So there I am, nothing but a lap bar and 900 feet of open air, parallel to the Las Vegas lights glowing way down below, whipping in mechanical circles with seven other people... and we're all about to die. Happy birthday to me.
"And this was my idea... why???!!!" was the only thing I could think between my pansy screams as this spinning ride atop the tallest Las Vegas structure dangled me mid-air over the desert night.
Actually, that's not true. I also thought how all the heretofore deeply meaningful Buddhist-oriented philosophy on living and dying from the likes of wonderful teachers like Stephen Levine-- things that have been enormously helpful to me in my day to day life... ON THE GROUND-- seemed mildly ludicrous if not totally irrelevant and stupid at this moment.
But only for a moment. All the years of my meditation "practice" as it is referred to actually did have a moment of kicking in between screams. Where, even in the middle of the thing getting my goat (and choking it), I did find a sliver of equanimity and actually did find myself stepping back, taking the seat of the observer. And watching myself scream. Just watching. Choicelessly, non-judgmentally observing what is-- "Ah, fear of death."
And then I continued screaming. I'm certainly not claiming some kind of enlightenment or anything even approaching that. But in that moment, I got why they call it "practice," at least in part. You don't show up for extreme moments like death and then magically find yourself capable of dealing with the suddenly superlatively confronting moment with equanimity and peace. You practice for it. The mind is like a muscle and you can train the muscle to perform in various ways, to handle heavier and heavier weights. But you have to train for it. Practice.
So this May 30th, I guess I wanted to dangle myself off a ridiculously tall building in a relatively safe way and hear myself shrieking, remember the preciousness of our mortality and see that in my own layperson way, give myself some silly litmus test of where I'm at. Where my practice has taken me so far... and I guess it turns out, it's not all that far I guess. My fear came up and I was super freaked. But in that moment, in the middle of something that pushed one of the biggest buttons we have as humans, I did have a little equanimity-- a little perspective. And I got to scream like a soprano, too. F-U-N.
Please remove the barbed wire from in front of my heart
I saw author Marianne Williamson speak once years ago. And she said something in that lecture that struck me in such a personal way, it instantly reduced me to tears. She was talking about romantic love and interpersonal relationship in general. And what she said was "Our prayer is not 'Please bring me a partner' or 'Please change my partner.' Our prayer is 'Please remove the barbed wire from in front of my heart.'"
We all carry things. My university acting professor used to say that 'Rule number one in learning to create truth in character is that everyone is wounded. Everyone.'
I don't see that as such as sad thing as I used to. I like the idea that 'we earn our laugh lines.' That the proverbial miles we travel in life, the laugh lines and even the scars not only make us stronger, more prepared to be compassionate and to love, but when we look deeply-- they even make us more beautiful. More interesting. More unique. It's an aspect of the person we're sculpting ourselves to be out of the life we're living.
As I learn how to let go a little bit more, day by day, and in doing so, let that barbed wire-- that woundedness we all carry in different forms and to varying degrees-- be removed bit by bit from in front of my heart, it's scary. Each newly unguarded opening in my heart is raw when it's newly exposed. It's like part of you being born, hitting air for the first time.
And as I learn to allow-- everything-- the process of wanting to be freer and remove the barbed wire, as well as the fact that there are places where I'm just not ready to go or I'm not ready to go any deeper in certain areas at a given moment-- that allowing myself to be however I am and wherever I am IS a big component of the freedom I'm seeking. The irony is that in allowing more, and not needing to be anywhere other than where I am, I go further. By not needing to go further. I grow by allowing whatever is there to be as it is and be present with it.
As I learn to be both responsible for my life and to cut myself a break and be gentle with myself in the process, that moves outward and I become, bit by bit, gentler and less critical and more allowing with other people. If my responsibility is to myself first and foremost (and it is) and I take care of myself, I don't need to put the onus of how I'm feeling onto anyone or anything outside of me.
And again, the irony in that is that in taking care of myself, loving myself, being responsible for myself, I make myself more available for love, more able to love and be loved. Because I don't need 'you' to do it for me. I'm starting as a complete, whole person, 'connected to Source' as my favorite teachers like to say. And 'you' loving me and me loving 'you' is a beautiful, and even audacious as it may be, more obvious icing on the already-perfect cake.
More simply put, it seems to me more and more that we are here to love. That is who and what we are. We are here to expand in the experience of what that means and is. Part of that means that you and I can, as a favorite Alanis song puts it "fall into the abyss on the way to your bliss" and that is perfect. The hard thing is to allow the hard stuff. And have enough faith to know that that's what the hard and awful moments are-- they're simply a bend in the road on the way to our bliss. It might hurt, it might suck, it might even seem like the end of everything-- but those painful states are like that-- heavy and seeming absolute. But they only seem that way. As the sage cliche accurately says-- this too shall pass. And if we relax into allowing the whole process, from a clearer perspective, the awful hard stuff on a certain level may even be the bliss itself in a way. And in any case, is perfect-- just like you and I, wherever we happen to be-- just as it is.
....or more accurately stated, greetings from the overly communicative, understanding, satisfying, strangely commiserating, chatting, yoga-ing, gemini-on-gemini love bubble.
which is to say i admit to being that guy who has found himself falling in a surprising way and in the process, has all but vanished from other portions of his life. so i apologize, dear reader, for breaking the first law of love and becoming that remiss person.
but i have to tell you, it's been more than useful to lose my head.
a college acting professor used to say to me (and all his students) on a regular basis "If I could chop off your head at the classroom door, I certainly would."
and truth be told, i've left my head nowhere. my overactive "monkey brain" has been on overdrive. analyzing the new romantic situation and which twist and falling shoe could be around the next foreseeable bend, as my historically victimized ego would have it. we so, so, so often do put so much stock in our pain as identity, which i see more and more clearly all the time.
and that's been more truly seen than i can remember as i have been insulating more and more deeply into said 'love bubble.' because in there, it's just the two of us. and i am incessantly (mostly subconsciously) looking for my historical setpoint of victim. my setpoint as someone who is hurt and rejected.
this has been true in my previous relationships. it was certainly true growing up in my family. and i don't disclose these uber-personal things in an effort to fish for pity. but to disclose a healing process i think i'm finding my way through.
like so many of us, i experienced physical and emotional abuse in my childhood. and the 'grist for the mill' (as a favorite ram dass title aptly puts it) inside my current said 'love bubble' is that i find myself in there with someone heartful, smart, compassionate, giving, open, communicative, smart, giving and generous of affection. maybe the therapy and meditation is finally kicking in, or maybe i just got lucky. but the interesting thing is my gaze.
there i am in the bubble, and with every passing day, i am more lavished with something that only be called love... and i find my kneejerk response is to continually look for what is wrong. what lie is being told. what deception lurks around the bend.
there is the ego, looking for my seat of comfort-- rejection and dishonesty. that's what i learned is family. and if you aren't going to give me that, you aren't feeding my ego's expectation. and the ego, the sense of self-- sense of identity, is constantly fighting to survive.
it clings to likes and tastes and dislikes and sensations and phenomenon-- all passing, changing things. but it builds its sense of "me" out of all this fleeting stuff. stuff that isn't actually part of the only thing that is real-- this moment.
and it's even more maddening to my ego when i sit in the love bubble freaking out, looking for what's wrong, and that fear and wounded expectation is met with understanding and compassion. it gives the ego nowhere to go. it has no choice but to give up and receive the obvious truth of the heart being offered.
and it's funny, because in the shifting of 'my' fearful gaze seeking the comfort of the well-known seat of rejection at the table i falsely learned to call love, the fearful part of me that also seeks to cling and control in the context of love and relationship seems to be quelled. or at least partly quieted.
because, as stephen levine reminds us in "a gradual awakening," the ego is not wrong. it isn't bad. it's actually useful in some part. we use it to motivate, accomplish, get from A to B. but the problem is that in our culture (and world) we let it run the whole show and don't know that "I" am not "that." but when it is playing these games, trying to hang on, it is not invalid or wrong. it is just trying to survive-- this idea of itself is trying to survive. it is the crying baby, levine tells us.
and you don't hit the crying baby and tell it to shut up. you whisper to it. let it know that it's okay. you cradle the crying child-- in my case, the one seeking rejection. and you whisper to the crying child that its okay.
or if you really luck out, you find yourself falling in love with a strong, heartful person who doesn't spook easily. and instead of looking for a way to burst the bubble, you float.
So I put up that Tina Fey (love her) video bulletin about Hillary this morning and it's funny to me that so many people have sent these incredibly insightful responses (note my sarcasm) saying "Are you kidding?" And now I need to rant.
Am I kidding? About what? That I support the smartest candidate (by a mile) who's run in decades, who has already BEEN in the White House for eight years and has a long career in politics having been at this for decades and can grease the wheels with world leaders she already has decades-long relationships with from day one... who brings one of the best former Presidents of the past 100 years with her back to that White House (and oh my God... people... bringing up his sex life just makes you sound... frigid and petty... it's NONE of your business... let it go... go get laid)? A candidate who has consistently championed human rights causes (women's rights, children's rights, socialized healthcare, gay/lesbian rights, racial equality... etc...) and done so in spite of every onslaught by decades of the supposed "family values"/"moral majority"-style red-neck-hoo-doo, warmongering right wing ninny-factor that comprises half the country?
admittedly, hillary, like every politician who has ever attained high office, has gone to the political "darkside." let's not even get started with obama's skeletons in his legal/slumlord closet, 'cause i kind of like him overall, despite how green and ill-prepared for the job he is. but what she has never done is abandoned her focus, not in the big picture. everything she has ever poured her energy into in any substantial way has been ALL about HELPING the MOST people for the greatest good, not the richest or the loudest-- the most. that's not rhetoric. that's her record. that's what she has DONE, not just in pretty speeches, but what she has DONE-- in ACTION-- not just (stolen) words-- it is what she is about.
i want the best, smartest, most prepared, compassionate-yet-sharp-toothed fighter who is ready to bring a REAL (not a RHETORICAL) sea change... to this, frankly, waning country.
obama's good looking. his speech writers are solid and he's a pro at delivering those solid speeches. that's the sum of his parts. and it's not nearly enough. i'd probably be more eager vote for him as a presidential candidate in... 8-12 years. if this were a miss america contest, that'd be another story. but this is not a thrill-me-with-your-poise-and-stage-presence contest.
let's be honest. hillary has basically already done the job, at least in some part. and done it better than most can remember it being done in a very long time. obama isn't even close to her in experience, know-how, practical (again, not rhetorical) skill in washington, relationships or proven track-record (he barely has one). and he's ahead right now because this is a country of american-idol-loving media victims who get caught up with anyone who can give them an inspiring tickle.
i don't want to be tickled. the past 8 years have sucked this country dry. i want what the last clinton administration (i swear to god, please... no emails about blowjobs and republican-propagated scandals designed to undermine the work of that administration...) gave us in terms of security, a strong economy and a voice for moving forward in the human rights arena led by people WHO KNOW HOW TO GREASE THAT WHEEL AND TAKE US THERE, NOT JUST TALK ABOUT IT.
as tina fey said, bitches know how to get stuff done. pretty pageant speeches ain't gonna cut it. not by a longshot.
plus... i just feel in my bones like it'd be fun. i just have this sense... like not only do i trust her to lead the country, but i feel like she'll shake things up. like she'd trot out the aliens before her 8 years was up.
and no, i don't want to hear anything about the david icke crap either. go smoke a bowl.
When the shit hits the fan, some of this spiritual crap doesn't always seem to cut the mustard. But I'm thinking that maybe the tougher times might be exactly the time it does.
Non-judgment is something that I've been knocking my head into most of my life and it seems to me to be a primary theme of many belief systems, ostensibly anyway. And in some teachings, it's also described as non-resistance, or simplifying-- just freaking relaxing.
What if one of the big so-called secrets of life really is that simple? Just let go. That's it. Let go. Just freaking relax.
Could it really be that basic? And it's not even saying let's worry about the "Let God" part of commonly voiced equation, however you define that. If you let go, the other part happens anway. Or so it seems... perhaps. I'm still mid-observation on that.
But as I continue my weird observations, I keep finding that the wisdom that is most worth embodying, is often the simplest. But not to be confused-- the simplest things are often the hardest. And I think the phrase "JUST let go" could do without the "JUST." It ain't a "JUST" do something situation. Not with our monkey brains (I'll explaing that in a second).
Taking the seat of the observer within myself, as in meditation among other moments, the arising and passing of all the crazy mind-stuff can be seen. In meditation, you bring your attention to a one-pointed focus on the breath moving in and moving out. Nothing else. Inevitable, the constantly spinning mind reveals itself. I meditate watching the breath without thinking-- just IN... OUT... IN... OUT... and then the spinning mind-stuff comes up. IN... "I'm hungry... Ooh, that itches, scratch that..." OUT... IN... "Did I pay the electric? Oh yeah-- note planning... back to the breath..." OUT... IN.... OUT... "You know, she never even returned my call... oh yeah, noting the anger arising, back to the breath..." IN... OUT... And on and on. The spinning mind.
I recently heard a secondhand story of a monk who refers to that spinning mind as our "monkey brain." I loved that. The evolutionary lingering of all these needless fight-or-flight kneejerk mind impulses that are ultimately about survival stuff that our minds do is just funny. And frustrating. But only because I'm resisting it and not relaxing (see how that works? catch 22 there... see how it's crazy-hard?... well, until it's notl Oy.) Craving, aversion, craving, aversion... thousands of them, on a minute by minute, even moment by moment basis. Almost totally unseen. And we also unconsciously react. Doctors talk about "stress" in this broad way and how it causes bad shit to happen.
What if we dismantled the stress function? I'm not saying losing our inner-guidance system or our ability to know when we're moving toward or away from love and who we truly are.
But what if we got still and peaceful enough inwardly that the shit could hit the fan and we wouldn't be rocked. Or even knocked. What if the rejection came, the illness showed up, the let-down happened... what if the biggest tsunamis hit... and rather than panic, we noted it. Just like in mediation. Taking the seat of the observer and saying "Ah, tsumani. Back to the breath." Not as a means of evasion or denial. Just as a means of staying calm and not panicking. Like, in my life.
And not make everything so personal. I have an insane headache right now. And it's interesting to take a migraine and watch the panic come up and the resistance. And sometimes all I can do is go "Ah, panic. Resistance. Fear." But it's a step toward freedom. Because it's not "MY panic" or "I AM afraid." It's just the motion of the tide. "Ah, here's this sensation." And I gently move into it and see what it's made of. Pulsing, dense sensations, sort of round... when you look at what something really is, and you pause from your busy schedule of "OH MY GOD OH MY GOD THE TSUNAMI..." it just gives you more space and freedom. And I think maybe that's what we're built for. Freedom.
I'll finish writing this and totally forget and get totally lost and start panicking about five things that will just have my stomach for lunch. But then I'll just have on emoment of "Ah, total panic." And that's all it takes sometimes. To have another moment of perspective. Which is another step toward freedom. And you start to get better at it.
Some places I stay very blocked. Some places I feel like I need to. As any yoga teacher I've ever had who was worth their salt will tell you-- you do the pose to your own degree. Diving too deeply into a stretch your body isn't ready to do will only tear and damage things.
And I know this is getting long. But sometimes I have to work my around a bit to get to the center of something. (Thanks for making it this far.)
I think the reason we're designed for freedom and space is because we're built to love. And when the chattering "monkey brain" mind starts to quiet down a little, that space that is freed, is heart space. Which is who we really are.
When the resistance, in whatever form it's currently taking, falls away in a given moment, I think it's like removing stones from the dam and what floods in is love. And it feels like freedom because love is what we are.
And when you consider that we're literally made of light, made of stars, all basically made of the same stuff, it's cool to think about how we basically ARE each other. There's so much mystery in the universe. And when you take the time to turn and look inward, there's a chance to see everything. The universe we're in seems to be inside us.
There have been a number of different studies that successfully showed when a mass of people would meditate together in an urban area, crime would decrease significantly among other notable positive effects. And I like to think that maybe, since we're all made of the same stuff, that just by helping myself in this way-- taking the time to get still, cutting myself a break-- and doing the surprisingly hard work of letting go, just maybe... it helps everyone a little.
This... cloud... of loud, obnoxious, greasy men swarmed around my minivan as I pulled into my gym's garage tonight, following me with their giant cameras into the gym, I guess to see if I was "somebody" (believe me when I tell you that I am not, on as many levels as you'd like to take that statement).
It turned out there was a certain, uber-famous B.S. (wink wink) pop celebrity (not me, I assure you) rehearsing a dance routine in my gym at 2 in the a.m. (when I often like to work out). [I know, I know... maybe I need to switch gyms. The thing is, I'm a vampire (minus the whole blood nonsense) and my gym is open all night. I like that.]
I've always had some pretty specific opinions regarding those that are mostly famous for being famous and less for having any substance or something to offer in the way of an original, truthful artistic voice (you doubtless hear the judgment in my tone already).
And when this particular "star's" first video reared its head on MTV, I literally thought it was a joke. I thought they were spoofing something the first time "Baby..."-- well, let's leave any more specifics out, it really doesn't matter. But the second or third time I saw the first video, I literally thought "Wow, they're really insisting on this weird, farcical girl in a schoolgirl outfit bit. Is this for a new comedy or something?"
I mean, it was on the heels of a pretty decent era of a handful of uber-popular-yet-really-good, honest artists with their own voices-- Nirvana, Pumpkins, Alanis, Tori... etc... these were the things in heavy rotation prior to this when her style of crap along with the boy band shit suddenly got rammed down our throats.
All this is to say, I don't think much of her. I don't understand the fascination. I'm even a little ashamed to be writing this blog and in any way adding to the frenzy of nonsense.
But as I entered the gym, I had no clue why these greasy men with cameras bigger than them were just standing in swarms outside the the gym's main entrance. And I forgot my padlock and had to go back out to my car to get it, where the sarm of greasy men was. I had totally unwittingly parked right next to her BMW. And on the way back in, as the greasy swarm followed me again, chattering, snapping pictures 'just in case'-- I guess wondering if I was with the B.S. posse-- it was SO assaulting. Threatening. Scary. To put it mildly. Dozens of these weird guys just comiing AT you. I thought they werre going to attack me. My gut inclination was to start swinging at these just total assholes, there's no other way to say it.
And before I go on, I'm going to sort of come out about something here-- I lost 80 pounds last year (hence, all the gym-going and yoga). Yep, I was fat. Never had been before, but years of no-sleep in studios and touring, falling into depression because of the exhaustion and isolation of doing that stuff and being an indie artist and maintaining a day-gig to pay the rent too just all culminated and took their fucking toll. And consequently, 2007 was about becoming human again-- WITH a body that I want to actually live in.
But while I still had all that weight on me a little over a year ago, what should have been a really cool thing happened-- CMJ magazine printed a little thing on me and it included a photo of me from an appearance at this very cool, little radio station-- KKSM, where Orris had been number 1 for over a month, with "White Light" I think, and I performed live on-air for their... I want to say 10th anniversary celebration.
Anyway, the point is... I was FAT. And the photo taken that day at KKSM went into one of the biggest independent music magazines in the country and they took up half a page with it. My 80-pound overweight fat face and all. I was psyched about what was happening with the record, but man, knowing 10s of thousands of people were seeing this image of me in the worst physical state I've ever been in, when heretofore, I've always kept in pretty great shape... I mean, it sounds really narcissistic, but it just sucked that one of the biggest pieces of press that year was just... something I wished would go away. Everyone who saw that now thinks "Oh... Orris.. fat guy." And that was actually really nice press. They said nice things about me and my music. I guarantee if it was this girl, it would be a WHOLE article, not on her song being number 1, but on her being 80 pounds overweight. No question.
And my minor narcissistic humiliation is just fucking absolutely NOTHING compared to what this pop chick I ended running into endures on pretty much a daily basis. I honesetly can't even imagine.
So, I finished my last set of squats and was walking down the stairs and she came out of her rehearsal room behind me. And some guy was just barking orders at her, very meanly. She looked like a lost puppy. And as she approached where I was, she looked at me and I smiled and kept walking, and she seemed totally astonished to not be accosted in anyway. The shock on her face was almost... heartbreakingly sweet. I wanted to give her a hug. She needed one. But I left her alone, which I think she could probably use a little of-- like, from the planet.
And as I walked through the hive of predators with cameras again to leave, it just took something I had gently but very stubbornly built a judgment around-- that certain pop celebrities are automatically dumb, bad and ridiculous-- and this actually really made me feel for her. She was sweet. You could tell. Possibly a few bricks shy of a house, but sweet (sorry, the judgment didn't just vanish completely). And it felt awful walking through that. And I wasn't even who they were after.
And I don't want to lionize someone too much who probably really isn't worth the salt her producers and PR-spinners put in her cheez, but I just couldn't help thinking what kind of strength it's gotta take to know that every time you walk out of your house, a swarm of greasy men with giant devices act like they're about to kill you.
And she probably signed up for it, I know. On a metaphysical level, she definitely did. And maybe with a PR rep on paper as well. But even still, what a thing to endure just to have this so-called career.
On top of being devoured by a rabid, mindless popular media culture, as people like me everywhere see images and presentations and unconsciously or otherwise make snap-judgments about you based on snipets of basically nothing that are strung together to tell a sleazy story that the powers-that-be hope will sell products.
Don't get me wrong, I certainly wouldn't thumb my nose at getting her heavy rotation on MTV or Fuse, but I'm not sure I'd sign up for all that goes with it. People come up to me once in a great while, but it's almost always really sweet and a lot more like meeting a friend than dealing with nameless throngs I need to appease. And I like that. This girl has to think about exactly how badly does she want a salad if she's going to step outside.
I guess what I'm basically saying is that I relearned something tonight that I was taught when I was freaking three. The important lessons are usually the simple ones. The simple things are usually the hardest. And in this case, it is simply this: don't judge someone until you've walked a mile in their shoes (and maybe not even then, huh?). Or in this case, about 15 steps you couldn't pay me enough to walk again.
When I was 16, my Christian rock band (yes, you did read that correctly-- I was 16 and my parents co-founded the Christian Coalition, it was the world I happened to be born into-- cut me a break) went on a brief summer tour, playing a series of Summer Camps. And one night on the tour, which I will never forget, I was awakened by the sound of a heavy sliding or slithering sound across the cement floor of the cabin, like someone was dragging something or an anaconda-sized snake was moving along it. And a voice I can only describe as undeniably non-human, other-worldly, gravelly, and deeply hateful woke another of my bandmates up in the dark from the center of the cabin with the words "What the fuck."
Our band, called "Providence," (again, you read that correctly, yes, "Providence"-- I defer to the former paranthetical disclaimer) repertoire was comprised of abouth half horrifyingly bad CCM covers and about half songs I had written. And it was always during my very emotive teen-written music that I would give the "altar call" for kids my own age to "come forward" and "give their life to the Lord" or "to recommit their life to the Lord." If you know Christianese, you know what that means. If you don't, count yourself lucky and leave it at that-- trust me.
One specific night, I remember singing this song I'd written called "Your Love" (which I would be pretty horrified if anyone ever got their hands on now). Several hundred kids ultimately "came forward" and rushed the edge of the stage to "come to Jesus," crying, praying, repenting, raising their hands. And I stood there holding the microphone, giving said altar call, feeling as I often did, thinking-- "I don't know exactly why, but this feels so wrong. I'm not even sure I believe this. And here I am, manipulating hundreds of people through my music into making a life commitment through tears and supplication in front of all their friends. This is deeply messed up."
And I remember that night vividly, like it was last night. I walked around the camp's lake under an amazing starry sky, feeling like the hypocrite I knew myself to be.
And in hindsight, my theory is that releasing these hypocritical feelings and fears and just getting honest somehow relates to that voice in the dark. This inner-conflict with what my heart felt "called" toward and what I was born into and was expected of me was released. And I think it had a backlash. After all, this inner-conflict I'm talking about goes WAY back.
From the time I was five years old I remember thinking things like...
"So the story I'm supposed to believe goes like this... God created everything... God loves me and loves everyoned, and in fact, God IS love... We have to make a choice between good and evil (there was even a tree, apparently, which produced the very fruits of said choices-- which seemed more than odd even to my five-year-old mind)... God IS love and IS wholly good... And somehow, also, we are supposed to believe that nothing that exists didn't come from God... So either God made evil and is not actually good or God didn't make everything... Or evil isn't real... But someone's lying."
This was where I started at five years old. And when I would try to articulate my questions to supposedly knowledgeable adult Christians, such as pastors or parents, questions which became much more unanswerable and numerous as I got older, I was always given the pat and maddeningly dissatisfying answer to "take it by faith."
But I did take it by faith because it was my family and my world and everyone I knew telling me to, and because someone would follow up "take it by faith" with playing a really good weepy song-- always a song to help me realize what a piece of crap I was born as who needed Jesus. Which again, made no sense, but once you got the programmed-since-birth "I am inherently bad and in need of forgiveness" (by the God who apparently fucked up when he made me in the first place since I was born a "sinner"... oy vay), nothing else mattered. And eventually, I did just shut up and play the part of the good Christian boy. I got less rejection that way and it just made things easier in my world.
So that night out by the lake, one of my best friends, an amazing vocalist in the band named Melissa saw me by the water. And when she asked me "What's up? You look upset," I actually responded honestly for the first time in my entire young adulthood.
And I spouted every doubt and shame I ever had about even clinging to some notion of myself as a "Christian," when it just all felt like a sham to me. And to my surprise, she said she had been feeling the same way. And that night, it was like someone took Mount Everest off my back. Like just admitting out loud that I had really tried, but I just didn't think I believed what I was supposed to believe made me somehow more free than I had ever been in all my Jesus-filled years.
That was the night I was awoken by the heavy slithering. And the completely non-human, gravelly voice in the center of the room hateefully spewing "What the fuck."
Now, before we really get to the voice, I have to explain that this band was a group where the word "crap" wasn't uttered. We "kept each other accountable to the Lord," etc. ad nauseam. This was not a group of people who said ANY naughty words. EVER. I chief among them.
And there were four of us in my cabin. I remember I could hear Perry breathing heavily as he slept. Matt was on the bunk above him snoring. Mike was the other guy besides me in the room, and he was above me, dead silent. And after the voice spewed "What the fuck" the first time, I laid in the pitch-black sweating bullets for what seemed like hours, but it was probably a few minutes. And then the voice repeated itself, louder: "WHAT THE FUCK."
I remember that I held my hand up to face at that moment. Because the darkness was strange. It was more than pitch-black. I wanted to see if I could even make out the silhouhette of my hand, but I couldn't see even that much.
After what seemed like an eternity, I sat up in my lower bunk, shaking almost violently with fear, like I was having a seizure, and crept over to the wall and just couldn't find the light to save my life-- and it seemed like the stakes were life and death in that moment. After literally banging around the wall in a fit of panic, the light switch found its way to my fingertips and the cabin flooded with what seemed like the most beautiful electric light I'd ever seen.
Immediately, I was stunned to see that there was nothing in the middle of the room. No prankster with a vocoder, no snake, no dead body, no ghost (my imagination had run wild at that point as you can imagine).
And the door, which you could only latch and lock from the inside, was still latched. No one could have gone in or out. Totally impossible.
And Mike who was still frozen in panic on the bunk above me had heard everything I had heard. He bolted upright out of a pool of sweat. He was ghost white and drenched as he stammered "You heard that?"
Matt and Perry came to and asked what all the fuss was about. In my panic, I lost all sense of Christian decorum and blurted out "There was an evil voice and it said 'What the fuck.'"
And Mike scolded immediately "There's no need to repeat it."
To this day, I have no idea what that voice in the dark was. And I've come face to face with equally and perhaps even stranger things since that time.
But it struck me that night that things are simply not as explainable or cut and dried as we want them to be. Good and evil, angels and demons, good guys and bad guys.
Rationalists want an explanation. Christians want to defer to God and the Devil. And I think maybe the truth isn't about sin and salvation. I think the truth is not about judgments and labels and being able to know all.
I mean, who do we think we are? We're such a young species, so early in our evolution. (Hopefully early-- if we make it.) And while we're a young species, the planet's been here for how many gajillion years? And we've been here for five seconds.
I really don't have a "big" answer to that what happened that night. Though I have a handful of theories I like.
What I do have are small and more manageable-- and ultimately more honest-- answers. And that is basically this: no group of humans, religious or sceintific or otherwise, know everything. Or probably very much at all if we're honest. And there almost certainly is a lot more than meets the eye. There is a lot more than the day-to-day world we regularly see and hear. And the people who act the surest that they know precisely what is on the other side of the veil and have names for all of it... the pious, typically... and the ones seem to be the most sure are almost always the ones who know the least. I defer to the proverb again "He who knows does not speak, he who speaks does not know." (And yes, I am aware of how much I prattle on, but I'm not claiming to know a whole lot.)
And another small answer I thought of at the time, which has been reiterated to me later in my life by teachers like Abraham-Hicks... also, perhaps, when we feel big relief or big fear or big anything, it seems like we attract things into our experience in faster and bigger ways. And again, those things we attract are never as cut and dried as we hope. There's a "vibrational relativity" to things and we have a whole lot of things going on at once inside us, not just the one we're copping to or aware of.
In this instance, maybe the fears and blocks that cling to us sometimes, shockingly, have actual voices that will appear in the dark and even be heard by your bandmate when you tell the fears and blocks to hit the highway and feel the relief of releasing them.
And finally, regardless of any of that, clearly, when we stop being scared and find the guts to get up on shaky legs in the dark, even if it's scary as hell, usually it's all going to be okay. And the light goes on. And the threat is only as threatening as we are afraid of it. And we'd save ourselves a whole lot of grief by just starting from "Everything usually works out for me." And thereby attract THAT into our lives, especially in a tough moment where our "vibrational relativity" is going relative to insanity.
Because life really does go on if you find the guts to get up and do the scary thing you want to do. Even, or perhaps especially, if there are terrifying voices in the dark.
I just came from the gym, where a fire alarm is still blaring and flashing lights are still strobing.
Now, I'll admit, when it first went off, for about ten seconds... I stayed on the stationary bike... for ten seconds. And that ten seconds was counter to my normal reaction, but it was the sheep syndrome at work-- I looked around and no one was budging. They didn't even look like they heard the screaming siren or could see the flashing lights. And for a second... I thought I was the crazy one.
So, in keeping with the insanity of the sheep syndrome, instead of leaving the building like a sane person who doesn't want to risk being caught in a fire, I went and found the on-duty gym manager. Turns out, there was a serious grease fire on the lower level of the structure in the culinary school downstairs and it had gotten out of control. There was indeed a fire, and a potentially dangerous one at that.
The astounding thing was, when I walked around to the people refusing to leave their fitness equipment, and told them "There is an actual fire. You need to evacuate," they looked at me like I was nuts. Like there weren't flashing lights and sirens. Like their mortality was somehow above the dangers of fire. Finally, a woman came over the intercom, and in a very broken accent announced "There is a fire in the building. You need to evacuate immediately." No one understood her. They stared back at me and said what did she say? And dumbfounded, I stared back and said "There is a fire, you need to evacuate."
Ever the layperson anthropologist, I couldn't help noticing the divide among gender responses. Most of the women sort of blinked awake and said "OH, THERE'S A FIRE?" And again, dumbfounded, I replied "That's what I've been saying...." And at that point they finally got off their machines and evacuated. The men, without exception, seemed to initially take this air of "Bah, fire." And scoffed. Maintaining their immortal masculinity I guess, I have no idea what the logic there is. I guess imposing an assumption of logic is where I'm going wrong with regard to that?
And as I drove out of the building, it struck me how maddening yet simultaneously validating this was. This is how I am in life. If there is something proverbially on fire, I am the first to walk up to it, try to figure it out, its potentially proper solution and deal accordingly. If there is emotional turmoil or pain, if there is conflict of any kind, I address it. And most people look at me like I'm nuts when I do this. I will cry when something hurts. I will fight back if you threaten me. I will say something is amiss and try to figure out the best solution if something does indeed seem amiss. And if something is on fire, literally or proverbially, I won't waste time acknowledging that and dealing with it appropriately. Even if everyone is pretending there is no fire or fire does not apply to them.
And it does indeed turn out that most people, in the face of fire, pretend it isn't happening. And if someone has the audacity to walk up to them amidst the screaming sirens and flashing lights and say "Hey, there's a fire, you should evacuate," they will indeed treat you like you're crazy.
And maybe this is an arrogant statement, but in the face of a lifetime during which I have very often been treated like an insane person for saying something's on fire when it is, I couldn't help but wonder as I watched the people literally in the middle of a fire they were pretending didn't exist, if this wasn't just simple Darwinism at work. Again, incredibly arrogant of me to note and wonder, I realize. But wonder I do, all the same.
Dumbfounded is a good way to put it. Emphasis on the "dumb."
"Dumb" because yes, ladies and gentlemen, I'm going to whine about the fact that once again, I have found that I keep putting myself in the same stupid situation expecting a different result. Letting myself be flirted with, toyed with, made to feel special and intimate with someone I thought was special... only to walk into my local Starbucks and find said "special" someone on a first date.
Now, I ask you... isn't adulthood dating supposed to be free of these shananigans? Or at least a little lighter on the shananigans? 'Cause it ain't going down that way in my world. Or does our adult sense of entitlement enable an even more bombastic willingness to look out only for number one with no regard for anyone else?
That feels so cynical to write down so plainly. But I'm starting wonder if cynicism isn't something we need add a dash of for the recipe to the urban dating world to be complete?
Maybe there ought to be city-mandated warning signs on the doors of restaurants and other dating venues:
"Believe nothing they say at face value... especially if the declarations are big..."
"Watch carefully for contradictions between word and deed..."
"Leave your bullshit detector on at all times..."
Or maybe I'm whining like a baby and I should get over it. Get over myself. That'd be a trick. Maybe I'll start there.
Holidays usually suck at least a little bit. Just in general. I always find myself confronted on so many levels by the solipsistic crap of American culture on holidays, especially the popular American-ish and Christian-y ones that rear their gnarled heads this time of year. I find myself confronted by the fast and deliberate need to devour and have, to consume, and above all in the good ol' U.S. of A... to BUY.
People'll kill ya for the last can of cranberry sauce. They'll sell their mother for the last parking space left at the mall so they can rush in to buy her a goddamn present. And if you have a significant so-and-so, ya better get the wishlist right.
But more than any of the outward bullshit that does get my proverbial panties into quite a twist, I find myself most confronted... by myself.
I was lucky enough to spend Thanksgiving with close friends. And it was really great. I needed it. But I'm looking forward to a pretty lonely xmas. And man can I whine about it.
This is the time of year when it seems like everyone has somewhere important to be and someone important to be there with. And while I know that the majority of those folks with "places to get to and people to see" mope about it a little and feel a sense of duty, I still envy those people a little. People with important people to see and places to be.
I find myself having quite the elaborate (albeit, inward) pity parties this time of year. I'm more often the orphan than the dutiful come 12/25. And frankly, the pagan-decorated(-and-date-selected) Jesus-day doesn't hold much interest for me. Not any more or less than April 7 or any other supposed 'sacred' "birthday" we could celebrate. It's just the cultural stamp that's put on it that gives it this weight for me. That, and... well... I'm a sucker for sappy crap and pretty lights.
And I've often been lucky enough to have xmas with some family or close friends. And I am lucky to have real love in my life. But regardless of whether my holiday plans are elaborate, solitary or otherwise, it's interesting to watch the deeply planted hyper-sensitive button that gets pressed inside me this time of year.
And just in general, any time something gets my goat, and I feel lonely or sorry for myself, as I sometimes join the throngs who also do around the holidays, it's an interesting time to "take the seat of the observer" and watch what's coming up. Because it's in the moments when our goat is gotten that we see where we're stuck. And moreover, what it is we're really wanting.
Because as I dig my heels in and feel badly looking toward that date, it's a choice to keep my focus there. It's a choice to look at what I'm not crazy about having (or not having) in my life. And it's a choice to refuse to look at what is amazing about my life. And the insane thing, as I watch my goat being gotten and the loneliness come up and the voices in my head chasing their tails, is that I have so so so so fucking much to frankly be next to giddy about.
And as I watch myself moping and dreading something (that doesn't even really matter much to me in the first place), it looks so incredilby American. Here I am, with a pretty stellar life, "following my bliss," living my passion, living in freedom, with more than enough to eat and a nice place to live (and those last two things- food and safe shelter, by the way, from a global perspective, puts me in the luckiest 2% of the planet's population). But forget that my basic needs are met. I blather on a website about my feelings. I spend time and energy looking inward and finding a greater sense of balance. And my biggest problem at the moment is not to feel mopey for a day or two when I MIGHT only have a couple good friends to hang out with.
Seriously... can someone slap me? Okay, literalist assholes, that wasn't for you.
But for those who get the point, aren't most of us in the West in general pretty goddamn lucky?
As I do have the luxurious (and there's no sarcasm in my use of that word whatsoever) opportunity to look inward, see what I'm feeling, and turn toward where I sense "Source" is calling me... I just want to say thank you. To "Source" or God if you prefer. And I'm gonna go ahead and break out the Christiany language... for the incredible, vast blessings my life is rife with. And I want to give back. And say thank you. Thank you for my lucky, lucky life. The one in which I have luxury to the point of being able to worry about how shiny my day will be on 12/25. Even though I think it's popular because retailers say it's so. I have the luxury of being able to waste my energy on that if I want to. THANK YOU for my life. THANK YOU for the AMAZING love in my life. THANK YOU for music. THANK YOU for art. THANK YOU for freedom... not just in the 'yay, America' kind of way, but the freedom I'm learning in my life to CHOOSE where to put my attention and energy.
"Whatever is good, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely..."
I don't crack into the biblical stuff that much anymore, but it really is that simple. "Look at the flowers, they do not worry..."
It is that simple.
Or to retrace my steps back to vipassana... "Be happy."
Jesus, in the Western world, we're way lucky. We don't have anyone holding guns to our heads (well, most of us) while we try to turn toward our natural state-- joy. Most of us aren't going hungry while we figure out how to just fucking let go and follow our bliss. People all over the world DO have guns pointed to their heads and bloated bellies and they're still kicking our Western ass with regard to letting go and letting God.
Who do I think I am to waste time fretting over bullshit?
Thank God that I have that luxury. Seriously... thank you.
