p 267.
Call me thick. Call me slow, but I think this is the guy she falls in love with. And, she decides, based on past experience, to not marry him. I think, in her next book (in real life, for that matter) they're forced to marry to get him into the country.
ANYWAY, as to his insight into the complications of a relationship - even choosing the color of a blender to be added to the wedding registry at Potter Barn can get complicated. Dudes! Here's a piece of advice given to me that I think can be helpful: You have to care! Or, at least care about the fact that she cares.
It may seem like a "Running Man" game of mind reading, but it's not. She just wants to have a discussion. She may already have decided on the red one and you want the blue one. She may already have decided on the wooden salad tongs and you couldn't give a rats ass about salad tongs (and, forced to decide, you'd pick the metal ones - because, hey, metal is easier to clean, it's more durable . . .) but she still wants the wooden ones.
And, we love our women, right? And, somewhere, deep down beneath our meat-head male ego and our Grizzly Adams logic, we want them to be happy. So, we have to participate. They need to know that we at least care about the time and the effort they put in to making our future house or apartment a home.
And, as much as the box set of Steve McQueen DVDs, the first set of Craftsman tools we still love, The picture of you and Cal Ripken, Jr., or the tickets to the Monsters of Rock concert we went to in our 20s still make us happy, so does the perfect blender, the perfect set of towels, the perfect picture frame, and, yes, the perfect set of salad serving utensils make her happy. Because, those things have specific meaning to her, the same way our favorite 1/2" socket wrench has specific meaning to us. As we linger over which is the perfect drill with the LED work light, level, keyless chuck, with carbide bits, 14.4V . . . so will she linger over the perfect set of silver wear.
Screw it! It makes her happy. My favorite pen makes me happy. Your favorite set of strings on your guitar may make you happy. And, if a tune-up with a K&N air filter, high-performance platinum spark plugs, and synthetic oil make you drive around with pride, then perhaps you can care a little bit about the thread count of the sheets she'll slink into, the color of the towels she'll dry her naked body with or the pots and pans she may like to cook with while quietly humming a lovely tune to herself. Holy Crap! Just I get totally sexist there?
So, in the spirit of equality, consider this: When helping clean up after dinner, I don't want crappy pans that are hard to clean. Also, my fiancee likes to hang shelves. So, she wants an easy-to-use drill with varied speeds, a reasonable torque control that doesn't race to 3,000,000 rpms and is well-balanced.
We both want a nice living space. We both want a nice home. We like to make decisions together, because the relationship, as complicated or as much of a pain in the ass as it can be, still matters. We're partners. Our opinions matters to each other. That's why we ask it. I've bucked at her answers, only to conceded two days later that she was right (the proper use of the word "alight"). She's done the same with me (An announcement at the reception that dessert is available and people can serve themselves). We're still learning. But, if we do it out of love, the misunderstandings will be few and the fights will be short.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Day 54. March 18th, 2012 Going Back to the Beginning
I thought it ironic that I was at a meditation workshop on one of the biggest drinking days of the year.
"I can barely sleep at all this night . . . I doze a bit, then wake as the sun comes up, just as I'm accustomed to. Only this morning I am not rested and I am not at peace and I'm in no condition for meditation. Why am I so agitated? I had a nice night, didn't I? I got to meet some interesting people, got to dress up and dance around, had flirted with some interesting men . . ." p 269
The exact same thing happened to me, except for the nice night, interesting people, dancing around and interesting men part. I couldn't sleep last night. In fact, when I did, I had night mares. I woke up a wreck, mentally exhausted, but unable to sleep. I dozed awhile after my fiancee and her brides maids went shopping.
I, too, was in no condition for meditation. So, much to my relief and disappointment, I skipped the workshop today. I wasn't interested in five more hours of fighting to stay awake. But, this, of course adds to my feelings of abject failure. If Liz, perhaps, feels like a failure at loving, then I definitely feel like a failure at praying! I've been told on a number of occasions that I set my expectations too high. What? Me? No!
In addition to the feisty red head and the small apartment, there's the dog who is beginning to howl more and more. Maybe, someday, I can find peace in such an environment. But today, my blood is boiling.
Did I take on way too much yesterday? Anyway, I decided to not completely bail on meditation. I went to the writers' space and tried again . . . for five minutes. I pulled out the free hand-out they gave us yesterday that contained the Guru's guide to meditation. I tried to just concentrate for five minutes . . . leaving the proper breathing, the "heart-center" part and the quieting the mind part for later. It didn't go too badly. I used a coin commemorating my 3 year anniversary. That definitely has cosmic/spiritual/miraculous aspects to it. Even though thoughts flitted here and there, I was able to stay focused for most of the five minutes. And, that was encouraging.
AND, I didn't get a headache. Even more encouraging! That means I wasn't focusing form the intellectual mind. Maybe, the concentrations was coming from me heart center up through my third eye without me even knowing it (having forgotten to focus on it like I was supposed to).
Maybe the battle at the workshop was because I was reaching farther than I was able. I guess I'm at the VERY beginning. I'll start there. And, screw it! I drank coffee. A radical change in practice and habit may have thrown me anyway. Why make it any harder on myself at the beginning the necessary?
It reminds me of when I had a few months sober. I told a friend of mine that I was thinking of giving up coca-cola because it was making me fat. He told me to work on getting sober first. So, I'm trying to learn how to enter the void without even learning how to concentrate first. So, this is my first step on the road to meditation. And, perhaps, I can bring God in for help. Duh! I'm trying to open a channel to God under my own strength and will power. More irony.
So, what felt like utter defeat and abject failure, now feels like a little victory. I made a small start. It's not like raising $18,000 to by Wayan a home of her own (p. 274) but a victory none-the-less.
Perhaps, God humbled me, showed me where I ought to be, what I'm really ready for. Perhaps, I needed to be shown how overwhelming it can be so I'd stop trying for the whole meditative kit and kaboodle with an untrained and unskilled heart and mind. Being wracked with poor sleep, achy bones and exhaustion, I was kept from going back for yet another spiritual smack down. I could quietly consider that I need to learn how to concentrate first.
I was typing up Day 46 today and I went back to Liz's very first meeting with Ketut. So, in the spirit of going back to the beginning, I re-read the desire she first brought to Ketut: "I want to be with God all the time. But, I don't want to be a monk, or totally give up worldly pleasures. I guess what I want to learn is to live in this world and enjoy its delights, but also devote myself to God." p 26-27
I guess that's where I am right now.
"I can barely sleep at all this night . . . I doze a bit, then wake as the sun comes up, just as I'm accustomed to. Only this morning I am not rested and I am not at peace and I'm in no condition for meditation. Why am I so agitated? I had a nice night, didn't I? I got to meet some interesting people, got to dress up and dance around, had flirted with some interesting men . . ." p 269
The exact same thing happened to me, except for the nice night, interesting people, dancing around and interesting men part. I couldn't sleep last night. In fact, when I did, I had night mares. I woke up a wreck, mentally exhausted, but unable to sleep. I dozed awhile after my fiancee and her brides maids went shopping.
I, too, was in no condition for meditation. So, much to my relief and disappointment, I skipped the workshop today. I wasn't interested in five more hours of fighting to stay awake. But, this, of course adds to my feelings of abject failure. If Liz, perhaps, feels like a failure at loving, then I definitely feel like a failure at praying! I've been told on a number of occasions that I set my expectations too high. What? Me? No!
In addition to the feisty red head and the small apartment, there's the dog who is beginning to howl more and more. Maybe, someday, I can find peace in such an environment. But today, my blood is boiling.
Did I take on way too much yesterday? Anyway, I decided to not completely bail on meditation. I went to the writers' space and tried again . . . for five minutes. I pulled out the free hand-out they gave us yesterday that contained the Guru's guide to meditation. I tried to just concentrate for five minutes . . . leaving the proper breathing, the "heart-center" part and the quieting the mind part for later. It didn't go too badly. I used a coin commemorating my 3 year anniversary. That definitely has cosmic/spiritual/miraculous aspects to it. Even though thoughts flitted here and there, I was able to stay focused for most of the five minutes. And, that was encouraging.
AND, I didn't get a headache. Even more encouraging! That means I wasn't focusing form the intellectual mind. Maybe, the concentrations was coming from me heart center up through my third eye without me even knowing it (having forgotten to focus on it like I was supposed to).
Maybe the battle at the workshop was because I was reaching farther than I was able. I guess I'm at the VERY beginning. I'll start there. And, screw it! I drank coffee. A radical change in practice and habit may have thrown me anyway. Why make it any harder on myself at the beginning the necessary?
It reminds me of when I had a few months sober. I told a friend of mine that I was thinking of giving up coca-cola because it was making me fat. He told me to work on getting sober first. So, I'm trying to learn how to enter the void without even learning how to concentrate first. So, this is my first step on the road to meditation. And, perhaps, I can bring God in for help. Duh! I'm trying to open a channel to God under my own strength and will power. More irony.
So, what felt like utter defeat and abject failure, now feels like a little victory. I made a small start. It's not like raising $18,000 to by Wayan a home of her own (p. 274) but a victory none-the-less.
Perhaps, God humbled me, showed me where I ought to be, what I'm really ready for. Perhaps, I needed to be shown how overwhelming it can be so I'd stop trying for the whole meditative kit and kaboodle with an untrained and unskilled heart and mind. Being wracked with poor sleep, achy bones and exhaustion, I was kept from going back for yet another spiritual smack down. I could quietly consider that I need to learn how to concentrate first.
I was typing up Day 46 today and I went back to Liz's very first meeting with Ketut. So, in the spirit of going back to the beginning, I re-read the desire she first brought to Ketut: "I want to be with God all the time. But, I don't want to be a monk, or totally give up worldly pleasures. I guess what I want to learn is to live in this world and enjoy its delights, but also devote myself to God." p 26-27
I guess that's where I am right now.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Day 53. March 17th, 2012 Liz Meets a Guy and I Fall Asleep During Meditation
"You're young and beautiful, darling. You only need the one dress." p. 269
Ian: "started his career in the British army in Northern Ireland as a bomb expert, then became an international mine field detonation guide. Built refugee camps in Bosnia, was now taking a break in Bali to work on music . . . " plus, he likes the Simpsons, travelled all over the world, lived in an Ashram once, mentioned Tolstoy once . . . p. 268. Me: none of those things. Am I jealous? Maybe.
I know one thing. I'm feeling pretty beat up today. Huh, beat up by meditation. Odd. I started with the Meditation Festival workshop thing yesterday and continued today. I cant remember the last time I felt so out to sea! I expected a sort of "welcome home" feeling, a feeling of wonder like when you step inside an enormous and majestic cathedral. I expected to lock into the guided meditation, to start on my journey toward God with the instinct of a migratory bird. But, all I got was sleepy.
In fact, the meditation was like balancing on a wobbly 3-legged stool. You think you've got your balance, but one leg gives way and you fall into thinking too much. You get yourself propped back up, focusing on your breathing and your heart shakra (wherever the hell that is, because they tell me it's not, in fact, over your heart!) Then, crack! Another gives way and your imagination is drifting away (running away more like it - like a dog off a leash). Once again, gathered up, rebalanced, and not a moment later, but the third leg goes flying off into the corner and you fall . . . asleep.
I think I spent most of the afternoon of staring at candles, flowers, different colors, etc just fighting off sleep! I tried coffee during the lunch break, but all that made me do is have to wiz every 20 minutes.
So, there I was, sleepy, doe-eyed Scott, running to the bathroom while everybody else seemed to be making some good first steps in meditation. Then, of course, there was that prick who was meditation before the meditation . . . you know, one of those eager, good student bastards that has to sit in the front row! They were all asking interesting and exciting questions as far as the teacher was concerned. I, in my quiet was, asked for no help. Speaking of help, the raging, congestion-filled headache did not help! I even took allergy medicine last night.
DayQuil helped . . . and a nap . . . after!
Some suggestions they gave us were: meditate every day. Find a special place at home and dedicate it ONLY to meditation and prayer. Get up early (the suggestion was 6 AM, mother of God!! I can't even do 8 am). Perhaps they don't have a strong-willed red head at home who refuses to go to bed before 2 am, has a little tantrum when the TV gets turned off around midnight and engages them in debate for the next half-hour. Perhaps, too, they don't live in an over-loaded studio apartment that has NO empty spaces or corners that could be used solely for meditation.
So Liz = Carmen Sandiego (as in, "where in the world is . . ."). Me = Poop Monster.
They said no laying on the floor. That shoots down my friend's idea. Maybe I could bring something to the writing space to change the aura of one of the cubicles or something. But, what? The suggested a picture of one of Sri Bok-choy's (that's not his name. It's really Chinmoy) paintings. But, they just look like colorful doodles to me. But, supposedly, they were created in a transcendent, meditative state. They still look like doodles to me. Maybe, my previously hopeful mind has slammed shut. Maybe, I don't know true beauty. Maybe, I'm a monkey in a science-priest-warrior-poet world, messing around in the mud, mistaking the shiny stones for God.
None-the-less, I intend to go back tomorrow. I don't know why, but I'm going to go back. Despite the discouragement. Hell, it could be pure masochism. Maybe, I'm a glutton for thick-headed, foggy-spirited punishment. Who knows? Maybe, it's supposed to be really, REALLY hard.
Again, God asks us to only seek. Unless I'm missing something, he doesn't ask us to be Gurus by the end of the weekend. Oh, and St. Patrick's day craziness going on outside.
Ian: "started his career in the British army in Northern Ireland as a bomb expert, then became an international mine field detonation guide. Built refugee camps in Bosnia, was now taking a break in Bali to work on music . . . " plus, he likes the Simpsons, travelled all over the world, lived in an Ashram once, mentioned Tolstoy once . . . p. 268. Me: none of those things. Am I jealous? Maybe.
I know one thing. I'm feeling pretty beat up today. Huh, beat up by meditation. Odd. I started with the Meditation Festival workshop thing yesterday and continued today. I cant remember the last time I felt so out to sea! I expected a sort of "welcome home" feeling, a feeling of wonder like when you step inside an enormous and majestic cathedral. I expected to lock into the guided meditation, to start on my journey toward God with the instinct of a migratory bird. But, all I got was sleepy.
In fact, the meditation was like balancing on a wobbly 3-legged stool. You think you've got your balance, but one leg gives way and you fall into thinking too much. You get yourself propped back up, focusing on your breathing and your heart shakra (wherever the hell that is, because they tell me it's not, in fact, over your heart!) Then, crack! Another gives way and your imagination is drifting away (running away more like it - like a dog off a leash). Once again, gathered up, rebalanced, and not a moment later, but the third leg goes flying off into the corner and you fall . . . asleep.
I think I spent most of the afternoon of staring at candles, flowers, different colors, etc just fighting off sleep! I tried coffee during the lunch break, but all that made me do is have to wiz every 20 minutes.
So, there I was, sleepy, doe-eyed Scott, running to the bathroom while everybody else seemed to be making some good first steps in meditation. Then, of course, there was that prick who was meditation before the meditation . . . you know, one of those eager, good student bastards that has to sit in the front row! They were all asking interesting and exciting questions as far as the teacher was concerned. I, in my quiet was, asked for no help. Speaking of help, the raging, congestion-filled headache did not help! I even took allergy medicine last night.
DayQuil helped . . . and a nap . . . after!
Some suggestions they gave us were: meditate every day. Find a special place at home and dedicate it ONLY to meditation and prayer. Get up early (the suggestion was 6 AM, mother of God!! I can't even do 8 am). Perhaps they don't have a strong-willed red head at home who refuses to go to bed before 2 am, has a little tantrum when the TV gets turned off around midnight and engages them in debate for the next half-hour. Perhaps, too, they don't live in an over-loaded studio apartment that has NO empty spaces or corners that could be used solely for meditation.
So Liz = Carmen Sandiego (as in, "where in the world is . . ."). Me = Poop Monster.
They said no laying on the floor. That shoots down my friend's idea. Maybe I could bring something to the writing space to change the aura of one of the cubicles or something. But, what? The suggested a picture of one of Sri Bok-choy's (that's not his name. It's really Chinmoy) paintings. But, they just look like colorful doodles to me. But, supposedly, they were created in a transcendent, meditative state. They still look like doodles to me. Maybe, my previously hopeful mind has slammed shut. Maybe, I don't know true beauty. Maybe, I'm a monkey in a science-priest-warrior-poet world, messing around in the mud, mistaking the shiny stones for God.
None-the-less, I intend to go back tomorrow. I don't know why, but I'm going to go back. Despite the discouragement. Hell, it could be pure masochism. Maybe, I'm a glutton for thick-headed, foggy-spirited punishment. Who knows? Maybe, it's supposed to be really, REALLY hard.
Again, God asks us to only seek. Unless I'm missing something, he doesn't ask us to be Gurus by the end of the weekend. Oh, and St. Patrick's day craziness going on outside.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Day 52. March 16th, 2012 Vulnerability, Shame and Happiness
I start this, not by a reading from Eat, Pray, Love, but from a TED talk by Brene Brown. She talked about vulnerability and shame. I'm trying to retain this powerful talk that washed over me, moved me. Built is "I'm sorry, I did something bad, wrong." Shame is, "I'm sorry, I AM something bad, I AM something wrong." Shame keeps us from being vulnerable, from being human. It keeps us out of the "arena" (a la Teddy Roosevelt). It keeps us from daring greatly. It dares us to never say the words, "Me too" and, we accept the challenge.
It keeps us men from being sympathetic. We still live under the illusion that we need to be strong, show no emotion, work hard and answer conflict with violence. Like a man said to Brene, "My women would rather see me die on my white horse than watch me fall down . . . the women in my life are harder on me than anyone else."
Shame keeps me from seeking work as a writer because I don't have a college degree. It keeps me from actively seeking roles I know I could play, or that I'd be "perfect for". It keeps us small. It keeps us from loving our husbands and wives. It keeps us from giving them the full honor and respect we vowed to them on our wedding day.
It keeps us making fun of people, judging them, criticizing them, tearing them down so we don't feel so small, so vulnerable.
She made a point that we believe something which I have, in fact, felt deep down for a very long time: vulnerability = weakness.
Yet, she pointed out that when we see some one bearing their soul, being honest about themselves, being vulnerable, we applaud their bravery.
I, too, have shrunk, kept myself small, too afraid to dare greatly. And, where has it gotten me? What has this kind of behavior gotten you? Ask yourself, "If I dared greatly in whatever I love to do, what would happen?" No, "what are you afraid would happen", but what would actually happen? If you failed, at least you had the courage to try, to dare greatly. And, on your deathbed, you could look back, not with regret, but with the knowledge that, at least, you tried. You honored the life and the love and the courage and the strength that was given you by God and nobody, NOBODY can take that from you. No amount of sarcasm, making fun, criticizing, judging or anything can take that greatness from you.
The cowards scoff and the courageous dare.
All you do when you make fun of people and criticize them is show how frightened you are. What are you so afraid of?
Tagore writes: "Give me the supreme courage to love, this is my prayer - the courage to speak, to do, to suffer at Your will, to leave all things or be left alone. Strengthen me on errands of danger, honor me with pain, and help me climb to that difficult mood that sacrifices daily to you.
"Give me the supreme confidence of love, this is my prayer - the confidence that belongs to life in death, to victory in defeat, to the power hidden in the frailest beauty, to the dignity in pain which accepts hurt but disdains to return it."
"'Same - same,' he (Ketut) said. 'Same in end, so better to be happy on journey.'
"I said, 'So if heaven is love, then hell is . . .'
"'Love, too,' he said. I sat with that one for awhile, trying to make the math work. Ketut laughed again, slapped my knee affectionately with his hand.
"'Always so difficult for young person to understand this!'" p 263
Earlier, she wrote, "Happiness is the consequence of personal effort. You fight for it, strive for it, insist upon it, and sometimes even travel around the world looking for it. You have to participate relentlessly in the manifestations of your own blessings. And once you have achieved a state of happiness, you must never become lax about maintaining it, you must make a mighty effort to keep swimming upwards into that happiness forever, to stay afloat on top of it" p 260
So, shrinking so others won't think I'm a fool will never bring me to happiness. Stepping aside, so as to not impede and therefor anger the more ambitious and driven will never bring me to happiness. And, using others to gauge my value, my worth, my validity will keep me sad and scared and cowering in the corner, while God wonders what I've done with the gifts he's given me.
It keeps us men from being sympathetic. We still live under the illusion that we need to be strong, show no emotion, work hard and answer conflict with violence. Like a man said to Brene, "My women would rather see me die on my white horse than watch me fall down . . . the women in my life are harder on me than anyone else."
Shame keeps me from seeking work as a writer because I don't have a college degree. It keeps me from actively seeking roles I know I could play, or that I'd be "perfect for". It keeps us small. It keeps us from loving our husbands and wives. It keeps us from giving them the full honor and respect we vowed to them on our wedding day.
It keeps us making fun of people, judging them, criticizing them, tearing them down so we don't feel so small, so vulnerable.
She made a point that we believe something which I have, in fact, felt deep down for a very long time: vulnerability = weakness.
Yet, she pointed out that when we see some one bearing their soul, being honest about themselves, being vulnerable, we applaud their bravery.
I, too, have shrunk, kept myself small, too afraid to dare greatly. And, where has it gotten me? What has this kind of behavior gotten you? Ask yourself, "If I dared greatly in whatever I love to do, what would happen?" No, "what are you afraid would happen", but what would actually happen? If you failed, at least you had the courage to try, to dare greatly. And, on your deathbed, you could look back, not with regret, but with the knowledge that, at least, you tried. You honored the life and the love and the courage and the strength that was given you by God and nobody, NOBODY can take that from you. No amount of sarcasm, making fun, criticizing, judging or anything can take that greatness from you.
The cowards scoff and the courageous dare.
All you do when you make fun of people and criticize them is show how frightened you are. What are you so afraid of?
Tagore writes: "Give me the supreme courage to love, this is my prayer - the courage to speak, to do, to suffer at Your will, to leave all things or be left alone. Strengthen me on errands of danger, honor me with pain, and help me climb to that difficult mood that sacrifices daily to you.
"Give me the supreme confidence of love, this is my prayer - the confidence that belongs to life in death, to victory in defeat, to the power hidden in the frailest beauty, to the dignity in pain which accepts hurt but disdains to return it."
"'Same - same,' he (Ketut) said. 'Same in end, so better to be happy on journey.'
"I said, 'So if heaven is love, then hell is . . .'
"'Love, too,' he said. I sat with that one for awhile, trying to make the math work. Ketut laughed again, slapped my knee affectionately with his hand.
"'Always so difficult for young person to understand this!'" p 263
Earlier, she wrote, "Happiness is the consequence of personal effort. You fight for it, strive for it, insist upon it, and sometimes even travel around the world looking for it. You have to participate relentlessly in the manifestations of your own blessings. And once you have achieved a state of happiness, you must never become lax about maintaining it, you must make a mighty effort to keep swimming upwards into that happiness forever, to stay afloat on top of it" p 260
So, shrinking so others won't think I'm a fool will never bring me to happiness. Stepping aside, so as to not impede and therefor anger the more ambitious and driven will never bring me to happiness. And, using others to gauge my value, my worth, my validity will keep me sad and scared and cowering in the corner, while God wonders what I've done with the gifts he's given me.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Day 51. March 12, 2012 The Four Brothers
Ketut's answer is: "Man is a demon, man is a god. Both true." p. 251. "Human beings are born," Liz goes on to explain, "with equivalent potential for both contraction and expansion. The ingredients of both light and dark are equally present in all of us, and then it's up to the individual (or the family, or the society) to decide what will be brought forth - the virtues or the malevolence. The madness of the planet is largely a result of the human beings difficulty in coming into virtuous balance with himself. Lunacy (both collective and individual) results."
"So, what can be done about the craziness of the world?" Liz asks.
"'Nothing,' Ketut laughed, but with a dose of kindness. 'This is nature of world. This is destiny. Worry about your craziness only - make you in peace.'"
Then, Ketut gave Liz a new meditation - The Four Brothers Meditation. According to the Balinese, we are accompanied by Four brothers (invisible brothers) throughout life who protect us. "The brothers inhabit the four virtues a person needs in order to stay safe and happy in life: intelligence, friendship, strength and (I love this one) poetry." p. 251.
They even have names - Ango Patih, Marago Patih, Banus Patih and Banus Patih Ragio. And, they have a secret nickname for us . . . or maybe it was just for Liz, "Lagoh Prano" which means "happy body". I don't know which virtue belongs to which, but I'd be happy to have the Four Dudes with me at all times. I've secretly been bummed that I'm the only boy amongst my siblings. I think somewhere, deep down, I've always wanted a brother . . . an older one with out all the beating up, the noogies, purple nurples and such.
Imagine! Four older brothers that went with you everywhere, not only to protect you, but to teach you from their experiences, to guide you, to give you strength and teach you wisdom. The lessons they'd teach I'm sure would be hard sometimes, but they sound like the four greatest brothers of all time!
I missed the concert of meditation music which was part of the Meditation Festival I've been writing about. I thought it was today. It was on Saturday. I'm an absent minded professor . . . without the professor part. Maybe I was supposed to miss this for a reason. However, I'm sure with a well-conjured brain-storm I could kick my own ass for this.
Maybe, it's good the concert wasn't tonight. Maybe what I'm really supposed to be looking for is the meditation part. Regardless, I've never done things the way I'm supposed to: "That's good. Just not the assignment." or "That's good, just not the kind of article we're looking for."
So, stay true to yourself. The right medium will present itself. Stay non-conformist. Write what a write and, eventually, there will be an audience. And, worry about my own craziness.
"So, what can be done about the craziness of the world?" Liz asks.
"'Nothing,' Ketut laughed, but with a dose of kindness. 'This is nature of world. This is destiny. Worry about your craziness only - make you in peace.'"
Then, Ketut gave Liz a new meditation - The Four Brothers Meditation. According to the Balinese, we are accompanied by Four brothers (invisible brothers) throughout life who protect us. "The brothers inhabit the four virtues a person needs in order to stay safe and happy in life: intelligence, friendship, strength and (I love this one) poetry." p. 251.
They even have names - Ango Patih, Marago Patih, Banus Patih and Banus Patih Ragio. And, they have a secret nickname for us . . . or maybe it was just for Liz, "Lagoh Prano" which means "happy body". I don't know which virtue belongs to which, but I'd be happy to have the Four Dudes with me at all times. I've secretly been bummed that I'm the only boy amongst my siblings. I think somewhere, deep down, I've always wanted a brother . . . an older one with out all the beating up, the noogies, purple nurples and such.
Imagine! Four older brothers that went with you everywhere, not only to protect you, but to teach you from their experiences, to guide you, to give you strength and teach you wisdom. The lessons they'd teach I'm sure would be hard sometimes, but they sound like the four greatest brothers of all time!
I missed the concert of meditation music which was part of the Meditation Festival I've been writing about. I thought it was today. It was on Saturday. I'm an absent minded professor . . . without the professor part. Maybe I was supposed to miss this for a reason. However, I'm sure with a well-conjured brain-storm I could kick my own ass for this.
Maybe, it's good the concert wasn't tonight. Maybe what I'm really supposed to be looking for is the meditation part. Regardless, I've never done things the way I'm supposed to: "That's good. Just not the assignment." or "That's good, just not the kind of article we're looking for."
So, stay true to yourself. The right medium will present itself. Stay non-conformist. Write what a write and, eventually, there will be an audience. And, worry about my own craziness.
Day 50. March 11th, 2012 Dude, Why is Life So Crazy Like This?
In one of my daily meditation books, a few questions leaped off the page at me: "In addition to my drinking problem, what character defects contributed to my financial instability? Did fear and inferiority about my fitness for my job destroy my confidence and fill me with conflict?" Yes, yes, yes, yes and YES!!
I've looked for writing jobs on-line and, finding ones I know I could do, I don't apply for them. I'm afraid they won't hire me because of my lack of experience, lack of a degree or because I'm a bad writer. Without letting them say, "no", I let the job pass, waiting until it seems too late to apply anyway, too afraid to try. I don't even know what a writer's resume looks like anyway.
I've been a real grouch lately. I think the newness of the joy of this rediscovered love for writing has worn off. Depression feels like it's climbing back inside me (could just be self-pity). However, I've kept writing every day. I've submitted the short piece I wrote to a writing contest. I'm working hard on a new story. I have a short story I wrote when I was younger still untouched.
Maybe, making the blog public has somehow given me a dose of reality I don't like. After all, fear convinced me that no one ought to see it, would want to see it, much less like it. Unreasonable expectations charged to the front and painted a picture of everybody reading it, loving it and, suddenly, I'm famous! Despite the kind words of encouragement and support I've gotten from friends, my fragile ego demands more! So I'm depressed that "not enough" people have read this. "Not enough" people have celebrated my brilliance . . . my blog hasn't been made into a movie, and I haven't met Liz yet, told her how Eat, Pray, Love was a catalyst to change in my life; AND, she hasn't subsequently read my blog and told me how profound and wonderful it is!
I think my secret expectations are a little high. No wonder I'm feeling sorry for myself. Ingrate.
Then, I read about Yudhi (pronounced You-Day), a brilliant musician, who in the wake of 9/11 was deported back to Indonesia, forcing him to leave his American wife back in Brooklyn, thus dashing their marriage on the rocks. It's left him to wonder, "Dude, why is life so crazy like this?" p. 250 The U.S. government deported Yudhi as a Muslim terrorist suspect (he's a Christian Javanese) after detaining him for a period of time without due process, which we all know was the fate of many others, including U.S. citizens.
It's sad. It's unfair. I read ahead a little and saw that Liz asked Ketut the same question: "Why is life so crazy like this?" I'll save the answer for tomorrow. Today, I will stay in today . . . and, wallow? Wondering why life is so unfair, when it really isn't? I've been given an opportunity to pursue a dream! Am I bungling it? Am I doing enough to honor the gift God has given me?
I'm reminded of what my friend said the other day, that my blaming myself, my talking crap about myself (as a failure, as inept, as a loser) is slinging an undeserved bag of garbage over my shoulder. The bag is leaky and it's making me smell.
There's a plan. Somewhere, there's a plan.
I've looked for writing jobs on-line and, finding ones I know I could do, I don't apply for them. I'm afraid they won't hire me because of my lack of experience, lack of a degree or because I'm a bad writer. Without letting them say, "no", I let the job pass, waiting until it seems too late to apply anyway, too afraid to try. I don't even know what a writer's resume looks like anyway.
I've been a real grouch lately. I think the newness of the joy of this rediscovered love for writing has worn off. Depression feels like it's climbing back inside me (could just be self-pity). However, I've kept writing every day. I've submitted the short piece I wrote to a writing contest. I'm working hard on a new story. I have a short story I wrote when I was younger still untouched.
Maybe, making the blog public has somehow given me a dose of reality I don't like. After all, fear convinced me that no one ought to see it, would want to see it, much less like it. Unreasonable expectations charged to the front and painted a picture of everybody reading it, loving it and, suddenly, I'm famous! Despite the kind words of encouragement and support I've gotten from friends, my fragile ego demands more! So I'm depressed that "not enough" people have read this. "Not enough" people have celebrated my brilliance . . . my blog hasn't been made into a movie, and I haven't met Liz yet, told her how Eat, Pray, Love was a catalyst to change in my life; AND, she hasn't subsequently read my blog and told me how profound and wonderful it is!
I think my secret expectations are a little high. No wonder I'm feeling sorry for myself. Ingrate.
Then, I read about Yudhi (pronounced You-Day), a brilliant musician, who in the wake of 9/11 was deported back to Indonesia, forcing him to leave his American wife back in Brooklyn, thus dashing their marriage on the rocks. It's left him to wonder, "Dude, why is life so crazy like this?" p. 250 The U.S. government deported Yudhi as a Muslim terrorist suspect (he's a Christian Javanese) after detaining him for a period of time without due process, which we all know was the fate of many others, including U.S. citizens.
It's sad. It's unfair. I read ahead a little and saw that Liz asked Ketut the same question: "Why is life so crazy like this?" I'll save the answer for tomorrow. Today, I will stay in today . . . and, wallow? Wondering why life is so unfair, when it really isn't? I've been given an opportunity to pursue a dream! Am I bungling it? Am I doing enough to honor the gift God has given me?
I'm reminded of what my friend said the other day, that my blaming myself, my talking crap about myself (as a failure, as inept, as a loser) is slinging an undeserved bag of garbage over my shoulder. The bag is leaky and it's making me smell.
There's a plan. Somewhere, there's a plan.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Day 49. March 10th, 2012 I Don't Know How Old My Medicine Man Is
Apparently, in Bali, the day of the week on which you were born is more important than the year. Ketut was born on a Thursday and "the patron god of children born on Thursdays is Shiva, the destroyer . . . And, the day has two guiding animal spirits - the lion and the tiger. The official tree of children born on Thursday is the banyan. The official bird is the peacock. A person born on Thursday is always talking first, interrupting everyone else, can be a little aggressive, tends to be handsome (a 'playboy' or 'playgirl' in Ketut's words), but has a decent overall character, with an excellent memory and desire to help other people." p. 240 Ketut knows all this, but he doesn't know how old he is.
Out of curiosity, I looked up my birthday (it was a Wednesday). And, after noodling around a few Balinese astrology websites, I found this:
Rabu Legi fellows are the strict followers of the social codes of conduct and always want people to think good of them. You are well-balanced and sensitive and fairness is one of your top priorities. You cannot tolerate injustice being done to anybody. As far as your friends and associates are concerned, you can go to any extent to keep a good liaison with them (not sure what that means). You value your family members and a very few close friends of your a lot (it's as if Ketut, in his charming broken English, wrote this himself) People think of you to be wise and knowledgeable and you do not like interfering in other people's business.
My deity, or patron spirit is Vishna (preserver). My animal is the snake. The official tree is the Ancack. The official bird is the Pigeon. My symbol is Tangis (tears). Apparently, a person born on Wednesday is good at problem solving. They spend more time helping friends and outsiders than taking care of their family. They have a lot of expectations out of life. This may cause them many disappointments. People born on this day may be upset and sad. They may not be able to think straight. They are not motivated and feel like a loser. They are not ready to take on the responsibilities of new projects. They may spend their time solving other people's problems . . . so says the Internet.
I tried something today during my meditation. I tried smiling with my liver (like Ketut suggested), with my lungs, my stomach, my guts, my heart. An eagerness to smile stirred up in my whole body. And, a sigh, a content sigh forced itself upon me, like a happy child crawling into your lap. Then, I turned the smiling towards my feet, my legs, my hands, my arms, up my spine and out the top of my head, until I imagined myself a smiling flower turned towards the sun (there goes my tough-guy image) . . . all the while breathing in with "Hum" and out with "Sah".
Then, I replaced "Hum-sah" with "I am one with God". I repeated that over and over, and it seemed (felt, whatever) as if I was dropping down out of my head. My attention seemed to get stuck in my throat. Maybe, that had something to do with my voice, actual or symbolic. Then, it felt like my inner self dropped into my heart, but the buoyancy of my thoughts, strapped to my inner self's arms like water wings, kept me from slipping down. I hung there for a few moments, looking up at the racing, random movie of my thoughts, until I wondered, when will my 20 minutes be up? That broke my concentration.
I like this smiling idea when it comes to meditation, because I love to laugh. Maybe, I can find a connection, a channel this way. I'm, of course, new to all this. I don't really know what I'm doing. Hopefully, I'm not dropping into myself, deeper into the isolation of my thoughts. But, all I have been asked to do is seek. Seek God.
As far as I have been told, meditation is part of the seeking, no matter how bad I am at it. And, if I'm doing it wrong, may some one come along, bonk me on the head and say, "you're doing it wrong". I'm grateful that it doesn't say anywhere that God demands we do it "right". That would put me off. I just have to wade out into the deep end and, like the parent teaching the child how to swim, God will lift me to the surface if my head goes under water for too long.
I wonder what the spiritual equivalent to water up your nose is.
Out of curiosity, I looked up my birthday (it was a Wednesday). And, after noodling around a few Balinese astrology websites, I found this:
Rabu Legi fellows are the strict followers of the social codes of conduct and always want people to think good of them. You are well-balanced and sensitive and fairness is one of your top priorities. You cannot tolerate injustice being done to anybody. As far as your friends and associates are concerned, you can go to any extent to keep a good liaison with them (not sure what that means). You value your family members and a very few close friends of your a lot (it's as if Ketut, in his charming broken English, wrote this himself) People think of you to be wise and knowledgeable and you do not like interfering in other people's business.
My deity, or patron spirit is Vishna (preserver). My animal is the snake. The official tree is the Ancack. The official bird is the Pigeon. My symbol is Tangis (tears). Apparently, a person born on Wednesday is good at problem solving. They spend more time helping friends and outsiders than taking care of their family. They have a lot of expectations out of life. This may cause them many disappointments. People born on this day may be upset and sad. They may not be able to think straight. They are not motivated and feel like a loser. They are not ready to take on the responsibilities of new projects. They may spend their time solving other people's problems . . . so says the Internet.
I tried something today during my meditation. I tried smiling with my liver (like Ketut suggested), with my lungs, my stomach, my guts, my heart. An eagerness to smile stirred up in my whole body. And, a sigh, a content sigh forced itself upon me, like a happy child crawling into your lap. Then, I turned the smiling towards my feet, my legs, my hands, my arms, up my spine and out the top of my head, until I imagined myself a smiling flower turned towards the sun (there goes my tough-guy image) . . . all the while breathing in with "Hum" and out with "Sah".
Then, I replaced "Hum-sah" with "I am one with God". I repeated that over and over, and it seemed (felt, whatever) as if I was dropping down out of my head. My attention seemed to get stuck in my throat. Maybe, that had something to do with my voice, actual or symbolic. Then, it felt like my inner self dropped into my heart, but the buoyancy of my thoughts, strapped to my inner self's arms like water wings, kept me from slipping down. I hung there for a few moments, looking up at the racing, random movie of my thoughts, until I wondered, when will my 20 minutes be up? That broke my concentration.
I like this smiling idea when it comes to meditation, because I love to laugh. Maybe, I can find a connection, a channel this way. I'm, of course, new to all this. I don't really know what I'm doing. Hopefully, I'm not dropping into myself, deeper into the isolation of my thoughts. But, all I have been asked to do is seek. Seek God.
As far as I have been told, meditation is part of the seeking, no matter how bad I am at it. And, if I'm doing it wrong, may some one come along, bonk me on the head and say, "you're doing it wrong". I'm grateful that it doesn't say anywhere that God demands we do it "right". That would put me off. I just have to wade out into the deep end and, like the parent teaching the child how to swim, God will lift me to the surface if my head goes under water for too long.
I wonder what the spiritual equivalent to water up your nose is.
Day 48. March 9th, 2012 Struggle
Even the topical paradise of Bali, "The Island of the Gods" had a tumultuous past. Perhaps this is part of the reason the people there had found a spiritual, aesthetic and artistic balance. Because of the wreckage of the past, the corruption of the government and the force of an unfair caste system that the people there need the balance. Perhaps their spiritual life is so powerful, the practice of their rituals so precise and disciplined that they can "match calamity with serenity".
Perhaps we all need struggle. Perhaps we need the horrors of the past to balance out the beauty of the present. Without hardship, we couldn't appreciate peace and serenity. If life was always beautiful, I know I would take it for granted. I need a long, scary night to appreciate and welcome ("with the desperation of a man with his hair on fire seeking a bucket of water) the dawn.
I needed to be beaten up pretty bad (albeit, not as bad as others, though bad enough) before I accepted the new paradise that God is slowly building in my life. And, the horrid past is actually gold in recovery. My past is not something I want to sweep under the carpet, cover up with a brave face or try to forget. It's something I can and want to use to help others. Maybe, some one out there is going through what I went through. And, what joy and relief if might bring them to know that not only had some one else did exactly what they have done, but also they survived it and have gone on to live a happy, peaceful and productive life.
It seems to me Bali is the perfect place to find balance. The people there have found it. Perhaps the Balinese people's survival of their rocky past can teach Liz about the survival of hers . . . and, how to survive her rocky future. Perhaps, they can teach us all about how to navigate the really tough times and still live life as if we are in paradise.
I've all but given up on the idea of waking up at 8 am. My fiancee comes home so late. I don't really fall asleep after she's come to bed. My friend and spiritual adviser suggested I try meditating while lying on the floor (a technique I've used in Alexander Technique classes). I tried it . . . and fell asleep. I actually snored. But, trying something once and failing at it is no reason to give up completely.
It was while writing the first draft of this blog, I decided to "advertise" my blog on Facebook. I figured if I wanted to be a writer, I'd have to get my work out there. This was a scary step for me. To some one else, being afraid of advertising a blog is as silly as being afraid to create a Facebook page (then, OH MY GOD, posting something!! Hold me!). I don't know, maybe coming at something late in life (and being very concerned about people's opinions) has raised the stakes. Maybe some one else out there is afraid to take a Karate class because they're afraid they'll look like a fool, an Italian class because they're afraid they'll sound like a fool, a cooking class, a drawing class . . . . Anyway, what the hell, like I've been told before: "take the action and leave the results up to God."
Perhaps we all need struggle. Perhaps we need the horrors of the past to balance out the beauty of the present. Without hardship, we couldn't appreciate peace and serenity. If life was always beautiful, I know I would take it for granted. I need a long, scary night to appreciate and welcome ("with the desperation of a man with his hair on fire seeking a bucket of water) the dawn.
I needed to be beaten up pretty bad (albeit, not as bad as others, though bad enough) before I accepted the new paradise that God is slowly building in my life. And, the horrid past is actually gold in recovery. My past is not something I want to sweep under the carpet, cover up with a brave face or try to forget. It's something I can and want to use to help others. Maybe, some one out there is going through what I went through. And, what joy and relief if might bring them to know that not only had some one else did exactly what they have done, but also they survived it and have gone on to live a happy, peaceful and productive life.
It seems to me Bali is the perfect place to find balance. The people there have found it. Perhaps the Balinese people's survival of their rocky past can teach Liz about the survival of hers . . . and, how to survive her rocky future. Perhaps, they can teach us all about how to navigate the really tough times and still live life as if we are in paradise.
I've all but given up on the idea of waking up at 8 am. My fiancee comes home so late. I don't really fall asleep after she's come to bed. My friend and spiritual adviser suggested I try meditating while lying on the floor (a technique I've used in Alexander Technique classes). I tried it . . . and fell asleep. I actually snored. But, trying something once and failing at it is no reason to give up completely.
It was while writing the first draft of this blog, I decided to "advertise" my blog on Facebook. I figured if I wanted to be a writer, I'd have to get my work out there. This was a scary step for me. To some one else, being afraid of advertising a blog is as silly as being afraid to create a Facebook page (then, OH MY GOD, posting something!! Hold me!). I don't know, maybe coming at something late in life (and being very concerned about people's opinions) has raised the stakes. Maybe some one else out there is afraid to take a Karate class because they're afraid they'll look like a fool, an Italian class because they're afraid they'll sound like a fool, a cooking class, a drawing class . . . . Anyway, what the hell, like I've been told before: "take the action and leave the results up to God."
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Day 47. March 8th, 2012 Paradise and the Littles of Miracles
The littlest of magic! The tiniest of joys! I thought I had left my favorite pen at the writing space (I'm at the library). With a sigh, I pulled a satisfactory pen from my bag. Then I opened my journal and there was my pen! It was tucked into the folded cover, like a little gift from myself. You've got to appreciate the small things!
I'm going to start with what I read last, then go backwards:
"The word paradise, by the way, which comes to us from the Persians, means literally, "a walled garden". p. 236 Because the universe in generous, Liz is now staying in a cottage, surrounded by the beauty of Bali.
I can only imagine, barely imagine through my darkly clouded head, the magical beauty of that place.
Liz writes: "I don't mind anything these days. I can't imagine or remember discontent." p. 235. The cat moaning with Viet Nam flashbacks, the misunderstood howling dogs, the roosters announcing "how freaking cool it is to be roosters", the choruses of birds during the day and the creatures at night all seem to add to the beauty . . . not drive her up the wall with the racket!
She's in a beautiful place, physically and mentally. My angry, discontented, self-sabotaging, super-judgmental self would probably have to get ear plugs to fall asleep at night. Then, I'd get mad at myself for not being able to enjoy the paradise in the first place. The cat would drive me nuts, because I would want the cat to stop acting like a cat! I have similar demands on the world and the people in it (and, on myself) - to stop being what it and they are. It's very dissatisfying to me!
I want me to be some one who doesn't oversleep, who gets up early and gives loyal devotion to God every morning. I'd want me to be some one who can manage his money, balance a friggin' check book, some one who can instantly write brilliant stuff with only two months of real effort. My God! It's only been two months!
It's time to remind myself to go easy. A friend of mine pointed out last night the metaphorical bag of shit I sling on my back - the stuff I take responsibility for, the crippling debt, the broken relationships, the irresponsibility. I am a child in those things. While others were learning about relationships, I was getting drunk and taking hostages. Same thing with money . . . without the hostage part. They all escaped. So, I'm trying to learn now what everybody else learned in college.
And, I'd probably be a lot more forgiving to a college kid than I'm being to myself. My friend said, "I'd never let somebody talk to you you the way you talk to yourself." So, I'm hard on myself. What's new? I honestly don't think I know how to think any other way. So, I suppose, I can't start by recognizing that that is the way I am right . . . then become willing to change. Then, ask for help.
God ran us into each other last night for a reason. She told me her story of financial hell which almost perfectly reflected mine. I see God working in my life with the littlest of miracles: pens and friends! I just have to walk into said miracles whether I like them or not.
I'm tepid about the Meditation Festival. But, all I have to do is show up. I don't recall being asked to like it.
I submitted a piece to a writing contest. I'm now trying to ignore it, to let it go, like I've flung it away. Now, I can forget about it and try my best to squelch the hope of winning anything. That way, this disappointment, the gut-check of the rejection won't be so painful.
But, despite all this, I still write. I'm working on the other story that charged into my head. However, as I type the pages into a second draft, my judgement is ruling in full force, with a heavy-handed and unfair sense of justice. Its edict rolls from its evil throne on high and to my lips. And, out come the words, "this sucks."
But, it's supposed to "suck" for now. I can fall back into my chair in disgust as much as I want. But, am I not answering a calling? Am I not writing for no other explainable reason than, "I have to"?
"Liyer is the name my grandfather gave me when I was a little boy. It means, 'bright light'. This is me. Bright Light." p. 234 Somehow, I feel like this book is carrying me. Even when I miss a few days, I'm back because I ought to, I want to, I have to. And, if it's just for me, then that's enough. Perhaps, this is the way out of this dark and stormy night that is Scott MacKenzie. Led by the hand of God, I'll find the beautiful walled garden, the paradise that is Scott MacKenzie.
Thank you for the pen.
I'm going to start with what I read last, then go backwards:
"The word paradise, by the way, which comes to us from the Persians, means literally, "a walled garden". p. 236 Because the universe in generous, Liz is now staying in a cottage, surrounded by the beauty of Bali.
I can only imagine, barely imagine through my darkly clouded head, the magical beauty of that place.
Liz writes: "I don't mind anything these days. I can't imagine or remember discontent." p. 235. The cat moaning with Viet Nam flashbacks, the misunderstood howling dogs, the roosters announcing "how freaking cool it is to be roosters", the choruses of birds during the day and the creatures at night all seem to add to the beauty . . . not drive her up the wall with the racket!
She's in a beautiful place, physically and mentally. My angry, discontented, self-sabotaging, super-judgmental self would probably have to get ear plugs to fall asleep at night. Then, I'd get mad at myself for not being able to enjoy the paradise in the first place. The cat would drive me nuts, because I would want the cat to stop acting like a cat! I have similar demands on the world and the people in it (and, on myself) - to stop being what it and they are. It's very dissatisfying to me!
I want me to be some one who doesn't oversleep, who gets up early and gives loyal devotion to God every morning. I'd want me to be some one who can manage his money, balance a friggin' check book, some one who can instantly write brilliant stuff with only two months of real effort. My God! It's only been two months!
It's time to remind myself to go easy. A friend of mine pointed out last night the metaphorical bag of shit I sling on my back - the stuff I take responsibility for, the crippling debt, the broken relationships, the irresponsibility. I am a child in those things. While others were learning about relationships, I was getting drunk and taking hostages. Same thing with money . . . without the hostage part. They all escaped. So, I'm trying to learn now what everybody else learned in college.
And, I'd probably be a lot more forgiving to a college kid than I'm being to myself. My friend said, "I'd never let somebody talk to you you the way you talk to yourself." So, I'm hard on myself. What's new? I honestly don't think I know how to think any other way. So, I suppose, I can't start by recognizing that that is the way I am right . . . then become willing to change. Then, ask for help.
God ran us into each other last night for a reason. She told me her story of financial hell which almost perfectly reflected mine. I see God working in my life with the littlest of miracles: pens and friends! I just have to walk into said miracles whether I like them or not.
I'm tepid about the Meditation Festival. But, all I have to do is show up. I don't recall being asked to like it.
I submitted a piece to a writing contest. I'm now trying to ignore it, to let it go, like I've flung it away. Now, I can forget about it and try my best to squelch the hope of winning anything. That way, this disappointment, the gut-check of the rejection won't be so painful.
But, despite all this, I still write. I'm working on the other story that charged into my head. However, as I type the pages into a second draft, my judgement is ruling in full force, with a heavy-handed and unfair sense of justice. Its edict rolls from its evil throne on high and to my lips. And, out come the words, "this sucks."
But, it's supposed to "suck" for now. I can fall back into my chair in disgust as much as I want. But, am I not answering a calling? Am I not writing for no other explainable reason than, "I have to"?
"Liyer is the name my grandfather gave me when I was a little boy. It means, 'bright light'. This is me. Bright Light." p. 234 Somehow, I feel like this book is carrying me. Even when I miss a few days, I'm back because I ought to, I want to, I have to. And, if it's just for me, then that's enough. Perhaps, this is the way out of this dark and stormy night that is Scott MacKenzie. Led by the hand of God, I'll find the beautiful walled garden, the paradise that is Scott MacKenzie.
Thank you for the pen.
Day 46. March 7th, 2012 The Smiling Liver
"In the afternoon, I ride my bike down into Ketut's village, to hang out with my medicine man" (out of context, this sounds really pretentious!) "for our first day of . . . whatever it is we're going to be doing together. I'm not sure to be honest. English lessons? Meditation lessons? Good old-fashioned porch-sitting? I don't know what Ketut has in mind for me, but I'm happy to be invited into his life." p. 229 (By the way, Ketut was the medicine man we met way back on page 26 who predicted Liz would come back to Bali . . . and come back she did. He was the Yoda-like man, physically and spiritually, who drew the picture of the four-legged smiling flower creature. I mentioned it in my January 3rd entry).
Even before the eating, the praying and the loving, Liz had a sense of adventure, a desire to meet people, a social sense of adventure that I don't have (yet, maybe). But, her ability to be perfectly at ease and comfortable in a complete stranger's home is even more amazing to me. Maybe, there was something special about this man. Maybe, there was something so magical and spiritual about Ketut that it would be easy for anyone to feel comfortable there. Then again, maybe it was just right for those two to be together. He, being a medicine man, a deeply spiritual vessel of God and Liz, being a newly-learned devotee, willing to accept whatever life, love, God brings her.
Liz no longer speaks of fear. She no longer speaks of anxiety or depression. Those bastards left long ago. I'm still wracked with those things from time to time. Of course, her way of living has changed. Mine has stayed the same. But, the Meditation Festival starts next week. Maybe, there will be some clues on more peaceful living, further clues on how to be happy, joyous and free. Maybe, may path will be laid out before me. Maybe.
A man at the next table in the library is laughing. One would expect this to be annoying. And, rightly so - laughing in a serious, quiet place like the library, indeed! However, I instantly recall what Ketut says about meditation: "To meditate, only you must smile. Smile with face, smile with mind, and good energy will come to you and clean away dirty energy. Even smile in your liver . . . not to hurry, not to try too hard. Too serious, you make you sick. You can calling the good energy with a smile . . . If you have western friends come to visit Bali, bring them to me for palm reading. I am very empty in my bank since the bomb." p. 231 Good sense of humor in all this!
That's what I need. Al this "getting dark with painful struggle" is all my own making. What I want is for God to dramatically (with the proper sweeping theme music) walk me through this until I emerge triumphant on my day of reward for being a good devotee. That's probably more the reason I'm upset on the days (like today) where I oversleep. I'm afraid I'll lose favor with God and not get what I want. I haven't considered until recently to ask for the tools to get through this. I'm expecting God to carry my weeping and moaning body through all this. I'm also expecting things to magically get better.
I need a smiling liver.
Even before the eating, the praying and the loving, Liz had a sense of adventure, a desire to meet people, a social sense of adventure that I don't have (yet, maybe). But, her ability to be perfectly at ease and comfortable in a complete stranger's home is even more amazing to me. Maybe, there was something special about this man. Maybe, there was something so magical and spiritual about Ketut that it would be easy for anyone to feel comfortable there. Then again, maybe it was just right for those two to be together. He, being a medicine man, a deeply spiritual vessel of God and Liz, being a newly-learned devotee, willing to accept whatever life, love, God brings her.
Liz no longer speaks of fear. She no longer speaks of anxiety or depression. Those bastards left long ago. I'm still wracked with those things from time to time. Of course, her way of living has changed. Mine has stayed the same. But, the Meditation Festival starts next week. Maybe, there will be some clues on more peaceful living, further clues on how to be happy, joyous and free. Maybe, may path will be laid out before me. Maybe.
A man at the next table in the library is laughing. One would expect this to be annoying. And, rightly so - laughing in a serious, quiet place like the library, indeed! However, I instantly recall what Ketut says about meditation: "To meditate, only you must smile. Smile with face, smile with mind, and good energy will come to you and clean away dirty energy. Even smile in your liver . . . not to hurry, not to try too hard. Too serious, you make you sick. You can calling the good energy with a smile . . . If you have western friends come to visit Bali, bring them to me for palm reading. I am very empty in my bank since the bomb." p. 231 Good sense of humor in all this!
That's what I need. Al this "getting dark with painful struggle" is all my own making. What I want is for God to dramatically (with the proper sweeping theme music) walk me through this until I emerge triumphant on my day of reward for being a good devotee. That's probably more the reason I'm upset on the days (like today) where I oversleep. I'm afraid I'll lose favor with God and not get what I want. I haven't considered until recently to ask for the tools to get through this. I'm expecting God to carry my weeping and moaning body through all this. I'm also expecting things to magically get better.
I need a smiling liver.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Day 45. March 6th, 2012 The 80-year-old, Strident, Feminist, Lesbian Nun
If I'm ever a single woman in Bali and I'm asked if I'm married, I'll know to answer, "not yet". Oh, and just as important, I must always know where I'm going and where I'm coming from . . . or at least have a reasonable facsimile of an answer.
Where am I going?
Funny thing, chance . . . if we really can call that anymore. My writing was broken up by the following:
At the coffee shop where I was writing, the conversation down the table got annoying. So, I headed to my good friend, the clock tower library. No sooner had I pick up writing where I had left off, but a young, college aged girl came up to me and asked if I was busy. I was writing, but, for some reason I said, "no". So, we talked. She was on spring break with her church group. And, though she asked about fun places to hang out in this area, I don't think she was really interested in that. She didn't write down any of my suggestions. So, either she had a super-human memory or she was just using the question as an ice-breaker, looking for a place to shift the conversation to Jesus. Which, eventually, she did. By the way, do college-age evangelists travel in packs? As she left, I turned to see a dude who had been sitting at the table the whole time.
Eh, who cares why she was doing what she was doing? Why should I be creeped-out or put off . . . which I wasn't really. I think she made me nervous, because she was nervous . . . which is, oddly, human for some one "spreading the word". If a person needs to "witness" to strengthen their faith, then good for them (and, I don't mean that sarcastically)! If a stranger who was in recovery walked up and did that, then I'd listen to their story.
We are all children of God. She may have been sent to me for a reason. And, while I was distracted by her youth, adventurousness, and attractiveness, I was being shown something. What? It turns out she was a writer. She was spiritual . . . well, Christian . . . which can be in the same sentence! I was shown my prejudice, my intolerance. In theory, I'm open-minded to all faiths. In practice, not so much. (I must remember what I recorded about the Hopis from the other day: the world's religions each contain one spiritual thread, and that these threads are always seeking each other, wanting to join. When all the threads are finally woven together, they will form a rope that will pull us out of this dark cycle of history and into the next realm.) We're all different streams flowing into the same ocean.
My prejudice, my lack of trust is blocking me from knowing why we were put together in this moment. I wonder: why did I leave the coffee shop in the first place? Why didn't I just move? Why did she decide to come over to me of all people? Why did I say, "no" when I could have said, "yes I am busy." She still may not have left me alone. Who knows.
So, it was important to her to spread the word. It may have been the thing that keeps her alive. God's message of recovery saved my life. And, she didn't seem to be on a recruiting, converting or "saving" mission. She just needed to, perhaps, carry the message. Call it divine luck that we met.
So, the situation felt odd to me. Odd things are odd when you judge them. I ought to welcome the odd if it shakes me out of my comfort zone. So, God, why send a girl? A pretty one at that? Was it, perhaps, showing me my growth as a man and as a partner (I realized that, had I not been with my fiancee, I wouldn't have been at the library in the first place [she suggested it as a writing place])? Anyway, would I have listened to a dude carrying the message? Whatever the reason, I guess it's a good thing I was caught off guard. I had no time to steel myself, to prepare myself. I could just be me and accept what was put in front of me.
This girl was put in my path for some reason. Marco was put in Liz's path for some reason. We just don't know. All we can do is accept and make the best of the situation.
By the way, my prejudice is left over from my youth - the days of the fear-based fire and brimstone tactics thrown down from the pulpit. So, I'm ashamed to admit it, but I do still have icy prejudice and intolerance. And, prejudice and intolerance come from fear. Clearly, I'm still afraid. However, the girl left me with this:
"You are IMPORTANT.
'see what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God.'
John 3:1
Have a good day"
And, the ice melts.
Where am I going?
Funny thing, chance . . . if we really can call that anymore. My writing was broken up by the following:
At the coffee shop where I was writing, the conversation down the table got annoying. So, I headed to my good friend, the clock tower library. No sooner had I pick up writing where I had left off, but a young, college aged girl came up to me and asked if I was busy. I was writing, but, for some reason I said, "no". So, we talked. She was on spring break with her church group. And, though she asked about fun places to hang out in this area, I don't think she was really interested in that. She didn't write down any of my suggestions. So, either she had a super-human memory or she was just using the question as an ice-breaker, looking for a place to shift the conversation to Jesus. Which, eventually, she did. By the way, do college-age evangelists travel in packs? As she left, I turned to see a dude who had been sitting at the table the whole time.
Eh, who cares why she was doing what she was doing? Why should I be creeped-out or put off . . . which I wasn't really. I think she made me nervous, because she was nervous . . . which is, oddly, human for some one "spreading the word". If a person needs to "witness" to strengthen their faith, then good for them (and, I don't mean that sarcastically)! If a stranger who was in recovery walked up and did that, then I'd listen to their story.
We are all children of God. She may have been sent to me for a reason. And, while I was distracted by her youth, adventurousness, and attractiveness, I was being shown something. What? It turns out she was a writer. She was spiritual . . . well, Christian . . . which can be in the same sentence! I was shown my prejudice, my intolerance. In theory, I'm open-minded to all faiths. In practice, not so much. (I must remember what I recorded about the Hopis from the other day: the world's religions each contain one spiritual thread, and that these threads are always seeking each other, wanting to join. When all the threads are finally woven together, they will form a rope that will pull us out of this dark cycle of history and into the next realm.) We're all different streams flowing into the same ocean.
My prejudice, my lack of trust is blocking me from knowing why we were put together in this moment. I wonder: why did I leave the coffee shop in the first place? Why didn't I just move? Why did she decide to come over to me of all people? Why did I say, "no" when I could have said, "yes I am busy." She still may not have left me alone. Who knows.
So, it was important to her to spread the word. It may have been the thing that keeps her alive. God's message of recovery saved my life. And, she didn't seem to be on a recruiting, converting or "saving" mission. She just needed to, perhaps, carry the message. Call it divine luck that we met.
So, the situation felt odd to me. Odd things are odd when you judge them. I ought to welcome the odd if it shakes me out of my comfort zone. So, God, why send a girl? A pretty one at that? Was it, perhaps, showing me my growth as a man and as a partner (I realized that, had I not been with my fiancee, I wouldn't have been at the library in the first place [she suggested it as a writing place])? Anyway, would I have listened to a dude carrying the message? Whatever the reason, I guess it's a good thing I was caught off guard. I had no time to steel myself, to prepare myself. I could just be me and accept what was put in front of me.
This girl was put in my path for some reason. Marco was put in Liz's path for some reason. We just don't know. All we can do is accept and make the best of the situation.
By the way, my prejudice is left over from my youth - the days of the fear-based fire and brimstone tactics thrown down from the pulpit. So, I'm ashamed to admit it, but I do still have icy prejudice and intolerance. And, prejudice and intolerance come from fear. Clearly, I'm still afraid. However, the girl left me with this:
"You are IMPORTANT.
'see what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God.'
John 3:1
Have a good day"
And, the ice melts.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Day 44. March 5th, 2012 Ketut and the Little Star
"How can you be so clever and paint with such detail?"
"Ketut answers to me, like giving dictation: 'because I practice many, many years.'" p 224
Thanks Ketut for that art lesson.
If I want to cleverly paint pictures with words and with great detail, I must practice. It seems now the adventure is taking "Liss" instead of her going on said adventure. All she has to do is show up and be friendly - just be the natural, discovered self she found during her time at the Ashram. It seems then she will gently float down life's stream, enjoying the beauty, the fun, the excitement and soon, I'm sure, the gift of a partner with whom to share love along with way.
My fiancee and I went to Central Park yesterday, to the Shakespeare garden - a place I'd hoped would be meaningful to her. We went there to for help in letting go of the the weight, the heavy burden of sadness of the miscarriage we've been carrying with us since December. The spring flowers, confused by the warm weather, were beginning to bloom. The trees were still lean, though. She saw a cardinal.
As I'm beginning to be a person who looks for clues of God's love everywhere, I decided to research the possible symbolism of the cardinal. This is what I found:
"True to the fire of his color, the crimson cardinal has got some major spunk. He will aggressively defend his territory, and fight attackers with ferocity. Indeed, they have been known to fight ghost males (their reflections) in mirrors for hours on end.
Both male and female give us glorious songs. Along with peeps and pips and warbles, the tuned ear can also hear 'cheer, cheer, cheer!'
The cardinal makes a fantastic animal totem. It reminds us to hold ourselves with pride - not ego pride. Rather, the cardinal asks us to stand a little taller, be a bit more regal, step into our natural confidence as if we were born to lead with grace and nobility." from whatsyoursign.com
And this:
"The cardinal bird is symbolic of faith, so it comes to remind us to "keep the faith" though circumstances might look bleak, dark and hopeless." from Wikianswers.
I especially like the "cheer, cheer, cheer" and the "keep the faith" part.
We found a bench which was dedicated to "the most loving woman in the world." This seemed like a fitting place for a little fire (candle) ceremony. She lit the candle. There were tears. I tried to say some meaningful words. Then, I pulled my cupped hands away from the candle to let God take the little flame the way he took our little "nudger", our little Hope (my fiancee believed the little one was a gift of hope and gave her that name) into his care.
I hope we can put our burden down now and release our little miracle into God's hands and no longer be sad. I hope we can now feel that we're ok, that we didn't do anything wrong, that we deserve to be happy and joyful in our lives, even when we practice making more babies.
I hope we can let go now and move on, but not forget the little joy, the little miracle, the little Hope. Good night, little star. I love you forever and for always.
"Ketut answers to me, like giving dictation: 'because I practice many, many years.'" p 224
Thanks Ketut for that art lesson.
If I want to cleverly paint pictures with words and with great detail, I must practice. It seems now the adventure is taking "Liss" instead of her going on said adventure. All she has to do is show up and be friendly - just be the natural, discovered self she found during her time at the Ashram. It seems then she will gently float down life's stream, enjoying the beauty, the fun, the excitement and soon, I'm sure, the gift of a partner with whom to share love along with way.
My fiancee and I went to Central Park yesterday, to the Shakespeare garden - a place I'd hoped would be meaningful to her. We went there to for help in letting go of the the weight, the heavy burden of sadness of the miscarriage we've been carrying with us since December. The spring flowers, confused by the warm weather, were beginning to bloom. The trees were still lean, though. She saw a cardinal.
As I'm beginning to be a person who looks for clues of God's love everywhere, I decided to research the possible symbolism of the cardinal. This is what I found:
"True to the fire of his color, the crimson cardinal has got some major spunk. He will aggressively defend his territory, and fight attackers with ferocity. Indeed, they have been known to fight ghost males (their reflections) in mirrors for hours on end.
Both male and female give us glorious songs. Along with peeps and pips and warbles, the tuned ear can also hear 'cheer, cheer, cheer!'
The cardinal makes a fantastic animal totem. It reminds us to hold ourselves with pride - not ego pride. Rather, the cardinal asks us to stand a little taller, be a bit more regal, step into our natural confidence as if we were born to lead with grace and nobility." from whatsyoursign.com
And this:
"The cardinal bird is symbolic of faith, so it comes to remind us to "keep the faith" though circumstances might look bleak, dark and hopeless." from Wikianswers.
I especially like the "cheer, cheer, cheer" and the "keep the faith" part.
We found a bench which was dedicated to "the most loving woman in the world." This seemed like a fitting place for a little fire (candle) ceremony. She lit the candle. There were tears. I tried to say some meaningful words. Then, I pulled my cupped hands away from the candle to let God take the little flame the way he took our little "nudger", our little Hope (my fiancee believed the little one was a gift of hope and gave her that name) into his care.
I hope we can put our burden down now and release our little miracle into God's hands and no longer be sad. I hope we can now feel that we're ok, that we didn't do anything wrong, that we deserve to be happy and joyful in our lives, even when we practice making more babies.
I hope we can let go now and move on, but not forget the little joy, the little miracle, the little Hope. Good night, little star. I love you forever and for always.
Day 43. March 3rd, 2012 Out of India
Last night in India. Last night at the Ashram.
I don't say, "last night of praying", because I can't imagine the praying will ever stop.
Liz writes, ". . . something in me wants to stay awake for the last hours at the Ashram." (She decides to stay up all night in order to catch her flight to Indonesia at 4 am.) "There are many things in my life that I've stayed up all night to do - to make love, to argue with some one, to drive long distances, to dance, to cry, to worry (and sometimes all those things, in fact, in the course of one night) - but I've never sacrificed sleep for a night of exclusive prayer. Why not now?" p. 209
It's amazing, the amount of time we spend in relentless pursuit of self: our idea of perfection. The pursuit for the sex (the right amount or the ideal quality), for money, for power and subdivisions of these things. But, we give only our spare time to Him which gives us freedom, to Him who gives us peace, serenity, joy, love . . . Him, who is perfection. We get complacent and lazy.
I can think of many nights I've spent the way Liz describes it, in pursuit of earthly gains: perfect sex, a perfect party, a perfect victory in an argument, or a perfect romantic, dramatic, melancholy story-book moment with a woman. Were not all those moments spent, in the end, to take, to get, to receive . . . never to give wholly of myself in love and kindness?
Right now, my meditation is still slushy and sluggish. I feel a shift has happened. Not a good one. As this deluge of a new story has filled me up and as I try to purge this story from my creative center, my ship has spilled off course. The great weight of this new idea has, like shifted ballast, pulled me off course. It's like a new cargo of gold that I've not yet learned to properly stow and care for. And, while I focus all my energy in collecting and recording the new treasure, I've not been tending to my sails, which have been left flapping in God's trade winds. I'm starting to turn into the tide and, like a great, fat, hulk of a lazy barge, sag in the water - the tide spilling over my decks, rocking my unfastened cargo from side to side in my head, the winds blowing across my bow until I'm lost, in still stagnant, murky waters. (Have I properly beaten that metaphor to death?)
I've forgotten all about the meditation festival. (Thanks for the gift, God! Now where did I put it?) It's coming up. Ive lost focus. I've lost gratitude for the Grace that has brought me this far. How easily this seems to have happened. I'll save you, the reader, the onslaught of self-flagellation.
I'm 2/3 way through Eat, Pray, Love and this blog. This is about where, in times past, I'd lose interest, distracted by another project. Here's where I'd be challenged and decide that continuing would just be too hard! I'd, then, numb my disappointment in myself with a sour grapes attitude or throwing myself even harder into the next project convincing myself that "this time will be different!"
I have a way of not finishing what I've started, of not seeing something all the way through until the end. And, that's been a problem for me . . . a big problem. So, here's my chance to change. Here's my chance to break the pattern, to finish that which has kick-started this new era in my life!
God help me change! Help me with the discipline. Guide me through until the end. Otherwise, I'll jump around from one thing to the other, leaving, in my wild wake, a mashed, crooked and winding trail of incompletes . . . and that would be of no use to anyone. Help me break the cycle of unfinished project. I need your clear sight and vision, so I can keep sailing forward, not in circles in my own stagnant pond of selfish creativity.
I must redouble my efforts. I must meet God half way. Liz is 2/3 way through her journey. Mine feels like it's just begun almost sunk by, well, me. I'm going to the Actors Fund on Monday to try to find some work through their resources. I've got to do something. Complaining about my financial situation doesn't pay very well.
My ship is getting bigger, fuller. I must maintain the order and discipline of my crew if I'm going to navigate this new waters! (I think I've just beat a dead metaphor)
I don't say, "last night of praying", because I can't imagine the praying will ever stop.
Liz writes, ". . . something in me wants to stay awake for the last hours at the Ashram." (She decides to stay up all night in order to catch her flight to Indonesia at 4 am.) "There are many things in my life that I've stayed up all night to do - to make love, to argue with some one, to drive long distances, to dance, to cry, to worry (and sometimes all those things, in fact, in the course of one night) - but I've never sacrificed sleep for a night of exclusive prayer. Why not now?" p. 209
It's amazing, the amount of time we spend in relentless pursuit of self: our idea of perfection. The pursuit for the sex (the right amount or the ideal quality), for money, for power and subdivisions of these things. But, we give only our spare time to Him which gives us freedom, to Him who gives us peace, serenity, joy, love . . . Him, who is perfection. We get complacent and lazy.
I can think of many nights I've spent the way Liz describes it, in pursuit of earthly gains: perfect sex, a perfect party, a perfect victory in an argument, or a perfect romantic, dramatic, melancholy story-book moment with a woman. Were not all those moments spent, in the end, to take, to get, to receive . . . never to give wholly of myself in love and kindness?
Right now, my meditation is still slushy and sluggish. I feel a shift has happened. Not a good one. As this deluge of a new story has filled me up and as I try to purge this story from my creative center, my ship has spilled off course. The great weight of this new idea has, like shifted ballast, pulled me off course. It's like a new cargo of gold that I've not yet learned to properly stow and care for. And, while I focus all my energy in collecting and recording the new treasure, I've not been tending to my sails, which have been left flapping in God's trade winds. I'm starting to turn into the tide and, like a great, fat, hulk of a lazy barge, sag in the water - the tide spilling over my decks, rocking my unfastened cargo from side to side in my head, the winds blowing across my bow until I'm lost, in still stagnant, murky waters. (Have I properly beaten that metaphor to death?)
I've forgotten all about the meditation festival. (Thanks for the gift, God! Now where did I put it?) It's coming up. Ive lost focus. I've lost gratitude for the Grace that has brought me this far. How easily this seems to have happened. I'll save you, the reader, the onslaught of self-flagellation.
I'm 2/3 way through Eat, Pray, Love and this blog. This is about where, in times past, I'd lose interest, distracted by another project. Here's where I'd be challenged and decide that continuing would just be too hard! I'd, then, numb my disappointment in myself with a sour grapes attitude or throwing myself even harder into the next project convincing myself that "this time will be different!"
I have a way of not finishing what I've started, of not seeing something all the way through until the end. And, that's been a problem for me . . . a big problem. So, here's my chance to change. Here's my chance to break the pattern, to finish that which has kick-started this new era in my life!
God help me change! Help me with the discipline. Guide me through until the end. Otherwise, I'll jump around from one thing to the other, leaving, in my wild wake, a mashed, crooked and winding trail of incompletes . . . and that would be of no use to anyone. Help me break the cycle of unfinished project. I need your clear sight and vision, so I can keep sailing forward, not in circles in my own stagnant pond of selfish creativity.
I must redouble my efforts. I must meet God half way. Liz is 2/3 way through her journey. Mine feels like it's just begun almost sunk by, well, me. I'm going to the Actors Fund on Monday to try to find some work through their resources. I've got to do something. Complaining about my financial situation doesn't pay very well.
My ship is getting bigger, fuller. I must maintain the order and discipline of my crew if I'm going to navigate this new waters! (I think I've just beat a dead metaphor)
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Day 42. March 2nd, 2012 Choosing My Religion
These are Liz's last few days in India.
"I believe that all the world's religions share, at their core, a desire to find a transporting metaphor. p. 205 I couldn't agree more.
I've fallen off my spiritual practice this week. I haven't prayed or meditated since Monday (this is Friday). And, today I'm feeling a little befogged and wretched because I was up very late last night writing a new story that has, in fact, invaded my head (see post from 2/27). I couldn't write fast enough. I wrote for hours at a time, until my hands were dull, the pads of my fingers dented from holding the pen, my neck ached and my eyes almost crossed.
I'm feeling wretched because I am, again, hundreds of dollars overdrawn in my bank account. But, I'm told, "do not be discouraged."
As I write, filling the pages of my journal, I have lost track of what has brought me here. Out of distraction and the wandering, forgetful excitement of my fickle mind, I let this new adventure in creativity lead me away from the source.
Liz helped me get closer, if even minutely, to God. She helped me see that I need to strengthen and deepen my devotion. And, because Of that newly opening channel a story fell through. Now, like a child on Christmas I'm playing with this new toy. Therefore, I'm letting the channel close.
Tagore reminds me: "I come out of my meditations and leave aside my flowers and incense. What harm if my clothes become tattered and stained? I meet You and stand by You in toil and in the sweat of my brow."
I need to make the effort. While, it would seem (in interpreting what Tagore wrote) that I can meet God at work, I see it as I must meet God in action. Prayer and meditation are vital. Without them I wouldn't be here. Its because of those practices that I've started to commune with God in my small way and have been brought to more creativity - the result of an active partnership with God. I must keep the channel open.
I'm like a child who has learned how to ride a bike. I want to ride my bike all day, forgetting the chores and responsibilities I must attend to on a daily basis that, being done, showed my parents that I was responsible and mature enough to have a bike (which my chore money paid for). Out of my own neglect and irresponsibility I could loose the new joy. I'm still learning.
However, I must not forget the source from which this new idea, this new creativity came. Liz writes, "Your job, should you choose to accept it, is to keep searching for the metaphors, rituals and teachers that will help you move even closer to divinity." p. 206 We all reach God, "just as rivers enter the ocean."
The Hopi Indians thought that the world's religions each contained one spiritual thread, and that these threads are always seeking each other, wanting to join. When all the threads are finally woven together, they will form a rope that will pull us out of this dark cycle of history and into the next realm." p 208 I think it means the next realm of human experience; a new era on this earth; past the technology age. Perhaps a new age of enlightenment.
I must continue to search, lest my spirit atrophies, stagnates and dies. Like Pope Pius XI said, "The ways of Providence are infinite."
I'm only asked to seek - that is my charge. Bod doesn't see too hard conditions for those who seek him. I must not forget that and get distracted by my obsession to write. The obsession without the gift from the Great Creator will be . . . poo poo.
The gift is there. It will unfold like the unwrapping of a present. I must simply take care, with gentle spiritual hands, not to crush it with my clumsy selfishness. God will continue to provide if I will continue to seek.
"Don't we each have the right to not stop seeking until we get as close to the source of wonder as possible? Even if it means coming to India and kissing trees in the moonlight for awhile?
"That's me in the corner, in other words. That's me in the spotlight. Choosing my religion" p. 208
"I believe that all the world's religions share, at their core, a desire to find a transporting metaphor. p. 205 I couldn't agree more.
I've fallen off my spiritual practice this week. I haven't prayed or meditated since Monday (this is Friday). And, today I'm feeling a little befogged and wretched because I was up very late last night writing a new story that has, in fact, invaded my head (see post from 2/27). I couldn't write fast enough. I wrote for hours at a time, until my hands were dull, the pads of my fingers dented from holding the pen, my neck ached and my eyes almost crossed.
I'm feeling wretched because I am, again, hundreds of dollars overdrawn in my bank account. But, I'm told, "do not be discouraged."
As I write, filling the pages of my journal, I have lost track of what has brought me here. Out of distraction and the wandering, forgetful excitement of my fickle mind, I let this new adventure in creativity lead me away from the source.
Liz helped me get closer, if even minutely, to God. She helped me see that I need to strengthen and deepen my devotion. And, because Of that newly opening channel a story fell through. Now, like a child on Christmas I'm playing with this new toy. Therefore, I'm letting the channel close.
Tagore reminds me: "I come out of my meditations and leave aside my flowers and incense. What harm if my clothes become tattered and stained? I meet You and stand by You in toil and in the sweat of my brow."
I need to make the effort. While, it would seem (in interpreting what Tagore wrote) that I can meet God at work, I see it as I must meet God in action. Prayer and meditation are vital. Without them I wouldn't be here. Its because of those practices that I've started to commune with God in my small way and have been brought to more creativity - the result of an active partnership with God. I must keep the channel open.
I'm like a child who has learned how to ride a bike. I want to ride my bike all day, forgetting the chores and responsibilities I must attend to on a daily basis that, being done, showed my parents that I was responsible and mature enough to have a bike (which my chore money paid for). Out of my own neglect and irresponsibility I could loose the new joy. I'm still learning.
However, I must not forget the source from which this new idea, this new creativity came. Liz writes, "Your job, should you choose to accept it, is to keep searching for the metaphors, rituals and teachers that will help you move even closer to divinity." p. 206 We all reach God, "just as rivers enter the ocean."
The Hopi Indians thought that the world's religions each contained one spiritual thread, and that these threads are always seeking each other, wanting to join. When all the threads are finally woven together, they will form a rope that will pull us out of this dark cycle of history and into the next realm." p 208 I think it means the next realm of human experience; a new era on this earth; past the technology age. Perhaps a new age of enlightenment.
I must continue to search, lest my spirit atrophies, stagnates and dies. Like Pope Pius XI said, "The ways of Providence are infinite."
I'm only asked to seek - that is my charge. Bod doesn't see too hard conditions for those who seek him. I must not forget that and get distracted by my obsession to write. The obsession without the gift from the Great Creator will be . . . poo poo.
The gift is there. It will unfold like the unwrapping of a present. I must simply take care, with gentle spiritual hands, not to crush it with my clumsy selfishness. God will continue to provide if I will continue to seek.
"Don't we each have the right to not stop seeking until we get as close to the source of wonder as possible? Even if it means coming to India and kissing trees in the moonlight for awhile?
"That's me in the corner, in other words. That's me in the spotlight. Choosing my religion" p. 208
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Day 41. February 27, 2012 The Teathered Angel
As I metaphorically trot along the ground, trying to track the trajectory of Liz's free flight, trying to guess what will happen next (she's almost done with the praying . . . then on to the loving!) A question came to me: "How do we track the flights of angels?" We can't, I guess. So we hold their wings. We tether them.
The following poem about my fiancee came out of me:
The Tethered Angel
The tethered Angel is angry at her bonds, shrouded, hooded,
Crowded by the mass of conflicting, angry voices.
She is a red Angel with bound wings, not knowing her captors have let go.
They got lazy, long, long ago.
Like her brethren, the wild stallion, tied to a post,
The mighty pachyderm, chained to a stick,
So is the bonded Red Dragon, the Angel of Fire,
The beautiful, wondrous Comet,
Contained by the mechanics of man.
She has lost sight of the stars.
They are but strangers in the sky.
Her heart aches, like a tamed red Wolf,
Who howls through the latched gate at the running of the pack,
Called by the wild.
She is the red Bird who cries at the free flight of the flock of the Phoenix.
Yet, her cry can’t be heard.
So, send a butcher of bonds for her cry butchers my heart.
For, we kick and scream and cry in this cage, this pen of demons,
This place where she will surely die.
So, I petition You, O God, on humble, rough and broken knees!
Reach through time and space, straight to her heart and ignite it!
Infuse her with belief, O God, then fuel it.
Jet full her heart, fill it full with hope.
Smash the mechanics of man, O God!
Let loose her lowly bonds.
Let slip the sorry tether.
Burn the cage down, O God,
So she can fly free!
O God! Let her light the sky like a bright, red Sun.
Let Mercury bow, Apollo blush, Athena cheer and Zeus wonder.
Let us, the humble and the lowly, take a step into her light,
And, catch a falling spark.
Let that spark burn through our maddened breast plates of bondage.
Let loose our hearts so that we, too, can be free!
Let her light us on fire!
Let the boom be heard for miles and for centuries!
Let the sonic wash spread like a wild fire,
So gods and mankind will be forever changed!
Let her be free, O God, that men may know a new history;
That women and children may laugh and dance in the streets, joyfully free.
Be not afraid, O World, of your skies on fire!
Be not afraid, O World, of the wonder and the joy,
And the rebirth of the Dragon Lady, the Phoenix of our time!
Be not afraid O Queen of fire, you Boudicca reincarnate,
For the age of miracles is upon us.
And, I will be your Iron Knight, you courageous soul.
I’ll hold you close and I’ll not burn.
But, by your side and in your ranks, will I, steadfast, fight for you.
This, then, lead to an idea for a story. Let's see what happens.
The following poem about my fiancee came out of me:
The Tethered Angel
The tethered Angel is angry at her bonds, shrouded, hooded,
Crowded by the mass of conflicting, angry voices.
She is a red Angel with bound wings, not knowing her captors have let go.
They got lazy, long, long ago.
Like her brethren, the wild stallion, tied to a post,
The mighty pachyderm, chained to a stick,
So is the bonded Red Dragon, the Angel of Fire,
The beautiful, wondrous Comet,
Contained by the mechanics of man.
She has lost sight of the stars.
They are but strangers in the sky.
Her heart aches, like a tamed red Wolf,
Who howls through the latched gate at the running of the pack,
Called by the wild.
She is the red Bird who cries at the free flight of the flock of the Phoenix.
Yet, her cry can’t be heard.
So, send a butcher of bonds for her cry butchers my heart.
For, we kick and scream and cry in this cage, this pen of demons,
This place where she will surely die.
So, I petition You, O God, on humble, rough and broken knees!
Reach through time and space, straight to her heart and ignite it!
Infuse her with belief, O God, then fuel it.
Jet full her heart, fill it full with hope.
Smash the mechanics of man, O God!
Let loose her lowly bonds.
Let slip the sorry tether.
Burn the cage down, O God,
So she can fly free!
O God! Let her light the sky like a bright, red Sun.
Let Mercury bow, Apollo blush, Athena cheer and Zeus wonder.
Let us, the humble and the lowly, take a step into her light,
And, catch a falling spark.
Let that spark burn through our maddened breast plates of bondage.
Let loose our hearts so that we, too, can be free!
Let her light us on fire!
Let the boom be heard for miles and for centuries!
Let the sonic wash spread like a wild fire,
So gods and mankind will be forever changed!
Let her be free, O God, that men may know a new history;
That women and children may laugh and dance in the streets, joyfully free.
Be not afraid, O World, of your skies on fire!
Be not afraid, O World, of the wonder and the joy,
And the rebirth of the Dragon Lady, the Phoenix of our time!
Be not afraid O Queen of fire, you Boudicca reincarnate,
For the age of miracles is upon us.
And, I will be your Iron Knight, you courageous soul.
I’ll hold you close and I’ll not burn.
But, by your side and in your ranks, will I, steadfast, fight for you.
This, then, lead to an idea for a story. Let's see what happens.
Day 40. February 26th, 2012 Antevasin
Last night, I went to bed around midnight. I had a dream about a large outdoor barbecue in the ground (probably because I was hungry) and woke up around 1:00 am. As I was going back to sleep (with my earplugs in) I thought I heard a noise which I thought was my fiancee coming home . . . but the door didn't open. Almost instantly, my mind raced to her being abducted right outside our door. I listened hard for a struggle, but heard nothing. I even unnecessarily took the garbage downstairs. I pretended to go back up (closing the elevator door and sending it up one floor) thinking that maybe I'd trick the rapist, thus giving me an opportunity to rush into the elevator control room and save the day. But, no noise. So, I went upstairs and sent a worried "Still working?" text. It turns out she just had a busy night at work and was late getting home. I'm insane. The noise was probably just the cat.
I still couldn't sleep, though, because of the residual energy of being really worried and the very present feeling of hunger. But, I still woke up at 8:00 am, dragged myself to the writing space and begrudgingly delved into the 20 minute meditation. Soon enough, despite the mantra of "hum-sah", my mind was off to the races. Again. And, again, I don't know if I was asleep or awake, but it seems as if I was in the same sort of awake-dream state - like my mind was turned to all channels at once and was randomly flipping through them.
There were no negative thoughts that I'm aware of, just rapid, random, dream-like thoughts coming from "who-knows-where". Was it the disorganized pool of my creativity? Was it a mess of uncontrolled imagination? Is it a layer I have to break through to go even further downward or inward to find that place deep inside myself where I understand God?
There was a point in my meditation, a brief moment, when I was critically analyzing the absurd lighting in JJ Abrams's "Star Trek". I was thinking the crew would be squinting, tripping over themselves, each other and the furniture, blinded, if the lights were that intense in the Bridge. Then, a voice, some kind of presence came in and said, "how about we shut this down." Then a metaphorical lid came down and squashed the thoughts. It startled me for a second, and it quieted my thoughts for another second. But, then I jerked out of that place and the channel flipping started again. Then came the wondering, "when will this be over?". Then, I fell asleep.
Liz found her word: Antevasin. "It means 'one who lives at the border." p. 203 It's a Sanskrit word. (I just remembered, as I'm writing, I used to joke to myself in elementary school that 'Sanskrit' sounded like the noise somebody made when they tried to stifle a sneeze. You can see why I joked with myself) "The antevasin was not of the villagers anymore - not a householder with a conventional life. But neither yet was he a transcendent - not one of those sages who live deep in the unexplored woods, fully realized. The antevasin was an in-betweener. He was a border dweller . . .
"When I read the description of the antevasin, I got so excited I gave a little bark of recognition. That's my word, baby! In the modern age, of course, the image of the unexplored forest would have to be figurative, and the border would have to be figurative, too. But you can still live there. You can still live on the shimmering line between your old thinking and your new understanding, always in the state of learning . . .
"I'm just a slippery antevasin - betwixt and between - a student on the ever-shifting border near the wonderful, scary forest of the new."
Way back in Italy, Liz didn't know the answer to her friend Guilio's question, "what's your word." She just figured it would show up eventually and she'd know it when she saw it. And, she did. Back then, I took a stab at what my word might be. The recurring theme seemed to be "seeker". Perhaps mine too will show up eventually and I'll know it when I see it.
I still couldn't sleep, though, because of the residual energy of being really worried and the very present feeling of hunger. But, I still woke up at 8:00 am, dragged myself to the writing space and begrudgingly delved into the 20 minute meditation. Soon enough, despite the mantra of "hum-sah", my mind was off to the races. Again. And, again, I don't know if I was asleep or awake, but it seems as if I was in the same sort of awake-dream state - like my mind was turned to all channels at once and was randomly flipping through them.
There were no negative thoughts that I'm aware of, just rapid, random, dream-like thoughts coming from "who-knows-where". Was it the disorganized pool of my creativity? Was it a mess of uncontrolled imagination? Is it a layer I have to break through to go even further downward or inward to find that place deep inside myself where I understand God?
There was a point in my meditation, a brief moment, when I was critically analyzing the absurd lighting in JJ Abrams's "Star Trek". I was thinking the crew would be squinting, tripping over themselves, each other and the furniture, blinded, if the lights were that intense in the Bridge. Then, a voice, some kind of presence came in and said, "how about we shut this down." Then a metaphorical lid came down and squashed the thoughts. It startled me for a second, and it quieted my thoughts for another second. But, then I jerked out of that place and the channel flipping started again. Then came the wondering, "when will this be over?". Then, I fell asleep.
Liz found her word: Antevasin. "It means 'one who lives at the border." p. 203 It's a Sanskrit word. (I just remembered, as I'm writing, I used to joke to myself in elementary school that 'Sanskrit' sounded like the noise somebody made when they tried to stifle a sneeze. You can see why I joked with myself) "The antevasin was not of the villagers anymore - not a householder with a conventional life. But neither yet was he a transcendent - not one of those sages who live deep in the unexplored woods, fully realized. The antevasin was an in-betweener. He was a border dweller . . .
"When I read the description of the antevasin, I got so excited I gave a little bark of recognition. That's my word, baby! In the modern age, of course, the image of the unexplored forest would have to be figurative, and the border would have to be figurative, too. But you can still live there. You can still live on the shimmering line between your old thinking and your new understanding, always in the state of learning . . .
"I'm just a slippery antevasin - betwixt and between - a student on the ever-shifting border near the wonderful, scary forest of the new."
Way back in Italy, Liz didn't know the answer to her friend Guilio's question, "what's your word." She just figured it would show up eventually and she'd know it when she saw it. And, she did. Back then, I took a stab at what my word might be. The recurring theme seemed to be "seeker". Perhaps mine too will show up eventually and I'll know it when I see it.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Day 39. February 25th, 2012. God, the Void and My First Rejection Letter.
A selfish note of contrast: I'm here and it's a cold, grey New York winter's night. She's there gloriously and joyfully running the a valley in India and passionately kissing Eucalyptus trees. Yes, yes, I know she's not actually there anymore. She could just as easily be here in the same cold, grey New York winter. However, consider Liz's transformation, she's probably in some way enjoying it, where I'm just being a grouch.
She has found what I hope to someday find: "I got pulled through the wormhole of the absolute, and in that rush I suddenly understood the workings of the universe completely. I left my body, I left the room, I left the planet, I stepped through time and entered the void. I was inside the void, but I also was the void and I was looking at the void, all at the same time. The void was a limitless place of peace and wisdom. The void was conscious and intelligent. The void was God . . . I was both a tiny piece of the universe and exactly the same size as the universe ('All know that the drop merges into the ocean, but few know that the ocean merges into the drop,' wrote the sage Kabin - and I can personally attest now that this is true."
"'So, this is God,' I thought. 'Congratulations to meet you.'" p. 199
Suddenly longing, heartbroken, I feel here I have been left behind. She has leapt away from me, from my earthly understand of things. I am left here, dumbstruck, simple rough and afraid. If I should ever be chosen for that experience . . . if only. I'm just stuck at the beginning.
By the way, Richard from Texas had left days ago. She's on her own and doing just fine. I'll miss Richard.
I sent my first submission and got my first rejection. I submitted an article to the writing space's news letter and this was the response: "It was nice to read about your experience, but unfortunately we don't really have a place for your comments in our newsletter, which is a bit more traditional in format. But we'd love to include news of publications, events, readings, etc when the time comes." It reminds me of a writing class where the teacher would often say to me, "It's great writing, just not the assignment."
A friend of mine, who's a published author wrote me this: "Bravo! CONGRATULATIONS on your first rejection--now you are a real writer."
I guess I'm in it now!
However, I'm just a baby at the beginning. No wonder they cry! It's all so overwhelming. And, I'm holding on to the illusion that my creativity comes from me. That's way too much responsibility for when to bear.
Maybe that's why I suffer from indigestion. I don't know if it's from the fear and the stress of my current financial situation or because I don't eat enough. Both are bad. Hell, one could be causing the other. Drinking a lot of coffee so I can stay awake to write probably doesn't help either.
It may be why I also can't take criticism. That's why I fight and protest during the editing process. I take what I write too personally and can't let it go. I can't seem to truly give it away. I can't yet let it stand up to criticism because criticizing my words equals criticizing me. I think I own my work. I think it's mine. I think it comes directly from me, a piece of me, an extension of me . . . not the God's creativity, filtered down through me, this still rough vessel. That's why the littlest of submissions, a small article to a newsletter is so important to me and why the rejection of it is hard to take.
I put on a reasonable, understanding and brave face. But it still hurt a little. My heart still ached a little. I guess I was using this submission to validate myself, to validate what I've been second-guessing the whole way. I was using this article to establish my foot hold, to make all these seemingly crazy ideas valid, worthwhile. This was supposed to be my start. This was supposed to be my reward for taking the action. I can see now that kind of thinking is foolish and juvenile.
Another selfish note of contrast: Liz is off exploring the universe, and I'm still at the starting line and I can't even figure out how to tie my shoes. I finally did reserve my space at the meditation festival. Perhaps they'll have a shoe-tying class.
She has found what I hope to someday find: "I got pulled through the wormhole of the absolute, and in that rush I suddenly understood the workings of the universe completely. I left my body, I left the room, I left the planet, I stepped through time and entered the void. I was inside the void, but I also was the void and I was looking at the void, all at the same time. The void was a limitless place of peace and wisdom. The void was conscious and intelligent. The void was God . . . I was both a tiny piece of the universe and exactly the same size as the universe ('All know that the drop merges into the ocean, but few know that the ocean merges into the drop,' wrote the sage Kabin - and I can personally attest now that this is true."
"'So, this is God,' I thought. 'Congratulations to meet you.'" p. 199
Suddenly longing, heartbroken, I feel here I have been left behind. She has leapt away from me, from my earthly understand of things. I am left here, dumbstruck, simple rough and afraid. If I should ever be chosen for that experience . . . if only. I'm just stuck at the beginning.
By the way, Richard from Texas had left days ago. She's on her own and doing just fine. I'll miss Richard.
I sent my first submission and got my first rejection. I submitted an article to the writing space's news letter and this was the response: "It was nice to read about your experience, but unfortunately we don't really have a place for your comments in our newsletter, which is a bit more traditional in format. But we'd love to include news of publications, events, readings, etc when the time comes." It reminds me of a writing class where the teacher would often say to me, "It's great writing, just not the assignment."
A friend of mine, who's a published author wrote me this: "Bravo! CONGRATULATIONS on your first rejection--now you are a real writer."
I guess I'm in it now!
However, I'm just a baby at the beginning. No wonder they cry! It's all so overwhelming. And, I'm holding on to the illusion that my creativity comes from me. That's way too much responsibility for when to bear.
Maybe that's why I suffer from indigestion. I don't know if it's from the fear and the stress of my current financial situation or because I don't eat enough. Both are bad. Hell, one could be causing the other. Drinking a lot of coffee so I can stay awake to write probably doesn't help either.
It may be why I also can't take criticism. That's why I fight and protest during the editing process. I take what I write too personally and can't let it go. I can't seem to truly give it away. I can't yet let it stand up to criticism because criticizing my words equals criticizing me. I think I own my work. I think it's mine. I think it comes directly from me, a piece of me, an extension of me . . . not the God's creativity, filtered down through me, this still rough vessel. That's why the littlest of submissions, a small article to a newsletter is so important to me and why the rejection of it is hard to take.
I put on a reasonable, understanding and brave face. But it still hurt a little. My heart still ached a little. I guess I was using this submission to validate myself, to validate what I've been second-guessing the whole way. I was using this article to establish my foot hold, to make all these seemingly crazy ideas valid, worthwhile. This was supposed to be my start. This was supposed to be my reward for taking the action. I can see now that kind of thinking is foolish and juvenile.
Another selfish note of contrast: Liz is off exploring the universe, and I'm still at the starting line and I can't even figure out how to tie my shoes. I finally did reserve my space at the meditation festival. Perhaps they'll have a shoe-tying class.
Day 38. February 24th, 2012. The Turiya State and the Kundalini Shakti
"Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean, plunge it into the deepest fullness. Let me, for once, feel that lost, sweet touch in the allness of the universe." Tagore.
I'm sitting in the Teen Literature section at the library, under the watchful eyes of "Cam Girl", "The Vega Factor" and "Catch 22". Across from me, an awkward, long-haired Jewish boy is waiting for the attention of a studious Muslin girl. A 21st century Romeo and Juliet. I could be wrong. They could have been forced to work together on a school project and, while she's doing all the work, he's reading a comic book. However, I think the comic book is just a decoy, a "cover" indicating that he's too cool to study, but too awkward to tell her how he feels about her. His comic book and her laptop give them something to get lost in while their eager teen feelings (which neither of them understand) race around inside them. In the meantime, a noisy old man, triangulating this moment, is with great import emptying his wallet of old receipts and crinkling them up into little balls. That being dutifully and necessarily done, he goes back to the Daily News.
When I got to reading, I didn't want to stop. It took an interrupting phone call for me to put the book down. Liz is the Key Hostess (Little Suzie Cream cheese) for a retreat, the topic of which is the turiya state, "the elusive 4th level of human consciousness. p. 196 Typically, humans experience and move through three different levels of consciousness - waking, dreaming and deep, dreamless sleep. The fourth level is, "the witness of all the other states, an intelligent awareness. . . And, if you can move into that state of witness consciousness, then you can be present with God all the time. This constant awareness and experience of the God-presence within can only happen on a fourth level of human consciousness which is called turiya."
As maddened as Liz is by those who can't provide adequate words to describe such a state, I feel the same about trying to sum-up what she's written about this amazing spiritual experience. I don't have the adequate words to discuss what she's written. I'm frustrated because all I'm doing right now is copying what Liz has written. But, so I don't look like a no-talent hack plagiarist, I'm trying to sum it up. And, I can't.
This stuff is leagues beyond me. Liz has found a way to spiritually soar and I'm stuck here on the ground. She's describing the tree tops and the clouds, the beautiful sun and I'm stuck in the house, watching TV and eating Hot Pockets. I can't fathom what she's talking about, though I'm sure what Liz says is true, that such a consciousness does exists. But, I can only gawk, gaze up in my dull, spiritual dumbness and wonder. I can only look up and imagine the beauty she flies amongst and kick at the dust in frustration and envy.
Liz talks about how afraid the people at the retreat are. But, she then admires their courage and, despite their behavior (the manifestations of their fear) she loves them. She loves them for their courage. "Your treasure - your perfection - is within you already. But, to claim it, you must leave the busy commotion of the mind and abandon the desires of the ego and enter into the silence of the heart. The kundalini shakti - the supreme energy of the divine - will take you there." p. 197
I wondered a few days ago how I could find the still water, the silence of the heart. A clue, an answer may lie somewhere in the meditation festival for which for which I have yet to reserve a space . . . because of my procrastination. The flyer sits in my pocket, gaining crumples, wrinkles and torn edges. Perhaps I'm afraid like the ones Liz writes about. I'm still afraid some one will catch me reading Eat, Pray, Love and think I'm a weenie. I'm afraid other writers at the writing space will think I'm pedestrian, sophomoric, bush-league or amateur.
I'm still concerned about what I think other people think about me. That's a lot of thinking. I'm going on my own journey. Screw them! This book has inspired me to change my life. I can only imagine the scene in the kitchen area when I look up from my book and yell at the people who are busy with their own writing and yell, "screw you! I'm going on my own, personal journey!"
Liz writes about reaching a state of bliss: "Nothing has changed, yet you feel stirred by grace, swollen by wonder, over flowing with bliss. Everything - for no reason whatsoever - is perfect." p. 197 She goes one to write: "According to the mystics, this search for divine bliss is the entire purpose of human life. This is why we all choose to be born, and this is why all the suffering and pain of life on earth is worthwhile - just for the chance to experience this infinite love. And once you have found this divinity within can you hold it? Because, if you can . . . bliss."
I wonder though (with a troubled mind), "why do we need the physical world to experience this infinite love? Wasn't our energy part of this infinite love before we were born? And, if we were already part of the divine, why did we need to come here to the physical world? What spiritual evolutionary state do we exists in before we come to the physical one? Everybody always wonders what comes after death. Well, what comes before life?" I imagine I'll find no answers in the physical world to questions about the metaphysical.
What's exciting is, though, is the wonder, the opportunity to maybe reach out amongst the stars and the galaxies, reach out infinitely to the great unknown, to catch a glimpse, a soul-touching glimpse of what astronauts, those sphere-wondering pilots who chase the heavens through, only get to observe, to measure. That is what I seek. I seek to fling out past the rings of Saturn, past the cold path of Pluto, out towards other galaxies, covering light years in an instant, to see what's up there, what's really, really up there. But first, I must be willing to venture into the great quiet that is within me, despite the fear of what I'll find, before God will scoop me up and fling me across the galaxies.
I'm sitting in the Teen Literature section at the library, under the watchful eyes of "Cam Girl", "The Vega Factor" and "Catch 22". Across from me, an awkward, long-haired Jewish boy is waiting for the attention of a studious Muslin girl. A 21st century Romeo and Juliet. I could be wrong. They could have been forced to work together on a school project and, while she's doing all the work, he's reading a comic book. However, I think the comic book is just a decoy, a "cover" indicating that he's too cool to study, but too awkward to tell her how he feels about her. His comic book and her laptop give them something to get lost in while their eager teen feelings (which neither of them understand) race around inside them. In the meantime, a noisy old man, triangulating this moment, is with great import emptying his wallet of old receipts and crinkling them up into little balls. That being dutifully and necessarily done, he goes back to the Daily News.
When I got to reading, I didn't want to stop. It took an interrupting phone call for me to put the book down. Liz is the Key Hostess (Little Suzie Cream cheese) for a retreat, the topic of which is the turiya state, "the elusive 4th level of human consciousness. p. 196 Typically, humans experience and move through three different levels of consciousness - waking, dreaming and deep, dreamless sleep. The fourth level is, "the witness of all the other states, an intelligent awareness. . . And, if you can move into that state of witness consciousness, then you can be present with God all the time. This constant awareness and experience of the God-presence within can only happen on a fourth level of human consciousness which is called turiya."
As maddened as Liz is by those who can't provide adequate words to describe such a state, I feel the same about trying to sum-up what she's written about this amazing spiritual experience. I don't have the adequate words to discuss what she's written. I'm frustrated because all I'm doing right now is copying what Liz has written. But, so I don't look like a no-talent hack plagiarist, I'm trying to sum it up. And, I can't.
This stuff is leagues beyond me. Liz has found a way to spiritually soar and I'm stuck here on the ground. She's describing the tree tops and the clouds, the beautiful sun and I'm stuck in the house, watching TV and eating Hot Pockets. I can't fathom what she's talking about, though I'm sure what Liz says is true, that such a consciousness does exists. But, I can only gawk, gaze up in my dull, spiritual dumbness and wonder. I can only look up and imagine the beauty she flies amongst and kick at the dust in frustration and envy.
Liz talks about how afraid the people at the retreat are. But, she then admires their courage and, despite their behavior (the manifestations of their fear) she loves them. She loves them for their courage. "Your treasure - your perfection - is within you already. But, to claim it, you must leave the busy commotion of the mind and abandon the desires of the ego and enter into the silence of the heart. The kundalini shakti - the supreme energy of the divine - will take you there." p. 197
I wondered a few days ago how I could find the still water, the silence of the heart. A clue, an answer may lie somewhere in the meditation festival for which for which I have yet to reserve a space . . . because of my procrastination. The flyer sits in my pocket, gaining crumples, wrinkles and torn edges. Perhaps I'm afraid like the ones Liz writes about. I'm still afraid some one will catch me reading Eat, Pray, Love and think I'm a weenie. I'm afraid other writers at the writing space will think I'm pedestrian, sophomoric, bush-league or amateur.
I'm still concerned about what I think other people think about me. That's a lot of thinking. I'm going on my own journey. Screw them! This book has inspired me to change my life. I can only imagine the scene in the kitchen area when I look up from my book and yell at the people who are busy with their own writing and yell, "screw you! I'm going on my own, personal journey!"
Liz writes about reaching a state of bliss: "Nothing has changed, yet you feel stirred by grace, swollen by wonder, over flowing with bliss. Everything - for no reason whatsoever - is perfect." p. 197 She goes one to write: "According to the mystics, this search for divine bliss is the entire purpose of human life. This is why we all choose to be born, and this is why all the suffering and pain of life on earth is worthwhile - just for the chance to experience this infinite love. And once you have found this divinity within can you hold it? Because, if you can . . . bliss."
I wonder though (with a troubled mind), "why do we need the physical world to experience this infinite love? Wasn't our energy part of this infinite love before we were born? And, if we were already part of the divine, why did we need to come here to the physical world? What spiritual evolutionary state do we exists in before we come to the physical one? Everybody always wonders what comes after death. Well, what comes before life?" I imagine I'll find no answers in the physical world to questions about the metaphysical.
What's exciting is, though, is the wonder, the opportunity to maybe reach out amongst the stars and the galaxies, reach out infinitely to the great unknown, to catch a glimpse, a soul-touching glimpse of what astronauts, those sphere-wondering pilots who chase the heavens through, only get to observe, to measure. That is what I seek. I seek to fling out past the rings of Saturn, past the cold path of Pluto, out towards other galaxies, covering light years in an instant, to see what's up there, what's really, really up there. But first, I must be willing to venture into the great quiet that is within me, despite the fear of what I'll find, before God will scoop me up and fling me across the galaxies.
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