I received a book in the mail from Amazon today—not uncommon, except that I hadn’t ordered it. I knew at a glance. Great paper quality, though. I knew that at a glance too. And that’s all I did: glanced at the book. (By the way, if you ordered this book for me, now is the time to let me know.) A couple times I ordered a book from Amazon, but it never arrived, because I never did actually press “purchase.” Oops. However, I’ve never received a book I didn’t order. I texted the usual suspects, none of whom had sent me a book; given the date, it could have been a Christmas present. We’ve been out of town and it was in the mailbox when we returned.
Any second, anyone can call and ask if I received the book yet. I’m waiting.
After looking in my Amazon order history, where it wasn’t, I did a search on the book, to see exactly what it was I hadn’t ordered, and read the description, then returned to the book itself: I Am The Word, by Paul Selig. “A channeled text.” I like channeled books--at least the ones I like--but more to the point, Barrett’s religion (called variously Swedenborgian, or Church of the New Jerusalem, or New Church, the doctrines of which, by the way, were channeled, or divinely derived), was very important to him as well as a key to our connection. And his religion, and he, referred to The Holy Bible as “The Word.”
I Am The Word. Unless you tell me right this second that you sent me this book, I am going to assume that Barrett sent it. I’ve seen those videos of the Amazon warehouse, entirely automated—mistakes could happen, and I have no doubt, literally zero doubt, based on other signs from Barrett, that if he wanted to send me a book he could send me a book. And, if he were going to cause a book to be sent to me, it would be this book.
The book, according to its description, is meant to help readers connect with their guides and “become receptors for energies from above….”
Of all things.
So there’s that. And this story absolutely stands alone with whatever explanation you want to give it—unless you call me this second and say you sent me this book. And even if you do, I might suspect Barrett gave you a nudge. I would ask you what gave you the idea that I might want this book. Because this book is sooo him, and so not me—though it looks potentially interesting, and how could I not read this book? Tiny, minor coincidence that this very BLOG site is called "The Word 1111."
But there’s more.
(To be continued.)
Wednesday, December 30, 2015
Saturday, November 14, 2015
Tantra 101
Yoga has traditionally
stressed brahmacharya (“the right use of energy”), offering various effective
techniques to withdraw from sensory stimulation. While I do not entirely disagree
with this aspect of the 4000+ year old spiritual path toward enlightenment, I
also have come to embrace the idea that human consciousness has developed to
the extent that we as a species are ready (and one might even look around and
say we are not just ready but the world is at crisis level) to embrace tantra, which is inclusive of sensual and sexual
energy as part of a spiritual path: everything earthly is also Divine, in the
spirit of non-dualism.
There are a variety of paths
called “tantra,” and a Facebook group of which I am a member places emphasis on
defining and disagreeing on what “tantra” actually is—much in the same way a
student of Iyengar yoga might attend a Kripalu class and emerge saying, “That’s
not yoga!” and vice versa.
While the the Kripalu
students and the Iyengar students could form a Facebook group and spend hours
discussing the finer points of what constitutes yoga, and perhaps eventually (I’m
optimistic) come to agreement, is that the most productive use of time? Perhaps
a better use of time is to agree to disagree and allow both (and all, even,
acro-yoga!) to be called “yoga” and then go DO it.
That’s what I propose for
tantra.
While on an imaginary
continuum there is, on the far right, a philosophy called “tantra” that has
nothing whatsoever to do with sexuality; and on the far, far left there is an association
with the word “tantra” (aka neo-tantra) with concepts like polygamy, polyamory,
group sex and getting naked with complete strangers, in the middle of that
continuum is the “tantra” that I know and love: a spiritual path inclusive of
and honoring sexual energy, composed of both ancient and modern yogic
techniques that awaken the Divine flow of life within, to promote a state of
sex-heart-consciousness.
Is the yoga world ready for sexual
tantra? I posit that it is. Why should sexual energy and genitals be the one
area not addressed, not included, by yoga? The tantric sex path requires
skillful, compassionate guidance (even if you are guiding yourself) and an
abiding identification with the highest part, the Divine part, of yourself and
others, as well as a deep acceptance of the lowest, most human and flawed
parts—of yourself and others, and especially your partner, if you have one. That,
and desire, is all one needs.
While we in our journey as
yoga teachers and students and aficionados are leaving sexual energy off the
mat, sex is a billion dollar industry online, and the current generation of
young people are learning about sex from porn, learning to objectivize each
other’s body parts, learning to separate sex from intimacy (or even from
actually knowing the name of their sex partner). Far from being a prude, I am a
lover at heart—and I see the value of knowing the person whose energy and
physical body I am allowing to penetrate mine. I question which senses and
chakras need to be shut down in order to engage intimately with people we don’t
know, people whom we might not even like
if we did know them. I want more for the next generation and I want more for
myself.
Meanwhile in the real world,
we have couples working all day, drinking coffee to fuel up, wine to wind down,
exhausted and crabby at the end of the day with no tools or techniques to
reawaken their sexual energy in order to be fully present with the one they
love the most—even if they go to a yoga class regularly.
It has been instilled in us
21st Century-dwellers that marital union is practically the climax
of our existence. We were taught the proper gender identity to unionize with,
depending on the gender identity that was given to us at birth, based on
genitals that may or may not match up with our mental gender identity. This identity
and partnering system is a thick belief system, handed down through generations
in a patriarchal society, until now self-perpetuating unquestioned. And sex is
associated with it. The structure of the belief system around gender and
coupling has begun to be questioned; why not question, and maybe even
enlighten, the paradigm of sexuality itself too?
If you have a voracious
appetite for paradigm shifts, you might like tantra. Tantra says that not only
is sex not a shameful and nasty physical act, but that it is an act of Divine
Union (whether you are married to your partner or not)—in other words, that sex
is inherently spiritual. That our
physical bodies are a gateway to higher consciousness. Yes, people actually
meditate in sex positions. (Wouldn’t one distract from the other? Are they not
mutually exclusive? Merging the two is the tantric sex path. Take it from a
longtime practitioner: Best. Meditation. Ever.)
We have lost sight of the
deeply unifying energy that sex is. Surely we are ready for tantra as an
ancient art reclaimed. It feels foreign, but it can be brought home very
happily. I have never seen anyone at the end of a tantra workshop feeling
inadequate—experiencing and sharing this quality of energy makes a person feel
they are enough—and it leads people
who already feel like they are enough to feel divine.
Tantra increases the sheer
volume of sexual energy within and around you. But it filters it through the
Heart and higher consciousness so that it’s clean, pure, and appropriate—even
though it’s sexual. Many have come to know it as creative energy and embody a heightened awareness. (“I
want what they’ve got,” I thought, when I first met my tantra teachers on a
modest Midwestern front porch.)
Through breathing and
awareness exercises, rather than a physical act (“friction sex,” my beloved
teacher Richard Asimus calls it) sex becomes a spiritual act—like a full-body
prayer, in the way that yoga can be a full-body prayer. After our own bodies
have been cleansed and more finely tuned, we tune in to each other and feel
that sense of Union that we crave. Deep intimacy is hot.
Our everyday consciousness
craves that moment of orgasm in which we fully let go of wanting, of habit, of
everything banal…through tantra it is revealed that that this bliss is
happening and available all around us at any time; though typically we need to
be in the moment of orgasm in order
to feel it. But it is not just about genitals. We mistake it for being merely
genital stimulation and brain activity. It is also an energy present on the
planet at all times, for those who learn to tune into it—and it can happen in
any chakra.
Tantra teaches us to tune
into this bliss in everyday life. Therefore it’s great for longtime couples,
who re-learn to harmonize in a way that leads to enhanced sexual experiences.
It is hard to practice tantra
and maintain the mainstream myth that sex is shameful, or that it should be
properly relegated to the end of the day, after all the bills have been paid
and the dishes done. Instead, celebrate it! Prioritize it! Honor it! You can
see why tantra has been underground since the 13th Century—no one
would have ever paid the bills or done the dishes (but now that we can pay
online and use dishwashers, don’t we have more free time?). Tantra exposes
other myths too, such as the one that says humans are born guilty. (In my estimation,
the only original sin is believing that we were born with an original sin.)
Warning: tantra may lead to the breaking down of societal mores. At the same
time, why not say yes to breaking down the ones that leave sexy people (i.e.,
all of us) feeling shamed or oppressed?
These tools and techniques,
the ability to awaken our energy and be fully present to the Divine in oneself
and one’s partner, are what tantra teaches (or what, in particular,
UGoddessTantra (my “brand”) teaches. My teachers at TantraHeart.com taught me,
and their teachers at Ipsalu Tantra Kriya yoga taught them—my “brand” is
lineage-based going back to the Kriya Yoga described in Autobiography of a
Yogi. (Yogananda’s Babaji is Ipsalu Tantra’s Babaji.)
And so on back into the past,
back to a time when the vagina was revered as the gateway between heaven and
earth. You are invited to jump in—wherever you’re at--and create a new paradigm
that honors yourself, body mind and spirit. It is time to find a new space for
women to reside in that is neither virgin nor mother nor whore…nor any of the old
paradigms handed down to us. It is time to create a paradigm for male sexuality
that is empowering but doesn’t assert power over
anyone. Students of yoga and life can create ourselves to be however we want to
be, to claim that unique individual territory in this amazing thousand petaled
lotus that is the Divine Human.
A manifesto: the planet is
not just ready, but crying out for, a heart-sex-consciousness that has been
hibernating for millennia. Awaken this consciousness in yourself alone, or
invite your partner—not just for yourselves and each other but to create
enlightened sexuality on a planet that deeply needs that kind of transformation.
UGoddessYoga offers Tantra 101: Demystifying the Ancient System
to Awaken Your Erotic Intelligence, February 13, 2016. For more information
and to join the mailing list: ugoddesyoga@gmail.com.
Sunday, December 1, 2013
DMV Part 10: a Rolling Stones moment
Last summer, June 3, our friend called us to see if we wanted Rolling Stones tickets for that very night. I have waited months to write about this because a part of me has stopped needing to post every little message we get from Barrett, a part of me—and indeed a part of Lily as well—is maybe thinking, “Shouldn’t we be over this? And don’t other people wish we would be over it?” Meanwhile over the last few months in which I haven’t reported every little communication from our dearly departed, he has indeed sent us little messages regularly.
There was the time in Sai Café, the place Barrett, Lily, and I would go to dinner together—indeed the only place we really did frequent together in the last ten years (it took me about 8 of those years to finally relent and have dinner with them). It’s a sushi bar, and the sushi chefs knew Barrett and Lily because they’d sit at the bar and Lily would eat things that no child (and few adults) would consent to eat, such as baby octopus heads. Anyway, Lily and I have been there twice since he died, both times bittersweet. We don’t go near the bar because Lily has a justified fear that at some point in her life a random person (this applies to the taco bar at Whole Foods as well) is going to ask her how her dad is and she is going to say, “DEAD,” and burst into tears. Or, “Fine,” and burst into tears. So we sat at a table, far from the sushi bar.
We can’t help but think of him when we sit down there. “We should invite in your dad, just to see what will happen,” I suggested. Lily is generally iffy about this proposition, but she is also game.
“Barrett Fiske,” we said quietly in unison, the way we do, and then I changed the subject.
“What do you want to do for your birthday this year?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” she answered. Pause.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!” yelled out the sushi chefs joyfully at that moment, to someone else in the room.
Lily and I looked at each other knowingly. The timing. It’s stuff like that. It happens. We think he comes when we say his name. We have never NOT had a sign seconds later. Every single time I drove her to Piven last season we had a 55 or a 555 or a 5555. I stopped writing about them. They seemed like such tiny signs, just for us. But this Rolling Stones concert…keeps tapping me on the shoulder.
Our dear friend Julie told me after she saw the Stones: “I kept thinking of Barrett during the concert. I think he wants Lily to see the Stones.” Although Julie has had at least three deeply fulfilling posthumous Barrett experiences (even though they were not friends in real life), I found that doubtful. It made little sense; Lily doesn’t really even like the Stones. I do. But the tickets were pricey and my motivation was low.
Three days after Julie’s intuition, my friend from high school—we both had loved the Stones back then—called at 8am to see if we could MAYBE go see the Stones that night. I hadn’t talked to this friend in months. What on earth would have kept me from saying yes to that? He had pit tickets: standing only, in front of the stage, $1500 each. I could afford maybe 15 minutes of that pricey ticket…but it would a gift. His friend had last-minute cancelled. We were SO in.
I called Julie to tell her that we MIGHT go see the concert that night. “Oh, honey, I know the tickets will come through. Barrett really wants Lily to be there.” I remained unconvinced, though it was a nice thing for her to say.
At 4pm it was a go and I whisked Lily out of her school’s basketball game, we met our fab friend’s, and got in the line for people with the staggeringly expensive pit tickets, who were allowed to enter two hours before the doors officially opened to stake their claim.
Seasoned concert-goer Lily Fiske said that standing in front of the stage was not optimal; her preference was to be back along the tongue-shaped catwalk, which actually would be closer to Mick, when he walked out. She also mentioned that if we stood along the catwalk, people would be pressing forward, away from us, and that no one would be directly in front of us, so although we would be 50 feet farther from the stage than our 6’7” and 6’4” guy friends, we would have a more unobstructed and comfortable view. It seemed like a good compromise
Lily was sure—and circumstances hinted—that Barrett had had a hand in her chance meeting with her favorite pop star Harry Styles last May. When Lily told me about her meeting him the summer before, I had said, “Wow, that is like me running into Mick Jagger, when I was your age.” That meant very little to her, though Harry Styles could easily play the young Mick in a movie. (Check it out! He looks just like him!) She was all about Harry that May, and I was all about Mick, at her age. (It’s her story, but this will suffice: last summer she ran into Harry Styles poolside in Las Vegas, summer while on a trip with aforementioned friend Julie, and was disappointed that she didn’t get a photo. She went back up to her room and changed for dinner. “Daddy, please, I want to see Harry Styles again!” she petitioned. She descended to the first floor in the elevator, the door opened, and there was Harry. Photo op. Julie was convinced Lily’s daddy had a hand in the incredible timing.)
You can read reviews of the Rolling Stones 50th Anniversary concerts in Chicago. I won’t review it--I saw the Stones in Kansas City in 1981 from the back row—rafters!-- and it was a peak life experience. This was front row. What can I even say.
Mick danced out onto the catwalk a few times, and I thought, “I can’t believe I’m so close to Mick JAGGER!” I was lucky, and blessed, and I KNEW it. I had come a long way—rows and rows and rows—since 1981.
After one of Mick’s jaunts right before our eyes, Lily said, or actually yelled, “Mommy! Did you see him catch my KISS?”
What?
She loudly explained she had been blowing him kisses and he had gracefully caught one behind his back as he turned away from us. I had missed their subtle interaction. What a MOMENT! This daughter of mine: so blessed. Mick had caught her kiss…she had posed with Harry Styles…
What could top THAT?
A few songs later, during Brown Sugar, Mick danced back out onto the catwalk. As he danced right in front of us and we were bathed in his spotlight. I was jumping up and down in gleeful ecstasy and Lily and the three 20-somethings beside her were reaching toward Mick, Lily in her “I LOVE BRITISH BOYS” t-shirt.
Awash in heat and lights and sound was my ephiphany: Mick was totally going to touch someone! Something in me could feel him decide.
“I bet your mother was a tent-show queen…”
A new-age mom, I don’t push, but I was compelled. “Go for it!” I shouted, and slapped Lily on the back in a way that, in real life, she would have glared at me for; but she reacted to the encouragement, and reached her 5’9”-ness a little bit further…
“…and all the boys were sweet sixteen!”
and…a slow five…as opposed to a high-five or a low-five…a really luxurious touch—I saw it--a deliberate TOUCH! from Mick Jagger. Hot. Amazing timing during those lyrics, which I only realized when I watched a YouTube a week later.
We both screamed our loudest concert scream and looked at each other in a NO WAY sort of way. Did he really DO that? He touched no one else that night. He touched no one else on night one, either, according to Julie. I’ve heard he generally doesn’t touch.
After the concert we greeted our friends with glee: “Mick touched Lily!”
“We saw!” they said, “on the monitor!” Apparently it was larger than life…oh to have that video footage.
What does any of this have to do with Barrett, aside from Julie’s intuition? Well, this:
We were let in early, before seat-holders, so that we could spend a couple hours in the pit jostling for space (though because the only people who could afford $1500 pit spaces were (very) grown up, there was no jostling.
I took a picture of Lily claiming our space in her cute concert attire and glanced at my phone. The battery was suspiciously at 55%. I wasn’t buying it. But after the concert, after the Mick-touch, I told Lily. About Barrett’s number.
“But mom! Also! When we walked in! I forgot to tell you. It was 5:55!”
“It was 5:55 while my battery was at 55%?” I asked, unnecessarily.
Indeed. But that’s not all.
After that double 55, as we chilled in the cavernous auditorium waiting for the concert, I saw (couldn’t hear) my phone ringing: Margaret McCabe. It was Barrett’s much-loved friend, Maggie McCabe, a 90-year-old “spiritual friend” from his childhood who had never before called me. In case I had been wondering—and I HAD, ever since Julie mentioned it—whether or not Barrett had a hand in this fortunate invitation…this triple clinched it.
When I called Maggie back the following day it was the third time I’d ever spoken to her, the first being when I called her to report Barrett’s death. Being 90, she said she had no idea that she’d even called me the night before.
Spirit moves in mysterious ways—in case I was wondering.
There was the time in Sai Café, the place Barrett, Lily, and I would go to dinner together—indeed the only place we really did frequent together in the last ten years (it took me about 8 of those years to finally relent and have dinner with them). It’s a sushi bar, and the sushi chefs knew Barrett and Lily because they’d sit at the bar and Lily would eat things that no child (and few adults) would consent to eat, such as baby octopus heads. Anyway, Lily and I have been there twice since he died, both times bittersweet. We don’t go near the bar because Lily has a justified fear that at some point in her life a random person (this applies to the taco bar at Whole Foods as well) is going to ask her how her dad is and she is going to say, “DEAD,” and burst into tears. Or, “Fine,” and burst into tears. So we sat at a table, far from the sushi bar.
We can’t help but think of him when we sit down there. “We should invite in your dad, just to see what will happen,” I suggested. Lily is generally iffy about this proposition, but she is also game.
“Barrett Fiske,” we said quietly in unison, the way we do, and then I changed the subject.
“What do you want to do for your birthday this year?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” she answered. Pause.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!” yelled out the sushi chefs joyfully at that moment, to someone else in the room.
Lily and I looked at each other knowingly. The timing. It’s stuff like that. It happens. We think he comes when we say his name. We have never NOT had a sign seconds later. Every single time I drove her to Piven last season we had a 55 or a 555 or a 5555. I stopped writing about them. They seemed like such tiny signs, just for us. But this Rolling Stones concert…keeps tapping me on the shoulder.
Our dear friend Julie told me after she saw the Stones: “I kept thinking of Barrett during the concert. I think he wants Lily to see the Stones.” Although Julie has had at least three deeply fulfilling posthumous Barrett experiences (even though they were not friends in real life), I found that doubtful. It made little sense; Lily doesn’t really even like the Stones. I do. But the tickets were pricey and my motivation was low.
Three days after Julie’s intuition, my friend from high school—we both had loved the Stones back then—called at 8am to see if we could MAYBE go see the Stones that night. I hadn’t talked to this friend in months. What on earth would have kept me from saying yes to that? He had pit tickets: standing only, in front of the stage, $1500 each. I could afford maybe 15 minutes of that pricey ticket…but it would a gift. His friend had last-minute cancelled. We were SO in.
I called Julie to tell her that we MIGHT go see the concert that night. “Oh, honey, I know the tickets will come through. Barrett really wants Lily to be there.” I remained unconvinced, though it was a nice thing for her to say.
At 4pm it was a go and I whisked Lily out of her school’s basketball game, we met our fab friend’s, and got in the line for people with the staggeringly expensive pit tickets, who were allowed to enter two hours before the doors officially opened to stake their claim.
Seasoned concert-goer Lily Fiske said that standing in front of the stage was not optimal; her preference was to be back along the tongue-shaped catwalk, which actually would be closer to Mick, when he walked out. She also mentioned that if we stood along the catwalk, people would be pressing forward, away from us, and that no one would be directly in front of us, so although we would be 50 feet farther from the stage than our 6’7” and 6’4” guy friends, we would have a more unobstructed and comfortable view. It seemed like a good compromise
Lily was sure—and circumstances hinted—that Barrett had had a hand in her chance meeting with her favorite pop star Harry Styles last May. When Lily told me about her meeting him the summer before, I had said, “Wow, that is like me running into Mick Jagger, when I was your age.” That meant very little to her, though Harry Styles could easily play the young Mick in a movie. (Check it out! He looks just like him!) She was all about Harry that May, and I was all about Mick, at her age. (It’s her story, but this will suffice: last summer she ran into Harry Styles poolside in Las Vegas, summer while on a trip with aforementioned friend Julie, and was disappointed that she didn’t get a photo. She went back up to her room and changed for dinner. “Daddy, please, I want to see Harry Styles again!” she petitioned. She descended to the first floor in the elevator, the door opened, and there was Harry. Photo op. Julie was convinced Lily’s daddy had a hand in the incredible timing.)
You can read reviews of the Rolling Stones 50th Anniversary concerts in Chicago. I won’t review it--I saw the Stones in Kansas City in 1981 from the back row—rafters!-- and it was a peak life experience. This was front row. What can I even say.
Mick danced out onto the catwalk a few times, and I thought, “I can’t believe I’m so close to Mick JAGGER!” I was lucky, and blessed, and I KNEW it. I had come a long way—rows and rows and rows—since 1981.
After one of Mick’s jaunts right before our eyes, Lily said, or actually yelled, “Mommy! Did you see him catch my KISS?”
What?
She loudly explained she had been blowing him kisses and he had gracefully caught one behind his back as he turned away from us. I had missed their subtle interaction. What a MOMENT! This daughter of mine: so blessed. Mick had caught her kiss…she had posed with Harry Styles…
What could top THAT?
A few songs later, during Brown Sugar, Mick danced back out onto the catwalk. As he danced right in front of us and we were bathed in his spotlight. I was jumping up and down in gleeful ecstasy and Lily and the three 20-somethings beside her were reaching toward Mick, Lily in her “I LOVE BRITISH BOYS” t-shirt.
Awash in heat and lights and sound was my ephiphany: Mick was totally going to touch someone! Something in me could feel him decide.
“I bet your mother was a tent-show queen…”
A new-age mom, I don’t push, but I was compelled. “Go for it!” I shouted, and slapped Lily on the back in a way that, in real life, she would have glared at me for; but she reacted to the encouragement, and reached her 5’9”-ness a little bit further…
“…and all the boys were sweet sixteen!”
and…a slow five…as opposed to a high-five or a low-five…a really luxurious touch—I saw it--a deliberate TOUCH! from Mick Jagger. Hot. Amazing timing during those lyrics, which I only realized when I watched a YouTube a week later.
We both screamed our loudest concert scream and looked at each other in a NO WAY sort of way. Did he really DO that? He touched no one else that night. He touched no one else on night one, either, according to Julie. I’ve heard he generally doesn’t touch.
After the concert we greeted our friends with glee: “Mick touched Lily!”
“We saw!” they said, “on the monitor!” Apparently it was larger than life…oh to have that video footage.
What does any of this have to do with Barrett, aside from Julie’s intuition? Well, this:
We were let in early, before seat-holders, so that we could spend a couple hours in the pit jostling for space (though because the only people who could afford $1500 pit spaces were (very) grown up, there was no jostling.
I took a picture of Lily claiming our space in her cute concert attire and glanced at my phone. The battery was suspiciously at 55%. I wasn’t buying it. But after the concert, after the Mick-touch, I told Lily. About Barrett’s number.
“But mom! Also! When we walked in! I forgot to tell you. It was 5:55!”
“It was 5:55 while my battery was at 55%?” I asked, unnecessarily.
Indeed. But that’s not all.
After that double 55, as we chilled in the cavernous auditorium waiting for the concert, I saw (couldn’t hear) my phone ringing: Margaret McCabe. It was Barrett’s much-loved friend, Maggie McCabe, a 90-year-old “spiritual friend” from his childhood who had never before called me. In case I had been wondering—and I HAD, ever since Julie mentioned it—whether or not Barrett had a hand in this fortunate invitation…this triple clinched it.
When I called Maggie back the following day it was the third time I’d ever spoken to her, the first being when I called her to report Barrett’s death. Being 90, she said she had no idea that she’d even called me the night before.
Spirit moves in mysterious ways—in case I was wondering.
postscript: Lily's photo was on the Rolling Stones website!
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Alive at the DMV Part 9
December 15, 2012: our fourth and final time at the Jeep dealership. We take possession of our new car. We drive it off the lot. We look at my phone. 5:55. All four times, people!
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
"Alive at the DMV Part 8"
A quickie: went back to the Jeep dealership yesterday, did our business, got back into our car, and the time was.......5:55. And the last three numbers on the odometer were........555. Someone tell me this veil between the worlds is not getting thinner and thinner and thinner!
My number at Native Foods was not, however, 55 this time. It was 69...not a number to turn my back on either, thank you very much.
<See Part 9>
My number at Native Foods was not, however, 55 this time. It was 69...not a number to turn my back on either, thank you very much.
<See Part 9>
Sunday, December 9, 2012
DMV Part 7!
"December 4, 2012"
Of course this is going to be about cars. If you have been following this DMV thread all along, you’ll understand: after our Jeep test-drive last week, Lily and I returned to our favorite Jetta, where Lily pointed out that it was 5:55; then we saw that the license plate in front of us had five fives, after which celestial communication Lily announced, “My dad wants us to get a Jeep but he wants us to get it from a different dealership. Don’t ask me how I know. I just know.”
He’s still around. More evidence? I wrote this entire blog and headed to Native Foods for lunch, and was handed my order number, which was 55. Before I explain to newcomers (or you can just go back and begin at DMV Part 1 for some remarkable heavenly stories) I just have to pause to honor that the veil between the worlds is delightfully thin; I still don’t understand where “dead” people are, how they can be here, how they can send signs and summons, and I don’t have to understand.
The night months ago when I first posted about the 55s, I pressed “publish,” left the house, started the Jetta, and was delighted to see that the time on its always-expressive dashboard was 5:55. Satisfying punctuation after my 55-heavy blog post.
Imagine how guilty (or at least ambivalent) I must feel about selling that car.
But its lowered suspension and low-profile wheels make us cringe over bumps; it feels like we’re breaking the car in half. On the other hand, I regularly do 100mph on Lake Shore Drive—80, actually, before I’m even off the entrance ramp—and as the g-forces press into me, through the euphoria I realize not only should I not be doing this, I should not be giving my 16-year old a car that is capable of doing this. (God, I like to go fast. Maybe I won’t sell it.)
I’ve grown to love the Jetta. Yes. Strong words for a car that I initially found irritating. Lily and recently I decided that the only vehicle that could possibly tempt and un-guilt us would be the opposite car: a Jeep. A red Jeep. A slow (ie safe), visible red Jeep that will munch potholes and get us through the 2012 Apocalypse in one piece.
Five seconds into our first Jeep test drive, we glanced at each other with a look that acknowledged, “We are bad-ass!” Sitting so high up we could drive right over the Jetta—if it didn’t drive under us first. In red, it was unmilitaristic and frankly kind of hot…with us in it. Back into this red Jeep when you’re parallel parking in front of us and it will SEVER your bumper.
Based on Lily’s intuition I made an appointment with a different dealership, one that felt more Barrett-approved. For some reason I got a slew of 4:44s, all day long, weird because they don't have meaning to me other than the inherent beauty of the repeating numbers. Fours: whatever.
More fours later though.
The guy on the phone for the car dealership has a great voice. So savory. That morning I had asked Barrett for some car-buying assistance; it’s his specialty. I once told him he should start a business helping women buy cars, and just be their advocate. I can't tell from Kevin’s sexy voice how old he is or even what race, which is intriguing. We arrive at the dealership and there are greeters, like bouncers, outside, hanging, waiting for vulnerable buyers, and a big round black guy—a bluesy sort of guy—approaches and introduces himself to us and I say we're here to see Kevin, and he says I'll take you to Kevin, and we have to sit in plastic dealership chairs while we wait for Kevin and Kevin arrives and I am—hang on, I have to break in to say this: Barrett and I had a tiny wedding with dinner for 20 at a favorite restaurant. When our waiter came to the table he was so hot-African. Protected by my hours-old wedding ring, I could not help say, "Are you my wedding present?" (That’s me, after zero cocktails.)
So Kevin is introduced, and maybe it was the insouciant way his shirttails poked out from his v-neck, but I feel a completely inappropriate remark welling up--just like at my wedding dinner...where Barrett was, of course, also present. I am saying to myself, "Don't say it, it's totally inappropriate," --but I don't even know what I'm about to say. I just know, in that manic moment, I shouldn't. When Kevin announces that the bluesman is going to take care of us, he departs and I backhand Lily on the thigh to see if she was having as good a time as I was and she looks at me and says, "MOM. Pull yourself together.”
But my point is, we were at the right dealership and this was going to be a treat: in addition to Kevin reminding me of the manic moment when I saw our wedding-waiter, the bluesman reminded me so much of the salesman who sold Barrett my current Honda CRV, the car guy who was so so good at being a car guy that Barrett looked him up years later to buy another car from him. The car guy who was so so good that in a world where I don’t remember names AT ALL (please don’t test me at a party!) I remember Tony's. Tony was an experience—a car experience—that Barrett and I had shared in a major way. Tony is now a Baptist minister so he can’t sell cars; Barrett is now “dead” so he can’t buy cars, but I sure did feel them both there, orchestrating an experience that I otherwise didn’t want any part of. Hi, guys! I was overjoyed.
To be honest, it was not easy to stay in mirth at a goddamn car dealership, but our guy met me at my level, totally got how I operate, and the only time he got a bit sales-y I said, “I want you to know that we have two cars that we really like and I have no car payments and I'm happy to keep it that way, and we don't actually NEED a car. In fact I’m happy not to buy a car at all. And the more you push me, the more I want to keep my old car.” I saw Lily, out of the corner of my eye, frantically disagreeing, which was not helpful to my buying process, but I ignored it. Later in the conversation, the bluesman said, "Now normally I would talk for ten minutes about why you needed to buy the car tonight..." and I interrupted, with a smile, "But you know if you do that I won't return your calls or EVER talk to you again." I am learning how liberating it is to just say the thing instead of thinking it needs to be said in some special way.
When the bluesman walked away to consult with his people for the seventh time, an hour into negotiating, I told Lily I had no recollection of what his name even was. How embarrassing, now that we had even seen pictures of his kids. She didn’t remember either—odd for her, normal for me. She volunteered, for a mere $10, to ask his name.
David. Barrett’s brother’s name.
When we were leaving David told us that daughters’ names both started with L. Lily wanted to guess his son’s name.
“Is it also an L? Leon,” I said before she could guess, because it had to be Leon; it was the boy-baby name that Barrett and I had completely disagreed on—me being pro-Leon of course—a big issue between us. But no.
“Hint: it’s the same as my dad’s,” David said, and I said, “David!”
Indeed.
“David, David, David,” said David, “All Davids, my dad, his dad, David David David,” and I almost said, “OK BARRETT, STOP!” No need to hammer it home like that. We got it. Buy the Jeep.
And then David said one more thing. To Lily.
“Family,” said David. “Family is the most important thing. Remember that. Remember your family. Family,” said David.
Yes, I shed a tear. At the car dealership. Barrett’s presence was palpable.
So I took a walk when we got home, car half-bought. It was a balmy night in December.
On the walk I realized I was not entirely relaxed about taking on a car payment and mind you it's a tiny car payment but that's not the point. The discomfort is the point and as a yoga teacher I know what to do about discomfort. It was rather an arresting thought so I just stopped and arrested myself: listened to the wind in the trees, felt the balmy breeze, and was grateful I could even be outside and warm at the same time, while minutes passed. At some point I thought, “I wonder if I look insane,” and then I made myself relax through that discomfort until I felt a level of prosperity: “buying a new car makes me feel prosperous!” and I was good to go.
So I walked a few steps further, and there on the sidewalk was a dollar bill, moist with dew and sticking there so it couldn’t possibly blow away, and its timing after that prosperity meditation was so uncanny that I had to stop and pick up the penny from heaven (inflation!) and it was also sort of ego-busting in itself to stoop to pick up a dollar when someone else might need it more, when someone else must have dropped it, yet at the same time, the night had been all about money and here some is! So I peel it of the sidewalk and glance at it, and it has four fours on it. Another 4444!
And maybe all dollar bills have four fours; how would I even know? I have never stared one down. Whether or not they do, this one did. I don't need to analyze or know why or know what anything means...the Universe has ways of communicating, the Universe IS communicating, and how cool that we are in a dialogue—I’m honored, standing there, on December 4.
Still in the magic, still in the prosperity, knowing Lily’s daddy is so not dead, savoring the dollar bill with the four fours on it, I walk a few more steps and a happy guy rides past on his bike singing a Christmas carol and I catch the words, "a jolly happy soul!" It’s euphoric; it’s over the top, why those precise words, in this moment of soul-connection?
It must be heaven on earth.
To ground myself, to bring it back to reality, I look at my phone, open facebook, and the first post on my newsfeed is from my friend Chrissy, saying, “Can you feel it?! Can you feel the SHIFT?!!!!”
“Yes,” I comment. Yes.
Having written all of the above the following day, I headed to Native Foods, where my order number 55 was presented to me, as perfect punctuation bestowed upon me by a generous Universe that loves us all far more than we can fathom.
Of course this is going to be about cars. If you have been following this DMV thread all along, you’ll understand: after our Jeep test-drive last week, Lily and I returned to our favorite Jetta, where Lily pointed out that it was 5:55; then we saw that the license plate in front of us had five fives, after which celestial communication Lily announced, “My dad wants us to get a Jeep but he wants us to get it from a different dealership. Don’t ask me how I know. I just know.”
He’s still around. More evidence? I wrote this entire blog and headed to Native Foods for lunch, and was handed my order number, which was 55. Before I explain to newcomers (or you can just go back and begin at DMV Part 1 for some remarkable heavenly stories) I just have to pause to honor that the veil between the worlds is delightfully thin; I still don’t understand where “dead” people are, how they can be here, how they can send signs and summons, and I don’t have to understand.
The night months ago when I first posted about the 55s, I pressed “publish,” left the house, started the Jetta, and was delighted to see that the time on its always-expressive dashboard was 5:55. Satisfying punctuation after my 55-heavy blog post.
Imagine how guilty (or at least ambivalent) I must feel about selling that car.
But its lowered suspension and low-profile wheels make us cringe over bumps; it feels like we’re breaking the car in half. On the other hand, I regularly do 100mph on Lake Shore Drive—80, actually, before I’m even off the entrance ramp—and as the g-forces press into me, through the euphoria I realize not only should I not be doing this, I should not be giving my 16-year old a car that is capable of doing this. (God, I like to go fast. Maybe I won’t sell it.)
I’ve grown to love the Jetta. Yes. Strong words for a car that I initially found irritating. Lily and recently I decided that the only vehicle that could possibly tempt and un-guilt us would be the opposite car: a Jeep. A red Jeep. A slow (ie safe), visible red Jeep that will munch potholes and get us through the 2012 Apocalypse in one piece.
Five seconds into our first Jeep test drive, we glanced at each other with a look that acknowledged, “We are bad-ass!” Sitting so high up we could drive right over the Jetta—if it didn’t drive under us first. In red, it was unmilitaristic and frankly kind of hot…with us in it. Back into this red Jeep when you’re parallel parking in front of us and it will SEVER your bumper.
Based on Lily’s intuition I made an appointment with a different dealership, one that felt more Barrett-approved. For some reason I got a slew of 4:44s, all day long, weird because they don't have meaning to me other than the inherent beauty of the repeating numbers. Fours: whatever.
More fours later though.
The guy on the phone for the car dealership has a great voice. So savory. That morning I had asked Barrett for some car-buying assistance; it’s his specialty. I once told him he should start a business helping women buy cars, and just be their advocate. I can't tell from Kevin’s sexy voice how old he is or even what race, which is intriguing. We arrive at the dealership and there are greeters, like bouncers, outside, hanging, waiting for vulnerable buyers, and a big round black guy—a bluesy sort of guy—approaches and introduces himself to us and I say we're here to see Kevin, and he says I'll take you to Kevin, and we have to sit in plastic dealership chairs while we wait for Kevin and Kevin arrives and I am—hang on, I have to break in to say this: Barrett and I had a tiny wedding with dinner for 20 at a favorite restaurant. When our waiter came to the table he was so hot-African. Protected by my hours-old wedding ring, I could not help say, "Are you my wedding present?" (That’s me, after zero cocktails.)
So Kevin is introduced, and maybe it was the insouciant way his shirttails poked out from his v-neck, but I feel a completely inappropriate remark welling up--just like at my wedding dinner...where Barrett was, of course, also present. I am saying to myself, "Don't say it, it's totally inappropriate," --but I don't even know what I'm about to say. I just know, in that manic moment, I shouldn't. When Kevin announces that the bluesman is going to take care of us, he departs and I backhand Lily on the thigh to see if she was having as good a time as I was and she looks at me and says, "MOM. Pull yourself together.”
But my point is, we were at the right dealership and this was going to be a treat: in addition to Kevin reminding me of the manic moment when I saw our wedding-waiter, the bluesman reminded me so much of the salesman who sold Barrett my current Honda CRV, the car guy who was so so good at being a car guy that Barrett looked him up years later to buy another car from him. The car guy who was so so good that in a world where I don’t remember names AT ALL (please don’t test me at a party!) I remember Tony's. Tony was an experience—a car experience—that Barrett and I had shared in a major way. Tony is now a Baptist minister so he can’t sell cars; Barrett is now “dead” so he can’t buy cars, but I sure did feel them both there, orchestrating an experience that I otherwise didn’t want any part of. Hi, guys! I was overjoyed.
To be honest, it was not easy to stay in mirth at a goddamn car dealership, but our guy met me at my level, totally got how I operate, and the only time he got a bit sales-y I said, “I want you to know that we have two cars that we really like and I have no car payments and I'm happy to keep it that way, and we don't actually NEED a car. In fact I’m happy not to buy a car at all. And the more you push me, the more I want to keep my old car.” I saw Lily, out of the corner of my eye, frantically disagreeing, which was not helpful to my buying process, but I ignored it. Later in the conversation, the bluesman said, "Now normally I would talk for ten minutes about why you needed to buy the car tonight..." and I interrupted, with a smile, "But you know if you do that I won't return your calls or EVER talk to you again." I am learning how liberating it is to just say the thing instead of thinking it needs to be said in some special way.
When the bluesman walked away to consult with his people for the seventh time, an hour into negotiating, I told Lily I had no recollection of what his name even was. How embarrassing, now that we had even seen pictures of his kids. She didn’t remember either—odd for her, normal for me. She volunteered, for a mere $10, to ask his name.
David. Barrett’s brother’s name.
When we were leaving David told us that daughters’ names both started with L. Lily wanted to guess his son’s name.
“Is it also an L? Leon,” I said before she could guess, because it had to be Leon; it was the boy-baby name that Barrett and I had completely disagreed on—me being pro-Leon of course—a big issue between us. But no.
“Hint: it’s the same as my dad’s,” David said, and I said, “David!”
Indeed.
“David, David, David,” said David, “All Davids, my dad, his dad, David David David,” and I almost said, “OK BARRETT, STOP!” No need to hammer it home like that. We got it. Buy the Jeep.
And then David said one more thing. To Lily.
“Family,” said David. “Family is the most important thing. Remember that. Remember your family. Family,” said David.
Yes, I shed a tear. At the car dealership. Barrett’s presence was palpable.
So I took a walk when we got home, car half-bought. It was a balmy night in December.
On the walk I realized I was not entirely relaxed about taking on a car payment and mind you it's a tiny car payment but that's not the point. The discomfort is the point and as a yoga teacher I know what to do about discomfort. It was rather an arresting thought so I just stopped and arrested myself: listened to the wind in the trees, felt the balmy breeze, and was grateful I could even be outside and warm at the same time, while minutes passed. At some point I thought, “I wonder if I look insane,” and then I made myself relax through that discomfort until I felt a level of prosperity: “buying a new car makes me feel prosperous!” and I was good to go.
So I walked a few steps further, and there on the sidewalk was a dollar bill, moist with dew and sticking there so it couldn’t possibly blow away, and its timing after that prosperity meditation was so uncanny that I had to stop and pick up the penny from heaven (inflation!) and it was also sort of ego-busting in itself to stoop to pick up a dollar when someone else might need it more, when someone else must have dropped it, yet at the same time, the night had been all about money and here some is! So I peel it of the sidewalk and glance at it, and it has four fours on it. Another 4444!
And maybe all dollar bills have four fours; how would I even know? I have never stared one down. Whether or not they do, this one did. I don't need to analyze or know why or know what anything means...the Universe has ways of communicating, the Universe IS communicating, and how cool that we are in a dialogue—I’m honored, standing there, on December 4.
Still in the magic, still in the prosperity, knowing Lily’s daddy is so not dead, savoring the dollar bill with the four fours on it, I walk a few more steps and a happy guy rides past on his bike singing a Christmas carol and I catch the words, "a jolly happy soul!" It’s euphoric; it’s over the top, why those precise words, in this moment of soul-connection?
It must be heaven on earth.
To ground myself, to bring it back to reality, I look at my phone, open facebook, and the first post on my newsfeed is from my friend Chrissy, saying, “Can you feel it?! Can you feel the SHIFT?!!!!”
“Yes,” I comment. Yes.
Having written all of the above the following day, I headed to Native Foods, where my order number 55 was presented to me, as perfect punctuation bestowed upon me by a generous Universe that loves us all far more than we can fathom.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
When Yoga Meets Politics
No matter who wins the election, 50% of us will be dissatisfied. Rather than thinking we know which individual political candidate will create the change we want, what if we hold some other common vision? Rather than needing to know exactly how you want that vision to LOOK, or who’s going to pay for it, imagine that there is a bigger and better version of the world than you’d ever dreamed…and FEEL it. What if we all did that? Why not walk around with a vision of the world you'd like to live in, and meet your opponents in the middle?
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