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.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
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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