What are the chances I'll see you again? (Musings from Crash)

In the afternoon, I had tea with an old friend who called me elegant.

Later, Salsa dancing with the man in the black shirt and the Asian man
who who surprised me with a lead as light as a feather, I actually
felt elegant.

I came home to an unexpected gift in my mail, a book that begins:
"Are there any wholly useless encounters? I know this: there are no
insignificant people. There is no one who isn't supposed to be
there." (Hugh Prather, Notes on Love and Courage) It was a gift of
love and courage, bringing both into my life.

Finally, an administrator replies to my email regarding unfinished
paperwork. It is curt. Her father was diagnosed with cancer, but she
will get on the paperwork. I encourage her, as I learned with my
mother's illness, to remember work is just work, to take care of
herself and her father first. She later said this gave her the
courage to tell her boss, to unburden herself of added stress of
trying pretending all is normal.

In Blink, Malcolm Gladwell writes about facial expressions. They,
apparently, are universal expressions of our unconscious emotions.
And, just as in yoga, I can work out emotions by physically working
parts of my body, so, apparently, I can change my attitude by changing
my expression.

Likewise, there is a part of our unconscious that is locked to our
awareness, yet operates in the blink of an eye. Stereotypes of others
and ourselves come through. The flinch that flashes across our face,
for example, when the first day the student struts in, arms swinging
past his baggy pants hanging down and the faux diamond studs
sparkling. He might not be able to read words, but he can read my
face and catches that flinch, that instant, that blink when the
teacher thinks, "Here is my problem student," no matter how much we
all want to think we are there to give everyone a chance.

Crash, a beautifully written and edited film.

Maybe this movie is a bit of an exaggeration of the deep-rooted racism
and danger stewing under the glamour of LA. Maybe it says what is
which remains unsaid too often behind the locked door of our
unconscious mind, a reminder of that you never really know the other
person's story unless you take the time listen, to open your eyes, to
blink more slowly.

Shaking off the ashes

Colleges in small retirement towns in Florida attract an overly
imaginative crowd. Such as myself and Daphne, my accomplice on
adventures through moonlit grounds of the coastal campus.

She also taught me to read tarot and gave me my tarot deck. I always
got the Tower, a disturbing card with people jumping out of a burning
tower like a fairytale gone awry. I soon came to identify the power
of renewal and reinvention implicit in the card.

The phoenix rising from the ashes, to borrow other mythical imagery.

If I pulled a card when I woke up, it would have been the Tower. Time
to wake up and shake off the ashes. Even the weather, rather than
continuing the mellow settling into contemplative autumn rebounded for
the day to summer, giving off the renewal of spring, a perfect excuse
to don my new desert sundress before cold weather sets in.

Perhaps it started with the contact lens fitting: nothing like new
fresh contacts in a new fresh prescription to give you a new outlook
on the world.

Or, the haircut. I wanted change, though I wasn't sure what it would
look like. I left it to the expert. Side bangs, apparently, is what
I wanted and needed all this time.

Still, fate had a larger plan. My sunglasses broke leaving the salon,
forcing shopping for a new pair to hide the dark circles under my eyes
that terrorized me as I stared at myself in the mirror for the last
hour.

Which made me contemplate the dark circles. Why? When I am on
vacation and getting lots of sleep. So, on the way home I stopped at
Trader Joe's to buy some chicken, ending my current three year stint
as a vegetarian.

Despite the summer weather, I didn't want to sit home where the ashes
might resettle in my new hairdo, so I indulged in a cup of the
seasonal pumpkin spice coffee (I love all spiced and pumpkin).
Perhaps basking in the aura of all the other Studio City writers in
Starbucks, I actually began to outline my novel. And there, I admit
it: I have an idea for a novel.

After all the work and changes, I thought a bit of the familiar, a bit
of quiet would do me good, so I decided to go to my old church's
meditation service before salsa. I sat in the empty candlelit
sanctuary, remembering the healing I found in the choir loft,
remembering how this is the first vacation in five years I did not go
Florida, remembering why that is, and, knowing I can't go back,
understanding the dark circles despite vacation.

But, just in case I might feel like curling backup and rolling in the
ashes, fate once again said, "No under my watch." At the end of
salsa lessons, my salsa teacher proposed prepping our class for a
performance (or performances, perhaps). The idea both terrifies and
delights. Then again, after a lifetime convinced I am tone deaf, I
made it through three years in a small choir.

I sealed of the day of the Tower, the day of the Phoenix with a lovely
celebration of wine a movie.

108

108 Sun Salutations

In yoga, a sun salutation is a flowing combination of a series of
poses that work all groups of muscles, creates strength and
discipline, and draws your attention inward to prepare for meditation
or as a meditation unto itself. It is like a mantra for the body.

I did 108 sun salutations. Few believed I could do it. I didn't
believe it. But I did and it was amazingly easy.

108 reasons to be grateful. With each breath a reason until, like a
rosary or mala of 108 beads strung together, I had a string of
blessings, whole and each unique, flowing through me:

momapukriskyleyogamusicchoirsingingsalsadancingdavidspanishwritingteachingmyloftnyclasunshinehikingcoffeeredwinesexpumpkinautumnphilipjeannetlumcteachersnyfriendslafriendsdaphneeugenesandduneshomeseniorsotherfriendssnowboardingsnowoceanbelizecostaricahungaryblackbootssalsadressesyoginisloveloveletterstearslaughtermeditationbuddhajesusbooksmacsorganicfoodsdianatreeswaterearthskyfirewindthedesertmountainshottubsredblackorangebluesilvermotorcyclespassioncompassionloveatfirstsitefaithinsightyourpupppydogeyescinnamonstorytellingjournetyingchangestillnesschantingindependencesurrenderkissingloveimaginationhaircandlesskinmusecreativitysoulmatespatiencefantasyscrabbleaman'sshoesonmytablesecurityblissadventurelifesandsilverbraceletyoursmilehugscaressescommunityfamilyhappiness

Then we danced, as a community. I allowed my muscles to relax, to
move freely, the opposite of the discipline and precision of the sun
salutations.

My awareness expanded, taking in all around me, taking in the yogic
and spiritual gurus of the community: people who are well 'rewarded'
for their spiritual devoutness, made apparent in their designer yoga
wear and adoring fans; people who were supposed to inspire and emanate
love. But something, to me, did not click. I passed the man touted to
be the 'real deal,' and only felt a chill in his eyes staring forward,
oblivious to all around him, safe in the bubble of his entourage. I
felt repelled rather than inspired as my fellow yogis chatted loudly,
unaware in between the performers on stage and me. I rolled up my
yoga mat and left feeling that I somehow failed to tap into that bliss
and compassion promised in this community yoga event.

The next day, on my way to hiking (one of the 108 blessings I counted
in my sun salutations) I sat in unexpected and unexplained traffic
jam. I saw swirling patrol lights over the SUVs and sedans around me.
Then, the roses, appropriate given the cemetery up ahead. Then,
what looked like a family, brown skin and jet-black hair. Some were
already in handcuffs, one officer held some of the roses.

I am not sure what it is, but something seems wrong here. Where is
the awareness of the yogis now? How can someone who preaches
compassion and enlightenment live in luxury yet this family, perhaps
just trying to buy dinner tonight or new shoes or, god forbid it, a
fun family night out to the movies, is arrested. I know there are
laws, but aren't there bigger ones being broken (like the corruption
and mismanagement of funds in schools)? I know the guru, whose
teachings are now available worldwide (on DVD or in a book, for more
than the roses for sale), would say they simply did not think big
enough, positively enough. As if leaving behind all you know, going
to a country where you don't speak the language and live legally, all
because you believe life there will be better, where the opportunity
to sell flowers on the street in LA is better than the poverty,
possibly violence, of a Central American village . . . as if that is
not positive thinking in action.

A time to reap

Suddenly, the sun emanating a soft light over the distant mountains
was gone and I could feel just the air tickling my skin. I continued
ascending the earth, carefully and quickly choosing each step on each
rock. I could hear my breath and my heart, feel the air moving deep
into my diaphragm and the strength of my muscles moving up, resisting
gravity. Yet, for the first time in weeks, I was not dripping in
sweat, overheated. As we descended into the darkness, I was actually
cold.

Even back in the city, the smell of fall wafts into my apartment,
where it is now cool enough to open the windows again. I sit in the
silence of the hum of the freeway, the wind fluttering my ivory
curtains, and the tinkling of the camel bells on the sculpted om
hanging between the bamboo blinds.

It is autumn and all seems full of hope, peace, bliss. Change is
imminent, but a change that is slow and beautiful and complete.

Earlier today, I took a kundalini yoga class today, very different
than my usual yoga practice. The sole purpose is to work to your
level to open up blocked energy channels. "It is autumn, the season
of receiving," the teacher begins the class. We work hard, sow our
seeds, our dreams, our hopes, our expectations. Now, the days grow
shorter, the air cools, and we can sit and enjoy all our hard work. I
feel particularly blessed that my non-traditional school schedule
gives me vacation just now.

Now, the wind has calmed. I do not feel alone, but blessed, inspiring
the impulse to bake pies and serve spiked hot cider to my friends.

But not tonight. Right now, the smell of fresh baked pizza fills my
home, a bottle of red wine calls my name, and a movie patiently waits
for my attention. Later, perhaps, there will be company, calls, and
time to share. Now, I allow myself to receive.

Soul sucking creativity, good bye!

It is my vacation and I want to get back to my happiness, to who I am, to my creative self.  

Once I am inhibited from creating in one area of my life, all other attempts at creation seem stifled – attempts to create peace, love, happiness.  Because, I think, creation is the opening of letting your energies flow.

At one time, I thought my art was storytelling on film.  I loved editing.  And there is still a kind of editing I love.  Random storytelling is not it.  Editing for the sake of editing is not it.  

My last visit to the desert was inspiring, as usual, but also offered a creative project – a musician with charisma, a video camera, the desert backdrop, and a friend itching to learn her final cut pro.  I just wanted to shoot some test footage with the camera for my class, but then we were at the café and Tim was playing (he rocks, check him out at www.timeaston.com), and shooting live music was more interesting than static landscapes (great for still photography).  Numbers and emails were exchanged.  "We're professionals," my friend bragged, possibly overstating my abilities at this point.  

Then, I came home ready to throw something together.  The footage is a bit crappy, without a tripod and good lighting.  Then, I discovered I still didn't have the right cable, but started logging the footage, which you apparently cannot do and save in FC Xpress.  I had a few flashbacks to digitizing days, long hours in a dark room alone in the middle of the night.

It was 1 a.m. and my hands and shoulders were tense.  I was exhausted and frustrated.  Another day passed without achieving much on my intentions list – no writing done, nothing creative produced, I didn't meditate or exercise.   

And it hit me.  I don't WANT to shoot footage for a video for some guy (even if a wonderful performer) in the desert and load it and edit just so he can have video for his CD (he didn't ask, fyi, but my friend offered when I asked if I could do some test footage -- I had a momentary lapse of memory of what I know about how much work that really takes).   I don't even care that much about my class to do this work. I can find test footage that I can load in to plan my lessons.  

And it hit me: I don't have to do this.  I can just write.  That is what I need to do.  My procrastination, my caving to my fears and disbelief that I might actually be able to write has risen to an all-new high (or sunk to a new low?).  
Regardless, it reached where it needed to as I was blinded a bit by my past, who I was, who I thought I wanted to be upon moving to LA, my history and that interrupted narrative (a Coehlo term) . . . I think I have closed that narrative, which may allow me to move on.  

There is a reason I left editing and the film business.  I don't really LOVE it, not with a passion.  It exhausts and in the end enriches my soul with doodly-squat (I'm reading Vonnegut now).  It sucks my soul, my creativity, actually.  I like story telling.  I loved editing short films, but those don't pay and working with indie/student directors I don't know always ends up with more soul/creativity sucking and I am left with nada (and I am studying Spanish).  At least writing is therapeutic for me, even if no one ever reads it.

So, maybe it will only be more blogging (a warning . . . I will work on brevity this time around).  Or, maybe, I will actually develop that short story or start that novel.

But I know even writing this I feel closer to myself, truer to myself, than I have in days.  Which is worth writing a novel that might never be read while working in a job that matters more and energizes more (really, this was the other revelation in all this, but couldn't work it in seamlessly) than my work as an editor ever did (except for two short films and a few choice projects I worked on that no one really cares about anymore).  

Home

It sneaks up through little things, in the small absences in the midst of the peace for which you hoped.

The absence of waiting for the phone call, the lack of the missed heartbeat each time the phone rang, the lack of the need to have the phone constantly on, constantly near, just in case today was the day it all would end.   

The absence of that someone who really means it that you can call at ANY time.

The absence of anyone that could help even if it were not too late to call.

A few days ago I went to leave comments on my nephew's new blog pictures (he kept sending bulletins asking for comments).  Several were of him playing bass for my mom during my last visit there.  The painting of blue flowers behind him, my mother just off camera in her maroon recliner, her oxygen tank ticking like a metronome for my nephew's music, all come back with vividness that exceeds my present moment.

My last and final visit.

I realized it was all gone.  The painting, the chair, my mother.

And now the house.  

Today, I received an email.  "Closing complete!"  We prayed for a quick sale despite a market so slow it looks like mercury in retrograde.  A miracle.  It sold in a month.

Over my quick weekend trip to Florida for my sister's wedding, I contemplated going there, one last time.  I thought I needed to see the emptiness to believe.  I never made it; it was a hectic weekend.  Yet, I know it was a choice, from fear and denial.  

I had signed the papers, I got the email.  Even empty, it is not mine to walk into.  It was the place I was always guaranteed to find shelter and love and acceptance.   

Like this feeling, I don't know how to end this . . .