Who are your spiritual guides?

Throughout my life, I have toyed with the idea of therapy. At
times, caring friends and family have told me I need it. Sometimes I
agree. Yet, there is something artificial about it that repels me.
Myss writes about therapy, while helpful and valuable for many, works
mainly in the plane of the material world, keeping us rooted in it
and, at times, prohibiting transcendence.

I spoke with Jenna today, on the phone rather than our indirect
blogging dialogue, asking her about spiritual guides. She and her
husband found one. I wondered how you find one and also how you
become one. Caught up in a world set on degrees and titles, it is
like moving into an alternative, underground world, it seems. Myss
has her Ph.D., but how do you become 'qualified' as an intuitive?
In my life, I have had close relationships with pastors, but they are
limited as guides in their dedication to the church and to that one
ideology (not that they are closed-minded, but it is their choice to
see God in a particular way that I do not subscribe to fully). I
wonder, though, if this is something I need or should seek in lieu of
therapy. Or do I just need to knuckle down and do the work I am
called to do on my own?

In speaking to Jenna, we reminisced briefly about our collaborations
in film school, sitting up all hours of the night with call sheets in
the assigned DP's apartment. I remember lots of coffee, alcohol,
cigarettes (the DP was a chain smoker) and the underlying frustration
inherent in collaborating with students who were all vying to prove
themselves. That is where Jenna and I, two of the small number of
females in our class, clicked. Thus, it should not been surprising
when, after a few years of sporadic contact, we reconnected on her
visit to Los Angeles in December of 2005, realizing we were both on a
quest to follow our "Personal Legends" (a term used in The Alchemist).

And then today, Daphne left a beautifully insightful comment to my
blog about The Alchemist: "With regards to the oasis, maybe it's
not an "out there" thing either??? There's a font of nourishment and
nurturing within you that'll always be there, wherever you go and
whomever you're with. It'll never leave you. It's not a mirage,
except for when you forget that it's there or when you think it's
found outside you. :)"

Spiritual guides, I see, are all around me. They always have been
throughout my life, reminding me how blessed I am. Like Santiago in
the Alchemist, who was always open to learning from each person that
entered his life.

As I sit and look back to the wonderful times, looking at the picture
over my desk that reads, "Remember the good times, the fun and the
time to chillout," I wonder how to balance such memories with
staying in the present. Again, The Alchemist. As Santiago goes
through the dark night of the soul through the desert journey, his
heart speaks to him of all his strengths and all he has learned, of
his ability to love, trust, and have faith. This, I realize, is the
purpose of memories in our dialogue with the heart, to sustain us
through the journey, so we don't give up, dying of thirst just as the
trees come into view.

Art, I believe, is a way for one person to be a spiritual guide to
many. Paulo Coehlo and Salvador Dali have guided me in seeing the
unity inherent in all life over the past month.

And today, The City of God, a beautifully heartbreaking film, showed
how violence and anger carry energy that harms not only the one
person, but, in this case, an entire city and nation. My chest
literally aches even now, making me look forward to my return to my
regular yoga class in an hour. I would like to think that room full
of people, meditating and working to foster inner peace and
compassion might act as a counter to the despair and fear and
hopelessness that probably still exists in cities like The City of
God, or that I know exists in the streets of East and South LA.

The closing scene created a sense of deja vu, with Rocket and his
friend walking down the street casually talking about his new
internship as a photographer and about sex -- essentially talking
about the joys and potential of all of life -- followed by the new
gang of kids talking with equal casualness about death and violence,
each passing each other on the same street but essentially living in
and manifesting two different worlds. I remember going from the
halls of my school where profanities are shouted from one end to the
other, an underlying language of aggression, fear, and anger to a
class at UCLA where I was surrounded by conversations with an
underlying current of openness and inquisitiveness. A huge
generalization, but you could feel the vastly different current of
energies that go beyond words and their meanings. I am sure the is
pain and fear in the hearts of students at UCLA and I know there is
love and hope and peace in the hearts of students at my school,
barely heard under the din of the others.

A homecoming

As I sit and write this, a mixture of familiarity and surrealism
invades my senses. Maybe it is lack of sleep and jetlag. Too tired
to unpack and pack, I sit among overflowing luggage and my twinkling
Christmas tree. I am glad I got home before February to get
decorations down before the end of January, suspecting there is some
superstition about leaving the tree up until February. This is my
home, yet, I feel a bit like I am visiting someone else's space.

It was a quiet homecoming, yet one with small blessings to let me
know I am where I should be. First, debarking the shuttle bus,
Cooper's enthusiastic smile greeted me. The final drive home was
marked by a chance for us to catch up. I didn't feel alone here.
Even on the bus I had another call inviting me to lunch.

As I stepped into the elevator I ran into my neighbor (a rare event)
who headed back upstairs as she had taken in my accumulated held mail
left outside my door. A simple neighborly act of kindness.

Rather than lunch, despite all good judgment considering the
pitifully few hours of sleep I had on top of the general stress of
travel on the body, I opted to meet Erica for a hike in Griffith
Park. The cool air stimulated my physical body as the conversation
did my mind. A perfect way to reunite with Los Angeles.

Now, it is quiet. Too quiet inside, as I listen to the hum of the
outside world. I miss my nightly scrabble game with my mother, but
she sounded good when we spoke. I am thankful to have a mother who
is as wise, when the really important questions arise, as The
Alchemist. "To realize one's destiny is a person's only
obligation." As my mother encourages me to go out to fulfill this
destiny, to go home without fear or worry for leaving her alone,
tears of a bit sorrow, but mostly gratitude, roll down my face.

Lead into Gold

The synchronicity continues, even as I leave the east coast for the
west, my old home for my new.

The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho had been sitting on my self for about a
year now. During my visit to Florida, it sat in my backpack. I
started it on the flight home. I cannot express in words how this
book as transformed me from beginning to end over an eight-hour
trip. Just suddenly, everything seems right. For instance, the
book creates a myth of all the philosophies I have been reading about
lately -- the unity of the all things, living in the present, faith.
I know that the book would not have struck me so profoundly had I
read it a year ago when I first bought it. The journey of the
protagonist reminds me that everything happens for a reason and as it
should. It points to the simplicity of wisdom and of the ability to
be one with the Soul of the World. I feel at peace with my visit
with my mother and with leaving her to come back to my own home. I
also feel, more or less, at peace with what is to come as I
reconstruct my life here after a lengthy five week absence, a time
that probably seems short to those I left behind, but which has been
a long journey for me.

At the end of the book, I was left wondering what my Personal Legend
is and whether or not I am truly following it.

". . . before a dream is realized, the Soul of the World tests
everything that was learned along the way. It does this not because
it is evil, but so that we can, in addition to realizing our dreams,
master the lessons we've learned as we've moved toward that dream.
That's the point at which most people give up. . . . Every search
begins with beginner's luck. And every search ends with the victor's
being severely tested." (132)

I feel I go through cycles of luck and testing. A lot of testing.
Yet, I am writing, I am reading, I am meditating on all that
happened; I have not given up just as I am about to reach the oasis.
But I just don't have the clarity of a dream besides having peace and
love in my life.

I also found the parallel between my own desert metaphors scattered
in my blog and the symbolism of the desert versus the oasis (where
Santiago's true love resides) uncanny. i, sadly, only seem to find
mirages as of yet. Or perhaps I am not seeing clearly.

The Waiting Room Part II

I write suffering from insomnia for my last night in Florida, as if
staying up will stop time. I tucked my mother into bed and feel such
sadness I feel numb. So I will finish a blog I promised to write:
my favorite things about LA. Good to focus on the positive.

Usually when I return to LA after traveling, I feel I am returning to
myself, to my home; I go back expecting the familiar, the comfort of
routine. This time, while I see LA as more my home than ever, I
expect nothing to be comfortable or routine. Despite this
uncertainty, I resolve to embrace and celebrate the following wonders
of LA:

Personal growth and health: My life in LA is never stagnant.
Frustrating and challenging at times, but I always emerge in a better
place.

My Studio and neighborhood: Oddly, despite the frequent change I
experience in this city (career, friends), this is the apartment I
have lived in the longest since leaving my mother's home more-years-
than-I-want-to-bother-counting ago. I love this home, which, for the
time being, is perfect for me: not boxy, walls colors of my
choosing, open space yet easily psychically separated for various
aspects of living, a beautiful balcony, and a recently discovered
sauna (in the building, not my apt, though wouldn't that be amazing
to discover a sauna in your apartment?).

Hiking and Running: Within minutes of my home, I may go on hikes of
various lengths and challenges, escaping the noise of the city in the
quiet of nature.

Desert: And when that is not enough, I can drive out to my friend's
home in Joshua Tree.

Yoga: I love my yoga class, but I know if I ever were not able to
continue in that class due to schedules or moving (either the
instructor or I), I could easily find another great yoga class.
Though doing yoga alone is wonderful, there is nothing like the
energy of a harmonious yoga class.

Possibilities for growth and new endeavors (anyone who wants to join
me for any of these, leave a message or a comment): indoor and
outdoor activities, many schools/classes, dancing, hiking, the merry-
go-round, live music (theater, in my opinion, is a bit lacking),
meditation and spirituality, the new observatory, easy day trips . . ..

Diversity, though admittedly rather segregated still.

Malibu Bluffs and the beaches.

Mulholland Dr., especially on morning drives to my writing group at
UCLA as or on late night rides with no destination.

Trader Joe's: Small yet has all I need, nutritionally.

My friends who keep me company in enjoying all of this (except for
Trader Joe's, where I am usually on my own).

Now that I know where I am going, despite the hour, I will go sit
with my mother, who may be sleeping and just be here.

the waiting room

This is what I read in the waiting room at the eye clinic today,
there for my mom's final check-up after cataract surgery.

"This imbalance of head and heart turns people into addicts. In
energy terms, any behavior motivated by the fear of internal growth
qualifies as an addiction Even behavior that is usually healthy --
exercise or meditation, for instance -- can be an addiction if it is
used to avoid pain for personal insight. Any discipline can become a
willful block between our conscious and unconscious minds . . . We
eve try to direct he very guidance we are seeking. We end up living
in a seemingly endless cycle of mentally wanting change but
emotionally fearing change at every turn.
The only way to break through this pattern is to make choices that
engage the united power of the mind and the heart. I tis is easy to
keep oneself in a holding patter, claiming that one does not know
what do next. But that is rarely the true. When we are in a holding
pattern, it is because we know exactly what we should do next, but we
are terrified to act on it. Breaking through the repetition of cycle
in our lives only requires one strong choice that is aimed at
tomorrow and not yesterday. . . . But change is frightening, and
waiting for that feeling of safety to come along before one makes a
move only results in more internal torment because they only way to
acquire that feeling of security is to enter the whirlwind of change
and come out the other end, feeling alive again." (Myss 230-31)

Lately, with only a few days left in Florida, I feel like I am in a
waiting room to be called back to my life in LA. I am determined
to make changes based on lessons here, but also am nearly paralyzed
by my fear of what changes wait for me.

"That is the meaning of detachment: the realization that no one
person or group of people can determine your life's path." (Myss 242)

How do I do all this positive thinking without being invested in my
intentions, especially when I back in LA, where I have started to
root myself, to manifest what I want?

"Our task is to contribute the best of our energy to every situation
with the understanding that we influence, but do not control, what we
will experience tomorrow" (Myss 242)

So it is two more days of scrabble, long breakfasts, and practicing
loving and letting go. LA will be there when I arrive.

You are what you write

My spiritual journey guides have been unrelenting this month,
smashing illusions and forcing me to be more aware of being aware.

Except for Oracle Night. How did that sneak into my New Year's reading?

Then I get an email about another 'positive thinking' advocate (which
I must admit, I am rather put off by many of these lecturers) which
has a link to a two part Larry King Live episode on positive
thinking. All the guests at some point spoke about the importance
of writing down your intentions, either in words or pictures, that
you want to manifest in your life.

Oracle Night plays with the idea of the play between reality and
fiction, between the world a writer creates on the page and the
impact of that on real life, flirting with moving into the
supernatural. So maybe it is not we are what we eat, but we are
what we write or think?

Why the bleep am I writing?

"There are things that I do that will evolve me and there are things I do that I know will not evolve me . . .. It's not good or bad." -- What the Bleep Do We Know?

 

After a lovely dinner with my mom, sister, and nephew (I can't remember when we last had dinner together, just us four, and it was so lovely I cried on the way home knowing that it might be our last) and then a jolting cup of coffee with Priya, I found myself wide awake late in the night with a vow to not blog.  I have plenty of non-blog writing, but chose to put that off to watch a video link I received last week.  Because of this choice, I changed my reality, recognizing that my writing is a choice I make in an effort to consciously create my experience of this life and to evolve myself. 

 

What the Bleep Do We Know?  

 

I know that though I always meant to see this movie, the delay now seems synchronous with an intention for me to see it last night, to have been prepared by prior events for that evening. 

 

"For the average person in the world who considers their life boring or uninspiring, it is because they made no attempt to gain knowledge that will inspire them  . . . they are so hypnotized by their environment, through the media... that are all illusions, that most people surrender and live their life in mediocrity . . . but if they ask themselves if there is something more . . .. they start to flirt and interact with the perception that they may be having a nervous breakdown but what really happens is their old concepts of what they are and how they view the world start to fall apart."

 

This film provided a scientific grounding, evidence, perhaps, for the philosophies I have been studying (Tolle and Myss, as mentioned in recent blogs) about the journey to awareness and consciousness.  For much of my visit to Florida I have grown frustrated with what I felt was a slide 'backwards'.  Leaving for an extended time an life that I created intentionally surrounding myself with inspiration and a constant flow of knowledge to help me not get stuck in stagnant concepts of myself or the world, I find myself in Florida where my negative emotional memories and my fears and judgments of mediocrity reappear from another universe where I thought they disappeared.  I see myself acting in ways from which I thought I had unconditioned myself.   Yet, there are triggers that seemed to set off the chemical reactions, the emotional addictions that this film so eloquently and entertainingly outlines. 

 

The key, though, I realize, is that I SEE myself doing this.  I witness it.

 

I believe that at about 5 am on December 25th, like Amanda in the movie theater at the beginning and end of the film, I both stayed and departed LA and in some form have been existing in both worlds for the past four and a half weeks.  Because this reality of my laptop I created in my head is here, the part that got on the plane seems more real, but the other still exists.  I wonder what choices is she making that is shaping what I will face when I arrive back in LA?  It is exciting and frightening what I will discover. 

 

Yet, the choices here also will create my reality each moment from now to then and are also determining what awaits me.  What if, at some point, the two merge into a synchronicity of intention?  Of all the possibilities, which will I choose to see?  Which self will see and choose the observer? 

 

 

While I know many of the choices I have made were reactionary, rooted in the old chemical patterns that are triggered by my associations with being in this house, in this state, by the patterns of my beloved family, I have chosen to read Tolle and Myss, and some part of myself still connected in LA made a choice at some point that led to my receiving of this video.   And I have chosen to witness my behavior and to become conscious of my behavior as a series of choices through writing and exercise (the only form of meditation I have succeeded in engaging in here).

 

One of the interviewees in the movie spoke of the main purpose of our spiritual journey as the development of our "gift of intentionality."  This has been a challenge that is constantly in my awareness here.

 

At the beginning of the film, we are told that matter pops in and out of existence, just a people pop on and off planes.  I always felt that when traveling there was a shift on the molecular level in my body - maybe the gaining/losing of weight that seems to reverse on the return flight, a sense of presence, a clarity, a desire -- now I know this is real, not just in travel, but with each thought.   "When we disappear me move out of our identity . . ." and when we reappear, we can choose to be whomever we want, going back or forward in time as we choose. 

 

I guess you had to see the movie . . .

Quality, Faith, and all I don't know

My no-blogging did not last long because I realize it is my way of maintaining awareness more than just 'marketing my woundology' (I trust if I am way off on that mark, my loving friends will let me know).   Thich Nhat Hanh wrote, "A true love letter can produce a transformation in the other person, and therefore in the world.  But before it produces a transformation in the other person, it has to produce a transformation within you.  The time you take to write the letter may be your whole life."   These blogs are like love letters to my friends and any strangers who pass on through.  They transform me (and many times I see it most when I go back to read what I wrote and intensely disagree with myself).

 

These are some things I became aware of this week:

 

Quality

 

On my last visit to FL I was reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.  Quality is a concept I have not thought about lately.  The other day, my mother persuaded me to take on another project:  recovering the cushions on her dining set.  We watch a lot of HGTV and I was confident I could do it quickly.  I had some trouble with the screws on the first chair; the staple gun took some coaxing to work properly.  As I finished the first chair I grew disheartened at the project ahead.  There was little joy and growing frustration.  The second chair only increased this, though I don't know why.  I like creative, hands-on work.  I know it will make my mom really happy.  Normally I will bitch and push through just to get it done all at once enjoy.  I remembered Pirsig writing about when there was no joy in the action it was time to put everything down, step away, and come back later.  I did.  The next day I found a rhythm and pattern to everything from unscrewing the seats to centering the cushion on the fabric and finished the chairs in what seemed like no time with pleasure.  Awareness of quality, perhaps, is our guide for when we need to pause, step away, to come back later with renewed joy. 

 

 

Faith

 

Last night my mother and I watched Vanity Fair directed by Mira Nair.   Enchanting and inspiring.  Though at times her choices were poorly motivated, I was struck by Becky Sharp's ability to see and accept people with a clarity and honesty (which probably why many detested her).  She saw reality as a construction, not an absolute, and acted accordingly (some may say ruthlessly).  When she loved, she loved truly (though not perfectly) with true compassion and true forgiveness.  Despite what wrongs others committed against her, she never chose to see herself as a victim and had faith that life would provide a new opportunity each time her world seemed to crumble.  Because of this, unlike her friend, Amelia, Becky was able to see the blessings life offered her at each turn.  This might be a movie to buy.

 

 

All That I Don't Know (and Never Will) About my Father

 

Sorting my parents' pictures, I am always captivated by my father's photos from his days in the army.  He traveled to many beautiful places -- Hawaii, Japan, Korea-- and there is my father, a handsome adventurer who left his family behind at the age of 17, hamming it up with the guys and flirting with beautiful women.  I am sure there might be some colorful stories that I will sadly never get to hear my father tell.  I wondered how my father ended up in the army after escaping Hungary through Yugoslavia in 1956.  He didn't know English and had no claims to citizenship.   In my unit on immigration last year, I learned that you do NOT need to be a US citizen to join the military (yes, teachers do learn from planning).  Maybe everyone knows this and I am exposing my gross ignorance, but I was shocked.  Joining will put you on a fast tract to citizenship, if you don't die in combat, as was the case for some of the stories we read in class.  For me, this solved the mystery of my father's choice to join the army and how he earned his citizenship.  (No one is alive to confirm this, but how else would a 17-year-old Hungarian who didn't know English get in the army and end up a citizen?)   I don't think he would have told me this was unfair or unjust.   However, he did not have to fight in a Vietnam or Iraq type war.  He lived.  All this makes me wonder how many of the casualties in Iraq are non-citizens who would not be under scrutiny as possibly illegal and 'stealing' American jobs.   How different his life and fate would be had he, a dark-skinned, gypsy-looking Magyar, come to this country today.    

Ending my Marketing of Woundology; summarizing Myss

"We are not born fluent in love but spend our life learning about
it. . . . We are as attracted to love as we re intimidated by
it." -- Caroline Myss, The Anatomy of the Spirit

I started reading this book two years ago, though never in order.
Today I read about the fourth chakra, the heart chakra, because it is
associated with the heart and lungs, the location of my mother's
illnesses. Appropriately, it is all about love and compassion,
revealing lessons I have yet to learn.

First, I was struck by the idea of fluency in love, going back to it
being a practice. It is natural for us to love, but we often learn
of unnatural signals for how love should look, feel, taste, smell, or
sound. Jenna commented on a recent blog how fear is really the
opposite of love, not hate. I now see what she means.

Similarly, jealousy is the opposite of trust, a trait of love. Myss
lists jealousy and anger as evidence of the disconnection with our
fourth chakra, our power to love, as obstacles to loving. Yet, when
we love we expect or are expected to show our love not only through
compassion and concern, but also through expressions of
possessiveness and jealousy (though we don't actually use these words
as positive expressions of love). Rather, if our lovers do not
inspire jealousy or anger when they do wrong (or we think they do),
then we tend to doubt the sincerity of our affection (or vice
versa). However, isn't that jealousy and anger our ego and our fear
talking? If we can witness our ego's games and set it aside and we
can still see the beauty of the person before us, then isn't that
trust an aspect of love?

Thus, what do we know about love if what we are taught to seek as
evidence of love is really its opposite?

Myss also lists the strengths of the fourth chakra, and this, I know,
is the kind of love I want to bring to all relationships in my life:
"Love, forgiveness, compassion, dedication, inspiration, hope, trust,
and the ability to heal oneself and others."

How do you get there? By cultivating compassion and forgiveness.
Myss defines compassion as "the strength to honor another's suffering
while bringing power back into one's life." Furthermore, she
describes forgiveness as, "a complex act of consciousness, one that
liberates the psyche and soul from the need for personal vengeance
and the perception of oneself as a victim." We do not have to
condone someone's actions that hurt us, we do not have to let them to
continue hurting us, but we cannot use them as an excuse for hurting
ourselves or others.

This tendency, to use our wounds as an identity and to control
others, Myss calls "marketing" of our wounds. She also coins the
word "woundology" -- the proliferation of new terminology we have to
name our fears and their sources, to talk about our pain and process
it. However, rather than healing, we have created a culture out of
our wounds, getting lost in the healing process and never reaching
healing and the possibility to love fully. As Tolle would say, our
pain feeds our ego, and we become attached to the very thing we are
trying to escape by naming it and nurturing it. My wise friend in
the desert calls this the victim mentality versus the witnessing
mentality.

Currently, I have witnessed by own marketing of wounds, using them to
control others and as an excuse for not having the courage to be open
to what I really want in my life. I think my writing is on the verge
of doing this, so I will take a break from blogging for a bit, for
the few of you who read often. Maybe it is time to move from the
'personal essay,' which might have its limits before being too
personal, to fiction.

In the meantime, leave comments, send messages, read my archives and
comment there.

Like a Toreador's Nose with Venus's Breast

Besides my mother's house, the one place I try to be sure to visit during every trip to Florida is the Salvador Dali Museum.  Though there are usually special exhibits to add variety to each trip, I spend most my time with familiar favorites.    This time, the presentation was historical, paralleling events in each decade of Dali's life with his progress as a painter.  It was fascinating to see early works that echoed the impressionists (whom I love as much as I love Dali) with think, clumpy paint and hazy lines.  

 

Also, on this visit, the walls were a new rusty orange, reminding me of my orange wall at home.  I don't know that I ever felt the colors of a museum walls so prominently before.

 

Perhaps that is what moved me to tears when I stepped up to Femme Couchee, a husky woman splayed on some rocks, a contradiction of strength and surrender, her eyes unseen to show how she really feels -- defeated or free?  A waterfall flows from her open hand; the other is a fist.  Is she in agony or ecstasy?   Dali truly understood me at that moment.

 

Moving on into the surrealist elements of Dali, I became aware of the beauty of surrealism, for me.  As I stood in awe of the towering The Hallucinogenic Toreador, for instance, I can see it all at once, the Venus and the Toreador are visible; there is no need to shift my focus, looking at one or the other, a visual representation of the unity and interconnectedness of everything.   Science and art.  Man and woman.  Hungarian or American or Spanish or Colombian or Scottish or Irish.  Everything overlaps and is the other.   Only when we shift our perspective, choosing to focus on one aspect over another, do we see separation rather than unity. 

 

After the museum I headed out to the St. Pete Pier to check out a new salsa venue.  It was a beautifully cool night; I breathed in the darkness of the water at the empty end of the pier, reinforcing the feeling of oneness with the world that Dali imparted to me.  The night began with basic lessons for a fairly empty courtyard.   I realize I no longer need the basic lesson and that, at this pace, I would not warm up any time soon in the increasingly chilly air. So I hopped back on the trolley and headed home, a bit disappointed that I did not get my salsa fix, which was to be my day's exercise. [1]

 

Once back at my mother's we indulged in our scrabble addiction.  I revel in getting those words between all the words, building in multiple directions at once.  My mother is the three-letter word queen, making my above revelry a necessity.  As long as it all fits together, like a toreador's nose with Venus's breast.

 

[1] (On the trolley ride to the car, I contemplated how going dancing on my own is getting a little lonely, but it is something I truly love doing [and think I am getting quite good at].  I may invest in some more advanced classes as I hope to continue to improve my repertoire, also a great place to meet people to go to clubs with me.  [This resolve is strengthened after another unsatisfying salsa outing -- are the salsa goddesses trying to tell me something?  To give up?  Or to give in and take the lessons so I can be the dancer I always wanted to be like on that Christmas ornament from childhood?  Am I bored with it already?])

 

 

The Oasis Reveals a Mirage

My natural spring turned out to be an mirage. I dove into the
welcoming cool waters and found myself buried in sand: gritty,
suffocating, and hot. There one minute, gone the next. Yet, that
moment of beauty and bliss leaves me now not tempted by and not
desiring of the temporary comfort of the puddle. Thus, I revisit the
spots where I saw this mirage of an oasis, hoping to find it again,
though I know it does not really work that way, that it is something
beyond time and form, it is a moment of synchronicity, of perfect
harmony, between souls.

My Mother's Shoes

"All these people and I don't recognize anyone."

Another of her nonsensical ramblings, yet I still look around the
Medical Imaging Center waiting room. "Who are you expecting to see
here?"

"I used to recognize people all the time from work."

"From five years ago, you are going to remember someone who walked
into your office. You don't even remember the names of the nurses
that come visit you each week," I joke with her.

"I'm bad with names, good with faces."

"True."

"Besides, people would somehow always remember me, though they
couldn't immediately place me. They'd come up to me, 'I know you
from somewhere.' I'd look at them and say, 'I don’t' know . . . '
then I'd ask, 'Did you apply for your homestead exemption recently?'
and then they would say, 'Yes, you are the one that was so helpful!'"

I remember in one of our clutter purging sessions the pile of
informational pamphlets for all kinds of local services she still had
from her office drawer. "Just stuff I collected because they were
common questions people had and I tried to be helpful." Sounds
simple, but having worked in my mom's office to put myself through
college, I know that her small effort was an exception.

Just an office clerk, someone in customer service for the county
government, is how even her co-workers saw her. But in everything
she did, my mother was first and foremost a human being dealing with
other human beings. Not glamorously beautiful or lauded with special
degrees, I remember stories of the condescension, if not outright
nasty abusiveness, my mother took from her coworkers who thought she
catered too much to the needy citizens who walked in. It was with
this same condescension that they served the public, leaving my
mother to deal with frustrated and unsatisfied citizens. My mother,
rather than working to shuffle them out the door and let them be
someone else's problem, chose to find and have ready the information
she new people needed (especially as she served many new residents to
the county who did not know their way around). Moreover, she gladly
gave it out, even unsolicited at times.

"Practice random acts of kindness," preach many bumper stickers and
books of quips to keep on the coffee table. Yet, I am sure, many of
even those who so proudly display these trinkets would scoff at civil
servants.

Such as my mother.

My mother who taught me about helping others as well as about asking
for help. It is a two way street after all.

I believe one reason my mother wanted to be so helpful was her own
experience in the unreliability of others. As a young girl, her and
her mother benefited from the kindness of strangers or distant
relatives when they arrived in this country after WWII. Once she
learned English, my mother had to translate for her mother in many
government offices, "No one wanted to deal with my mother and they
would look at her as if she were stupid, not even human, just because
she could never really pick up English."

When my father died, she was on her own again, this time the
mother. Yet, rather than making her withdraw from relationships and
connections and allowing bitterness and anger to seep out to all who
crossed her path, her own struggles for survival cultivated a
compassion. She could see people's needs and would help before
others had to ask, just as she would have liked done for her. My
mother is the kind of person you are glad you ran into because you
leave with more than you expected to get.

Energy shifts from one place or form to another, but never dies. My
mom 's small kindnesses emanated positive energy out of her humble
desk at the property appraiser's office for over ten years.

Though this doesn't always work best with those closest to us (she is
too entwined with my sister and I to anticipate our needs that are
separate from hers), I am blessed to witness how my mother is loved
and valued by many around her. The nurses and nurse's aides that
come into her home several times a week love to sit and chat with my
mom who is able to make a tough job feel appreciated and light. Her
friends rely on her for levity and organization. Now that she is
housebound, there is no one to drive them around past sundown. Even
up until her illness set in, my mom was helping others, driving an
elderly woman to concerts, helping friends with mail and bills. Many
of my childhood memories involve my mother caring for friends of her
mother: taking them to doctor's appointments, organizing their
paperwork, or visiting and having tea. It wasn't always fun for
her. I remember at times she would complain, exhausted and
frustrated with others who could not take care of their own affairs.
But it is who she is and she could not let someone else be neglected,
unloved.

I cannot fill her shoes. She knows the routine; she knows self-
sacrifice. Maybe this is why I feel I always fall short as I am
here. I can't seem to do enough or do it quickly enough or with
enough attention and patience. I have always been the impatient one
in the family.

"Could you grab me a half dozen brown eggs," I turn to the voice,
which is from an old man in a wheelchair. I hand him the eggs.
"Thanks." "No problem," I am forced to slow down from the rush I am
in, frustrated by the demands of my mother's detailed list and the
illogical organization of the oversized supermarket. A simple act, I
think, just as my mother would do. I realize this is all I need to
do in each moment with her; caring for her with the same compassion
she showed others is not an insurmountable task. Now, I am thankful
for the long walk to the to the checkout line and my legs that carry
me. Just as I am more thankful for each breath as I sit listening to
the constant pulsating hum of the concentrator that provides my
mother with the oxygen she needs for each breath.

Islands and Bridges

The Station Agent

 

I had wanted to see this movie for a long time, the forgot, then was reminded by a friend recently which got me off my keister to the video store.  Well, my Mom's blockbuster gift cards that she asked met o use while I am here to rent movies for her helped. 

 

He was right (hopefully I correctly remember the person who told me this . . . ).  I loved the movie.  Oddly, the characters also reminded me of him -- his love for life as well as need of contemplation and independence.   Perhaps a bit of myself, though I am a bit too heavy in the contemplation area. 

 

This, exactly, was the focus of the movie:  how do we balance the two?  Each character struggled between a life of energy and action and a life of meaning and depth, one of independence and one of connection.   Particularly beautiful in the filmmaking is how he internal conflicts of each character to find such balance paralleled the external conflicts between the characters.  In the end, each person's imbalanced helped the others to find the balance they needed.  It is not that they were incomplete, but more a learning from each other how to strength the part they lost touch with or neglected or was more difficult to nurture.  

 

I like movies that challenge our desire for separation or our belief that we are separate and alone from those around us.   Thus, this movie reminded me of one of my favorite films, About a Boy, in which the main character regularly misquotes/misattributes John Donne's "No man is an island."  The station agent revives and extends this metaphor in the form of this station depot.   It is like an island in the midst of a sleepy New Jersey town, static against the train churning by outside, never stopping.  Joe then drives up his island, the coffee and hot dog truck, parking it next to Finn's island, the depot, each day.  Finally, Olivia lives on her island of the get-away home (by far the most luxurious of the islands).  Joe doesn't know how to stay on his own island and, eventually, there is this trio of seemingly unlikely friends. 

 

Intertwined in all of this are themes of acceptance and perception and identity -- how patterns of behavior lead to expectations that perpetuate the same patterns, until someone or something knocks us out of that pattern.  

 

I found Joe to be the most intriguing character, though on the surface the most straightforward, he surprised me the most.  Here, you have this outgoing, attractive, young, and curious Puerto Rican man who is the one who choreographs the outings that bond the three characters.  In the beginning, he talks about how he is out of his element in this sleepy town, being from Manhattan and such.  He is always on his cell phone.  At first, perhaps like Finn, I suspected his friendliness was out of boredom.  However, like anyone else, he simply wanted to connect.  His sincerity and his ability to truly see people completely as they are inspire.   We often forget that people who are so in love with life (as Olivia describes him) also have insecurities, also need to feel connected to others in order to feel validated as a human being.  In our culture, we often see this as a weakness, as something to hide.  Finn, Olivia and Joe found each other where they did not need to hide this. 

 

If you haven't seen the movie, I didn't give away they ending and there is still the beauty of how these three characters interact.  

 

I look forward to soon returning to my little island and exploring the bridges, old and new, some which may need mending, others that have stood all kinds of weather, to the islands of others around me. 

 

 

Truth or Dare

"I'm not addicted," he said.
"So that is why the last two times we've been together for more than
a few hours you wanted a cigarette?" I teased. "What do you call that?"
"Denial," he grinned sheepishly.

At least he was honest.

But are we always so aware of our denial? It's it usual more
hidden, easier to ignore than the physical cravings. Do we use
denial to cover up our own fears and insecurities, to hide our human
desire and neediness, the things that put us most at risk, that make
us most vulnerable?

Driving down Hillsborough Avenue heading to meet 'Yppi Nythsa' at
Starbucks (the only place I we could find halfway between our
parents' homes that was guaranteed to provide decent coffee and a
cozy place to chat for the hour or two we would be allowed [Our
friendship is maintained through emails and these rare short visits
about once a year]), I remembered the nights I dreaded driving the
rather empty stretch between Oldsmar and the Tampa line. Now, with a
few new subdivisions and a few new convenience stores, the open
stretch feels welcoming and relaxing. Maybe then I had an older,
less reliable car, maybe I heard too man stories from our feminist
college days and the nightly news in Florida of women as victims when
their cars were stuck on the side of the road. Or maybe it was
fears I learned from my mother and her friends. No place was safe
and everyone was out to get you. Maybe it was denial that life was
never safe, trying to convince myself if I avoided dangerous places,
I would never be harmed.

Now, it all seems very silly, to me. Not that caution is not a good
thing, but generally I seem to somewhere along the way lose the fear
that everyone is out to get me, to hurt me, to steal from me. Maybe
because there is little, materially, that I truly fear losing (which
is probably a bit of denial about how afraid I am to lose everything).

Even yesterday, leaving a nice pub in a strip mall in Dunedin, my
sister insisted on walking me out. I was about 12:30pm, reasonably
late for Pinellas County. There were a lot of people eating and
smoking outside. The parking lot was well lit. I reminded my
sister how I have navigated LA, NYC and foreign countries alone.
"My car is just a few hundred yards away, right behind that truck."
"I'll just watch," she said. It is nice to have someone care and I
didn't mind, but thought it unnecessary.

Back when I lived in Florida, I probably would have made her walk me
all the way to my car.

Fear was once such a large part of my existence and I tried to recall
how or when I set it aside. I suppose it was partly a conscious
decision, not wanting to let it rule me, living despite my fears.
Inspired by fearless friends who traveled alone and saw risk as
opportunity, I figured I could do that too. Life is short. What do
I have to lose?

Then I became the one people saw a fearless. Each move everyone
wondered at my courage to face the dangerous streets of New York
City, to live in the road rage dominated and earthquake prone Los
Angeles, to go to the hurricane vulnerable Florida, to visit Costa
Rica with my pathetic Spanish, or even to go to a café alone, to
force myself to face my laptop with the distraction of phone,
internet, cleaning, or TV, and most of all, to go dancing by myself.

Yet, in all my fearlessness of strangers and being in public alone
and even, at times, at nighttime, I still cannot seem to let go of my
fear of being too close, of getting hurt. It makes me say things I
don't mean. I try to pretend I am not as attached or vulnerable as I
am. I put myself out as someone who is a free spirit, not needing
anyone or anything. I don’t think I really fool anyone but myself,
especially those who I do let get to know me. And I know I have
hurt others by my protective aloofness. I lose judgment and
consistency.

This fear is much more real than the stranger lurking in the
shadows. This fear I cannot hide from, cannot avoid by not being in
the wrong place at the wrong time. This fear I deny rather than face
head on. I am aware, but afraid.

In the end, by indulging in denial, are denying ourselves of what we
truly want, manifesting our worst fears?

Addendum:
Just after I wrote this, I bought a book by the Buddhist monk, Thich
Nhat Hanh that I opened the book randomly to this page:
"When you practice looking deeply, you see your true nature of no
birth, no death; no being, no nonbeing; no coming, no going, no same,
no different. When you see this, you are free from fear. You are
free from craving and free from jealousy."

Being drawn to this passage reminded me of what a wise man once told
me which I will attempt to paraphrase again (it was my profile
headline, and sadly I forgot to write it down): You must believe you
possess that which you want to manifest or attract into your life.

A mundane, bloggy-blog

Making progress on my reading list: finished Oracle Night by Paul
Auster and The New Earth by Eckert Tolle. Both wonderful books I
highly recommend if you are ready to have your perspective on reality
questioned and challenged (in very different ways by each book).

In Oracle Night, I at first was annoyed by the footnotes, but
realized this enhanced my belief in the reality of the narrator (you
know, where the narrator is so real you forget it is fiction!).
Many wonderful things about this book, which, as the synopsis says,
is a mystery without a mystery. Though I do think there is a kind of
mystery to be solved, which is simply life.

The New Earth will continue to alter my life for months, maybe years,
to come. I have no doubt. Tolle draws from many religions and
philosophies and succinctly outlines a new way of approaching
spiritual growth for anyone who seek to live with more vitality and
purpose. At the end, however, I am a bit ambivalent at his theory
about humans being the only vessel for enlightenment. That said, I
would say everyone should read it, but then I would sound like some
nut proselytizing some new religion. So i will restrain myself and
let you decide. But you should read it.

I have been indulging in salsa dancing lately. Twice now, I am very
proud of myself, I have ventured out on my own to a small bar in
Clearwater that has a salsa night on Wednesdays, determined to
practice in order to keep up with my partner in LA when I return. As
well as just being great fun and exercise for myself. I love
dancing, always have, actually. I also, which all my friends who
have been advising me for years will be happy to hear, put myself out
there and asked the rather timid Florida men to dance (in LA, usually
the guys will ask if you linger long enough on the dance floor and do
not injure your previous dance partner -- wearing a skirt helps,
too). The first guy knew how to lead, but had a style that bordered
on somewhat abusive, such as this turn where he placed his hand on
the back of my head to 'cue' me. I don't think this is graceful or
standard leading technique. I finally bowed out to the ladies'
room. Next, I danced with the Costa Rican student. He is a good
lead, but does not have much of a repertoire, so after about four
dances, i wanted to move on. He wanted to rest, so I asked some
other guy who was groovin' on the fringes without a partner. He told
me he only dances with 'pros.' I was a bit taken aback at this
unnecessarily direct insult. He could have just politely said no
thanks. Anyway, he later came to 'apologize' and said if I was up to
it, we could try one dance, maybe I could do more with a good lead.
I did. He stopped a bit too much to instruct, rather than just
letting me fall back in step, but I learned a lot about what I was
doing wrong on my turns (a problem I have been wanting to remedy). I
should have learned a lot, I later discovered, since he teaches
salsa. Leave it to me to ask the teacher! He turned out to be very
gracious and told me of "the place" for salsa on Saturdays in Tampa.
I doubt I would go out to a large club on my own, but hope I can
wrangle a conspirator among the few people I know or my sister's
friends to check it out before I leave town.

Watched Nine LIves, an indie movie by Rodrigo Garcia, nine vignettes
of glimpses into women's lives, some loosely connected. It was a
bit depressing focusing on tragic turning points in these women's
lives, much to do with men and choices in love and fidelity. What
was most intriguing was that each vignette was done in one take (for
non-film aficionados, this means that there are no cuts, you just see
everything unfold from one perspective -- the cameras-- and creates
many logistical challenges such as lighting, which cannot be reset
for each angle, and a challenge for actresses/ directors as there is
no cutting in the best take of each line or angle, the performance
has to be on for the whole scene -- more like theater) and done so
beautifully. The performances were honest and engaging and, despite
the lack of plot, I did not find myself lost or bored. At times it
was emotionally overwhelming and, since I am already in a state of
feeling emotionally overwhelmed, this did tire me a bit. Yet, the
stories and characters are the kind that I know will linger and visit
me a unexpected moments, like sympathetic friends.

Pendulums

January 9th, 2007

 

I ran, to avoid the avalanche that was about to happen. 

 

All the expectations, the hopes, the good intentions of this visit to Florida -- that I, a mere human, could somehow miraculously tie up all the loose ends of my mother's life, fix all her worries and wounds, and allow her to live our her final dreams in five weeks -- tottered precariously on the ledge of illusion overlooking reality.

 

So I ran.  Literally. 

 

A cold front blew in last night, lifting the humidity, leaving a crisp, sunny, Florida afternoon, allowing me to a bit further than on the previously humid days, discovering a new treasure.  Just a few hundred feet off the road, I was overtaken by silence in the cool shade with twinkling sunlight spotting the grass and dirt.  Hammock Park. 

 

Pausing on a bridge spanning a small creek, the smell transported me back to the creek running through the back of our property in New Jersey.  In a moment I relived days on the small raft built by my father, discovery of Indian caves and an arrowhead (I still have tucked away somewhere, once validated authentic by the Museum), and other games made up with our neighbors.   It was the smell of innocence and freedom. 

 

As I head back towards the road, a playground beckoned to be used on that sleepy weekday afternoon.   I attempted the catwalk, but lacked coordination, being too tall to really hang.  I hopped on a swing.

 

My toes barely touched the ground so I slowly began the full-body process of building momentum, the closest to flying for humans like me.   I grabbed the thick chains, leaned back, arms taunt, legs extended forward, pointing as gracefully as a ballerina.   Swiftly, I pulled my torso forward through the chains as my knees bent, quads pulling my legs back, setting in motion the momentum that would lift me higher and higher.  The anger and frustration flew out of my body like the birds singing through the trees.  "Whoosh" whispered the air passing by my ears in time with my breath and the soft tapping of the woodpecker.  The hammock of branches overhead neared and receded flashing back to the carefree days of childhood on the swing like an opening scene of a movie.

 

Only this is my life, not a movie.  I am moving the swinging.  Inhaling and exhaling, growing away and returning home.  

 

And in this swinging and silence, I felt love. 

 

Not in love or love for something, just being alive.   Stillness in motion.

 

Up until this moment my experience of love did flow like the pendulum of the swing, but got on extremes, in saturation or in withdrawal.   Love as I've experienced it has been, on the upswing, all-consuming:  a love that wanted to be everything, to live vicariously for or through me.  On the backswing, it has been withholding: a constant undertone of anxiety and foreboding of certain loss, pain and disappoint. 

 

I want love that is like swinging, whole, complete, and something I am part of making happen.  "Love is primarily an activity.  It's what you do for others that shows your love, not what you feel, " says Rabbi Boteach.   

 

It lifts you off your feet, asking you to surrender all of yourself and in return lifts you to weightless heights, but only for a moment, keeping a balance between each swing in the pendulum, each side -- the presence and the absence -- equal in vigor and rejuvenation, each giving you new perspective and a new thrill in looking at the same sky, the same life.   It requires effort and coordination and cooperation.  You must be aware, each moment, of the how the arms, legs, abdomen work in harmonious conjunction to keep you balanced and moving, each movement of the body holding for a moment of rest and appreciation, soaring to a new comfort and new understanding.    You cannot wait to be pushed nor can you push someone.  A push might get one started, but it is up to you to keep the swing moving, to reach the height of your potential. 

 

I wonder if a similar unexpected discovery two months ago was my push.  If so, it is my task to not get stuck on one side or the other of the pendulum. 

 

Slowly, I let each thrust of my body to and fro relent, slowing to a stillness over the ground, hopping off, knowing I must return to the rest of my life.   Back on solid ground, the weightlessness of the flying still has a hold and I feel like I am learning to walk anew.  Perhaps I am.   Slowly, my body remembers and I pick up the pace to a jog.   Running home, I look forward to what will turn out to be a wonderful dinner out with my mother, a place for us to be, with moments of lucidity, moments of listening to her remember, and moments of silence.  

 

 

 

 

Paid to talk

The problem with TV is the requirement to constantly be saying
something. Dead air is the greatest fear of TV. There always must
be something on, some noise, something to see. Listening to the
stream of morning talk shows, I realize that most of the time there
is nothing to say, but the hosts, guests, anchors are paid to talk.
Non-stop. They have to. So, no matter how unnecessary, they talk.

A woman tells how she lost hundreds of pounds through small changes
in diet and lifestyle. Rosie, being paid to host the show, has to
add her two cents: "Yes! If you can only walk twenty steps, walk
twenty steps." Gee. Thanks for that great piece of wisdom and for
interrupting an unusually honest first hand account of human
struggle. Fine, you say, turn off the TV.

However, I believe this constant expectation for talk seeps into our
daily conversations and interactions. It is rare to be with another
person and not have to talk. My students begin to itch when asked to
read silently. A friend I traveled with in Belize told me she knew
she could travel with me because we can be together without
talking. I also value my carpooling partner, someone who is ok with
quiet drives on some days. Silence can say more about a
relationship than speaking, like sleeping and waking up in your
lover's arms is worth a thousand words.

When is national turn off your TV day? Does it exist? Shouldn't
it? But who would advertise it?

Siddhartha and unadvising

Advice: everyone has some to give. We have all made mistakes and hope
to pass on our wisdom to others. There are red flags we wish we had
seen in the failed relationship, the miscalculated investment, the
misguided career choice. However, advice is supposed to be objective.
In the Barnes and Noble where I am writing this, I am confident there
is at least one long shelf of books dedicated to giving us advice
about love, careers, investing, enlightenment . . . anything we could
possible want to overcome or solve.

A friend called to ask me for advice in her relationship. Incidents
happen; doubts and fear arise. "Do you think I am overreacting? What
should I do?" My initial reaction: get out now. The pain I suffered
in a similar situation under very dissimilar circumstances caused my
body to react in fear and distrust. However, what one person may
tolerate another cannot. Motivations vary. There is still time. I
realized my own advice was an effort to manifest my own desires and
to remedy my own inadequacies. I told her I couldn't objectively say
what to do and instead let her talk it out more to let the answer in
her come forth.

It is a matter of awareness.

Perhaps this is where I have floundered in making decisions about
relationships in the past. I ask my friends' opinions when I feel
anxious, worried, or doubtful about a word or action or inaction. It
is dishonest of me to ask for advice. I really only want comfort and
reassurance. Sometimes I don't ask, it just comes. At the end of the
call, I am often left feeling more doubt or worry or anxiety. I could
have done that on my own.

In the end it is a matter of trust.

In my last relationship, I spent too much time worrying about how
things should be according to a million ideas of a good relationship,
only a few of which actually corresponded to my definition. I vowed
not to do that again, and realize that requires me to trust. Not him,
but myself. And I cannot trust anyone else until I learn to trust my
advice. It is good to get perspective, to have someone listen, but
advice . . . well . . .

Advice may tempt us to let our desires and the judgments, opinions,
fears and experiences of others (including ourselves) define our
reality, leading us away from what we know to be right and true for
us in that particular moment. It is what we know inside if we just
wait, listen, not seek and question.

Rather than that self-help section, I would advise advice seekers to
saunter over to Hesse's Siddhartha and follow his advice: reject all
teachers; experience lifer for yourself; all you need is to think,
fast, wait.

And so it will continue until it does not

Florida: Heaven's (or Hell's, I suppose) waiting room, goes the old
joke. Not so funny now.

Blogging, new year's resolutions, little tasks I set for myself on
this five week visit -- applying to grad school, reading, writing,
exercising, quality family time -- all seem insurmountable, each a
selfish indulgence from my main purpose at the moment: caring for my
mother. An insurmountable battle of wills, of beings, of love and of
grief.

This is where I prayed I would be again and am thankful to be: my
mother's house. Each time I begin a task there is the need for water
or tea or, more urgently the applesauce (the code word for morphine
that she takes with the applesauce) or something to add to the
shopping list or what will we cook for dinner or remember-the-time-
when discussions or the voice in my head of shouldn't-you-be-sitting-
with-her-guilt or shouldn't-you-do-yoga guild or simply the
distraction of waiting for something dreaded and anticipated and
feeling like you can't move until it is over.

But it is not over. Will never be over.

So, instead I wait for the promised phone call. For an inspired
thought. For a moment of synchronized lucidity where we can
connect. For the quality time to magically make it all blissful and
joyous as we cry in happiness and expected loss.

But it never comes.

Meditation, yoga . . . that will help, except the guilt when I close
the door on her in her recliner and the TV blaring over the hum of
the oxygen concentrator.

So we clean, purge, go through her piles of papers, evidence of her
life, her dreams for meaning, vitality, and purpose, feeling, like so
many, that just being is not enough. I throw out pamphlets for
concert halls and travel destinations all over Florida filled with
pictures of people in high fashion of the 1980's, for places to
volunteer when she retired (never knowing she would be the one who
needed volunteers to help her). We purge and purge hoping to find
the answers underneath, but we can't seem to get to the bottom. If
we did, then we would have to face this, and though we have talked
about it and I have meditated and prayed, though I prepared for my
last visit during my last vacation, this one being a bonus visit, I
still am not sure I am ready. Or maybe I am too ready?

Doubt pervades everything. I dream of endings and beginnings in one
thought, simultaneous writing letters of love and of despair and
goodbye.

In the meantime, I clean, I shop, I cook (superbly sub-par meals), I
sort. At times I sit and listen or share. At times I ignore the
guilt to go run or dance or read. And so it will continue, I
suppose, until it does not, as I try to remember each moment the
preciousness of each moment.

January 2nd and the lights are out. All over town, the warm lights
that guided weary revelers through the streets and hypnotized sleepy
children into sleep are gone. Any evidence of the month of December,
of wintertime suddenly has gone dark. In Florida, the only sign of
the change of seasons is the change of door decorations. Just as I
settled into the holiday spirit, with the stress and weariness of the
holiday bustle gone, it is back to the same old, same old. Talk of
trees being taken down. Rush, swish, crinkle, and snap, Christmas is
all packed away.

"I like our new vacation schedule."
"New? How so?"
"We used to get the week before Christmas off then go back to school
just after New Year's. This year, we get the week after New Year's
off. It is nice to relax after the holidays."

I agree. Holidays are meant to stop and enjoy the simplicity of joy
and peace. Instead, we are sold a million ways to create it, only
keeping both further from our reach. Let's start with Halloween.
Well, we never really get to enjoy Halloween, since before the
pumpkins begin to decay, or even before the Jack-O-Lantern candle has
gone dark, Christmas carols begin playing and shopping lists begin to
grow.

I guess, considering that, it is no wonder that everyone is ready to
wrap it up and toss it out with all the used wrappers and noisemakers
as soon as the new year begins.

Yet I always feel like it is all just beginning when it ends.
Suddenly, the weight is lifted and we can just be ourselves again and
the joy comes forth. Expectations and disappointments and elation of
wishes granted are all now suddenly not so important. On Sunday,
rather than a choir, the church i went to (and I know the same
happened back home) sang Christmas hymns and carols, favorites chosen
by the congregates. I was happy to sing carols, the best part of
Christmas (if only they haven't been ruined by spoofs and playing on
Halloween), especially this year since I had laryngitis for the
actual Christmas services. We just sang the songs. No pagentry, no
choir, no fuss, just the glorious music and words of good tidings for
love and peace and joy.

Love.
Peace.
Joy.

My tree will stay up this year until February, when I return home.
I look forward to one last night with my twinkling tree, no holiday,
no roles to play, no obligations or expectations. Just me, my tree
and the spirit of Christmas, holding on a little big longer,
outliving the pre, during, and post-Christmas sales, reminding me to
be thankful for still being able to appreciate the friendship,
family, and generosity of the universe in my life.